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__________________ .seven. __________________
“You know, at this point, I feel I should get some credit for trying.”
His grin is all teeth when he speaks, the blond man tall and slender, towering over the armored men to either side even in his stoop, arms chained and held behind his back. It's a sharp expression, defiance written over sun-tanned features, themselves the proof of his rebellion.
Irving feels older just looking at him. He'd had, truly, hopes for this one, once he'd settled down. Wynne, after all, had become such an asset to the Fereldan Circle. Spirit Healing was such a rare gift, especially in one whose magic had manifested so late, and if he'd only have played along, especially after the incident with Bann Ferrenly… Irving can only imagine what he could have accomplished.
But this, he supposes, has been coming for years now, and after six times, there's little else left to be done. Irving sighs. “You're not a child, Anders.”
“Then maybe it's time you stopped treating me like one ,” the captive man snaps, snarling, and Irving doesn't have to turn to know the expression on Greagoir’s own face, severe and unamused.
“I couldn’t do otherwise if I wanted to, now.” Irving sighs again. “I warned you, Anders. You have no idea what you've asked.”
“I know what I've asked,” he retorts, eyes hard. Irving just shakes his head, leaning back as Greagoir gestures to his templars.
“Take him to the dungeons.”
The mage doesn't struggle as they move towards the door, eyes still fixed on the men before him.
“Greagoir? Greagoir?” he says.
“What?”
“Seven’s a lucky number, isn't it?”
“... get him out of here,” Greagoir says darkly, and follows behind, leaving Irving alone.
What a waste, really. Such talent, squandered on petty rebellion.
As though he could ever succeed.
__________________ .one. __________________
“This is him?”
The boy before him can be no older than 12 - 13, at the most - scratched and bruised and utterly silent. It’s hard to believe, really, that the scrawny, sullen child is the one who’d given Greagoir’s templars so much trouble.
Suppressing a chuckle, Irving decides he likes this one.
The Anders boy hadn’t shown much in the way of promise at first. Mute, uncooperative, refusing all of his lessons, and already older than most children at his level, his teachers had had little doubt he’d be made Tranquil once he came of age. And yet in the span of the week he’d been out of the walls, he’d not only shown genuine cleverness in evading pursuit, but had apparently manifested spirit healing - spirit healing, in a mage barely trained - and saved the life of Bann Ferrenly in the process, a story confirmed by the pendant clutched in the child’s fist.
A spirited child, obviously, but a promising one, if they can just calm him down a little. Irving leans over his desk. “What’s your name, child?”
A glare is his only answer, the boy meeting his gaze with surprising determination for his age.
“We never got it,” Greagoir answers for him, watching the youth with open frustration. “No one recorded it when we brought him in, and he hasn’t talked since.”
“I see.” Irving folds his hands. “Do you think you’re doing yourself any good by not talking to us?” The boy doesn’t answer. “Why did you try to escape?” Silence.
“Answer us,” Greagoir snaps. The Anders boy still doesn’t respond, staring determinedly at the floor.
“You’re not making this any easier on yourself,” Irving chides. “Come, now. What is-”
“I want to go home.” His voice is quiet, breaking as he speaks, and his eyes are filled with tears as he whips his head back up towards them. “I want to go home! Why am I here? I didn’t mean to do anything! This isn’t fair!”
And there they are. Even Greagoir looks a little startled by the sudden outburst - unsurprising, given that these are the first words anyone’s heard the boy speak here.
“This is the law,” Greagoir explains. “You’ve heard the Chant. Magic exists to serve man, and not to rule over him-”
“But I’m not ruling anyone!” he cries, raising his hands. “Look, I won’t hurt anyone, I can control it-” His fingers spark with magic, and Irving winces as Greagoir’s responding Silence fills the room, staggering the boy.
“ Don’t do that,” he says sharply. He turns to Irving. “I’ve heard enough.”
“I agree,” Irving says. “But do go easy on him. He's just a homesick boy. He'll settle down.” Irving returns to his papers. “At least he’s speaking now.”
__________________ .seven. __________________
“I don't deserve this!” He's been in there for eleven days now, and he's been shouting for three. “I've never hurt anyone! You can't do this! This is wrong!”
“Maker, does he ever shut up?” one of the guards asks.
“Oh, you must be new,” the other replies dryly.
There’d been celebration amongst the templars these past few days. The infamous Anders, the skinny blond headache, in the dungeons to rot at last. Not that he hasn’t been locked up before, of course, but this time they’ve got the go-ahead to throw away the key.
They should have done this ages ago, as far as Tristan’s concerned. He’d been playing them for years, flaunting authority and hiding behind loopholes and and a clever tongue, but he’s finally backed himself into a corner, and Tristan’d love to see him escape from this one.
If only he’d bloody shut up and get it over with now. It’s only a matter of time, he knows - technically, he can only be held until they’ve ‘established he’s free of possession,’ but everyone knows what that means. They all break, eventually - most succumb to demons after the first few weeks, and of those who don’t, well...
“You get an excuse… give him the Rite,” Tristan says, and it's with immense satisfaction that he hears the voice still behind the door. He chuckles, then jerks his head. “The last one gave in after a few months. Give it long enough and he'll ask for it.” He snickers. “They always do.”
__________________ .two. __________________
Elise hates this place.
She never sees any of the mages here, but even so, it gives her the creeps. Knowing that just a few floors away, there are any number of unnatural experiments, potential abominations… she shudders.
But even so, there's nothing to be done for it. The Tower needs deliveries, food for the mages and templars within, and the coin is good. She needs it, with a sick mother and two children to feed.
So she makes today's delivery, rowing past the templar who waves her along lazily to dock by the storeroom.
It’s empty today. She prefers it that way, she thinks - certainly, it's better than the larger deliveries, when any number of the people the templars called ‘Tranquil’ came to help. She shudders. No, she wants nothing to do with anyone in this tower - even the templars seem entirely too pleased with their own power, blasphemous as the thought is. No, she much prefers to make these deliveries alone.
Which, of course, is why she's not.
“You're - you're not supposed to be in here!” Elise takes a few steps back, holding her hands defensively in front of her as she sees the figure creeping towards her boat.
“... uh-oh.” The boy - and he is a boy, she realizes with a start, thin and lanky but with baby fat still clinging to his cheeks, a milk tooth even missing at the side - raises his hands. “W-wait!” he says, and his voice is shaking more than her own, and somehow, Elise feels a little less worried. “Please don't - please don't call the templars,” he begs with wide eyes. “Please, I just want to go home.”
“You're - you're one of the mages?” she asks.
The boy grimaces, but nods. After a moment’s staring, his expression falls. “... you're not going to let me come with you, huh?”
“I-? No!” Elise lets her hands drop, putting on a sternness she doesn't feel, and Maker, he's making the same face her Benjamin makes when she scolds him. “Just - go back upstairs before you're missed!” she hisses.
“Please, can you-”
“Go! Before you get us both in trouble!”
He stares at her for a long, long moment, and she doesn't know she's ever seen a heart break like that. “Okay. But just - please, can you-” He starts to fumble in the folds of his robes, and pulls out a sheet of crumpled parchment, approaching her as he holds it out. “Please, can you at least - at least give this to a messenger? Tell them to take it to Ridden? Please, they won't let me send letters-”
“I-” Shit. Elise backs away from his approach, scared more of herself than the child in front of her. “I can't, I'm sorry-”
“Please!” He begs. “Look, I can -” He fumbles in his robes again, retrieving two small, dingy coppers and offering them with shaking hands. “I can pay, just hand it off-”
“I can't-” She's shaking too, now, and shit, his eyes are the same color as Benjamin’s. “Please! I can't lose this job, my mother is sick, I need the money - please just go back upstairs!”
The boy stares at her for a long, long moment.
“... what's she sick with?”
… Elise loses the job, in the end.
It's worth it.
__________________ .three. __________________
“What is it, exactly, that you think you're accomplishing with these stunts?”
Greagoir can't believe he's here. Greagoir can't believe that he, the Knight-Commander, usually only called in to deal with maleficara, murderers and suspected abominations, is personally intervening in a disciplinary case for an apprentice mage barely here for three years.
More than that, he can't believe that he’s personally intervening, and it's ending in anything but a new record for the youngest mage made Tranquil yet.
Bloody spirit healing. He'd always been suspicious of the school altogether, the mages who practiced it interacting constantly with blood and spirits, and now here they were with an apprentice too promising to lose to damned teenage rebellion . But Irving had had a point, and for all that he hated to let the mage undermine his authority, he knew - for all the revenue that enchanting brought in, it was in healing that the real power lay. Nobles were, after all, as mortal as any other man, and the gratitude of a life saved by magic meant secure coffers in their times of need.
That didn't, however, mean that Greagoir hadn't had more than enough of this child’s ‘escapades’. And damn him if he intends to just let this Anders boy walk away with a lashing.
“Well?” he demands. “What do you expect to accomplish? Do you still think you can go home?” He seizes the young teen by the jaw, tilting his head back to force the tear-stained gaze to meet his own. “Well, you made it. Were they happy to see you? Were they glad to have you back? Is that why they called us again?” Anders grits his teeth, unable to bite back the sob entirely, and Greagoir releases him. “This. Is. To protect you. Do you understand that? They are afraid of you. Here you are safe . And you're throwing that away.”
Anders stares at the floor, hands clenched into fists, and mumbles something unintelligible.
“What was that?” Greagoir asks.
Anders looks up at him, teeth bared, and for a moment, Greagoir is startled. “I said they only hate us because of you .”
“ What did you-”
“THEY ONLY HATE US BECAUSE OF YOU!” he screams, eyes flashing. “This isn't safety! You lock us in here and tell us it's for our own good, but you're the one making it that way! You want them to hate us, so we'll have nowhere to go! So you can beat us and fuck us and no one will care!” His fists flash with fire, and Greagoir slams down the Silence, brings the back of his hand across the boy's face as he staggers. Anders doesn't resist further as Greagoir shoves him out the door, into the waiting arms of his templars.
“Give him a week in the dungeons,” he tells them, then closes the door behind him darkly.
It's funny, he thinks, how it's always the healers who cause the most trouble.
__________________ .four. __________________
“Where do the spiders come from, do you think?”
As first meetings go, it’s rather a strange one, but then again, Karl supposes later, Anders has always been rather a strange sort.
“What are you talking about?” Karl asks, looking up from his reading to see a younger apprentice looking towards the nearby door, feet propped up on the table and glittering with a surprising amount of jewelry.
“The storeroom,” the younger mage continues. “It has a giant spider problem, doesn’t it? As in, spiders that are giant, not a giant problem with spiders, though I suppose it could be both. Where do you suppose they come from?”
Karl closes his book slowly, following his gaze to find the nearby door barred once again. It’s funny, but he’d never really thought about such things. Still, he remembers this from some text or another, he thinks. “Don’t they just spawn?” Karl asks. “That’s what they say, isn’t it? Maggots from rot, mice from dirt and spiders from dark.”
But the blond just frowns, watching the door from his perch. “I don’t know. Spiders lay eggs,” he says.
“They do?” Karl asks.
“I’ve seen them. In healer training, I mean. We use the webs to stop bleeding, so we always keep some. I’ve definitely seen eggs.” He pauses. “And they have to eat, too. They hunt, don’t they? What do they eat? It all has to be coming from somewhere. They’d starve if they couldn’t get out.”
“... huh.” Karl trails off, thinking. “... that’s not a bad question.” After a moment’s further thought, he shakes his head. “Still, it’s academic, isn’t it? Unless you fancy getting up close and personal with the beasts.”
“Yes, well. Details,” the blond says with a laugh, then leans over, extending a hand. “It’s ‘that Anders boy,’ by the way.”
“... Karl,” he says, accepting the proffered hand. “So tell me, ‘Anders’, did you just come here to research spiders?”
“Travel guides, actually,” he says with a grin, and launches quickly into tales of Rivaini festivals and Antivan assassins Karl’s certain can’t have a shred of truth to them, but somehow, he can’t help but believe them a little.
He can’t help but notice, either, how Anders keeps glancing back at the storeroom. He doesn’t know what to make of it at the time. But somehow when, three days later, Anders fails to turn up at their ‘study session’, or anywhere in the Circle, for that matter… well, Karl supposes he isn’t surprised.
__________________ .five. __________________
This bastard is too damned fast.
Rylock curses her armor as she chases after the mage, unable to believe it as the teenager easily vaults the fence in front of him, leaping to drag himself onto the nearby rooftop with with a grace she knows he can't have practiced in the Tower. Swearing, she detours to follow in the street below, trying her best to cut him off as he heads towards the market square.
It'd be a stupid move with anyone else, opening herself to any hail of fireballs from above, or worse, were he a maleficarum, but he's harmless , is the worst of it. Everyone knows by now - Anders never fights back, never does the slightest thing to give them an excuse to put him out of their misery.
He never attacks. He never hurts them. He just runs. Too. Damned. Fast.
‘We could put our arm in the fire,’ Tristan had suggested earlier. ‘They might not believe it, but they wouldn't call us on it.’
Rylock had shot him down at the time, loath to break her oaths, especially over Anders , but Maker, she almost regrets it now.
He's down from the roof by the time she rounds the corner, mere yards from the village square. She doesn't know what the brat thinks he's going to do with that - they won't lose him in the crowd, not this time, and especially not after his recent growth spurt, the way he'd shot up above the others.
But it doesn't matter, anyway - Tristan intercepts him as he enters the square, tackling him to the ground as the crowd gasps and shrieks around them.
“What's going on?”
“Is that a mage?”
“He must be. What a sorry looking sort, though…”
Anders doesn't even make a move as Tristan pushes himself to his feet, raises his sword, then falters as the crowd grows louder.
“Is he going to - Maker, no!”
“Look at him, he's not even fighting back-”
Across the crowd, Rylock’s eyes meet Tristan’s, and she understands, instantly, what he'd had planned - and what had stopped him.
“Up,” Tristan snarls, seizing his arm. “Come on, up, you son of a-”
Rylock rushes towards him, securing the manacles, and sees the hate in Anders’ eyes, even as he cooperates, and understands, too, what he'd had planned.
No, she knows now. Anders may not have fought back. But he's far, far from harmless .
__________________ .seven. __________________
They haven’t fed him in two days.
Not that they’ve ever cared much about the meal schedule, really, as long as he doesn’t completely starve while they’re responsible, but this time, regulation’s on their side - they’re only supposed to use one tray, and the foolish bastard hasn’t given it back yet.
“What’s he think he’s gonna do? Tunnel out of there?” They all laugh, and then pause, hearing the intermittent banging and scraping of metal. “... he can’t , right?”
“It’s solid stone. He’s got nowhere to go,” Rylock replies, though she doesn’t sound entirely sure.
“Are you really giving him that much credit?” Tristan asks. “He’s only gotten this far because of the First Enchanter. Without that, he’s just another mage.”
They stop, watching the door. After a moment, Tristan spits, and turns to leave. “Fine. He doesn't give it back, he doesn't fucking get fed. We'll say he starved himself.”
The next day, the tray slides back out, beaten and scratched.
They decide to count it as a victory.
__________________ .six. __________________
They think he's settled down.
Karl supposes he shouldn't be too surprised. It has, after all, been years since Anders had even visibly considered escape, and for all the smart-mouthed defiance he'd retained, the templars and Irving alike seem to have decided that, finally, Anders has found reason enough to stay, even with the trouble he still causes.
It's the funniest thing Karl’s ever heard.
“They think I've settled down.” Anders laughs. “Maker. Templars really are idiots, aren't they?”
‘It got you a Harrowing, didn't it?’ Karl almost says, but really, he doesn't have it in him to bring the harsh reality to Anders’ plans, not when he's like this. So he props his chin on a hand, and that hand on some books, as he leans over to his lover. “Well I hope you're not thinking of leaving me behind,” he says, smiling through his beard and only half joking.
“Well, of course not. You'll be coming with me.”
The certainty in his voice gives Karl pause, but he does his best to keep it from his face as he asks, “Planning something today, are we?”
“Always,” Anders says, a wide, careless grin as he opens the book. “So, there aren't any direct voyages to Rivain, not usually-”
“Wait, is that a sailor's log?” Karl asks. “Where did you get one of those?”
“Around. It doesn't matter. Anyway, a direct voyage to Rivain from Ferelden never happens, not without port stops - too risky, they’ll search the ship. But if we take a straight shot to the Free Marches, and then board a separate one to Rivain-”
“Anders,” he interrupts. Talk of escape between the two lovers is hardly unusual, but the gleam in Anders’ eyes today- “How hypothetical is this?”
Anders grins, and leans in, and Karl’s stomach jumps. “We can be out of here tomorrow.”
His mouth feels suddenly very, very dry. And despite it all, he can't help the surge of hope in his chest, even as the fear grips him. “What?”
“I've figured it out.” He's positively frenzied now, words blurring into each other as he speaks. “It's the spiders again, Karl. It's perfect.”
“The templars sealed that off years ago.”
“Yes, but it's leaking now! Flooding!” He claps a hand against the table, causing Karl to glance around quickly, making sure they haven't yet attracted attention in their dark corner. “It's flooding! Do you know what that means?”
“That it's wet?”
“That there's a hole to the lake! A big one!” He gestures. “Maybe we have to widen it a little, but the stone’s already crumbling, a little force magic, there we are. We slip out, swim up, swim to shore-”
“You're joking!”
“It's not that far, come on, I've made it.”
“It's not-” He shakes his head and lowers his voice. “I can't believe I'm saying this, but no, it's not the four mile swim that I'm questioning, it's getting there in the first place! How long will we be underwater? Is there a cavern system, a tunnel? What are the currents like? And that's assuming I can swim, Anders - you know I never learned. Maybe you can help me after we surface, but can you get me there in the first place?”
Anders waves a hand, dismissive. “So we do a barrier spell and take some air. It's not like we'll know how it is until we look, so we may as well see how far we can get.”
“Or we could take our time to do it right!” Karl replies. “And what about our phylacteries? We can't keep ahead of them forever, especially traveling together.”
“That's the beauty of it! We let them catch up with us before we get to port-”
“ What? ”
“They'll have our phylacteries with them! We can take the offense, spring a trap, then we just smash them and leave the templars tied up for the bandits.”
“That's a terrible plan!” Karl says. “We can't take a whole band of templars! They'll beat us for sure, and when they do-”
“They’ll what, make us Tranquil? We've been Harrowed; they can't touch us.”
“They can still kill us.”
“So we get caught in a crowd. They never do it with witnesses, they can't let anyone know how they treat us.”
“We're going to ambush them in a crowd??”
“A warehouse. If it goes bad, we slip out the door.”
“And when they put us in the dungeon?”
“For what, a week? They can only do it until they know we're not possessed. A few lashes after, we heal, we run again.”
“Anders.”
“We just have to charter a ship - the templars will have gold, we'll empty their purses. We go to the Free Marches, probably Ostwick, there's a port, or maybe even Antiva? And then we grab a ship, and we're free.”
“Anders, stop .” That, at least, gets through to him, and Karl sighs, shaking his head. “Anders. No.”
Karl winces as Anders’ face twists, shock and disappointment and then, finally, outrage. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“This doesn't make any sense. It's too risky. No.”
“I-” Anders sputters. “No? No! I know you hate it here as much as I do. You hate living like this, you hate knowing the templars can do anything they want to us as long as there's no marks after, you hate being in this stinking hole, so why are you arguing?”
“Because you're not thinking of the consequences! You never think things through when you get like this, and I for one am not wasting my shot at escape without a better plan than ‘we'll figure it out’! I’m sorry, but I'm not getting myself killed, and especially not you with me!”
“Well at least we'd die free!” Anders hisses back, before storming off. Karl sighs, head in his hands, and tries to think nothing of it. This sort of thing is nothing unusual with them - he'll talk to Anders once he's had some space, and they'll figure it out. Maybe this plan will even have merit to it, something they can actually put into action, just, carefully.
He's still thinking that when Irving finds him. “Karl. We need to talk.”
“I don't understand,” Anders says when he breaks the news. “I don't - Kirkwall? No. They can't. Tell them to pick someone else.”
“I asked. I'm sorry. I tried, they wouldn't - they picked me. Effective immediately. No arguments.”
“So… so, what?” Anders stares. “So we need to go tonight, is that what you're telling me? Now or never? Fine, I'll get my pillow and-”
“Anders, no.”
“We'll make it work! Karl, please, we'll figure it out-”
“Anders.” Karl swallows. “You don't understand. Effective immediately . They only gave me time to say goodbye.”
Anders stares. And Karl can barely hold back the tears as he watches the realization set in, as Anders grabs his sleeves. “Let's run. Now.”
“I can't -”
“We might be gone before they can notice. We might make it, if we go now -”
“I'm sorry, Anders.” Karl grabs his shoulders, pulling him close, and can't stop the sob as he feels Anders hold him back. “I'm so sorry.”
“I'll come for you, Karl,” he whispers, voice thick. “I promise.”
“Anders, please,” he begs. “Don't do anything stupid.”
“I’ll come for you, Karl,” he says again. “There’s nothing stopping me now.”
The templars think Anders has settled down, and right now, it's the scariest thing Karl’s ever heard.
__________________ . . __________________
Anders would be lying if he said he wasn't scared.
He's ready to die, he knows. He's been ready for weeks now, watching the days tick down and hoping against hope that maybe, maybe, he could find another way.
But it doesn't matter now. It's too late, he knows, and nothing he can do will change it, not what's been done and not what will be done.
But he would be lying if he said he wasn't scared. He's ready to die. But Maker, he still doesn't know that he's ready to stop running.
He closes his eyes when he feels the hand on his shoulder, feeling his heart beat, too fast, in his chest, blood hammering in his ears like a drum, almost too loud to hear-
To hear-
“Help me defend the mages.”
… he doesn't understand. Not at first. But he knows, in this instant, in some deep, instinctive part, that he was wrong.
Maybe it's time to stop running. But it’s not, will never be, the time to submit.
__________________ .seven. __________________
They take him out after a year.
It's on Greagoir’s say-so, unfortunately. It was a miscalculation, he'd explained - no one’d seen Anders in a full two years, and there were rumors that he'd escaped. That he'd finally made it, and the templars had no idea where he was. And when they’d let the truth slip, hoping to quash the wave of copycat attempts… the Senior Enchanters had taken it poorly.
They’ve backed themselves into a corner, is the worst of it. There’s nothing the robes can do to stop them from signing off on the Rite now, or even from finally putting a sword through the bastard’s chest, but Greagoir had forbidden it. The unrest is stirring now. Something has to be done to put them back in line, and if that means throwing some broken husk of a loudmouthed mage back in with the rest, so be it. Maybe if they’re lucky there’ll be enough of him left to tie a noose and bring the whole sorry thing to a final end.
So they take him out after a year, Bran drawing the short straw to be the one to handle him. And even then, Tristan half expects to find Thedas’s most patient abomination or, if they’re luckier, a corpse to greet them, but there’s nothing, just a thin, tall man curled in the corner, blinking against the light. He doesn’t have time to react as Bran seizes him, dragging him towards the exit, and Tristan and the others, reluctantly, enter the cell. Perhaps there’ll be blood, and they can...
They stare, silent, at the side wall, unable to believe what they're seeing.
Tristan recovers first. “Bran! Bran! ” he yells, turning, but it's too late - they're already gone. Furious, he whips around. “Get a mason in here. Get a fucking mason in here!” He moves to leave. “That bastard escapes again… he doesn't make it back. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Ser,” the guards confirm in unison.
Tristan leaves the foul, stinking cell, leaves behind the words, scratched deep into the stone:
