Author's Note: A huge thank you to my dear friend Bellaknoti- half this story is hers, really. And another huge thank you to my other dear friend Demonsaya, who quite literally forced us to write this again from the ground up, and for all the right reasons.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age or anything else, just a small handful of OCs. It all belongs to Bioware. Cruel, brilliant, infuriating Bioware.

Enchanter Wynne stands at the front of the class, critiquing the work of the mages with a sharp eye. The children are all huddled over their palms, brows furrowed in intense concentration as they quite literally attempt to will the flames into existence. The templars, ever vigilant, stand ready to intervene should the worst happen- though at this level of skill, 'the worst' usually consisted of singed fingers or sudden tussles. She walks through the class, stopping to make a comment here, a correction there. When she comes to the group closest to the door, the slightest hint of a frown pulls at her lips. Keeping her opinions about the elf girl to herself, she approaches them, attempting to be amiable, if nothing else. "Well done, Surana. But you must focus more, feed the flame with your will. If you do not, the magic may fail you at a critical moment, harming you or others."

Surana looks up at Wynne, eyes glittering with stubborn obstinacy. She has never responded well to authority. She remembers the Alienage, the guards who kicked her when she fell in the mud, the words that still burn her ears. "I am." The flame burns a little brighter, curling around her arm to to lick at the cloth, though it doesn't catch. Jowan looks on in amazement, reaching out with an awestruck expression. He snatches his hand back the second he touches it, though, hissing in pain.

"Control it. You're putting others at risk." The mages nearby hush, unwilling to bring attention to themselves. No one likes being the object of Enchanter Wynne's ire, after all.

Reluctant to listen to the Enchanter, proud of the first flame she's ever conjured, Surana huddles protectively over it, baring her teeth like an animal. Jowan leans in to whisper something to her, and the anger fades to concentration. After a few moments, he reaches for the flame again, breaking out into an eager grin when it doesn't seem to harm him. Sharing in the moment, Surana lets the flame vanish and gives him an impulsive hug. "Thanks, Jowan."

Wynne briefly considers scolding the girl, but it has already been a long day, and she would prefer to choose her battles. Shaking her head, she moves on to the last student. She sits in the corner alone, huddled up and focusing very hard. So far, however, she hasn't managed so much as a whiff of smoke. Wynne crouches beside her, somewhere between concerned and impatient, wondering why someone who seems to excel in other studies would be struggling here. "Ilia, are you all right? You're a bit behind."

The girl flinches, her eyes darting around the room. She feels like everyone is suddenly watching, listening, hoping that she'll give Wynne reason to lose her temper. And who's to say she won't? She knows she isn't doing well. She's trying to be good. She bites her lip, stepping further in the corner, but the cold stone against her back only makes the panic rise. Ice creeps up her arms, drawing a shiver from her, but it's getting to where she can't stop it, can't control it. Wynne reaches for her, and she shakes her head, pulling farther away, her long hair falling to frame her face.

"I'm not going to hurt you, girl." Exasperated, she reaches for her again. "Just let me see." Focused on Ilia, she doesn't notice Surana whispering conspiratorially to Jowan. She steps towards the frightened little thing, trying to swallow her irritation and mostly failing. "Ilia. You need to calm yourself. You're only making it worse-"

"NO!" The ice that has been slowly trailing up her arms, rapidly and without control, explodes in a flurry of white. She cringes, waiting to be struck, but there are other shouts, screams coming from the other side of the room. When she opens her eyes and sees that Wynne is gone, she wastes no time in running.

Reaching out to grab her, more than half a mind to take Ilia to Irving to deal with, Wynne is brought up short by the sudden chaos. She rushes across the room, ice ready at her fingers when she sees the flames. How it could have gotten so out of control- there is a conspicuous absence. She shouts for Surana, her voice ringing clearly through the room and out into the hall, chasing the frightened girl like dogs snapping at her heels.

Blinded by tears, she stumbles her way through the halls. Her shoulders shake with panicked sobs, and all that she can think about is that she needs a safe place. Before Wynne sees she's gone, before the Templars start to hunt for her. She doesn't want to be punished. She's good. She promised that she wouldn't be trouble, not like Bradhon. But no, she isn't good. She was stupid. She's going to get hurt because she was stupid. And they will find her. Hurt her. Once they realize it's her fault that trouble started, once they remember who she is, who her brother is- the fear is suddenly too much. She stops abruptly in the middle of the hallway, paralyzed by it, hands over her ears and her eyes shut tight.

Safe place. Safe place. The hallway is quiet now, much more so than the thoughts whirling around in her head, but it doesn't matter, because they're coming. Safe place, not here, somewhere where there are no Templars, where Bradhon is alive, and- she yelps, the touch on her shoulder scaring her out of her wits. She tries to turn, but her legs tangle up with themselves, and she falls hard to the floor on her rear. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I didn't mean it. I didn't!" Her voice is shrill, panicked, more words than she's spoken in all the time since they brought her here two weeks ago. She's going to be whipped, just like he was, because she's stupid, because she isn't being good. Her tears start afresh, and she hunches over her lap, mumbling that she's sorry over and over again.

Not meaning to scare the girl, he nearly jumps back when she yelps, blinking at her. He tries to catch her, but misses, and when she starts crying, he knows. He knows the templars hurt her when they brought her in. They always hurt everyone, but especially the pretty ones. "Hey. Hey, shh... it's all right." She looks up at him as he crouches beside her, eyes wide and filled with tears. "Come on. I know a place where we can hide."

Her eyes pop open, and it's a boy, maybe four years older than her. The important thing is that he's not one of them, that he's not laughing at her or telling her to be quiet. So he has to be safe. Right? She doesn't know what to do. Her throat hurts and she's too warm and the ice has melted all over her, soaking her robes. She doesn't know if she should listen to him or if she should wait for Wynne and say she's sorry until someone finally believes her, or- No. She can't just wait for them. She's going to be punished. For causing trouble, for running, for yelling at Wynne. "B-but... wh-what if they... if they look and don't- don't find me? They- they'll be so... so angry."

The boy shakes his head, still not looking at her like she's being difficult, and his tone is far from sharp or angry. "Come on. They'll give up. Maybe an enchanter will talk to you later." He holds out his hand, watching her with steady eyes. They're warm. Kind. Something about them, about him, compels her to break her long silence, to want to trust him. She hesitates still, though, but he doesn't move an inch. "I'm Anders. Let's run first and talk more later."

This is probably a very bad idea, she figures, but Wynne will be so angry, and there was trouble and it's all her fault and running won't solve anything. And then she hears the distant echo of clattering armor and shouting, and she takes his offered hand with her heart in her throat. She doesn't want to get hurt, and they'll be looking for her. She needs a safe place, and he says she can hide with him.

They run, dashing down the corridors and down a flight of stairs, down another and into a different wing of the apprentice quarters, where there's an alcove behind a wardrobe that goes around a corner, completely invisible from the other side. He pulls her in behind him, and he sets a pillow on the floor, and then a blanket on top of it. He whispers to her quietly as he sits cross-legged on the floor. "You can sit on that if you want." He glances away as they both hear the Templars pass, noisy armor and heavy steps, and then he looks back at her once they've gone. "What happened? Why are you crying? And why are you all wet? Why do the Templars want you?"

It's all too much, all at once. The fear, the fire, the questions, running and hiding when she knows it's wrong. She bursts into tears again, falling on the floor, her head in her hands. "I didn't- I didn't do it, I wasn't- I... I..." She can barely breathe, her chest heaving. Her head feels curiously light and empty, and the world feels like it's tilting all around her. "N-not my fault. I'm good. I pr-promised I'd be good, and I am. I am."

His hand is on her shoulder, and he's being kind again, hushing her in a way that isn't like her brother's angry hiss at all. "It's all right. It's all right. You don't have to answer. We can sit here." He considers her silently. How old is she? Six? He feels old compared to her. He bets she hasn't been here long. A pause, and then his hand rubs over her arm a little bit. "In a little while, I can go find out where they are, and what's happening. Then I'll make sure they're not looking when you go back to your class."

Ilia sniffles, shaking her head. "It's... it's on fire. The rug. And Wynne is angry."

"Wynne? Angry?" She doesn't need to look to hear the disbelief, and she doesn't want to just yet. Closing her eyes makes it easier. "Wynne doesn't get angry. She gets all pinch-faced and shakes her finger. Once, she poked me in the arm. Right here." He demonstrates, a spot just beside where his hand was a moment before. "Her finger is bony."

Frustrated that he doesn't understand, she shakes her head again. "She will be. I... I c-couldn't make fire. It hurt. And she... she tried to- to make me, and-" she tries to take a breath, but it doesn't help to calm her down at all. All it does is make her want to cry again. "There was a girl, she- she set the rug on fire, and I- I ran away because Wynne was angry and everyone was staring, and... and I'm in trouble. I know I am, but it was her. Not me."

"HE. HURT. JOWAN!" Ilia flinches as the shriek rises and bounces over the pressing silence of the stone corridors. There's a slight pause, then it comes again, louder and far more angry. "IT. WAS. NOT!"

The voice that follows that is far more sensible and a lot more calm. "It sounds like she's showing them she's the one who set the rug on fire." Another pause, and this time it's polite curiosity. "You were all wet. Are you ice?"

Startled out of her hysteria by the strange question, she finally looks up at him. "Wh- what?"

"Ice. Do you make ice? I make lightning." He holds out his thumb and forefinger, an inch apart, and she watches in awe as a spark zaps between them.

"I... I think so. But it- it only happens when I'm really scared." She looks down at her wet garments helplessly. Something else to get in trouble for. She doesn't have anything else to wear, not since they took away the dress that Bradhon gave her. They took almost everything away. "I can't do it on purpose."

"You just have to pay attention to it. Feel it. It's in you. In here." He points to the centre of his palm, serious as any of her instructors. "And here." He points to his forehead this time, and somehow his simple explanation makes far more sense than anything else she's been told so far. "If you make ice, fire will hurt. Hurts me, too. I can't do it."

So many thoughts are running through her head. She hasn't had the chance to ask, to sort anything out in her head. She bites at her lip, but it all bursts out anyway, and he's been kind so far. She doesn't want to ask anyone else. "But th-they... the Templars-" Her voice is a hushed whisper, her face going pale as if the name itself has power. "They... they said it- it's wrong. Magic. So why... why are they teaching us? They do they have to- have to take us a-away and make us do what we... what we don't want to? Isn't that wrong, too?" She didn't even know that being a mage was wrong. She didn't even know that there was a name for what she could do. Not until they took her brother. Not until they killed him. She looks down at her lap again, shoulders hunched, hoping that he understands it better than she does.

"I don't know why. But if we don't figure it out, it hurts us. So the enchanters teach us how to control it." He pauses, thinking about her questions, the hurtful things that must've happened to her to make her ask them, and he's really nothing but sympathetic. "They steal us from our families sometimes, and other times, people's families are afraid, and they just give us away. They think we're bad, that the Maker hates us and wants us locked away. They put us here, in jail. But I don't think we're wrong. Why are we bad for being born? It doesn't make sense. I think they're just bad people. But they do teach us how to not be dangerous, and that's important. Very important. We have to learn to do our best."

He sounds wise, like Elder Firan, and she listens with rapt attention. She forgets to cry, listening to him, and the only thing that she can think is that he's so much braver than she is. And what he says about hurting... she knows she almost hurt Bradhon more than once. Usually when it was the worst possible moment. And that's her fault, too, why she's here and he isn't. Her throat tries to close up, but she looks down and tries not to cry again, because nothing can fix it. She takes a breath, and she suddenly realizes that he told her his name, but she didn't tell him hers. Her voice is very small when she tries to say it, so she tries again. "My name... my name's Ilia. Ilia Amell."

There's a smile in his voice, something warm. "Hello, Ilia."

That coaxes a smile out of her. She looks up at him again, feeling far better. "Thank you. I... I shouldn't have run, but... thank you."

"Sometimes running is smart." He rises, looking down at her. "Let's go see what happened. I bet they're so busy with the other girl that they won't remember you at all. Wynne might, but the Templars are going to be busy. And if you tell her it hurts to make fire, she might understand." She watches as he peeks out, getting slowly to her own feet. She reaches for his hand without thinking about it, just wanting something solid to hold on to. "Come on."

They duck out from behind the wardrobe, and Anders motions to her to follow, slinking his way back down the corridor. He hides again, pulling her behind a statue as some older apprentices walk by, and she hears them whispering about the elven girl who set the library on fire. That she was sent to the healer. He looks at her, and she feels sick to her stomach. She doesn't want to know how she got hurt. "I don't think the Templars care about you any more."

That only makes it worse. She swallows, feeling guilty. Maybe it was wrong to run. She didn't do anything, but the other girl didn't have to be hurt. Did she? "They... they hurt her?"

"She must have thrown a tantrum." Dead serious, his eyes not leaving hers. "They don't like that."

How he says that scares her all over again. It reminds her of how Bradhon looked when she told him about how she accepted food from the lady at the Chantry. Right before everything went wrong. She shakes her head sharply in response. "I... I don't do that. Not- not usually. I... I'm not supposed to attract attention. Or make them angry."

"Good. I did. A lot. Still do." A glance out into the hallway, then back at her. "Here. We're close. I'll get you back to your class so the Templars don't notice. When they start paying attention to me, you run back in. Okay?"

Trouble again. Didn't he just say that's what they're not supposed to do? "But... but what if they get angry at you?" He's been far kinder to her than anyone else so far. She doesn't want him to get hurt. She doesn't want him to end up like Bradhon.

Anders shrugs, looking far too unconcerned. "Maybe. Probably. But it's okay." He smiles brilliantly at her, and somehow she doesn't feel any better for it. "I know where to run." Then he's pulling her along the hallway, stopping when they get very close. He crowds her into a room behind him, watching for the Templars, and then turns to her. "Okay, I'm going to make them chase me. When they go by, run back to your class. Wynne might be mad, but she won't hurt you, and the Templars will be busy. Ready?"

She's really not, but she nods anyway, feeling sick. "Yes."

He looks out the door again, then saunters into the hallway, tossing a ball of lightning between his hands like it's nothing. When the Templars see him, one of them shouts at him and tells him to stop, but he throws it instead, letting it strike harmlessly into the metal grating behind them. He laughs, and then he's suddenly gone, the Templars not too far behind. Ilia counts to ten before moving, then peers out into the hall with her breath uncomfortably trapped in her throat. Empty.

She steps out hesitantly, going slow until she realizes that he told her to run, and that someone could come into the hall while she's dragging her feet. She slips into the room, and the rest of the children are gathered around Wynne, most frightened, some looking excited. She's grabbed by an enchanter she's never met, and he's scolding her, demanding to know where she's been, why she left, and she needs to speak because doesn't she know how serious this is? She shouldn't have run, and now she's in trouble, too. She doesn't argue with them. Anders is in a lot more trouble than she is. And he did it on purpose, just to be kind. Just because she was scared. Next time, she won't let him get in trouble. Not for her.