"What's your name boy?"

His mother moves to answer, but something snaps in him and he gets in first. "Anders," he says. One of the Templars sniggers, and he hears his mother protesting, but it's too late for any of that. It was too late the moment the first fingers of flame started in the straw of the barn. The name is accurate enough. His mother calls him pet names, like "sweetheart" or "darling", and he groans and tells her he has a proper name while inside he feels special and loved. His father more often than not "boy." His given name has never had much meaning for him, and it's easy to give the name the boys in the village use for him.

The boy he used to be, the one who had a mother and a father and a home that wasn't populated by tinsuited monsters, that boy isn't him any more.

"All right then, my little Anders," the Templar says. "Let's be off." He's vaguely aware of his mother sobbing as she passes a package to one of the men, his father standing stoic and unmoving at the door. He hopes to Andraste he imagines the clink of coins as he is led from the house. Instead he focuses on the sound of his mother's tears. They at least, are genuine.

One thing is absolutely clear from the get go: chains are not meant to be comfortable. He's been crying, and he wants to wipe his face and his nose, try to regain some semblance of dignity considering one of the Templars is periodically laughing and jeering at him, but with his arms bound behind him he can't even scratch his nose, and struggling to do so would undoubtably unbalance him. Even though he's sitting wedged between the Templar and the horse's neck he's terrified of falling. It's a long, long way down to the ground.

When they stop for the night the Templar whose horse he'd been sharing is surprisingly gentle, taking him down and allowing him some time to relieve himself, unlocking the chains but standing directly behind him, making it clear that no escape attempt will be tolerated. As he finishes, however, the other Templar comes up behind the first, and there's a sneer in his voice, along with something else that makes Anders shudder, as he speaks.

"How old do you think this one is?" he says.

"Get back to camp, William," the kind Templar, as Anders has come to think of him, says. His voice is hard, however.

"You're a soft touch, Harley," William says. Anders buttons his clothing and turns around, surprised to find his hands shaking as he holds them out to Harley to be manacled again. William hasn't moved. He is looking at Anders, a small smile on thin lips, and Anders shrinks back from the wrongness in his gaze.

The trip takes forever. He doesn't know if it's because he's terrified of what will come next, or terrified of William, who continues to look at him as though he is a piece of meat to be devoured, or simply because he wants to be at home. He'd even be glad to see his father's face, now.

When they reach the lake, the kind Templar hands him the package his mother had been allowed to put together for him. Anders had seen it, among the gear, and had ached for it the entire journey. He didn't know what was in it, only that it was from her - the only person who seemed to care that he was being taken away.

"Don't open it until you've got your bunk," the Templar whispers to him. "And don't let the others see it. It's for you, you don't want to lose it." Anders bites his lip and nods. He doesn't like Harley - it would be impossible to like the man who has spent the last few days dragging him from his home, but he knows, obscurely, that this man had stood between him and something even more terrible, and he is grateful.

They remove the manacles just inside the enormous double doors. They close, and Anders can tell there is more to them than just wood and metal, in that way he has. A tall man in robes is standing there, and despite everything, Anders feels a small surge of excitement. He's a mage. An official mage, one who is …allowed, and he is like Anders. One day, he'll wear robes like that, have a staff to help him cast spells. One day he'll be able to do magic and people won't be surprised at it, won't yell at him for it. People will ask him to do magic.

"Just the one today, William?" the man asks. He's old. Older than Anders' father. He has dark skin and a black beard and deep brown eyes.

"Yes, Senior Enchanter," William says. "Feisty though. I'd watch him."

The man's face clouds for a minute and he glances at Harley. Anders knows they don't think he notices, but Harley shakes his head minutely, and the mage's face relaxes in something like relief.

"What's your name, child?" the mage asks, as Harley and William turn to leave.

"Anders," he says.

The mage lifts an eyebrow. "Well then. Mine's Torrin. It's nice to meet you. I'll take you to the apprentice quarters and get you settled in."

Anders is silent. The tower had looked huge from the boat on the lake, and the inside is just as confusing as the outside. Twisting corridors, doors that lead into rooms full of books and softly speaking people, but the thing that he notices the most is the Templars. They are everywhere. At the door of every room, clanking in their heavy boots down the corridors, their blank helmets making them seem like metal demons. He shrinks back when one brushes past him, the cold of the metal on the breastplate making him shiver. He doesn't like the sword they all wear, wreathed in flames the way it is. It makes him think of death, and the fire in the barn.

He clutches the packet to his chest and follows Torrin. When they reach the dormitory, Anders is shocked to see it full of children. He hadn't heard them. Why weren't they shouting? Playing? He's never seen children like this before.

They are a mix of ages, none younger than six or so, but a few a couple of years older than he. It's to one of these that Torrin waves, calling him over. A dark haired boy, probably about sixteen.

"Karl - you're the eldest here, this is Anders. Set him up with a bunk and some clothes will you?"

The boy raises an eyebrow insolently and crosses his arms. "Why me?"

"Just do it, Karl. No complaining."

The boy sighs and rolls his eyes, and Senior Enchanter Torrin nods and leaves. Once the older man has left, however, Karl smiles at Anders with genuine kindness and the fear that had gripped him lessens a little.

"Don't worry about Torrin," Karl says. "He's a prig. I just do it to get on his nerves."

Anders laughs a little at that, the first time he's laughed since before the fire, and he's surprised at how good it feels. Karl nods and grins, obviously seeing something promising in Anders, and claps him on the shoulder.

"Is that something from your parents?" he says, eyeing the package in Anders' hands.

He clutches it tighter. "From my mother," he says softly.

"Hide it," Karl says. "Under your mattress. Open it tonight when it's dark and the Biffs can't see properly in their stupid helmets. They'll take it from you if they see it."

"Why?" he says.

Karl shrugs, sounding bitter. "It's what they do," he says, and any good feelings Anders had are suddenly gone.

Karl is kindly, and has a sharp sense of humour that makes Anders smile again, although he doesn't feel close to laughter any more. He finds Anders a bunk, near the back of the room, close to the corner. "Corner bunks are best," he says, "The Biffs can't see you that well when you're in one of those, and Varel's close to his Harrowing. If you're lucky you'll be able to get his when he goes. Just make sure you keep an eye out first thing in the morning. If his stuff's gone, grab it."

"Harrowing?"

Karl shook his head minutely. "You'll see. Just watch for it." Anders' bunk is a few over from the corner, at the back of the room, on the bottom. "Used to be top bunks were better, but things are different these days. Now that William's a catcher instead of a watcher."

"You know William?"

Karl's gaze darkens at that. "Did he bring you in?" he asks, and the question is gentle.

"Yes. Him and Harley."

"They've assigned Harley with him?" He raises an eyebrow, then nods grimly. "Good," he says, but doesn't explain, just goes to a set of cupboards at the back of the room and piles up Anders with blankets and pillows and a bundle of clothing. "These will probably be a bit big for a while, but you'll grow into them," Karl says. "Kids are usually younger than you when they come in. Were you an apostate?"

"A what?"

"A free mage. Did your parents try to hide you?"

He shook his head, biting his lips, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening again. "No," he said. "They didn't." He's intrigued by Karl's words. "Are there free mages?"

Karl looks at him. "If you can call it that," he says. "Here. Put your packet under the mattress. Make up your bed and come find me. You're lucky you came in before dinner, they don't bother to feed the new ones if they come late. Hurry up."

That night, he reaches under his mattress to find the packet and opens it, worrying the string with his fingers. The knots have gotten so tight, in their journey, that it takes a while for him to get it off. He unwraps the cloth to find his pillow - the one his mother made for him when he was just a baby, back when she had time to do things like embroider: before the farm, before the brothers and sisters who never came, before his father stopped smiling and fell silent and hard. He clutches it to his face and breathes in the lingering scent of her, tears squeezing out of his eyes. He is still clutching it in his arms when he wakes the next morning.