Your true traveler finds boredom rather agreeable than painful. It is the symbol of his liberty -- his excessive freedom. He accepts his boredom, when it comes, not merely philosophically, but almost with pleasure.

- Aldous Huxley

It was the quiet that drove him crazy. Everyone was so damned peaceful all the time. Even when they were launching fireballs at each other. There was something fundamentally wrong with people who thought it was normal to have a little frown of concentration on their face as they launched flaming death towards another human being. They should at least shout something. Politely if they had to.

The first escape attempt hadn't gone so well. He'd tried to sneak out in Templar armour. Unfortunately, at the age of sixteen, skinny and used to running from Denerim guards rather than carrying massive loads, he'd not been able to go more than three steps to the jetty before the templars had caught him.

They'd laughed, the first time. Not all mages tried to escape. Some of them welcomed their new circumstances. It was common enough, though for the Templars to have seen virtually every "disguise" in the books. Anders would have to be more creative next time.

The second time he was seventeen. He'd crawled out of a window on the first floor. The first floor, he'd reasoned, would be close enough to the ground. He was wrong. They'd had to let him drop onto a canvas trampoline. Held by Templars. They hadn't laughed that time.

The third time he actually got onto the supply boat as it left the island. He'd been ecstatic. The templars would never find him. He was eighteen.

The templars at the dock searched the boat thoroughly before they unpacked it. He was discovered, along with Mr Wiggums, whom Anders had brought along as an afterthought. First Enchanter Irving had been more annoyed about the cat than about his escape attempt.

Between the third and fourth time he went through his harrowing.

As a full blown mage he'd expected to be able to leave whenever he liked. He was sorely disappointed. In order to get out of the tower he had to have First Enchanter Irving's permission. This was not difficult to obtain. However, one also had to have Greagoir's permission. This was.

Anders had his suspicions that the First Enchanter delighted in sending new mages to Greagoir with his permission to leave the tower. Greagoir certainly delighted in denying them. It was a game between the two men, Anders realised. Irving had power, but according to the Chantry, Greagoir had more. According to the laws of magic, Irving could, if he so desired, blast Greagoir out of existence with a single word. On the other hand, Greagoir could order every mage in the circle annulled.

It was an uneasy balance.

Most mages only went to the Knight Commander once, asking for permission to leave the tower. Greagoir was firm in his denials. Most mages realised that Irving was trying to make them understand that it was their actions and not their words that would gain them the freedom they so desired. Most mages dutifully went back to their quarters and continued to train, to teach, to perform for their templars until they were deemed docile enough to take on the world.

Anders knew that if he was not most mages.

"I've been in this tower for six years," he said to Mirabel, one of the only mages he could talk to about this sort of thing. "I'm almost tempted to blow myself up - at least some bits of me might fly out a window."

"You know the only way to get out is to behave yourself, Anders," Mirabel said.

He groaned and buried his head in his hands. "I don't believe it. There has to be another way."

He found it eventually. It wasn't pleasant, but it worked. He was lucky he could swim - something most mages didn't learn before they were taken to the tower, an advantage to getting there late. As he squeezed himself down the sewage drain, he was thankful he'd never been a big eater. He would have been more thankful if the rest of the tower were the same.

Freedom was sweet. But it didn't last long. He was luckily able to get a change of clothes and a hot meal from a nice lady in Redcliffe before he started on the road to Denerim, but he was met by templars within the hour.

"How did you find me?" he asked, heartbroken. It was Ser Rylock and Ser Fuller. Rylock was remarkably resistant to his charms, but Ser Fuller was a good man. He even had a rudimentary sense of humour.

"Really, Anders. We don't need to see you leave to know you're gone," Fuller said. "People notice."

"How did you escape?" Rylock asked.

"You don't expect me to actually tell you that, do you?" he replied.

And so began his career of escapism. His disorient spell was the best in the tower, everyone said so. Even with almost constant templar supervision he still managed to reach the drains every couple of months. He managed to get as far as Redcliffe twice. But they always found him. They always brought him back.

After the seventh escape he was brought before Greagoir and Irving, in anti-magic bracers.

"This situation is intolerable," Greagoir said. "Give me a reason why I shouldn't lock you up for the rest of your miserable existence."

Anders shifted a little. "Um.. I look pretty in robes?"

Greagoir spluttered. Anders was a little proud of himself for managing to get him to that state.

"Anders," Irving said, "we know you're not a blood mage. We know you're not willfully harming anyone when you escape. But there are ways to gain permission to leave the tower. You don't have to do this."

"Really, Irving," Anders said. "Can you imagine me ever getting permission for that?"

"I want you to give me your word that you won't try to escape again," Irving said. Greagoir snorted. "And you need to tell us how you're doing it."

"If you lock me up you won't be changing my circumstances at all," Anders said. "So why would I tell you the only means I have of getting out of this place?"

"Maybe some time in solitary will change your mind about that," Greagoir said.

"You mean this is a prison after all?" Anders said bitterly. "Somehow it's not always comforting to find out you're right."

Irving gave a heavy sigh. "I'm disappointed in you, Anders. You're one of the most talented mages we've had in the tower for years. And yet you're squandering that talent."

"What do you want me to use it on in here?" Anders said.

"Teaching. Researching. Eventually, fighting threats to Ferelden. Traveling. There are many, many options for a mage of your talents."

"With templars breathing down my neck the entire time? No thank you, First Enchanter."

The First Enchanter pressed his lips together. "Much as I hate to agree with Greagoir on this point," he said. "Solitary seems like the only thing for you, Anders. Perhaps you'll change your mind. I certainly hope so."

* * *

"What's the plan for today, Mr Wiggums?" Anders asked. "We could storm Denerim palace together. I'll burn it to the ground and you can eat King Cailan and Queen Anora for breakfast. What do you say?"

The cat cocked his head and flicked an ear, looking down into Anders cell from the single high, barred window. He had no idea why it had taken to visiting him, but he was grateful and took every opportunity to encourage the animal. He saved food scraps from his meals and used them to encourage the cat down into his cell, where it would purr and rub against his legs. It was the only comfort he had.

He did not relent. Irving told him Greagoir would release him if he told the Knight Commander how he was escaping, but Anders refused. They couldn't keep him in solitary forever.

He hoped.

* * *

It was a type of madness. He knew that. Or at least he remembered that he should know it, on the days he was lucid enough.

Mr Wiggums knew it too, but as it got him extra food he didn't try to disillusion Anders. Cats are clever that way.

"So, you've never been away from the tower, Mr Wiggums?"

"No," the cat replied. "I was born here actually."

"You don't regret not taking the opportunity to see the rest of the world?"

"It's a good place," Mr Wiggums licked a paw. "No other cats to get share the mice with. Nice, easy access kitchens. Handy prisoners who are willing to share their food... by the way, you don't happen to have any of that pie left from yesterday, do you?"

Anders searched his pockets. "Well, it just so happens.." He removed a morsel which he handed to the cat, who gulped it delicately.

"Thank you, my good man."

"Don't mention it, old fellow."

A kind of madness, yes. But it was also the only thing that was keeping him sane.

* * *

There were voices outside. He heard them sometimes, just before they brought him food, but they never spoke to him, never addressed him by name, only delivered, or took away.

This time, though, he heard his name. It had been so long since he'd heard it that it took him a moment to realise that those particular two syllables belonged to him.

"Anders is not going to tell us, Greagoir," a voice said. Familiar. His father? No... his father was dead. Who, then? "I'm telling you, keeping him in here is beyond cruel. You're not an evil man. Andraste's mercy, look at him. He's lost his mind!"

"What do you suggest we do with him then?" another voice - not one that filled him with happy feelings.

"At least let him out a few times a day. Give him some company besides that cat. I can't watch a man be reduced to insanity for simply wanting to be free."

"He'll escape again. It's only a matter of time before he encounters a blood mage - or a demon on one of these outings and then we'll be dealing with a powerful maleficar, not just an apostate with a smart mouth."

"He's a good man, Greagoir. I don't believe he would resort to that."

"Don't you? You said yourself you haven't seen a mage with his ability for years. He's desperate for freedom. I believe he will do anything."

The voices faded. Anders sat up in his cot and stroked Mr Wiggums thoughtfully.

Anything.. he thought. Yes. You're right Greagoir. I probably would.

He didn't know how long it was later that he heard the voices again.

"Let him out, Fuller."

"As you say, First Enchanter."

"And not a word. To anyone. I'll take this on my head if needs be. You won't be blamed."

"Poor sod's going mad in there. I'd happily take a drumming for letting him go, if that's what it takes."

"You won't need to."

The door opened. It took a moment for him to realise that he wasn't dreaming - but only a moment. Fuller came in and approached him. Anders watched him warily, not sure what was happening.

"It's all right, Anders," he said. "I'm going to let you out. There's trouble in the tower and we need your help."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Uldred and his friends."

"Who's Uldred?"

Fuller's face fell and he looked behind him. "Maker's breath, First Enchanter, how long has he been in here?"

"Long enough," Irving said from behind the templar. "Release him. We need every mage we have to stand up to those idiots. He was popular, before his imprisonment. And he is no fool."

Fuller unlocked the anti-magic bracers Anders wore and stepped back.

Anders felt the magic rush back into him like a flood. It was almost erotic in its intensity and he let out a moan, stretching his arms to the sides and throwing back his head in satisfaction. He was whole.

"Thank you," he breathed. Then his training snapped back into place and power flared at his fingertips. "But also... sorry."

He released the forcefield, enclosing both Fuller and Irving before either of them had a chance to react. And ran.

Two years later he stood surrounded by darkspawn (and templar) corpses in Vigil's keep, faced with the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. His jaw dropped.

Say something clever, his head told him. Say something clever. Come on - you can do it!

"Um... ah... I didn't do it."

Idiot.