Memories, like ashes

Author's notes: This story will have violence, as does the original world. I will try not to be too graphic, and include the necessary trigger notes before so those who wish to skip past unpleasant scenes can.

The first chapter is, as stated, prologue; there will be more action in later chapters.

Prologue: My shoes, and my cloak, and her love, always

There's so much to this story that I could tell, but I won't. You know that I left the circle after trying to help the blood mage Jowan escape. You know that I joined the Grey Wardens, and that I witnessed the massacre at Ostagar, and that I saved the world from a Blight. You might, perhaps, might even know about a few of my adventures after the Blight- and now that you're reading this you know that I was at least alive long enough to tell this tale. Thinking of all the tales told about me, I have to say- sometimes I'm afraid that the Hero of Ferelden has taken over my life so thoroughly that I no longer exist.

Everyone knows a mage saved the world. No-one understands why she left it.

I was born in an alienage. It smelled like mold, year-round, because there isn't much light in an alienage, and there isn't much warmth in an alienage, and because nobody has any energy left over at the end of the day to clean in an alienage. It was actually a nice place, compared to the way elves lived in other cities, and my mother reminded me of that even as she refused to conceal the cruelty of the world from me. If I had to choose one word to describe it, I'd have to say insular; everyone tried their best to spend what little money they had on the wares of other elves, and work for other elves, and talk to other elves. Still... the fashions were human, and the stories were human, and what coin we had was filtered down from the humans that too many of us worked for.

My father died in a riot. I don't remember it very well- I was kept hidden inside the house, tucked up with my blanket and some stale bread to nibble on inside a chest that my mother locked from the outside. I remember the smell of smoke, and later on the smell of blood, and my fathers body brought home cold and grey. I wasn't allowed at the funeral rites, and to this day I have no idea what city elves do with their dead. To this day when I smell smoke- not fresh wood-smoke, but the smoke that comes when people start burning everything they can put on a fire- I hear the ghosts of screams and sobs and over and over again the creak of the front door when everything was over, and my mother's soft, stifled tears as she tried to put herself together enough to face her only child.

I don't remember time passing in the alienage. I had a happy childhood, not knowing any better. I knew in a distant corner of my mind that there were other children out there that had enough to eat, and that weren't going to grow up to be beaten and starved, and that some people always had enough clothes to keep warm in winter. But it wasn't something I thought about. There were so many other things to think about as a child. Perhaps I was an unusual child in that respect, but it never occurred to me to dream or be jealous. I had what I had, and I did the best with it.

I remember the soft childhood magic I had. I remember the way I rubbed my mother's dry, stiff hands to put the life back in them when she came home at night. I remember the way I could make myself seem to disappear when I wanted to, and nobody could find me unless I wanted them to. My mother never had to tell me magic was dangerous, like 22`she never had to tell me a fire was hot. I could tell by the way her lips pursed in fear when I did it, even as her eyes shone in what I know now was probably envy and appreciation. Magic was the birthright of the Dalish, and even the lowliest elf child could hope to have a sprinkle of it. To ask for too much- that was greedy. And I knew in my heart, when they came for me, that I had been far too greedy.

The only season to me in the alienage was winter. I know there must have been other seasons, but to a people that cannot afford the necessities, the only season that is actually important is winter, because that is the only season that will kill you. The variations consisted of almost winter, where one made do with terribly light clothes and no firewood because you hoped that this year you would be able to adjust to the cold, and the end of winter, where one made do with terribly light clothes and no firewood because you had used the firewood already and your clothes had been sold for food. The only season you talk about is the winter- comparing one cold day to another cold day. You greet each other talking about the degree of cold compared to other days, and children are greeted with offers of warmth above all else.

I can't describe the cold to you, who has never known cold like the elves have. It isn't like walking outside on a crisp cold day, where you can see your breath, and the tips of your fingers tingle because you've forgotten gloves. For the elves, it was like the cold emanated from inside us; no matter how warm a house was or how much of a warm beverage we drank or how many layers of clothing, we were terribly cold. I know now, after a lifetime in the circle with enough to eat and whatever I wished to wear, that people who always have enough to eat, and warm houses to sleep in, and can choose to put on another layer any time they feel a chill, don't experience it like that. The cold doesn't linger in our bones through the summer, only relinquishing it's grasp right before winter starts again. The cold is simply a sensation, like many other sensations, that is experienced and catered to and forgotten as soon as it has passed.

There is much I don't remember about my childhood. I don't remember my mother's face, though I try. I remember my Dalish cousin- or aunt; I was never sure at that age what relatives were what distance away from me. Not her face- but I still think I could recognize her. She came to visit a couple of times a year, always in a flurry of greetings and tiny Dalish presents for the children and furtive healings of those who had gotten sick. It was known that eventually she would decide that I was old enough to survive the rigorous journey to her clan, and that day she would pop in and take me with no warning to my mother or the rest of the family, because that was what was safe.

Having a greater knowledge of the world, I suppose she was probably the Keeper to a clan of Dalish, or perhaps apprentice to one. Now I know that my life with the Dalish would have been hard, but I would always have had a certain measure of respect. Then, I imagined that I would go about with a bow and arrow, hunting errant shemlen. My age-mates often played Dalish and Shemlan; the Dalish always won, of course. My mother told me time and again- only Aunt Linean was allowed to take me out of the alienage. My mother told me where my small travel pack was, and made me repeat the list of things to take with me: My shoes, and my cloak, and her love, always. I don't know if displays of affection were common among elves. I know my mother told me every day that she loved me, many times a day.

I think she must have been preparing for the day I would leave her. I don't know if she expected to be killed after I was taken, or if she simply knew it would be years before I'd be able to return, if at all. My mother made me unable to hate magic, and able to completely hate having magic at the same time. I know she valued me even with my magic; most elves value magic highly. I also know that magic was what separated us. Almost everyone in the circle was effectively an orphan, so the loss of my mother wasn't treated with the quiet respect it would have been treated with in the outside world. I was- am- incredibly fortunate to have a mother who loved me. I never had the magic 'beaten out of me', and I was never denied food or shelter because of it. I was very protected as a child, scurried from house to house by an extended family that loved me and would do almost anything to protect me.

The templars came for me in almost-winter, and to this day I remember the ragged way the tree in the alienage looked with the leaves turning brown and dropping haphazardly. My mother was gone- I think she had to work in a noble's house, cleaning. I don't remember who was watching over me that day, if anyone; I was five, and not adventurous, and could be left alone for hours with no incident. I remember the harsh, cold outside air on my throat, and the cold of the metal armor the templars wore. I remember the way my neighbors averted their eyes. I remember the kind, older woman next door looking, but holding her child as if to beg me not to ask protection of her.

I remember not having time to grab my small travel bag, or my cloak, or my shoes.

If I had to describe life in the circle in one word, I would say it was petty. Irving made it intentionally so. We were children, even the oldest of us, and the templars and Chantry were our fathers and mothers. Our mothers made the rules, but the templars enforced them, and Maker help you if you didn't learn quickly enough how to pit them against each other.

I don't miss the circle, but I wonder sometimes how I survive without it. Every day, though I know better in every part of myself but one, I am afraid that I am going to kill all that I hold dear. This fear never abates and never lessens. I wake in the middle of the night gasping, afraid that my magic has killed everyone around me while I slept. I wake constantly just to make sure I still can- to make sure I haven't been trapped in the fade and possessed by a demon. I don't know if that fear is universal among mages, but I know it is common.

Every mage deals with being a mage in a different fashion. Some become incredibly self-apologetic, and spend their entire purpose of being making up for their existence. Some become purposefully selfish and uncaring. Some devote themselves entirely to study- of languages or politics or genealogy or the ancient folk tales of the dwarven race or the different subspecies of the willow tree.

People who don't do magic, I think, assume that all of us devote their study to magic, because it's something that only we can do, and something that is our only ticket to anything other than rotting in a tower. Not so. That's a bit like thinking that making time in the military mandatory means that the soldiers will devote themselves to being the best soldiers they can, and do their best to obey, and willingly sacrifice their lives. In any group like that where one is put into a compulsory situation, most people toe the line and do the bare minimum required to get by for everything that they can, and only put effort out for the things they think will personally benefit them. There will be a few people that do their best to get out of every assignment and a few people that ask for extra work.

Jowan and I were friends. We had the sort of friendship that is not complicated between a boy and a girl, because both of us knew what we wanted from the other. It was a deep friendship for the circle- deep enough that he felt comfortable asking me to risk my life for him, at any rate. And yet it was like all things in the circle that were forced by circumstance- mired in a deep resentment on both our parts. I resented that he was human, and male; he resented that I was talented, and ambitious.

I resented our friendship too, and I took it out in petty little ways all the time. I would tell him the wrong answers when he asked me magical questions, or mislead him about the circle politics when I was angry at him. I was angry that I had a friend at all- I thought it made me weak. I was angry that he leaned on me to help his magic- even though we weren't in a competition with each other, I was angry if he asked me for help. It was petty, like so many other things in the circle. I was petty, and I was small. We all were, though; it is hard to grow tall when you are kept in a cage. Jowan was never overtly mean to me, but he took things out on me as well. He held secrets- I knew he held secrets, even though it took me years to learn the full extent of it.

We were so stunted in the circle, as people. I wonder sometimes whether I will ever be as full a person as those around me. My chest constricts every time someone points out an obvious flaw in my mental or social development. I'm so often rude, when I don't need to be. People in the circle are abrupt and to the point; why pretend anything different? And we're so insular in that situation; I often have no idea how someone can have a different idea than I do, when they were given the same information. While I've managed to trick demons and taunt kings and seduce assassins... I am very easily manipulated myself.

I'm a powerful woman now, so looking back at a time when I had little say over my own destiny is unnerving. I am afraid, when I think of my own past. I am afraid of course that it will come back, and I will wake up in the circle surrounded by templars. I am afraid most of all, however, at what I have become. For all our reputations of fearlessness, as a Grey Warden, I am afraid all the time, over everything. And yet... the fear is oddly redeeming, and refreshing, and... freeing. I have chosen the manner of my own death. I will look death in the eyes when it comes, and it will comfort me like an old friend.

Oh, dear friend. Wait another moment for me yet; I have much to do, and so little time in which to do it.

Previews of Chapter one:

It was like the Maker himself had been listening to my prayers. I prayed for my death, and lo! he sent an assassin.

It was like I had fallen unexpectedly into deep, cold water, and if I let go of my emotions it would be like letting go of my air, and I didn't know when I'd be able to breathe again. I handled everything with a I faced with calm accuracy; nothing stopped me from getting to where I needed to go, or finding the supplies I needed to use. I analyzed every battle scenario coldly and quickly and accurately, and killed everything that raised a blow to me with soft precision.

And yet... I think I knew the truth from the day I met him. I don't know how to explain how I knew. I just did, on an instinctive level that lent itself no time for doubt. The two of us had hoped the other would kill us. How often in battle do you think that happens?

I saw his light banter for what it was- the well-practiced sort of defense that one only has when one needs it, absolutely.