The First Steps

Arin grabs the book out of Jowan's hand, running from the library, trailing laughter. She glances over her shoulder at the dark haired boy whose eyes are wide and seem to hold a warning in them. She waves the book at him, taunting him playfully, still running headlong down the hall. He shakes his head and starts to form words just as she turns her head and careens off a wall of steel, falling unceremoniously into a sprawling heap.

Cullen glances down at his freshly polished armor with no small amount of pride. And though he is still trying to get used to the weight of the armor in relation to the curving walls of the Circle Tower, he thinks he is doing a good job. He straightens his shoulders and glances up in time to see one of the young apprentices hurtling towards him, waving a book and laughing with an almost maniacal glee. His heart thumps in his chest, and he wonders if she is possessed and without thinking he reaches for his sword and then with a loud kerwack, she is a sprawling heap at his feet, howling in outrage and all he can think is that she is spurting blood all over his newly polished armor.

"You - you-" Arin begins, but is suddenly laughing again and he looks around the hallways wondering where a more senior templar might be because he is only sixteen and newly assigned to the Tower and he really doesn't want to have to kill a mage his first week here but thinks it may be entirely possible that he will have to.

"Arin, stop laughing and give me that book before I freeze you," Jowan hisses and that makes her laugh all the harder. She looks up at the templar with eyes the color of moss, shining with mirth, and somehow Cullen finds himself smiling and offering her a hand up. She ignores his hand in favor of trying to cover her nose, which is gushing now.

"Ice is good, I need something for my nose," Arin says, but it comes out all muddled and sounding more like, "Ithe ith gud, I nedsumfonfohmahnothe" because her nose is still bleeding and beginning to swell and Cullen thinks he should go find a healer and perhaps a good place to hide because he is fairly certain he has broken her nose. Her speech sends her into fresh gales of laughter, making Cullen worry that perhaps she is hysterical and a hysterical mage, as he has recently been taught, is a dangerous thing. He glances around again, praying for the Maker to deliver him from this but the Maker is obviously doing Maker knows what and he is alone and he sighs loudly, wondering what it is he is supposed to do.

Arin is beginning to feel a bit light headed and she thinks she may actually have chipped a tooth on the plated armor and she wants to rub her head because it hurts too but her hands are bloody and there seems to be entirely too much blood and the world is starting to dim and darken and there are little spots of brilliant color dancing in her vision and with an apologetic sigh, she pitches forward, unconscious.

Maker's mercy, has he killed her? Jowan sets up a howling chant of, "Mage killer! Mage Killer!" and Cullen wonders if it is possible to actually be fired as a templar. And with a momentary pang of regret about his nicely polished armor, he reaches down and scoops up the mage and makes his way to the infirmary, surprised by how light she is for all that she is dead weight and that choice of words makes him feel rather queasy.

By now the hall is beginning to fill with mages and templars and Cullen feels his cheeks redden at the suspicious looks he is getting from the mages and the snickering he hears from the templars. Now would be a good time for the tower floor to open up and swallow him whole, he thinks glumly.

Knight Commander Greagoir calls Cullen in to his office an hour later. Cullen did not think it possible to sweat so profusely inside armor without actually drowning in it but now realizes that it is indeed possible. Removing his gauntlets, he tugs at his errant hair, thinking he should just cut it off and be done with it but some small part of what's left of his vanity, the part the chantry hasn't beaten out of him, rather likes his hair as it is. He glances down at his newly, newly polished armor, making sure that the Knight Commander won't find fault with him. At least, Cullen thinks glumly, not with his appearance. The mage he probably killed will undoubtedly be another matter. He has learned that she is only twelve years old and his guilt is immense. A mage killer at age sixteen. Won't the templars be proud of him.


"Apologize? Really?" Arin asks, coppery gold brows arching in feigned surprise. She is standing in front of the First Enchanter's desk for the third time in a week. She is trying very hard to hide a smile but her dimples flash and she sees Irving's eyes crinkle. He clears his throat and she can see that he intends to chide her but not harshly.

"Did you think nobody would notice that you took an entire pie?"

"I can make another, First Enchanter, honestly. But I saw them bring Anders in today and he just looks so sad so I thought that a pie would cheer him up," she explains and her smile dims a bit. Poor Anders. One day he will escape and the templars won't bring him back. Or, she thinks with a shudder, they will make him Tranquil. A fact that she reminded him of when she delivered the pie.

"Child, "Irving begins, motioning for her to sit. She takes her familiar seat across from him and looks at him with large, intent green eyes. She honestly tries to be good, but somehow things just happen and she doesn't blame the First Enchanter for lecturing her she just wishes it wasn't necessary again.

"You are sixteen now, child. Your magical abilities are remarkable, but until your maturity matches your abilities you cannot take your Harrowing."

"Yes, First Enchanter," she agrees, feeling subdued and embarrassed again. There is nothing she wants more than to take her Harrowing and go out into the world and see what there is to see. Because Irving has told her that is a possibility. And the idea of seeing the world is appealing. Very appealing, she amends.

"Now, go to the kitchens and make a pie," Irving instructs but not unkindly.

Cullen watches her, arms folded, trying to look stern and templary at his post outside the First Enchanter's office but she pauses in front of him and winks and he cannot help the smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. He clears his throat and finds a spot on the wall above her head and says nothing and pretends that he isn't glad to see she hasn't been crushed by her visit to the First Enchanter's office.


Arin grimaces, her nerves stretched so tightly she can hear them thrumming. Her fingers crackle with magic. The room is also crackling with magic. He can feel it tugging and pulling at the fine hairs on the back of his neck. Cullen frowns, moving towards her, hand on the hilt of his sword, but she shakes her head at him. "I'm fine,"she mouths, but a bead of sweat forms at her temple and trickled down her face. She need only hold this controlled motion for a few more seconds and she will...

"Stop! Arin Amell, stop at once!" Greagoir bellows.

Startled, Arin curses, losing her concentration as the tower of chairs wobbles precariously and then comes tumbling down around her. One catches her squarely on the head. She tumbles down as well. Cullen is quick. Even in the heavy plate of his templar's uniform, he is there, bending over her. The six years since his arrival have given him a certain grace and speed that had been sorely lacking in his early days. Arin blinks at him, trying to focus. She can taste the tang of blood on her tongue, realizing suddenly that her lower lip is bleeding profusely. A sizeable knot is forming above her eye. Cullen sees the anger sparking in her eyes and thinks he can actually feel her anger in the air.

"Cullen, get a healer in here, "Greagoir orders and sighs. Arin glares up at the Knight Commander accusingly. Cullen reluctantly stands and goes in search of a healer, wanting nothing more than to hold her until she is better. And that is a bit of a worry.

"It is especially foolish for one to bellow at a mage who is obviously deeply focused," she says, her voice reedy and thick. Her head is throbbing. She ignores his outstretched hand and stands up. She wipes her hands on her robe and begins counting the chairs.

"Do not speak to me that way, Amell. You know that casting spells for entertainment is in direct violation..."

"Of the sanctimonious and self serving rules of the Chantry and its bullies," she finishes, her voice tight. She thinks she hears Anders snicker at that but many of the other mages who have gathered in the library mostly shuffle out, uneasy now that the fun is over. And she is contrite because it isn't Greagoir's fault that there are templars watching their every move. But something about him infuriates her, provokes her into saying things she would not dream of saying to anyone else.

"Arin, put these chairs back, get cleaned up and report to my office," First Enchanter Irving orders, though there is no heat in his voice, merely resignation and a bit of sadness. Cullen stands beside Irving, arms folded, eyes watchful.

"Yes First Enchanter."

Cullen helps her straighten the chairs and she thanks him, flashing her smile at him. His cheeks reddened in embarrassment. "Uhm, yes, you're welcome," he stammers and drops his eyes. Impulsively, she reaches out a hand and touches his arm lightly. He can't actually feel her fingers on his armored arm, but he is surprised by how good the touch feels. "Youre such a good person," she whispers and then goes to tidy up before her visit with the First Enchanter, leaving a very flustered Cullen staring after her. She shouldn't touch him. Or talk to him. And his heart should not race when she does.

She hums lightly as she winds her way along the curving halls of the Tower. She loves the gentle curves, the long, winding corridors and hidden alcoves. There is a timeless, graceful beauty about the tower that is comforting to her. She loves the sound of magic crackling all around her, pulsing in the air. She doesn't really love the templars but other than that cranky old Greagoir, many of them are decent enough, if a bit cold and stand-offish. She suspects that has to do with fear. And training that involves learning how to kill mages because they are evil.

Even knowing that she is about to face Greagoir's wrath and Irving's disappointment, there is a certain effervescence in her step, in her manner and she can feel it and knows that she needs to somehow repress it but she can't seem to. She wonders if she can ever explain to either of them how these things happen. She isn't a bad person or a bad mage, she just has this happy energy within her that springs forth and needs to do something. As she reaches the First Enchanter's office, she hesitates before knocking. She smoothes her robes and takes a deep breath. She honestly doesn't mean to cause Irving anxiety, she just has a need to explore and stretch her limits and tweak the templars' noses.

"Irving, it is time she knows her legacy, knows who she really is. This wanton disregard for rules shows that the apple did not fall far from the tree!"

"Greagoir, that is neither fair nor accurate. Arin is high spirited, I will grant you. She chafes at the restrictions but no more than most girls her age. She has never harmed anyone in this tower, nor would she, I suspect. This prejudice because of an accident of birth does not suit you," Irving chides.

Accident of birth? Legacy? Arin's hand falters and suddenly weighs too much and falls to her side.

"You thought the same of Marin," Greagoir says but his voice is softer, sadder, wistful. Wistful? Arin boggles at that.

"Marin was justified in killing Jerod and Kenric. You know that," Irving interjects sharply.

A prickle of fear chases along Arin's spine and she leans forward, afraid to listen but more afraid not to.

"I don't know what I know, Irving. The lines blur and dim with time," Greagoir replies with a long sigh.

Marin? Marin the Mad Mage? She is a legend, a fantasy used to scare young mages into obedience. What does Marin have to do with me? Arin wonders blankly. And suddenly the Tower seems colder. Arin shivers. What accident of birth? She raises her hand to knock but drops it again. What does he mean? Surely he isn't saying that she is in some way similar to or connected to Mad Marin? She tries to laugh at the notion but she feels a diminishment as if the air around her somehow compresses. A tightness settles in her chest.

Cullen stands silently, watching the emotions play across her expressive face. He wants to reassure her. About what he isn't't sure, but she looks like she needs reassuring. He wants to let her know that she is a good person too. But he is a templar and she is a mage. He isn't permitted to acknowledge her in that way. All his training tells him that. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He really should wear his helmet and he knows this because most of his fellow templars wear theirs. If for no other reason than to give him distance and control. But he feels constrained and too distant when he wears it, which is probably why they are given them in the first place, he supposes.

He watches as her smile fades, replaced by a frown. He watches her take a step away from the door. It seems almost as if she is shrinking and he finds himself moving towards her, concern a sharp bloom in his chest. Before he takes more than two steps, the door swings open and Greagoir strides out, nearly knocking her down.

"Eavesdropping is an ugly practice, Arin," he admonishes and then looks at her again. She is pale and drawn and her breath is short and shallow and she is staring at him with glassy eyes.

"Arin?" he asks and he sees the effort she is making to focus on him. He puts a hand out to steady her but she only stares at it, seemingly too confused to see it extended towards her.

"Marin? How is she related to me?" Arin asks finally in a hushed, croaking voice. Cullen strains to hear the conversation but can't. He shifts, moving forward again. She needs something and he isn't sure what but he feels compelled to offer whatever he can. Which as a templar is not all that much, he admits.

Irving is there, his arm around her shoulders, supporting her, guiding her into his office. Arin looks up at him, her eyes wide with shock. Cullen takes another step towards her. He has a need to help her somehow though he doesn't know exactly what that help would be. Greagoir sees him and waves him away. "Get back to your post, Cullen. We'll handle this," Greagoir orders and then adds softly, "Maker help her." Which does nothing to alleviate Cullen's growing alarm. He watches as the door slowly closes.

"I'm a daughter of Aeonar?" Arin whispers. "My mother is Marin the Mad?" She rocks back and forth, her hands clasped tightly. She has a sudden urge to laugh and is horrified by that. Is she mad too? A daughter of Aeonar? Isn't that what they call those babies unfortunate enough to survive being born in the mage prison?

"Irving did you not tell me that I had been left on the doorstop of the chantry in Lothering when I was three? Was that a lie?"

Before Irving can answer she laughs, a dry bitter sound, like bones rubbing together. "Of course it was a lie. I mean Marin the Mad has been in Aeonar for 19 years now. Nineteen years ago she killed a number of templars didn't she? And what else does the legend say? Oh yes, she ran through the halls, naked, screaming. She tried to eat the templars she killed. That's part of the legend too, isn't it? They tell us that can happen to any of us if we don't follow the rules. They use Marin the Mad Mage to terrorize the little ones into obedience! That's my mother. Lovely."

"Child," Irving begin, but she cuts him off, launching out of her chair and whirling on him, fear sluicing through her and turning to anger and shame and she wants to shut up and run and run and run but words tumble out.

"I'm not your child, Irving. Or - or am I? Who, I wonder, is my father? Obviously someone from the tower. A templar? A mage? You? Greagoir? And obviously there must be more to the story or I wouldn't be here because Mad Marin would have been killed by the templars. Cleaved by a Sword of Mercy," she continues in a voice that is low and harsh and terrified. She is the daughter of a malificar? A mad mage who ran amok in the tower? How could that be? She slides to the floor, clutching herself and rocking back and forth. Despair radiates off of her. And magic.

Her thoughts and emotions are roiling, boiling, threatening to explode around them. Irving and Greagoir can feel the magical energy emanating from her in waves and she is trying desperately to control the impulse to hurl Irving's desk across the room, to tear the room asunder. She raises her hands and sees the blue magical energy dancing from her fingertips, impatient to be let free.

The Veil is shimmering around her, moving like a glowing curtain of brilliant light in her mind. She can hear the whisper of a thousand voices beckoning to her, tempting her. She is plucking at the threads of her mind, almost willing a demon to come to her, to possess her so that the terrible pain in her chest will ease. She sees Greagoir quietly touch the hilt of his sword, preparing himself should it be necessary and she blinks, once, twice. If she is ever to be struck down by templar, she wants it to be Cullen. She trusts him enough to know it will be quick and painless. That thought shakes her. She doesn't want to die, surely? She clutches her hands tightly again, willing the energy to subside. Her breathing becomes controlled, the static energy dispersing harmlessly.

Cullen watches and waits, thinking she has been in there too long and it is much too quiet for Arin to be having a dressing down because she tends to be quite loud when she is in trouble. Cullen lets out a breath he doesn't realize he is holding when the door opens and she steps out. He tries to catch her eye but her eyes are cast downward. He watches as she leaves the First Enchanter's office, her shoulders bowed, head lowered. It is as if her inner light has been extinguished. Finally she glances his way and gives him a little smile, a sad smile. Cullen feels helpless and hopeless as he watches her sagging figure slowly make its way along the corridor, and he wonders with a sharp pang if the light will return and Maker's breath, what happened to her? What did they do to her in that office? He sinks into the shadows, a young templar standing guard.


Arin glances over at Cullen and gives him the barest wink and the corners of her mouth twitch ever so slightly upward in a tiny, private smile, which makes no sense to Cullen but he lowers his head, lest the others see his answering smile. She is in the Harrowing Chamber, about to enter the Fade. And he is here to strike her down if she fails her Harrowing. What is there to be happy about, he wonders. He is miserable, feeling the heavy weight of his armor oppressive in the stifling room and the heavy weight of his duty equally oppressive. But he hopes that she doesn't realize why he is there because she probably wouldn't smile or wink at him.

She is on the floor, lips moving, eyes fluttering, as she makes her way through the Fade. Time seems to slow and loop back on itself as they wait. Cullen can feel sweat flowing down his back and he hopes the others cannot see how nervous he is, cannot smell the fear in him. Wake up! She twitches and whimpers and his heart thumps painfully against his armor, against his duty. Don't fail, he urges silently. Maker's mercy, don't fail, he pleads and begins reciting prayers silently. Minutes seem to turn into hours. He grits his teeth and clenches his jaws and wills time to move more quickly. It only takes twenty one minutes but it feels like a lifetime.

And then he is carrying her back to the dormitory and laying her on her bed and if Greagoir or Irving notice just how gentle he is with his burden, they don't speak of it to him. He doesn't actually want to release her. He wants to hold her until she wakes up and be the first thing she sees but that is dumb, dumb, dumb. He is a templar, for the Maker's sake, and she is a mage. He releases her and marches out of the room. He finds that he can breathe again and with a heartfelt sigh, he makes his way to his dormitory, strips out of his heavy armor and collapses on his bed, feeling as though he has somehow passed the Harrowing as well.

Hours later, she is hurrying along the curved corridor, trying to pull her hair back into some semblance of order as she scurries toward Irving's office but when she sees Cullen she skids to a stop and offers a radiant smile. And this time, after so many months, the smile actually reaches her eyes and he finds himself smiling in response.

"Cullen! I passed!" Her voice is pulsing with happiness and energy, amazingly upbeat after her experience. Most of the mages who pass their Harrowing are sick for days but here she is a breath of fresh air and sunshine, radiating happiness and confidence.

"Uhm, yes, I was there," he reminds her, feeling his face warm at her look and wondering if he will ever, for the love of the Maker, be able to say anything even half way intelligent around her.

"Oh right! I knew that. I just...I just wanted to say the words out loud to someone who," but she stops, a rosy blush spreading across her cheeks. He wonders what she was about to say and then he finds heat creeping into his cheeks.

"I...I'm glad, Arin. I would have done my duty had it been necessary," he hears himself adding and is mortified. Makers Mercy, you idiot!

Surprisingly, she touches his arm briefly, reassuringly, and says, "I know and I'm glad it was you, Cullen. I wouldn't have wanted anyone else to do it.

And then she is scurrying on towards the First Enchanter's Office, leaving a dumbstruck templar in her wake.


Jowan fools them all, betrays them all. Even the two women he claims to love. Arin is fighting a sense of loss and betrayal. She is so angry that her chest is heaving. Why is life never simple and clean and elegant?

"And you! Newly a mage and already flouting the rules," Greagoir barks, pointing an angry finger at her. But there is more in his steel gray eyes than anger, she sees it but has trouble identifying it. Disappointment? Not possible. He would have to actually care about her to be disappointed with her. She puffs up, about to bark back. It is the hurt in his eyes that deflates her. She wants to shout that she is horrified and sorry and she only helped him in the hopes that they will send her to Aeonar. She wants to scream at them that she has just lost her lifelong friend and she lost him through a series of betrayals that hurt, hurt, hurt. She wants to yell at them that not one of them in the hall is actually guiltless but she just lets her thoughts and his words crash over her like the angry waves of Lake Calenhad on a stormy day. Her chin is held dangerously high. She refuses to allow the tears that tremble on her lashes to fall. She will not give any of them the satisfaction of seeing such weakness in her. You can NOT break me, damn you, she thinks, not for the first time, but not entirely sure who the You is that she is so angry at.

"Child, what have you done?" Irving asks and she looks at him and her chin begins to tremble. Tears form anew and she shakes her head slightly. He looks so hurt, so confused and she feels remorse and regret tearing into her like so many brambles.

"I am sorry, First Enchanter, I know I've done wrong and I accept my punishment," she whispers.

"Why, Arin?"

Why indeed?

"I - I suppose you'll have to send me to Aeonar now," she says as bravely as she can and a single tear slides hotly down her cheek, belying her brave words. She thinks she can hear the plop that it makes when it hits the floor, the silence is so complete. She closes her eyes against the pain.

If the mage's prison is good enough for Lily, it better be good enough for me or this impulsive, reckless, stupid action will have cost me everything and gained me nothing, she thinks wildly, waiting, willing them to pronounce sentence on her.

"To Aeonar? Oh child is that why you helped Jowan? To get to Aeonar?" Irving asks, sounding both horrified and heartbroken. Another tear leaks out of her closed eyes and follows the track of the first. Plop.

Greagoir is stunned into silence apparently and for this Arin is truly grateful because she is feeling as small and mean as it is possible to feel. She raises her eyes to look around and is thankful that Cullen is not among the templars who had been knocked about by Jowan's blood magic.

"What? The mage's prison. Surely not," Duncan, the Grey Warden, is saying and to her horror, he conscripts her into the Order and she is furious. She glares at him and when he moves to take her arm, she backs away.

"No! First Enchanter! Knight Commander! I...you should send me to Aeonar at once! Please!" she cries desperately but they all just looked at her as though she had sprouted horns and asked the King of Ferelden to dance the Remigold with her and then Irving is hugging her, telling her that he will send her things on to the Grey Warden headquarters in Denerim and she is being whisked away from the Tower but not to Aeonar and her heart is tearing and her eyes are a watershed and she hates Duncan and Irving and Greagoir and Jowan.

It is days before she realizes she didn't get to say good bye to anyone, especially Cullen and she hates Duncan and Irving and Greagoir and Jowan all over again.