Disclaimer for all following chapters: I don't own the world or characters of Dragon Age, the rightful creator is Bioware.
The first five chapters have been revised - there are no major changes but I did find several mistakes and hopefully removed most of them.
When the very top of the tower could be seen above the tree tops, Hawke baulked instinctively. He gritted his teeth, refusing to gasp as the bruising grip of steel gauntlets on his arms tightened.
"Get a move on," one of the templars snapped, tugging so harshly Hawke was certain that the skin was torn open. Silently, he began to walk again but his eyes remained on the tower.
The Circle of Magi. This was the place his father had warned of more times that he'd cared to count, the place that fuelled his sibling's nightmares as well as his own. As goose bumps rose on his back and arms, Hawke forced himself to place one foot in front of the other, looking down at the ground with a frowning kind of concentration.
The shackles around his wrists chafed and his feet ached but he didn't utter a sound as they drew steadily nearer to Kinloch Hold. Every instinct told him to stop and incapacitate the two templars with a quick shot of strong lighting but his rational side shook its head at this idea. He wasn't here because he'd been unable to defend himself, after all.
More and more of the tower appeared before them as they left the dense forest, until he could see all of it. It was huge, built on an island in the middle of Lake Calenhad and looking the part of a prison where no-one could escape. His mouth grew dry as if he'd just eaten a handful of dirt and his breath quickened. Refusing to give up his stoic demeanour, Hawke lowered his eyes once again.
Down a hill they went and then they came to a halt in front of a short jetty. A tall, well-built man awaited them, staring at him with suspicion.
"That him, aye?"
The templar to his right nodded curtly. "Get us across, Kester."
"Alright then." Kester ushered them into the small boat. The ride across the lake took much longer than Hawke had expected and already halfway through he was sick of the incessant rocking. The massive building towering over his head didn't help his nausea and for the first time since the templars had caught him, he felt something akin to real fear. His life of freedom would end here. Possibly, life would even end here permanently.
Somehow, Hawke was less afraid of dying than he was of surviving.
No word was spoken on the ferry until it suddenly came to a rough stop right in front of the steps that led right up to the entrance.
"Up," the templar on his left told him gruffly, forcing him to his feet at the same time. Hawke bit his tongue and a quick glance at his arm showed that even the flesh just around the steel gauntlet was already a mottled purplish red colour.
They yanked him out of the boat and practically dragged him up the stairs because they didn't give him the opportunity to regain his step. Hawke stayed quiet except for the odd hiss that escaped his clenched jaw.
His heart beat frantically, hammering against his ribs with wild abandon.
Think of father, Hawke told himself firmly, think of Bethany. You don't run. You won't run.
He repeated it over and over in his head, clung to it like a drowning man would to a piece of driftwood as his guards pushed open the massive double wing door and jerked him inside with one powerful yank.
The doors shut behind him with a final sound and Hawke had trouble breathing as he found himself surrounded by oppressive stone walls.
No windows.
There were no windows. Not one.
Oh Maker.
Oh Maker.
The templars pulled him forward and he dug his heels into the ground, fighting them with nails and teeth for the very first time since they'd found him.
"Now it's a bit too late, apostate," one of his captors sneered while the other snorted, "Be a good little mage."
Hawke snarled at being talked down to like that but the sound was soon replaced by a gasp as they forced him forwards. His arms felt like they'd been torn apart and the templars took advantage of his short moment of limp shock.
Through another door, down a curved hallway. Every single door was closed and there was just not enough space. Hawke pressed his eyes closed, trying to breathe through the lump that had formed deep in his chest and finding himself failing miserably.
Oh Maker. Get a grip, calm down. Think of Bethany and father. Calm down.
A set of stairs, another door, straight ahead, another set of stairs, another door. By the time they went along another curved hallway, Hawke could breathe again but he let his eyes stay closed. He would just have another panic attack if he opened them.
They walked for what seemed to be eternity until, finally, the templars stopped abruptly and Hawke opened his eyes cautiously. His heart still beat wildly but he felt calmer, more rational and – more importantly – he knew that he looked like the epitome of indifference. Appearance was everything and behind his mask he felt safe, protected.
One of the bucket heads raised his fist and with a dull THUMP steel connected with wood.
Not two seconds later a gravelly voice bade them to "Enter!"
The chamber was dimly lit, the only source of light being a sort of blue-glowing pool in the very middle of the room – lyrium, Hawke recognised at once – and a few candle holders on the walls.
"And so this is the apostate. I take it you did not find traces of maleficarum on him."
Hawke swivelled his head, taking in the people present in a few seconds.
The man who had just spoken was doubtlessly authority in templar armour. The Knight-Commander, then. Next to him stood a wizened mage, dressed in circle robes and carrying a staff on his back. Probably the First Enchanter. Behind them stood a dozen templars and he was certain that their eyes were on him, trying to take him apart through looks alone.
"We did not, Knight-Commander," confirmed one of his guards and was about to elaborate when the First Enchanter interrupted.
"Let go of the poor lad, Ser Orrin, Ser Derry."
His voice was old and rough from age but his tone was sharp enough that the two templars finally let go of his arms. He resisted the urge to wince as blood rushed through the abused flesh at an alarming rate, making it hurt even more.
"We didn't find any evidence towards maleficarum, Knight-Commander."
"Very well. We will have to ensure the Circle's integrity nonetheless. Get the lyrium ready!"
Hawke's eyes snapped up and he didn't even flinch when he met the Commanders hard stare.
The First Enchanter piped up once again. "All our apprentices have years to master their abilities, Greagoir."
Greagoir glared at the mage. "We can't afford to give the apostate that time, as you well know, Irving. I shudder to think about what he could've picked up or consorted with in his lifetime of freedom!"
Hawke narrowed his eyes but remained silent. No need to speak up unless he was asked to do so and he wasn't about to get cheeky with the man who could just announce him maleficarum, true or not.
The smell of lyrium grew overwhelming and Hawke found himself being once again dragged, this time to the pool of lyrium.
"Pass this test and I promise that you will be safe, lad," he heard Irving's voice behind him, "Put your hand into the lyrium."
Hawke did as he was told, albeit slowly, and then there was a blinding flash and consuming darkness.
-DEAR TO ME-
The sight he woke up to was a very familiar one. Brown, fuzzy and shapeless, the unformed Fade surrounded him. He rose slowly, instinctively readying his magic, feeling the cold encase his fingers. At the moment he seemed to be alone but Hawke was the last one to relax now. The Fade was arbitrary, ever-changing and as such a highly dangerous place for naïve souls.
The trick was to know that nothing stayed the same and that everything could morph into something else on a moment's notice.
Just then he felt a whisper on his skin that raised the fine hair on his neck and triggered his inner alarm. A presence had appeared behind him, just a few metres away.
Demon.
"Uh, hello there! Could-"
But before the disguised Fade-creature could finish its request, Hawke spun around, magic dashing from his fingertips and encasing the demon in solid ice. Not a second later, the figure shattered into thousand pieces without Hawke's doing. He raised his eyebrows, blinked-
-and found himself back in the chamber when he opened his eyes again. Disbelieving, slack-jawed faces awaited him and most of the templars drew their weapons. Disconcerting. Hawke expected that he had been quite quick.
"Easy as pie" he finally said, hating how his voice rasped over the voice cords, rough from the lack of usage over the last week. Silence met his cocky exclamation until Greagoir spoke up.
"He is not possessed. Stay your weapons."
Irving contemplated him with a little glint in his eye, a hand stroking his rather impressive beard.
"Well done, lad. We will take our leave then, Greagoir. As you can see, he's perfectly capable of handling himself."
Greagoir, though unwilling, had no reason to refuse. "Ser Orrin will accompany you. Watch yourself, Irving. He's still an apostate."
When they left the chamber this time, there were no eager templar-volunteers to grab him and Hawke was silently grateful.
They went down two tiers, Ser Orrin clanking behind them, until Irving stopped in front of another door and turned around, giving the templar a grandfatherly smile.
"Thank you, Ser Orrin. I am quite sure that this is far enough for you."
He ushered Hawke into what looked like a study. Not for one second did Hawke turn his back on them.
Ser Orrin frowned. "The Knight-Commander told me to accompany you, First Enchanter."
"I'm in no way deaf, Ser Orrin. Surely you have more important duties than standing around in an old man's study, listening to mages talking."
The templar looked ready to force his way into the room but then seemed to think better of it.
"You're right, First Enchanter."
Irving's smile grew and he said kindly "As I expected. A good day to you, Ser Orrin." and shut the door.
Hawke watched the old man warily, standing in the middle of the generous study. The sheer number of the books in here amazed him and he had an itch to touch them. Books had been a rare luxury for his family because they were heavy and unhandy in case they needed to make a quick getaway. Everything he'd been taught about magic, he'd learned from his father.
"Take a seat, lad."
He waited until the other had taken his seat before he followed the order. The knowing light in Irving's eyes told him that the mage had noticed.
For a few seconds there was silence as they assessed each other. Then Irving smiled.
"What's your name, lad?"
A muscle in Hawke's jaw twitched. His father had been in the Circle somewhere (though he had always refused to tell them specifics) and he didn't want to use his surname as such. The Amell family was nobility in Kirkwall, doubtlessly unknown.
"Hawke Amell."
He experienced a sinking sensation as Irving's eyebrows rose spectacularly high.
"Amell? Do you happen to be related to Esanne Amell?"
Those bushy brows formed a frown when Hawke only shrugged. "I see. How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"Do you have any family, Hawke?"
He blinked. "No."
"You practiced your magic on your own?"
"For the most part."
Irving sat back, those old eyes never leaving his face. Hawke was careful to keep his expression carelessly blank. No lie you can find, First Enchanter.
A long, tension-filled pause later, Irving relaxed. "That is very impressive. I will allow myself to say that this Harrowing was the quickest I've ever seen."
There was cautious respect in his voice and it was so novel that Hawke was actually taken aback. Sure that some of his surprise had slipped past the mask, he covered it up.
"Harrowing?"
"It's a test that every apprentice of any Circle must undertake. A ritual to show that they are willing and able to benefit their Circle, if you so will. Only those who are considered too dangerous or too weak in mind won't be given the chance to prove themselves." Irving rummaged around his desk, taking what seemed to be a form.
"You passed the Harrowing," the Enchanter began to fill out the blanks in the form "so regardless of your former existence as an apostate, you are now a mage of this Circle. Treat the templars with respect and you will be given it in return."
Hawke felt like puking. A mage of this Circle. Oh, Maker.
Irving continued, oblivious to his state of mind. "Doubtlessly Ser Orrin will be waiting for you outside. He will lead you to your living area. You will receive your robes tomorrow morning but I'm afraid that you will have to wait a few days for your staff. Greagoir is not yet convinced of your relative harmlessness."
Clever man.
The First Enchanter looked up, meeting Hawke's gaze head-on.
"Good night, lad."