Somniarus

~O~

Chapter One: Parvulus

This job is the worst, Ser Bryant thought darkly. He tightened his grip around the little bundle in his arms as it wriggled and thrashed around. Oh, yeah, service of the Maker, protect the world from maleficarum, blah, blah… No one mentioned the screaming children or demented families templars had to deal with on a daily basis. I mean really, who runs down and calls for the Chantry at the first bad dream? Absurd, even if they had been right about her having magic. They didn't even look sorry as he hauled their little girl away.

The bundle thrashed again and almost tumbled out of his arms. He glared at Ser Corran, who was standing well out of the way of the screaming bundle and struggling templar. Readjusting his grip on the writhing child, he walked quickly over to his horse before she tripped them both and sent them sprawling in the mud. A white hand slipped out from the blankets and reached back towards the woman standing in the doorway. "Mama…" the girl whispered. She quieted almost instantly as Ser Bryant swung the two of them into the saddle. A pale face peered from the rough blanket, looking behind as the small cottage—her only home—shrunk in the distance.

~O~

They rode until the stars peeked out of the blue sky and the moon showed her pale face in full glory. The unusual clarity of the night signaled to Ser Bryant the impending storm waiting to break. Once a sailor's son, always a sailor's son… or something like that. The girl was sitting in front of him, as still as the cool evening air. It was a startling change from the kicking and thrashing of the morning. Her brown hair looked almost black in the moonlight as Ser Bryant gently lowered her from the saddle. The other templars were busy setting up tents and feeding the horses. The girl stared around with wide eyes, looking grave and scared. Well, Ser Bryant admitted ruefully, we're not exactly the most comforting group. The moonlight glinted off of silvery plate armor and the pommels of sheathed swords hanging at their hips. Their giant helms hid their faces except for the eye slit in front, showing a blank visage that offered a counterpoint to the flaming sword of Andraste stamped on their breastplates. Not that any of them were wearing their helms anymore. Ser Bryant shook his head imperceptibly and grabbed the horse's reins, intending to care for it for the night.

The girl grabbed his leg before he took a step. Dark eyes silently implored him to stay. She's a mage, she's a mage… what does it matter what she wants? Mage mage mage… Ser Bryant saw her chin give the slightest of quivers. She's a little girl, a voice in the back of his head said reprovingly. Shut up conscience… He raised a gauntleted hand to his face. Then he thought better of it, remembering the spikes and joints.

"Ser Fennis?" he called. Another templar looked up, an eyebrow raised. "Could you please tie up my horse? It'll take but a moment…" he wheedled. The dark haired man scowled.

"Why can't you do it, Bryant? Not my Maker cursed job…" Ser Bryant glanced at the girl, still clinging to his leg. He pried her little fingers loose and bent down.

"Little mage, what's your name?" he asked gently, flashing a glare at Fennis. She stared at him gravely for a moment.

"Rebeka," she said quietly. Unusual name for a farmer's girl, Ser Bryant noticed idly.

"Well, Rebeka, how would you like to help me with my horse here?" Her little mouth popped open in a small "O".

"Really? Papa never let me touch our Clyde before," she squeaked. Her eyes sparkled at the thought. Ser Bryant couldn't help but smile, she was so eager. "I promise I'll be careful!"

"Okay, follow me then…" She smiled happily, following her new friend with a skip. Ser Bryant took his charger's reins and brought him to the others' horses. Fennis spat wetly on the ground as Ser Bryant strode by, earning him a look of contempt from his the newer templar.

"Bloody lunatic," Fennis muttered. He glanced over and spat again as she saw the insane new man actually beginning to show the mage child how to care for the horse.

~O~

The next day the templars woke up bright and early. Ser Bryant knew he would be more than glad to return to Kinloch Hold. Only one more day of travel, and then we get our comfy cots and thin blankets back in the Tower, he thought with a wry smile. Rebeka was all ready to go by the time he had gotten packed up.

"You know, Rebeka, you are remarkably well behaved child," Ser Bryant began with a smile. "My little brother would never have been ready to go after a day of travel like yesterday." She smiled, showing little white teeth, and giggled.

"Mine either," she said happily as he swung her into the saddle. "But he's just a little baby, so that's okay." As she chattered on Ser Bryant felt his gut give a little twist. He couldn't identify the emotion, but suspected it was something between pity and anger.

The senior templar in charge set an easy pace for the day. It wouldn't be too hard on any of them, including the horses. Rebeka seemed to have forgotten the ordeal of the day before, babbling about her family and baby brother, and the big farm horse Clyde, and even the puppies the neighbor's dog had recently whelped. She chattered about butterflies, and apples, and whatever crossed her fancy as they rode west across the Bannorn. And, of course, she asked questions. Endless questions. Questions about the templars' armor, their swords, the horses' tack, the horses' names, their direction, the time, can I go to the privy, what's that, when are we eating, where are we going, when will we get there… Ser Bryant was getting a headache trying to keep up.

By mid-afternoon, breezes began blowing strong out of the west from Lake Calenhad. The sky had been growing hazier and hazier all day until it looked a uniform gray. On the horizon ahead of them, Ser Bryant could see the first leading edges of the storm. Rebeka grew quiet for a few moments. He could feel a shiver shake her small body even through his armor. Without thinking he wrapped an arm around her protectively. It warmed him and dismayed him when she leaned back into him. She trusts me already, he thought. But she'll be ripped away from me in a few hours. Underlying it all was the thought, she's a mage. She's a danger to us all.

"Ser Bryant," she finally said. Big eyes looked up at him from the small face. "When do we go home?" He frowned, a surge of pity for the poor scrap welling up inside him.

"We are going home, Rebeka. Your new home is Kinloch Hold, the Tower of the Circle of Magi." His voice was gentle as he tried to explain. She seemed to understand.

"Will my mother be there?"

Ser Bryant paused. "No," he sighed. "No, your mother won't be there. But you can make a new family at the Tower." She frowned and looked down again, contemplating the horse's mane in deep thought. She's such a grave child, Ser Bryant thought.

A bright voice interrupted his thoughts. "What's a 'Magi'?"

~O~

They were forced to make camp in the middle of the afternoon when sheets of rain began to pour from the sky in buckets. Water seeped through the joints in Ser Bryant's armor, making him both incredibly cold and uncomfortable. But he was lucky; the water mostly streamed off his sleek plate armor and pattered on his helm. By the time they stopped, Rebeka was shivering convulsively in her thin clothes. The blanket she held protectively around herself failed miserably at shielding her from the rain.

Ser Bryant pitched their tents as quickly as he could and tossed her inside the second they were set up. The poor girl was going to catch her death of cold. Dinner was cold and simple, eaten in silence, and they all retired early. "Blasted weather," Ser Bryant cursed. "Why can't we have an Antivan climate? Never rains like this there…" He slipped into his bedroll and flipped over discontentedly.

He was woken by a scream. A high pitched voice issued from the tent next to his. His eyes flew open and he dashed out of the tent, heedless of the rain. Is she hurt? What happened? His thoughts flew like the wind, twisting around in his head as he fumbled at the knot holding her tent closed. The tie must have swollen in the downpour, he thought as he angrily tore at it. Another scream heralded his success in opening it.

Rebeka was writhing around on the ground, her bedroll ripped to pieces and strewn about. Her blankets were in a twisted tangle near her feet. At some night terror she let out a terrified call that diminished to a whimper. Bryant rushed to her side, shaking her desperately. "Rebeka! Rebeka, wake up! Do you hear me? Wake up, Rebeka, wake up!" Her eyes flew open suddenly and she flung her arms around his neck. Ser Bryant froze. He could feel the tears flowing down her face and her little tremors as she cried softly.

Ser Bryant gently pried her arms from his neck. "There, there, it's okay…" he said awkwardly. Holy Andraste, what's going on here? "Everything's fine, it's just us here." How in Thedas do you calm a terrified little girl? She kept sniffling, hugging her small frame as if she thought that would protect her.

"I'll be in the next tent over okay? I'll come if you need me," Ser Brsayant id. All the head patting and empty reassurances in the world weren't going to do her any good. She needed sleep. So do I, Bryant thought tiredly. Caring for a child was too much work.

"Please don't go! Please, they'll get me, they always try to get me…" Rebeka whimpered. Her eyes were wild, desperate. "I don't wanna go with them, they say they're gonna hurt me if I don't and then they do 'cause I say no… I don't want to dream," she babbled, breaking into new sobs at the end. Ser Bryant felt himself go numb. The girl was an abomination waiting to happen. How had she denied the demons for this long? He was tempted to pull out his sword and end it there and then. He recalled his thoughts from the previous day: she's a danger to us all. She was, more than the others knew. He had to do it, before it was too late.

Rebeka looked up suddenly, meeting his eyes with a strange equanimity that shone through her tears. He could easily have believed she knew his thoughts. Ser Bryant felt a stab of guilt as painful as a physical wound flash through him. She's a child, this doesn't change that. How could I harm a child?

"I'm sorry," she said slowly. What did she have to apologize for, besides being who she was? "I'm fine now. You don't have to worry about me." Her voice was grave and small. She smoothed her hair and drew herself into a little ball. Ser Bryant knew without a doubt that he had been dismissed. He opened his mouth to offer a word of comfort, and finding only words that rang hollow, he closed it again. The last thing he saw as he exited the small tent was a tiny girl resting her chin on her knees, deep in thought.

The next morning dawned bright. Light streamed from a watery sun, pale yellow in the aftermath of the storm. Rebeka wasn't out as early as the previous day. Ser Bryant felt a stab of apprehension as he ducked his head inside her tent to check on her. She was still sitting on the tangled mess of sheets, position hardly changed. Her face was pale and drawn. Below her eyes was a pair of dark purple circles. They looked like livid bruises on her colorless face. He swallowed hard to moisten his suddenly dry mouth and motioned her out of the tent. Emotionless, she got up and walked out. The other templars were waiting impatiently when he finally swung them both into the saddle.

She was silent for a long time. Her eyes were downcast, always on the mane of Ser Bryant's horse or the ground ahead of them. His surge of regret almost overpowered his fear, but the thought of the potential disaster sitting in front of him caused his muscles to clench unbearably and his heart to hammer in his chest.

"This is why Mama and Papa gave me to you." Ser Bryant flinched at the sudden comment from the girl in front of him. "I told them my dreams. They were scared too. But it's okay. They have little Ben, and he won't be as bad as I am." Ser Bryant groaned softly, feeling a knife of guilt twist painfully in his gut. Curse you, Maker. Curse you for making this child suffer under this weight. Why did you put magic in the world if it only hurts those who have it?

~O~

The land grew more and more familiar, and as it did, Ser Bryant grew more and more relaxed. Once they were at the Tower the mages could take Rebeka and begin teaching her control. They could mitigate the threat she posed to the world. And after that he could head up to the chapel and have a nice long chat with the Revered Mother about magic and the Maker. And after that came a nice hot bath, and mages who didn't dream of demons, and warm food, and actual beds.

They crested the last hill in high spirits. A startling vista stretched out before them. The waters of Lake Calenhad sparkled in the weak sunlight, waves gently slapping against the shore and the posts of the small pier. A short stretch of the Imperial Highway, built by the Tevinter Imperium in ancient times, ran parallel to them on the right, straight into the waters of the lake. The weathered stone was cracked and broken, useless as a road but still as imposing and forbidding as the day it was built. It was meant to connect Kinloch Hold to the mainland, but failing in that purpose, it marked the quickest path for the ferryman to take. But the most impressive sight of all was the glimpse of the Tower, stretching up into the sky so high it seemed to pierce the clouds. Thick and strong at the bottom, the gray stone tapered to a razor sharp point, a small bulb at the top sparkling with stained glass windows that belied the room's grim purpose.

The templars unloaded their gear from the horses, returned them to their stalls in the Spoiled Princess's stables, and headed to the dock. The talkative ferryman, Kester, was more than happy to take them across.

The templars and lone mage child crammed into the small boat spent a very quiet quarter hour feeling the waves of the lake rock them and listening to the chatter of the ferryman. Rebeka still looked pale and sad, surrounded by the unyielding bulk of suspicious templars in plate armor. The sword of Andraste stamped on their breastplates had never looked more imposing.

Rebeka was swept into the grand entry hall of the Tower by the contingent of templars. Ser Bryant was almost unrecognizable in his blank faced helm. The iron did not betray a hint of the conflict raging in his head. He felt an unreasoning affection for the little girl being herded so coldly by his fellows, but his fear of the danger she posed was enough to make him back away. Walking bomb, he remembered, was a spell some of the mage students learned. Corrosive poison that made the victim explode. She was like that, but it wasn't her fault. She didn't deserve his coldness, the distance his fear put between them. She looks scared again, he noted.

She was taken to a small room of unornamented stone off the main hall and made to wait with the other children brought by other templars. There was at least a full squadron's worth of templars in the room keeping watch over the children. Rebeka looked at them slowly and went to sit near the clump of tiny bodies. They were all quiet, seeming to draw strength from each other.

The door opened. A man with a long gray beard and neat gray hair strode in, his robes whispering around his legs as he walked. The First Enchanter smiled at the room in general as another man, the Knight-Commander of the templars in the Circle Tower, followed him in.

"Hello, children," he said warmly. The little ones looked like a covey of owls, their eyes big and round as they gazed at these new strangers. "I am First Enchanter Irving. I am here to personally welcome you to the Circle of Magi. We will be taking you to the apprentice quarters right away, but first, we have one last duty to perform." He waved the attending mages forward and Ser Bryant watched as they quickly filled small glass phylacteries with the children's blood and began labeling them. Rebeka sat quietly as they pricked her arm and drew the blood.

The last he saw of that little girl was a short glimpse of her dark blue eyes and small pale face as she was taken from the room by the mages. Her small smile was the most heart-wrenching thing Ser Bryant had ever seen.

Less than a week later, he was sent to Lothering to hunt apostates and maleficarum at the special request of the Knight-Commander.