Hello! This is my first time posting anything I've written on this site, so I hope it isn't an entire disaster! I plan on continuing this for several parts, though I am open to writing as long as people are interested. I'm rating this for M for chapters to come, though at the moment it's entirely clean. Anyway, thanks for reading! I appreciate any feedback in regards to the prose, plot, et cetera. I do not own anything.
It was a dark, cold night outside, the stars shining brightly beyond his window in the absence of the moon. For a moment, Kirkwall almost looked peaceful in this dead hour, the only sound being the faint howl of the wind as it swept between hovels and houses alike, the occasional thunderclap of a storm brewing over Sundermount. It would have been a nice night to be out, strolling alone, feeling the crisp fall air refresh his senses. If only he could go out.
The Circle was a prison, and old as he was, there was no disguising its true nature. Orsino could only hope, as impossible as it seemed, to improve the lives of the mages which called it home, willingly or no. These days, however, that task seemed as improbable at anything else, considering Knight Commander Meredith's strict agenda. Frankly, it was a miracle Orsino had not yet been given the brand, seeing as his outspoken nature was most unwelcome.
He had had his moments of victory though, as few and far between as they were. Having the newly crowned Champion support his cause openly, and further, publically denounce Meredith had certainly been one of those occasions. He had been so thrilled, so amazed and shocked that the city's savior was a mage, risen from the decay of Kirkwall, single handedly defying Meredith's prejudice and slander like the second coming of Andraste herself. It had been all he could to run back to his office and write her effusively, enclosing the best gift his stipend could afford.
Now Orsino was lucky to consider the Champion his friend, the two meeting regularly in his office to discuss Kirkwall politics, the state of mages, and more recently, templar jokes. It was an easy friendship, something Orsino couldn't have predicted. In all honesty, it was relieving to simply have an ally, let alone a friend. The Champion had a laidback sense of humor, which he had learned masked her keen intellect- and the bags under her eyes.
Setting his quill down, the first enchanted smoothed his hair back, a few grey strands catching between his fingers. I'm getting old, was all he could think for a moment, his mouth forming a hard line. This isn't the life I wanted.
Shaking away such gloomy thoughts, he pulled his robes over his head, folding them methodically into his wardrobe, leaving him in just his underskirt. His room was a mess, papers and books strewn about on every surface. Chests filled with magical artifacts, ancient manifestos, and forgotten treaties gathered dust in every corner. Orsino was a man who did not let his work rest, and so he took it to bed with him, often falling asleep with a massive tome in his lap or a quill perched between his fingers.
Crawling under the quilt of his bed, he ran his weathered fingers over the first text he reached, a ponderous volume on the origins of blood magic and its religious implications. He vaguely wondered what Meredith would say if she saw it, not that she ventured into his dark corner of the Circle. Technically, she could say nothing at all, a first enchanter being authorized to keep both history and a careful memory of the forbidden arts. However, Meredith didn't exactly follow the rules anymore, only one of his many problems with the knight commander.
Letting the book open to a random page, he carelessly leafed through chapters, too bored and frustrated to settle into such dry reading. After halfheartedly trying a page, he gave up, shutting the book quickly and letting it slide off the bed with an exhausted sigh. It wasn't until he reached to extinguish his lamp that he noticed the red slick which was beginning to run from his index finger, running slowly past his knuckle and pooling into his palm. The irony did not pass him, and Orsino almost chuckled, looking down at the book which lay dejectedly on the floor. It was curious thing, blood magic, something which he had certainly never tried, nor considered before. However, as a scholar, he was bound to be knowledgeable, even when it wasn't prudent. His correspondences with the late Quentin had also been most productive, if regrettably heinous…
Snuffing out the candles, Orsino simply laid still for a moment, staring up into the dark ceiling above him, listening to the wind outside. Though his life was a long string of quiet moments, Orsino was ultimately a quiet man, and he enjoyed the subtlety that came with that lifestyle. After all, it was in these still moments that he could almost forget- about the oppression, about the life unlived, about the futility of everything he strived to achieve. Without even realizing it, his fist had clenched, and when he released it, his hand was sticky, the unstaunched wound still fresh and angry. He had hoped that perhaps it would close itself, though he supposed that tending to it might prevent an infection.
Letting the mana pool in his other hand, he suddenly stopped, unsure of himself. Perhaps he was just stalling, still hoping for the opportunity to… he barely dared consciously think the thought. With great trepidation, he brought his wounded hand to his mouth, feeling carefully for the wound and finding the small cut along the pad of his finger. It was then that he could feel it, the incredible energy, the low hum of magic as it reverberated throughout his body like a warmth, radiating outward. He had never felt so capable, so complete in his entire life. For the most fleeting moment, he didn't feel old or useless, or powerless against Meredith….
He was just Orsino, sitting on his mother's lap, laughing as she tussled his hair. He could see behind her the great vhenadahl, leaves green and healthy with spring. Though he did not register it directly, his mother was beautiful, sharing his big green eyes and high cheekbones. Her long auburn hair was braided meticulously down her back too, it's simple elegance defying the decrepit rags she was wearing. Her smile could warm even the coldest Ferelden nights, not that he had the opportunity to see her smile much. She looked away into the distance, beyond the alienage gates, as though waiting for something, or someone, which she didn't really understand but had been told, "it's for the best."
The memory shattered quickly, and Orsino shuddered as his mind ran to darker places, like his first years in the Circle. For the first month he cried relentlessly, then suddenly not at all. In the span of a year he had grown into his gaunt cheeks and dedicated demeanor, his hands always laced in his lap. Later, in his teenage years, they would be balled at his sides, too intelligent to so quickly swallow the chantry's doctrines.
Eyes widening, Orsino heaved, his back arching as the magic flowed through him in waves and spurts, stronger than anything he could have imagined. Blood was now running along his arm and dripping onto his sheets, the wound somehow bigger, somehow deeper than he remembered. His conscious mind barely registered that, instead focusing on reclaiming those memories, those lost shards of his mother that had been washed away, tucked only in the forgotten folds of the Fade. He could feel his eyes water, and for a long moment he almost felt his connection to the fade shatter, unused to such a tender emotion.
Recollecting himself with a deep breath, he dug his nails into the rough sheets of his bed, willing a better control of the blood magic in his veins, feeling it course in steady beats and rhythms the likes of which he had never heard before. Lifting back the curtain into the fade, he found himself venturing elsewhere, though he wasn't sure what had guided him, his own subconscious or something more sinister.
It was her, Hawke. Sleeping soundly in her bed, surrounded by the richness that was her Hightown estate. She was beautiful, her short dark hair falling around her eyes, her slender neck exposed as she curled in her sleep, fingers tightening on the hem of her blankets. Behind the closed lids of her eyes, she was dreaming, though Orsino could not tell of what, good or bad. Curiosity suddenly rooted in his stomach, and though it felt entirely wrong to pry, Orsino could not help himself, unsure where his simple interest turned to admiration, and then further, into something else entirely.
Feeling the magic rush from his bloody hand, he slowly reached forward, just plucking that fabric of the fade and pulling it open, revealing Hawke's restless visions in devastating clarity.