Burdened

"Maker, you call your servant,

From among the lowly you seek him

To be tempered by fire

As a smith tempers steel.

You know his heart

And forgive its weakness:

Bolster it so that it will not falter

When the time has come to choose."

Canticle of Trials 2:1

Once I was a boy.

As a child, I had a simple life. My father was a farmer and, if all had remained as it should have, I would have been a farmer also. We lived under a fair lord, though he could not be accused of being kind, but he was fair. By Andraste's mercy, the land was fruitful and we had enough for both our tribute and for our bellies. We rarely went hungry.

We could not read or write, for what need had we of such things when we worked the land. Such scribbling was a waste when there were fields to plow. We learned the Chant of Light by ear and heart, repeating it to ourselves as we walked over the furrows, memorizing it from the various scraps we caught from the Chanter at the board when we would come into the village to trade, hording the words on our lips, turning them over and over again.

"Wirt, speak the words again," my father would call to me, as we would ride home in our cart. I would obediently repeat them as many times as he required for the repetitions further etched them into my brain.

"For those who work the land are blessed, for they know the bounty of the Maker's creation. They see His hand in the growth from the dust and in the birthing and waning of days. The dance of the seasons are composed by His words, in fallow and in plenty."

"See," he would reply in a voice near triumphant and filled with reassurance, "we are blessed. As long as we know the Chant, what need have we of fancies?"

"Yes, Father," I would answer before turning the words over in my own mind. To be as my father was all I could desire. To pass my days in honest toil and simple happiness was the hope of my youth.

Not all felt such assurance and security. My friend Egelsic was one such person.

Egelsic's father was the shepherd for the bann of Frosthollow, as was his grandfather and great grandfather before him. It was a lonely life for him since his mother died and his family lived on the outskirts of the village, closer to the Wilds. They kept to themselves for most of the year since they needed space for the sheep and to bring the flocks in the midst of the cultivated fields would present too much of a temptation for grazing animals.

During the winter months, shortly before the first snow, Egelsic's father would bring the ewes in to paddock at the bann's keep, leaving their summer hut to bed in the stables with the animals. The rest of the stock would be culled, most of the rams and extraneous ewes would be butchered, the meat salted and cured to keep the bann and his family during the winter time. Some of the stock might be sold, but it is difficult to feed and maintain animals during the winter months.

It was during one of those early winters that I befriended Egelsic. He would skulk about the village square on mild days, watching my family longingly with all of my younger brothers and sisters. One day he started to play with a top he had whittled, for he was a gifted carver. I was completely mesmerized by how smoothly it spun and how long it kept balanced on its tip. My admiration must have been plain for it made Egelsic laugh and I hung my head shyly, requesting meekly if I might try. His only response was to hand me the top, telling me to keep it.

We became close friends after that. During the warmer seasons we saw very little of each other, for we were busy with tending our duties, but during the winter we could steal away into the woods and lark about, exploring. He taught me how to walk on the ice so I did not fall through. We learned to hunt roots and peel birch bark to chew.

During our twelfth winter, the weather had been mild and looked to thaw early. We had stolen into the woods during the few weeks before lambing was to begin. Once lambing began, Egelsic would be indisposed caring for the pregnant ewes and delivering the lambs. The birthing was unpredictable and his father would not spare him during such a crucial time. We had to make the most of our freedom until that time came.

In my excitement I had bounded ahead of him and barely registered when he shouted after me, "Wirt, mind the ice. It might be too thin to walk on. Hold, Wirt!"

Heedless, I barreled onto my favorite pond and only stopped long enough to hear the sickening crackle of the ice as it gave way beneath me. I gave a strangled yelp before the water closed over my head, leaving hardly any air in my lungs to sustain me. The cold water needled my eyelids, my nostrils, every inch of me shuddered with the stinging, so cold that it seemed to burn.

A hard hand grabbed the back of my shirt and hauled me out, pulling me above the ice. The ice stuck to my wet clothes and froze me further as I could feel myself being dragged, but there was more to the hand. The hand itself felt like ice and I looked into the eyes of my friend, but he was not the boy I knew.

The air around him simultaneously sizzled and crackled as if it both froze and melted. He was on his hands and knees, one hand held me and the other hand, propping him on the ice, throbbed with power and the ice thickened beneath us, the spidery cracks filled and became solid. He wielded cold and winter, strengthening the ice so that we could return to the shore.

The chill of the air against my skin was forgotten as I gazed in horror at my friend while he edged us backwards, pulling me to safety, all the while surrounded by a pale blue aura. I might have been tempted to fight him, to break from his grasp only to sink again to my death because I was so frightened by him. Then his eyes caught mine and I read such shame and fear as he gazed back at me.

Once we were back on earth, he dissipated his magic and went to work gathering kindling to start a fire so I could dry. When he was satisfied with the pile of sticks, he called forth fire from his hands and sparks caught on the brush. If we had tried to trudge back to the village with soaked clothes, I would have become gravely ill, but the fire improved my chances of survival. He stripped my tunic from my back and had me put on his jerkin. Waving the wet fabric above the flames he hoped it would dry faster.

After my shivering abated and I had begun to regain my sensibilities, he finally hissed, "Tell no one!"

"But Sister Roswitha at the Chantry says that any mage who does not go to the Circle is a maleficar. The Chant says that maleficar are abhorrent to the Maker!"

"If the Templars come and take me, who will help Papa with the lambing? Another bad year and Bann Dormand will take away my father's berth and give the sheep to another. No one else will help him."

We argued, I scolded, he insisted, and in the midst of raging at each other I spat, "Did I ever really know you? You hid what you were from me!"

He stopped speaking suddenly, as if I had struck him. His hands balled into fists at his sides and I was immediately ashamed of my words. Just as he had held my life in his hands, I was holding his life in mine.

After a moment of silence, I intoned, "I am sorry. I swear Egelsic that I will tell no one your secret until the Maker takes me."

He looked at me warily for a moment, but then seemed satisfied, nodding his head.

When he judged me to be sufficiently dry, we returned to the village without exchanging a single word.

I did not remain unscathed from my misadventure, for I became chilled and feverish, unable to leave my pallet. My mother was terrified I would die, but by the Maker's mercy I managed to regain my health again. By the time I could again leave the house, the lambing had commenced and I did not have another opportunity to see my friend.

The sun brought warmth back to the land. The crops were planted and grew. The lambs were born and ran through the fields on wobbly legs. The year drifted by, but always in the back of my mind Egelsic's secret burned like a coal.

Arguments arose between Egelsic's father and some of the neighboring farmers. A pestilence attacked the sheep, causing their eyes to become dim and their tongues to turn blue, lolling out of the side of their mouths. It was a hard blow for Egelsic's family, but then the disease began to spread to the livestock of the farmers. The oxen that plowed the fields began to drop in the middle of furrows. Even the bann's favorite horse was afflicted. Lacking a reasonable explanation, the people turned on Egelsic's father, blaming him and the sheep for the pestilence.

My father, in a moment of foolish rage, confronted Egelsic's father, accusing him of offending the Maker and bringing the disease into our midst. The man became red with fury, pushed my father, cursed at him, and then was struck dumb. He shuddered and fell to the ground, dead. Father, suddenly remorseful for his harsh words, looked upon the corpse of his neighbor in horror and wept in shame for his hasty words.

When Egelsic and his sister were told, they spoke not a word. The neighbors made a pyre for the old shepherd and it made the night sky red. The smoke stung my eyes while Egelsic stood by and watched as what remained of his father was spent into ash; the flames making his eyes appear incarnadine. He would not allow me to approach him, but turned his back on me and walked into the shadowed Wilds.

Time ambled forward, the crops flourished and the pestilence passed. It was time for the harvest and the crops were heavy in the fields, ripe with the promise of a secure winter.

Then one night, I awoke to the stench of smoke and fire. The fields blazed and our security burned. We tried to stem the fire, put out the blaze by passing buckets along a line of neighbors, but it was not enough. The crops were lost.

At the edge of the fields, in the midst of the flames, I thought I saw a figure running, casting his shadow as he fled before disappearing into the Wilds from whence he came. My heart felt tight in my chest as a painful recognition filled me, but I could tell none, for I had promised.

Our family lost the land that we had cultivated for ages. My father died a broken man, having been forced from his home when he could not pay the bann's tribute. My youngest sister died from an illness borne of starvation. We appealed to the Chantry for aid, and they gave us shelter.

Years passed.

I was consumed by new vows.

It was many years before I saw my boyhood friend again.

I walked the streets of a distant city, my brothers in arms walked with me when I saw red rimmed eyes within a hood as a figure passed. The ghostly aroma of smoke wafted to my nostrils and nagged at the back of my consciousness. The familiar tightness in my chest built again. The shadows danced somewhere behind my eyes.

I made an excuse to my brethren, lying to them in order to keep my honor. They parted company from me and I went to seek out a forgotten alley. He waited for me, as I knew he would.

"I am glad you came, Wirt," he rasped, pulling the hood away from his features, the skin loose. He was ill. He was dying. We were both aware of why we were here, "I am surprised you did not bring the others with you."

"Do you still remember that day?" I inquired in a soft, pained whisper.

"Yes," he affirmed, his eyes closing as if calling forward the image of a boy sopping wet from his own folly instead of a man in full armor.

The words came forth, as they had been first spoken, "I swear Egelsic that I will tell no one your secret until the Maker takes me."

"You have kept your word for so long…" he wondered.

"You are my friend," I croaked, "You were my savior once. You became the doom of my childhood dreams. I could not sacrifice my honor for any of your guises."

He finally opened his eyes again, giving me a shaky smile, "Do you hate me, Wirt?"

"No," I sighed, unsheathing my sword.

"Then I am glad it is you, here, now. I have been dying for many years, since that night of flames when my desire for revenge eclipsed my sense and I could not rescind my rashness," he admitted, hanging his head.

"We are even," I stated.

He nodded, before looking me in the eye again, "I desire your forgiveness."

"You had my word," I rasped, "yet you would ask more of me."

"I am not asking it for me; I am asking it for you," he looked sad, "Let it die with me. Let me offer you that, my friend."

I swallowed hard, "Egelsic, even dead I will carry you. You cannot remove that burden from me. I can forgive you, but I cannot forgive my own silence. Had I spoken the fields would not have burned."

He felt pain, and that redeemed him slightly in my eyes, though it could not redeem me. I raised my sword and struck down my friend, making the motion swift and his pain minimal. I left his corpse in the dust and returned to my duties.

"Maker, show mercy upon your servant,

For you know the silence of my heart

And the burden of my sins."

Canticle of Trials 2:2

Disclaimer: The world of Thedas, as it is put forward in the Dragon Age games, belongs to Bioware.

Thank you, Bioware, for being generous with your sandbox.

This was my entry into the Assunder Creative Writing Challenge. It was entered under my message board name: Elliebean.