So, here begins my re-take of a Dragon Age fanfic. This took a freaking age (no pun intended) to write. Quick shout-out to Kamic Acumen for generously agreeing to beta this, 'cause you're awesome like that. Anyway, reviews are always welcome, flames maybe but anything I deem to be excessive WILL be removed. Anywho, now my mini-rant is over, ONWARD!
Dylan swore as, once again, the fireball he'd summoned imploded in his hand, mildly burning the flesh of his palm. He hissed as he took in the small blackened circle on his hand, no larger than a silver coin. Third time today he grumbled in his head, despairing at his lack of success. Of all the times...
Placing three thin tomes under his left arm and holding Irving's personal journal in the other hand, he walked down the hall towards the First Enchanter's study, which also doubled as his main practise chamber. He had been in the Circle since he was four, after nearly burning down the entirety of one of Kirkwall's most profitable warehouse districts in a fit of rage after the guild master had thrown his father into the harbour to die for simply being Tevinter-born and not a native Marcher.
His mother had been horrified, quickly bundling up their meagre belongings and fleeing the city. But the Templars had caught them almost as soon as they had left the city walls. He had knocked four of them to the floor before being subdued, by his own mother no less! They had dragged him to the Gallows, and from there Fereldan's Circle Tower, kicking and screaming until the Enchanters cast a sleep spell on him. Afterward he had been perpetually angry, snapping at even the smallest provocation and flickered unpredictably between unstoppable rage and long, dark sessions of brooding.
That all changed when the First Enchanter took the young mage under his wing and helped cool his burning rage. Where others sneered and spat at him, Irving praised and encouraged. Where others were cruel and demeaning, Irving was kind and gentle. He didn't bat an eye when he started bringing his plush dragon- the only reminder he had of home- to some of his classes. Irving soon replaced the man in the Denerim harbour as his father-figure, quickly acting more as a father than a teacher.
Over time, Dylan managed to find other friends, eventually shedding the dark air of perpetual danger he had wrapped around himself for so many , the other inhabitants warmed up to him. Maybe they saw him as a scared, lost soul in need of sympathy when they took him into their fold. The senior mages taught him control, soothed the aches of his old life, and begun the process of integrating him into Circle life.
Eventually Neria, a raven-haired elf girl with eyes like emeralds and apprentice to Wynne, had forced her way into his life. She had first appeared when they had been partnered in a simple control exercise: She would raise a shield whilst he attempted to break it. Their first attempts had gone as well as could be expected from twelve year-old mages just grasping their true potential; Dylan's shield couldn't even last a good minute before collapsing, and Neria couldn't even tickle it with any of her spells. When they swapped roles the results were staggering. Neria's shield was almost unbreakable, not even Uldred could make a dent in it (he suggested Irving tried, but both stopped when Dylan glared at them with his gold-brown eyes). It was Dylan, however, that drew the majority of the attention. He wielded fire as if born to it, his flames dancing through the air like fish in a lake.
During their later sessions they stayed such for well over an hour, Dylan bombarding his friend's shield with fire, ice and lightning whilst she remained unmoved, an immoveable object against Dylan's unstoppable force. Soon after, they were thick as thieves amidst their peers, they skill bordering on the incredible. But as they grew, their tastes in magical practise began to divide.
Neria wanted to focus of healing and defensive spells, only attacking when absolutely necessary. Dylan, on the other hand, wanted to capitalise on his affinity for fire, to expand his knowledge on the destructive arts of primal magic, as well as delving deep into the mysteries of the Fade and spells of Spirit therein. The only thing they shared was a passion for herbalism, and spent many hours poring over old tomes and brewing strange concoctions in whatever laboratory happened to be free.
The amount of times they had emerged after an explosion had rocked three floors of the tower; their faces blackened by the charred remains of their latest experiment were innumerable, whilst the Templars and older apprentices laughed at the matching grins they sported after Greagoir had stormed off with smoke figuratively- and sometime literally- spewing from his ears.
But five years after the two had had their first lesson together, Jowan and Anders were drawn into their little fold, and together they became known as the 'Terrors of the Tower', playing pranks on anyone and everyone. Their preferred targets were the Templars who didn't stay true to their oaths, and abused the system that the Chantry had put in place to protect the mages. They made life for those few as hard and degrading as possible, all whilst never getting caught.
Unfortunately for them, these Templars were more cunning than they had anticipated, and had caught wind of their reputation. And soon, the tables had turned completely, forcing Anders to escape yet again, Jowan to seek solace in the chapel, and for Dylan and Neria to glance over their shoulders every second of the day. It was during one of these days, three years ago, that Neria ran into Cullen, a new recruit from Denerim. It was also on the same day that Dylan nearly turned the tower into Fereldan's largest matchstick.
He remembered it as if it were yesterday:
Dylan was walking quite calmly towards the library, already planning the next set of tests he wanted to run on the batch of fire crystals he'd procured from the stockroom. He hummed as he walked, the tune all but forgotten but the melody still safe in his mind. He nodded to some of the kinder Templars as he passed, smiling as they nodded back. Always good to remember they're not all mage-hating simpletons he thought as he continued on his way, descending the stairs to the second floor.
Soon, however, his guard began to rise as he saw an abnormal number of apprentices running about in seemingly a mad panic. He grabbed one by the shoulder.
"What's happening?" he asked, his face a mask of polite inquiry. The mage- no older than thirteen- looked like he had come face-to-face with a rage demon.
"There's muffled screaming coming from one of the quarters" he explained, his tone quick and shaky whilst pointing down the east corridor, his eyes were wild and unruly.
Dylan's mental barriers immediately slammed into place, his mind going from 'something's strange' to 'someone's in danger' in less time than it took to blink.
As he turned to go down the corridor, the mage called out "It happened right after some Templars dragged some elf girl in there and ordered us out!"
He stopped, his blood turning to ice in his veins. "This elf girl" he said, very slowly so as to make sure his words were not garbled in his fear, "did she have black hair and green eyes?" The apprentice nodded, and Dylan's heart froze in his chest. Before anyone could react he was sprinting towards the source of the screams- which he could now clearly hear.
Oh Neria he lamented you had to choose today to go walkabout didn't you? He barrelled through a large horde of people, his pace never slowing, before he arrived at a wooden door behind which the shrill screams and repeated cries of "No!" and "Let go!" came from.
Without thinking, Dylan kicked the door open-magic flared and easily compensated for his lack of body strength- hoping to stop whatever actions the Templars had planned before they could take place. He was too late. There, tied to the posts of a bed Neria lay, her robes in tatters and blood seeping from multiple wounds, tears streaming down her elegant face. And, standing around her were six Templars, each in a different state of undress.
Some were shirtless, others lacking in trousers, whilst the boldest were completely bare.
Behind him, he heard the slight clank of armour, and a strangled gasp of surprise, but that was all secondary. What mattered right now was Neria's bloodied body, strapped to a bed by the belts of her attackers. The edges of his vision began to shimmer, like how a heat haze affects the surrounding air.
"Well well" one of the Templars, now recognisable as Ser Bryant Oswick, sneered. He had gained a reputation for cruelty and sadism amongst the Circle, and seemed to enjoy tormenting anyone he deemed beneath him. He stood, remarkably calmly for a man naked before his fellows "if it isn't the Terror of the Tower himself. Come to join your little friend here?"
The others laughed cruelly at his questions- sycophants!- and Dylan's hands clenched tightly into fists, the shimmering now completely encompassing his vision, and he swore he heard a dull roar in the back of his mind, like that of a large enraged beast.
Then another voice spoke, a voice no one expected to hear.
"Dear Maker, are you idiots mad!" the colossal boom of Cullen's voice startled everyone; never had they heard such fury from the soft-spoken recruit. He stood, holding his sword in a death-grip, his pupils so large they dominated his eyes, the blue completely obscured by the black.
Bryant simply smirked, before gesturing at Neria's bruised form, saying "Jealous Cullen? You could join in you know. No one's stopping you. In fact I was planning on taking the knife-ear whore myself, but now you're here I'll safe a bit, just for you."
Dylan's teeth ground against each other with a terrible creak, and his body thrummed with barely-restrained emotion. Some people see red when their rage becomes unbearable, others see black.
Dylan only saw fire.
He felt heat blossom within his chest, and power surge through his veins. With a bellow of rage he thrust his arm outwards, creating a wave of fire that crashed into the group, sending them tumbling to the floor. Cullen quickly cut Neria free of her bonds and carried her bridal style out of the room.
But Dylan's focus was centred purely on the figures before him. Sprawled on the ground, moaning in pain or hissing as fire licked at their skin. Dylan distantly wondered if he'd blacked out at any point- the bastards seemed to have turned into terrified wrecks absurdly fast- but then his eyes on Bryant and logic gave way to fire again.
With a wave of his hand he summoned another wall of flame, sending it twisting and spinning around him, creating a vortex of fire with him at the centre.
Bryant wouldn't be getting past him to the door.
The Templars who weren't knocked down by the first blast paled in terror as he walked towards them, the vortex following him across the room like a second shadow; a deadly, fiery, crackling thing. Those lucky enough to be knocked behind him fled out the door, heedless to their state of undress, the fear all too present in their eyes. Those who remained were either screaming as they were burnt alive or trying to escape the raging inferno and a similarly grisly fate.
Bryant was quivering on the floor, somehow inside the flaming column without being singed, his eyes fixed on the wild mage before him. The Templar looked as if he was seeing someone or something had hadn't laid eyes on before. Dylan smirked at the sight, knowing he must have become quite the figure. His hair whipped around him in the flaming wind, the tails of his robes flapping like wings behind him. It was strange that Bryant was staring at his face instead of any of that.
A reflection of his face in the glass of a picture frame told him why. It was his eyes. They were no longer the golden brown everyone knew; now they were a horrifying amalgamation of gold, black and deep crimson, reflecting the light of the flames like two lanterns embedded in his skull.
"Scared, Bryant?" he mocked, his voice having dropped several octaves; sounding powerful, otherworldly, nothing more a low draconic rumble. He would have relished this new sound if he wasn't so overcome by rage. Dylan advanced, dragging the now shaking Bryant into the air with a telekinetic grip around his throat. He suspended the grovelling Templar just before the writhing wall of flame, seeming to respond to his rage.
"Pl-please" Bryant coughed, spluttering as his air supply was cut, grappling desperately at the intangible clamp around his neck "have m-m-mercy"
The laugh that answered him was nothing short of demonic, a chilling sound that slithered over his skin like an overly large snake.
"Sorry" came the scathing reply, Dylan's eyes hardening as his grip tightened "all out of mercy."
He then began chanting in Ancient Tevene, the dead language of old Tevinter and her Old Gods, the tone wavering between that of a man pronouncing final judgement, and the snarl of something not quite human. But behind him, the thunder of a dozen steel boots could be heard, undoubtedly the Templars had caught word of what had happened and had decided to intervene. 'I'd like to see them try' he sneered within the confines of his mind, his grip unconsciously tightening around Bryant's throat as he continued, the flames beginning to roil and writhe around them even harder.
"Dylan!" Ah, the thunderous voice of the Knight-Commander. No day was complete without it.
He glanced over his shoulder; never breaking his chant, to see Greagor, Irving and half a dozen Templars standing in the doorway, the recruits looking halfway between awe and sheer, bowel-clenching terror at the flames that billowed out around them and out into the hallway. Greagoir was, understandably, seething, his sword partway out of its sheath on his back, his eyes locked on the tear-stained face of Bryant. It was Irving, however, that seemed to affect him the most, without actually doing anything.
His eyes, old and wise, cut through his anger like sunlight cuts through mist. Dylan felt the fire wither and die; the flaming wall dropping as he fell to his knees, suddenly exhausted. A pair of arms caught him before he buried his nose in the rugs, nearly fainting from exhaustion. He made out the blurred figure of Irving, saying something he could not hear, his hearing having apparently given up any hope of returning in the near future.
The only clear thing he saw, however; was the sight of Bryant rising from his prone spot on the floor, with a large serrated knife in his hand, a snarl of humiliated outrage contorting his face.
"NO!" the cry tore itself from his lips before his mind could register the sound, his hand shooting forward, seemingly of its own accord, casting a bolt of crimson energy. It collided solidly with Bryant's head, sending it snapping backwards with a sickening crack. The Templar fell, boneless, to the stone floor, and didn't move. Dylan suddenly lurched to his feet, the adrenaline still flooding his veins.
Both Templar and mage alike attempted to restrain him, and he struggled mightily against them. But ultimately, his series of stunts had worn him down so far that he barely had the strength to keep his eyes open. The last thing he remembered before the darkness claimed him was seeing Neria standing in the doorway, her green elven eyes wide as dinner platters and her face white as a sheet.
His last thought was laced with shock and underlying terror: She had seen everything.
And in the end, the consequences weren't quite what he'd expected.
Dylan shook his head to clear the unpleasant memories, bringing his focus back to the here and now. He was just outside Irving's office, with his hand braced against the wall, his books spread across the floor. He sighed and began gathering up the dropped tomes.
"Wow" a melodious voice floated down the hall, tickling his eardrums "and here I thought you couldn't get any clumsier." He looked up to see Neria casually walking down the corridor, the hem of her sapphire robes swishing around her ankles like water lapping at her legs. It seemed to hug her figure without being too unseemly, and seemed to amplify her existing charm.
He felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at the sight of her carefree grin, her eyes two sparkling emeralds. T
hen she saw the shadow lurking in his eyes, the lack of the usual spark that burned there, and her smile dropped.
"What did you see?" she said softly, using their traditional phrase they'd developed so others would know when he was close to losing control. He had an array of response words, each one signalling a different state of mind. He simply smiled at her, trying to disarm her and drive her off topic. Instead of distracting her like he had intended, her gaze sharpened and hardened, becoming like silverite daggers.
"What. Did. You. See?" she reiterated, enforcing each word by poking him hard in the chest. He swatted the offending finger aside, before latching onto her wrist to halt her assault.
"The beginning" he deadpanned, his voice bland and apathetic. Neria's anger melted instantly, being replaced by soft sorrow. She didn't say anything, simply wrapped her arms around his ribs and hugged him, tears slowly gathering in her eyes. Dylan looked down, his heart almost tearing itself in two at the sight of Neria in tears. He gathered her in his arms, rubbing small comforting circles in the small of her back whilst whispering soothing words into her hair.
If there was one thing that could be said about Dylan Amell, he was insanely protective of his friends.
"Ah, there you are" Dylan looked up as Irving and Wynne rounded the corner, Neria shifting slightly in his arms. Wynne gave them a motherly smile before motioning Neria to follow her. The she-elf slipped out of Dylan's grasp and scurried after the older Enchanter, turning back only to wave goodbye before disappearing behind the wall.
Dylan sighed, gathered up his books and accompanied Irving into his office. The vast room was as much a home as the vast halls he remembered from his family's estate in Kirkwall. He set the tomes down on a nearby shelf before proceeding to Irving's desk, taking his usual seat opposite the First Enchanter.
Irving sifted through the chest in the corner, searching for Maker knew what- it was nearly impossible to tell what went on in that man's head- before emerging triumphant with five scrolls clasped in his gnarled hands.
"Ah, here we are" he said, his time-worn voice amazingly cheerful, his wizened frame moving with such ease to bely his true age. He spread one of the scrolls across his desk before passing another to Dylan's waiting hands. "This is for you; I trust you'll know what to do with it."
Dylan nodded before unrolling it, studying the words for a few moments before rising form his chair. He turned to leave, and had almost reached the door when Irving called "Oh Dylan?" He glanced over his shoulder as Irving continues, "I've set your Harrowing for two days' time, right after Neria's." The older mage looked up into his protégé's eyes, a sly smile on his lips. "Try not to demolish the chamber whilst you're up there? I think I've endured as much of Greagoir's ranting as an old man can stand."
Chuckling at his mentor's wry humour, Dylan left his office and began the return trip to the Apprentice Quarters, to prepare for the final stage of his apprenticeship.
If he'd known what long and dangerous road had just opened for him, one that would lead him and his friends to honour and glory through the fires of the worst hell imaginable, he probably wouldn't have been quite so amused at the prospect.