The healing chamber smells of burnt cloth and burnt skin, a smell all too familiar after the years spent in the Circle. Wynne sighs. Accidents with magic do happen, as it is bound to be, but fire magic really should be taught outside. Or, perhaps, someone should think of a way that would make the apprentices more cautious. She remembers she was not, not always, and masks her wry amusement with a scowl directed at the young mage she has just finished healing. The girl looks at her with an innocent, apologetic smile on her freckled face, but her eyes are dancing.
"Learn to be more careful, child," Wynne says sternly, seeing her own mistakes mirrored in the girl. She has learnt her lesson since, and so has most of the others. Being a mage, you either learn or you die. Or, sometimes, you do not die, and what is left of you wishes you were dead, or so senior enchanters and books told her.
Wynne shakes her head as she moves to another patient. This one is a templar, and unlike the apprentice, who has squirmed and hissed with pain, he is sitting still on the cot, leaning against the wall and waiting patiently for his turn.
He keeps his eyes closed as Wynne tends to his burns, but when she is done he opens his eyes and looks at her, and smiles.
"Thank you..." he breaks off, glances at her robe and recognises her rank is a mage, but he does not call her that. He is not classically handsome, but his dark eyes are kind.
Wynne has heard others whispering how the templars are evil, has heard the same being said about the mages. But by now she has learnt enough about life to know it is not mages and templars, but simply good and bad people, and both kinds can be encountered everywhere.
"Wynne," she answers, and smiles briefly. "And you're welcome..." she makes a meaningful pause.
"Greagoir," he says.
As she walks over to another templar, she feels Greagoir's eyes on her.
Later, when she is left alone in the healing chambers, tidying up after the day, she smiles to herself when she recalls his eyes.
. . .
Quietly, Wynne slips into the chapel, not wishing to disturb the evening prayers. When she was younger, she used to come here more often, reciting prayers eagerly, but her ties with the Chantry have loosened over the years. Yet her ties with the Maker have not, and she still comes here to seek peace, and to pray, but in her own words.
The templars and Chantry sisters know her, and let her come and go as she pleases. She has her favourite place in the back row, from where she can see the whole chapel, and by now she leaves her prayer book on the bench, knowing no one would take it. A senior enchanter she knows only by sight smiles at her briefly as Wynne takes her place.
Her prayer book is different than most, hand-made by her. Inside, there are quotes from her favourite Canticles, whole passages from the Chant of Light, and her own prayers, scrambled together from words that felt closest to her heart. There are also wobbly herbs sketches, and some spells, all that she finds good and purest in magic.
When she opens the book, there is a faint, sweet scent. Pressed between the pages, there is a dried rose. Part of the outside world. Cautiously, Wynne glances sideways. To her right, across the chapel, in the last row sits Greagoir. His hands are raised in prayer, his head bowed, but he is looking at her, and smiling.
Wynne smiles back, and he cast his eyes down, abashed. It might be a trick of the light, but it seems there is faint blush on his cheeks, and Wynne finds that endearing. She also discovers that, contrary to what her colleagues think, she is capable of blushing.
. . .
It is late, and she should be abed, but she cannot sleep. But she knows her way about the tower, and the templars know her as the girl who visits the chapel daily, so they let her be.
Wynne sneaks into the kitchen, the only place in the tower that is not asleep, as the bakers are preparing break for the next day. She mouths a quiet good evening, and Mara, a plump, white-haired baker who has been working in the tower since Wynne's first day in the Circle, smiles at her and pours her a glass of warm milk. It is a childish thing, Wynne thinks, but is has helped her on many sleepless nights when she was a child, and on many sleepless nights since her childhood ended. When she sits here, in the warm kitchen, she feels like going back in time to a peaceful, happy place. Mara shoos her to the side, and Wynne moves to the adjoining room, where the bakers and the cooks eat their meals, and which is empty at this hour.
She walks in and stops, because Greagoir is sitting at the table, eating cookies, and the sights is so absurd Wynne barely manages not to laugh out loud. Ah, she used to do that, too, when she was just a kid.
Greagoir looks up, startled by the noise, recognises her and smiles. He is without his armour, of course, and dressed in a simple tunic and breeches he does not look a templar, but just a young man, slightly lost, definitely not handsome but with the kindest eyes and oh, this smile.
"We all seek our little comforts where we can, don't we?" he asks.
Wynne laughs quietly. "Yes, we do."
She chooses to sit down next to him instead of on the other bench, but still keeps a small distance. She glances up at him, then takes a cookie from his plate, smiling at him defiantly, dips it into the milk and takes a bite.
Greagoir blinks, not certain what to make of her jesting, then takes another cookie and mirrors her earlier actions, and even her smile.
"So, templars do have a sense of humour, after all?" Wynne asks, teasing.
"Some," he agrees. "Mages too, I see?"
Wynne smiles. "Ah, touché."
He bows, as much as he can while sitting, and Wynne bursts into laughter.
They talk some more, of everyday Circle life, and of their childhood habits of sneaking into the kitchen. Greagoir is not shy as he seemed, and Wynne finds she enjoys his company. After some time, they run out of things to talk of, but neither is eager to leave. He keeps glancing at her, and it makes her blush for no apparent reason, and she is thankful for the dim light that hides it.
Wynne is the first to get up. She smiles at him confidently and strides out of the room. At the door, she stops, and turns back to him, and smiles again, this time for real, and not for the effect.
"I really liked the rose."
. . .
In a few days, she finds another rose pressed between the pages of her prayer book. Then a leaf. A wild flower which name she does not know, which looks like tiny white bells. A few blades of grass. A feather. A few grains of sand from the banks of the lake. Wynne smiles at each little gift, parts of the world she can no longer walk, and which she misses sometimes. She has mentioned it to him once.
During the days, they do not have many occasions to talk. But sometimes they meet in the kitchen, and talk, and laugh. And each evening, they see each other in the chapel.
One evening – the one when she finds a blue ribbon in her prayer book – she stays in the chapel late, until everyone else goes off either to sleep or to their duties. That evening, she does not pray with words, but with her smile, and that curious feeling that makes her warm and happy. Finally, when the chapel is empty, she gets up and walks to the side altar, to light a candle.
Soft footsteps follow her. Greagoir stops beside her, lights another candle and places it next to hers. When he turns to her, he is not smiling. He gazes at her in wonder, then raises a hand to touch her cheek, and the look in his eyes is as warm as candlelight.
When he kisses her, Wynne thinks it a gift from the Maker.
. . .
Wynne wakes long before dawn, when the tower is still asleep. But she is restless.
In the end, she gets up, and quietly walks downstairs to the kitchen. At this hour, it is empty, and she summons a small fire to light the logs in the fireplace, then boils some water for a herbal brew of camomile and mint. And then she stops, sensing she is being watched.
Greagoir is standing at the door, smiling at her. Wynne blushes, suddenly aware she is wearing her nightshirt, not her robe, and pulls her shawl tighter against her shoulders.
"I brought you something." Greagoir comes closer and gives her a handful of tiny pebbles, smoothed by the water.
Wynne smiles. "A most extraordinary gift," she remarks. "As were all the others."
He looks away. "I'd like to show you the world," he mutters.
"I know," Wynne says softly.
They sit together at the table, nipping at some leftover cookies. Greagoir gets some crumbs into his beard, as he always does. Wynne reaches up to brush them away. Their gazes lock.
She cups his face in both hands, and he puts his on her waist. They kiss. He pulls her close. She presses closer. His fingers thread through her hair. Her hand slips under his tunic.
Wynne pulls away a little, to look at him. "Let's discover the world together," she breaths.
They do. And they do so again a few days later, in an empty corridor no one ever walks. And next week, in Greagoir's tiny room. And once in the healing chambers, when everyone else has left.
And in the evenings, when she is sitting in the chapel, she cannot bring herself to think what they are doing is wrong. Judging from the way he smiles at her whenever their gazes meet, he cannot brings himself to think so, either.
. . .
No one asks questions. These things do happen in the tower, and rarely there are any questions asked. Wynne says nothing, so everyone assumes it was an affair with one of her fellow mages.
She starts avoiding Greagoir, to keep him clear of any suspicions that could ruin his templar career. But from the way he glances at her in the chapel sometimes, she guesses he would prefer if she was not that reasonable. They do rarely talk, except formally about Circle matters, and slowly they drift away.
In the later months of her pregnancy, Wynne finds herself hungry all the time, and more often than not she walks down to the kitchen. She drinks milk and eats some cookies, and wonders what will happen to her child. Her son will be taken from her, she knows that, but it those rare moments she feels not a mage, but just a first-time mother. Still, she is too sensible to allow herself to dream, and only talks quietly to her child, telling him stories, or hums him a lullaby.
She does not heart the footsteps. Not until Greagoir stops behind her, leans down and put his arms around her. For a moment, Wynne does not want to give in, but then she sighs and leans against him.
"It's a boy," she informs quietly.
"A son?" he whispers in wonder.
Wynne treasures the moment, the tone of his voice, the way his palms reverently touch her belly. When she turns to him, there is wonder in his eyes, too. Greagoir kisses her, and his kiss is long and deep, and loving.
But when they part, he does not know what to say. It has been too long since they have talked last.
He glances at the plate. "Hungry?"
With a quiet laugh, Wynne nods. "All the time."
He gestures towards the empty space beside her. "Would you mind...?"
"No." She does not tell him she minds only that he has waited so long. There is no point.
"Have you thought of the name?" he asks softly.
"Yes. Many times." She offers a smile. "Can't call him Greagoir, can I? Would give us away." It is her way of reminding him of the Circle's realities.
"Would you consider... perhaps..."
She looks at his flustered face, into his eyes, and takes pity on him. "Yes, you can name him," she agrees, smiling gently.
"I've thought of Rhys," he says quietly, and Wynne realises he is waiting for this child as anxiously as she is.
She touches his cheek. "It's a fine name." She pulls him closer, nestles herself against him.
Greagoir puts his arm around her and kisses her hair. "Thank you."
"On one condition, though."
He tenses, then begins to pull away, but she catches his hand.
"You must help me eat these cookies," she says merrily, and laughs.
Greagoir does not even reproach her for jesting at his expense.
They eat, they talk, they laugh. They kiss. For one evening, she abandons her sensibility, and together they plan a future for their son.
Greagoir promises to leave the Order and become a blacksmith to provide for the family. Wynne promises to forget her magic and become a herbalist to help him. They both pretend they believe each other.
. . .
The senior healer gently puts the baby in Wynne's arms, and when she looks at her son she immediately forgets the pain, the sweat, the discomfort. Wynne smiles, feeling she is glowing with happiness, however fleeting. For a moment, the world is perfect, and she has to remind herself not to look at Greagoir, hovering at the door. Waiting to take their son away.
"It's time," the senior healer reminds gently. "It will only get harder by each minute."
"Wait!" Wynne clutches her son to her breast. "Rhys. His name is Rhys," she says, clearly, hoping that Greagoir will hear. It is all she can do not to give them away, and yet to let him know.
When the senior healer takes Rhys to wash him, Wynne glances at Greagoir. In his eyes, she sees heartbreak.
And when some months later the Knight-Commander receives orders that Knight-Lieutenant Greagoir is to be transferred to Markham, Wynne wonders if they know, despite all the attempts to keep the affair secret.
She does not regret. She misses her son, and wonders how it would feel to be a mother, but she is happy she had that one perfect moment at least. Neither does she regret Greagoir.
The evening the orders come, they see each other in the chapel, during the prayers. She makes an effort to smile at him. He makes an effort to smile back, but his kind eyes are full of sorrow. Wynne feels a dull pain in her heart, but she is a healer, and thus no stranger to pain. She knows it will heal.
Greagoir leaves the next day, before dawn, and when she awakens he is already gone. Through a stained-glass window she can only spot a lonely boat crossing the lake. Wynne regrets having to time to say farewell to him.
. . .
When the new Knight-Commander arrives at the tower, Wynne feels she should be more surprised. It seems to her she should feel more. But, curiously, there is nothing, and Wynne feels as if she was suspended in the void.
Greagoir's face is older, as is her own. But his eyes, once so kind, are harder now. He is not the templar she used to know. And neither is she that mage she used to be.
But when he spots her among other Enchanters, for a moment his gaze softens. It is but a flicker, but for a moment his eyes are kind again, and Wynne feels a dull pang of regret.
She has not waited for him. For some time, she grieved, but then moved on. What were the chances he would come back? Slim, if any. Wynne thought it best to forget, both him and their son, and slowly she adjusted to her old life again.
But now, sitting in the chapel, in the golden glow of hundreds of candles, she briefly wishes she had waited. Amusing how she feels she has been unfaithful, when she owed nothing to him, nor he to her. He got transferred, and their relationship was over, end of story.
There are footsteps in the hall that come to a halt at the door, and when she stands up, in a rustle of robes, and turns, he is waiting for her. Wynne freezes, uncertain what to do. But it only lasts a while.
"I have not waited for you," she says, her tone conversational. Better he hears it from her than learns from the gossip.
"There was no reason you should have," Greagoir replies stoically. His face is impassive, but in his eyes she reads understanding. "It is also no reason I should respect you any less, Enchanter."
For a brief moment, she is that young healer again, and he the young templar. But this time, it plays out differently.
"You have my respect, Knight-Commander," Wynne says evenly. "And my friendship," she adds.
Greagoir is still, like a stone statue. "There can be no friendship between a templar and a mage."
His words taste bitter, and Wynne smiles mockingly. "Apparently, there cannot be," she says dryly.
She turns and walks out of the chapel, leaving Greagoir behind, along with the memories. Only halfway up to her chamber she notices she has forgotten to leave her prayer book on its customary place on the bench.
. . .
Wynne cannot sleep, and with a sighs she sits on the bed, summons a tiny flame and lights a candle. Unlike many, even a few years back she would not have used a magical light.
Having nothing else to read at hand, she reaches for her prayer book. Might do that as well, she thinks wryly. When she opens it, something falls from between the pages onto her robe. Crumbs.
Wynne stares, then laughs, laughs to tears and then laughs some more. She recognises the crumbs from many evenings spent in the kitchen. Ah, Greagoir, she thinks, you have not changed that much at all. Still, it is too late now.
She wipes the tears away with the back of her hand. Then she picks up some of the crumbs with her fingertips, gently, and brings them to her mouth.
They taste sweet, just like the memories.