AN - I truly think this could be better but my muses are against me. I have hopes they'll return to work soon. Reply to the Halloween Challenge at CMDA.
No one thought her to be dangerous. Truly, how could they? A deceptively frail body covered in a simple mage robe, magic which was solely for healing, never for harm. The First Enchanter didn't consider her a treat. The Senior Enchanters listened to her and followed her advice. The mages looked up to her. She was the kind lamb, the gentle spirit, the one who came and always returned. The perfect mage she was, Enchanter Wynne.
"You have the time to repent."
How could have they been so mistaken?
Diana swallows tightly as the woman's fingers touch her cheek, lightly cold against her flushed skin. The first time she had attempted to pull away, she had been struck against the wall and warned against a possible repetition. And she was a silly person, she was sidetracked easily and occasionally odd but she learned quickly. Swallow, breathe, one at a time and she would be able to leave, everything would be all right, it's not like she would harm one of her own.
"Repent of what?" she asks, struggling to keep her voice light when her body demands everything but. "I didn't."
"Do anything?" Oh Maker, her fingers, her voice; teeth grind into one another, her hands closing tightly into fists behind her back. Both wrists had been strapped together before she woke up, swimming in memories of her Harrowing and the whispers of demons right on her ears. Everything hurts, her head, her arms, her whole body. From her clumsy sitting position, Diana can see the bruises painted over her naked arms. How had she been caught anyway? The last thing she remembers was the Pride Demon towering over her, mocking but warning for whatever reason. The true tests never end. Could it have meant this? No. A demon warning her of danger, that would be ludicrous.
"You were born." Her thoughts shatter and she forgets what she was thinking in the first place. Blue eyes, good Maker, so blue, brimming with a light that's lyrium and fire all at once. "You were born a mage, little one," the woman continues softly, against her ear, so close that her lips touch the shell with each word. "You were born against Her, against the Maker. Cursed. Your existence is cursed, don't you know? And for each of your kind that crosses the Veil and returns, He is diminished."
Her smile widens, so gentle, like the grandmother Diana nearly forgot. Her body reacts instinctively, burrowing against the wall as much as possible. The woman doesn't seem to notice. No punishment. "It is why I exist. To aid Him. Because only a cursed one can rid the world of its kind."
She dances, the other mage, every movement following the previous one with a gracefulness than the younger mage cannot comprehend. There is magic here at work though, she can understand that. It filters through her skin, sweeps through every pore until her lungs seem to be drowning in water. A spell. That is why she doesn't move while the woman keeps talking and cursing her existence. That's why her own magic is ignoring her.
"You aren't crying." A small nod of approval, as if they are back in class. "Good. That's good. We dislike tears. There's no need to be afraid."
We? Who is this we? Diana feels the stupid urge to ask but the woman is back to mumble under her breath and whatever spell it is, it feels like solid light as it travels up her legs and digs against her skin. It doesn't hurt, not really. It's like falling asleep, the woman's hand touches her cheek slowly and her lips caress her forehead, and it feels like mother and. And she is getting more and more tired by the second only it doesn't seem to matter anymore. Nothing does, actually.
Until Wynne goes quiet without warning and the effect is as chilling as a bucket of water on her feverish body. Her poisonous words die, the fire behind her eyes begins to fade but worse, a faint trickle of blood slides down the corner of her mouth. Her lips open only to close immediately. For a reason she cannot name, Diana looks down to the woman's neck. Such a fragile thing it is, white and lovely, crossed from side to side in a red line, a perfect fine line like one just drew it a ruler. She sees it perfectly before Wynne's head slumps to the side.
And then slides to the ground, leaving the body to collapse against her.
"Don't scream." She is not screaming. She is not. Someone else is, someone with a high pitched tone, someone terrified and Maker, the body is against hers and she cannot move, the ropes still keep her captive. Someone else screams above the first voice but she can barely hear it. "Amell. Mage Amell! Diana!"
Two arms shake her strongly and the female voice goes finally quiet. Diana blinks confusedly, feeling her throat aching like someone has poured acid into it and paying little attention. Cullen stands in front of her. On his knees, hands on her shoulders, tight, tight as if trying to ground her in the mist of her insanity.
"What…?"
He frowns, hold turning slightly gentler, a little more comforting. He's all stained, she notices without meaning to, colored in dark red, all his clothing and even the sword he dropped behind. Was there a battle while she was resting?
"You have lost too much blood. Come on," his hands move to grab her waist and pull upwards. Her legs, however, ignore both of them and refuse to move. Cullen doesn't comment about her lack of strength. Without a complaint, without a blush, he supports her and begins to drag her away from wherever she was brought into. At their feet, the body rests, the separated head staring blankly to the ceiling. "Let's get out of here. I have to explain this to the Commander. And the First Enchanter. I. Maker's breath, how I am going to tell them this. And what just happened? You look."
Diana never heard him speak a bad word about her appearance. Must mean she looks like someone pushed out of trash pile. Her lips open to try and joke about it – try, try because if she doesn't, she's never going to forget the Enchanter's hair against her face nor her magic sucking her life away. Cullen doesn't allow her though. He stops in front of the remains and he mirrors her fear, as clearly as if she had been watching herself in a mirror.
"Andraste help us."
Dead eyes shine. Blue and red, lyrium and something else she has no name for. And she doesn't see them move but in her head, the words are clear as bells and the Templar's call in the mornings. The body lies on the floor but, at the same time, a familiar looking specter rises from it, a would-be human form made of flames and starlight.
Both Templar and mage take a step back, Cullen trying to keep her standing while diving for his sword. Sweat drips from their skin and she can swear to feel his fear mingling with hers where their skin meets.
Will you take me? It whispers, will you use me? I am a child of the Maker. I am Just. I am Faith.
It speaks with no voice but her lips move; a head detached from body, mimicking the form which lies in a pile of blood with fire filling up the spaces where flesh no longer connects.
"Amell? Why isn't it dead?"
We can do so much together, child. This one wasn't enough. We barely started and the world carries much sorrow to be cleansed. Our Father wishes it. I would not exist otherwise. Don't you see? It opens its arms wide, like waiting for her to join, to hug and caress her like family would.
Her hair is tugged on instead and her waist tightened in an iron grip. In it, she focuses.
You can take good to people. You can leave this place. Don't you wa—
"What a load of bullshit." The eyes blink perplexedly. Confused, is it? Good. Good because even she is, Cullen's voice strong as she has never heard it before. "I heard what you were saying when I came in," he continues, trembling slightly in the effort to keep balance between woman and sword. "What did you offer her? More power? A life out of here? What will you do to the both of us when you're done? Kill her to purify the Maker's curse?"
I would not kill you. You are not cursed.
"Neither is she."
In the Fade, the demons had scared her. But the lessons never end, don't trust anyone, the trials are never-ending, keep your wits about you, mage.
There must be some irony in trusting demon and Templar.
Concentrating on her hands, Diana forces magic into her hands, trying to bypass whatever the spirit – or the dead woman – did to her. It goes slowly. First a spark between her fingers, then a small flame evolving and growing until she can smell the scent of the ropes burning and her robe being caught in the middle. The support around her falters for a moment, Cullen reacting to her performance but she just smiles shaking her released arms and flaming hands.
Faith is to trust. The man doesn't really trust her and neither does she. Faith's useless.
No words are exchanged. She places her hands forward and summons the largest fireball she has ever dared. And the second it hits, Cullen is already smiting the whole room, adding two and two. A being of magic, held to a fakery of life by magic, what would happen if magic was eliminated? It is so logical that Diana finds herself laughing out loud, pure hysteria driving her to tears which can be of mirth or despair or even the fear which rips itself away as the cleansing waves hit her and leave her as normal as a city housekeeper.
The spirit screams in her mind, almost as loud as she had done earlier. It sounds incredibly human. It is also incredibly satisfying. There are robes to the corner after all, apprentice robes. A dozen, maybe more.
"We're done with this place." Cullen doesn't wait for permission. He drags her with him and flees, over the woman's body – stepping on it even, a look of disgust she has never seen him. A day for firsts, it is. First time in a Harrowing, first time being threatened, first time being saved, first time seeing a human in a Templar. No need for permission. He's saving her and his voice is warm and kind, just like his large arms around her and his steady presence.
They meet the Knight-Commander and describe everything which has happened. They also meet the First Enchanter, speaking of remains to be cleansed. And more, they meet each other, burning each and every apprentice robe Wynne left behind. She casts the fire, he checks a list and each name is read. They remember.
"What's wrong, Amell?" The list is burned at the end, Cullen crouched on the floor, waiting patiently until there's nothing but ashes in his hands. "You've been staring at the Tower for a while."
She has. A little wave towards the figure watching them from the Tower, a kind expression on his aged figure.
"Nothing. Just glad it's over," she whispers. "Can we go inside?"
It was nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Even if, for a moment, Diana can swear Irving's eyes were shining.