"She's not ready. You cannot expect her to survive."
"We have run out of time. We have no choice but to force her to take the Harrowing…"
"Are you sure there is no other way?"
"Yes. If the coming darkness is to be defeated, she will be instrumental."
"She is too young!"
"She has unimaginable Arcane power. I would venture to enlighten you, my friend: even being a veritable infant in her magical abilities…she is far more powerful than I."
"Irving! Surely you're exaggerating...that's preposterous."
"Revan, she is, without doubt, the most powerful mage I have ever encountered."
"You cannot be serious!"
The look on Irving's face assured him the words were sincere truth.
~oOo~
"Jezreel! Maker's Breath, wake yourself! The First Enchanter requires your presence in the Chamber of the Arcane."
Jezreel awoke to the firm persistence of a Templar. Sleep clung heavily to her consciousness. Irving? The First Enchanter? What in the Maker's Name..? She tossed aside the coarse coverings that provided the minimum of warmth in the drafts of the Circle Tower, sat upright on her cot, and gingerly touched her feet to the frigid stone floor. Once rough-hewn it was now smooth with the centuries of lives that had passed across it. She smoothed back her thick, dark mane of curls and caught her breath. As she lifted her groggy eyes to the high windows of the dormitory, she became highly alert - darkness met her gaze. It was black as pitch outside the Tower – not even a glimmer of dawn – and sudden concern gripped her.
"What is the hour?" Jezreel called softly at the broad, plate-armored back of the Templar who had nearly reached the door to the main corridor. He stopped short and half turned. It was Cullen.
"Near to the mid-dark," He stated flatly, not looking directly at her.
"Mid-dark!" The startled exclamation brought his gaze to hers. She studied his face intently for several full moments before recognizing the expression only his eyes revealed. An emotion - almost exclusively - foreign to a Templar. His eyes spoke fear.
"Cullen…what…" Jezreel began, confused. He turned sharply on his heel toward the door.
"Do not keep the First Enchanter waiting," he said and with that he disappeared into the corridor. The massive wooden door slammed shut, resounding in the emptiness of the dormitory. Several other Accepted stirred, shifting on their cots at the unwelcome disturbance before continuing their night's repose. Silent concern, morphed into quiet terror – what could this possibly mean?
Jezreel padded apprehensively down the cavernous, vacant corridor toward the Great Stairs leading to the upper floors where the classrooms, instructors' lodgings, libraries, the First Enchanter's study, and the Chamber of the Arcane were housed. The blue electrical sparks of magically summoned torch lights cast foreboding shadows that surged and retreated menacingly across the gothic architecture. She reached the base of the massive stones steps and drew a long slow breath, attempting to center herself. Her fingers brushed the ornate silver pendant hanging from a leather cord between her breasts. Tucking the talisman under her Accepted robes, Jezreel directed a silent, desperate plea at the Maker and began her ascent.
~oOo~
"Maker, be merciful," Revan breathed. His legs suddenly weak, Revan sank into the chair facing Irving's large ornate desk. His mind convulsed, trying desperately to grasp the unexpected information that had, moments before, invaded his calm sanity.
Revan was tall, slight of build, and all sharp angles. Intricate tattoos covered his brow and cheeks; the last remnants of his Elven identity in a clan of wandering Dalish. Irving stared at him silently, allowing him to wrestle with the loss of his paradigm. Finally, he regained his composure and eyed Irving with a steady resolve.
"It is fantastic, Irving. Words scarcely believable - except that you speak them. I know better than to question your soundness of mind." A wry smile tweaked the corners of the First Enchanters lips. "So then tell me, my old friend, are darkspawn truly drawing so close to the surface? How long do we have to prepare her?" the questions tumbled from Revan's mind. An unexpected voice answered:
"I will take her with me directly – once she survives The Harrowing. We depart for Ostagar in two days."
Revan startled to his feet as a deadly soft voice with the edge of a razor pierced the room. In the shadows, near the arched window of Irving's office, he turned in surprise to locate the source of that voice. He had not realized they were not alone. Irving sighed, long fingers absently stroked his wiry gray beard; the lines around his eyes deepened as he pressed them shut and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Revan, this is Duncan," Irving replied automatically to his look of askance, "of the Grey Wardens."
With that introduction, Irving's full intentions became abundantly clear.
"Irving, you would allow her to be conscripted?! This is inconceivable..."
Duncan stepped into to circle of light and regarded Revan with the practiced eye of a life-long fighter. Now illumined by the glow of lamplight, Revan was able to see the Warden clearly; quickly assessing him from head to foot. Duncan was somewhat short for a human but the ring-mail he wore accentuated his strong frame and firm jaw line; a physical prowess counterpointed by a deadly litheness. Dusky complexion; the silver-streaked, jet black hair that brushed his shoulders was held half back by a leather cord. Hard, chiseled lines on a weathered face; scarred by years of battle. Dark, grey eyes; eyes that looked to pierce the living as easily as the re-curve sword and breaker cross-sheathed upon his back. The lines of his face softened into an amused smile and Revan felt himself involuntarily tense by the unassuming - and predatory - nature of the man.
"The hope, of course, is that she would consent to join us willingly - I shall only employ the Rites of Conscription if forced to it." His deep voice resonated in the quiet.
Revan could not suppress a scoffing laugh: "And just how do you plan to convince her? Join us for endless fighting and a violent death at the claws of..."
"Enough Revan," Irving's face hardened with his words. "Her involvement is inevitable – she is fated, Revan." The elf's eyes widened as pieces of information began to carouse through his mind and arrange themselves into an unsettling mosaic.
"I know her well," Irving continued, "and she will do what is needed - no matter what the...unsavory possibilities."
Revan sat down with a reluctant sigh:"I know her well also, Irving, I am fond of her - as I know you are - and I have more than a little compunction in simply consigning her to such a frighteningly violent future." He looked at Duncan with more than a little accusation.
Irving's voice took on the patient tone of a long-suffering mentor and, for a moment, Revan felt a wave of nostalgia; being scolded by Irving as a young, headstrong Apprentice.
"Revan, I have consulted with Duncan at length. There is no doubt in my mind that a true Blight of catastrophic proportions is eminently possible. The Grey Wardens have no direct knowledge of an Archdemon as yet; however, what Duncan has reported to me of the situation at Ostagar is of monumental concern. It is Duncan's hope that, by assembling a powerful force at Ostagar, the Blight may be ended as quickly as it has begun. Her aura, her raw magical talent alone will be strategically indispensible to King Cailan and his army. I am convinced that the fate of Ferelden may well rest with her and Duncan's meager force of Wardens already assembled. If the Blight cannot be stopped entirely, Duncan hopes to at least cripple the darkspawn forces enough to allow for reinforcements from the Grey Wardens of Orlais. Her part in either prospect however, rests upon the Harrowing tonight and her success - or failure."
"You concede she may, in fact, fail?" Revan's voice was bitter.
"She is the only pupil within the tower powerful enough to be of strategic aid to the Wardens and, I believe – Andraste willing – strong enough to survive their…initiation."
"Ah, the notorious 'Joining Ceremony.' Shadow and secrecy of a vicious degree –and you would subject her to it!" cried Revan. "The Grey Wardens are so clandestine of their rituals." Irving was silent a moment, allowing Revan to vent his fear and frustration.
"And our Harrowing, Revan?" Irving's voice was coaxing but the point clearly made. "I have no guarantee of her success – in the Harrowing or the Joining. I am...fond of her...yes, but my personal affection for a favored student is irrelevant to the evil upon us and the measures that must now be taken for the good of all. She is fated and I believe she has been gifted by the Maker for just this purpose. There is no alternative."
"Rational and calculated as ever; of course, you are correct, Irving. Will you tell her before…?" Revan's words trailed off with a hesitant knock at the chamber door.
Not yet. She must face this trial of fire first, Irving's voice was clear inside Revan's mind and he nodded in unspoken acquiescence as the door opened and a Templar entered.
He approached them quickly, stopping in front of the massive wooden desk, directly opposite Irving. He was tall and broad-shouldered like many of his order; his youth dampened by years of hard training. His wavy, red-blonde hair fell across his brow and trailed into his eyes as he touched his right fist to the left breast of his platemail and bowed stiffly in salute.
"I have delivered your message as instructed, Ser, she is on her way to the Chamber."
"Very good," Irving nodded, "Wait Cullen, there is something else."
Cullen stopped where he had started to turn; his broad shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly. Cullen leveled his eyes to Irving's sharp gray gaze, his face stoic. Irving continued: "Cullen, she is taking The Harrowing tonight. You are to stand Guard with Greagoir until she has finished the test - one way or the other." Cullen's eyes went wide for a long instant.
"Ser, I had suspected that would be requested of me, but..." Cullen faltered. It was not his place to question Irving on this matter.
"It is not a request, so out with it, Cullen. I shall not be offended if you speak freely," Irving said gently.
Cullen paused, uncertainly, before emotional turmoil overwhelmed him. "You cannot mean this First Enchanter - she is barely an Accepted, only just raised from the rank of an Apprentice! The chance that she would survive The Harrowing – she has not been prepared and if she fails I... I cannot bear the thought of..." He stopped short as his voice broke but his true fear was already betrayed; he uttered a silent oath, cursing himself for his lack of restraint.
Irving regarded Cullen with somber sympathy and Duncan observed him with a distant pity, while Revan gazed at him in overt astonishment. For a Templar to become attached to a mage, of any mastery, was a grave offense – and an unspeakable danger – according to the Order's High Court and their superiors in the Chantry.
Templars existed as the enforcement of the Chantry to regulate magic and hunt down those mages who chose to live as Apostates; practicing magic outside the strict rules and absolute control of the Chantry and The Circle of Magi. Templar vows forbid them from ever seeking wealth or acknowledgement and bound them to a life of service. For a Templar to marry was extraordinarily uncommon – requiring special dispensation from the Order – and marriage to a mage would be considered…well…sacrilege. He would be disgraced, or worse, should the Chantry or Templar Order ever suspect.
"Duncan, Revan," Irving spoke casually, as the Templar's outburst had been nothing extrodinary. "If you would proceed to the Chamber of the Arcane and see if Jezreel and Captain Greagoir are there yet? I will finish speaking with Cullen."
I will deal with this Revan – Greagoir is the Knight-Commander and will have no compassion for the boy. He need not be told unless I determine it so. Irving's voice projected once more into Revan's mind.
Duncan bowed and exited soundlessly on the wooden floor which never failed to creak. Revan rose, his gaze oscillating between the Templar and the First Enchanter in stunned silence. With a nod and an absent-minded: "As you wish, Irving" Revan followed Duncan out across the boards that protested under his comparatively negligible weight.
As the door clicked softly shut, Cullen sank to a knee and buried his face in his hands, his shoulders slumped. Irving walked around the large, ornate desk to stand in front of the Templar. He leaned against the desk and stooped slightly, his voice adopting a soothing tone:
"Cullen, your destiny entwines with hers only as far as standing the Guard for her during The Harrowing. You know that there can be no true future together. Regardless of the dire circumstances which have necessitated this unfortunate course, the fact remains that she is a Mage and you a Templar. You know it is forbidden."
"I know, Ser, but I have been...partial...to her for some time. I don't even know if she suspects but..." Cullen's voice faltered with sadness. His lifted his gaze from his hands and Irving was surprised to see his face was damp.
"No." Irving leaned forward to place a firm hand on the young man's shoulder. "Cullen, if you cannot bear to Guard her during The Harrowing, how would you expect to do so against the innate danger of life as a mage. Do you see? You will heal in time but you know it is not possible. Compose yourself, son."
"Yes, Ser," Cullen passed a rough hand across his eyes and drew himself up to his full height. He nodded with bitter resignation and Irving sighed regretfully: "Come, they will be waiting."
~oOo~
Jezreel stood in the middle of the vast circular Chamber and marveled at its sweeping beauty. The ornate carvings, resembling graceful trees with intricate leaves, that rambled along the arched walls were crowned by a single window; a large, orb of stained glass in the precise center of the domed ceiling. The opulent colors of the glass and painstakingly carved filigree of the woodwork were breathtaking and eerily life-like.
The room was bare of any furnishing, save a mysterious stone font in the center of the room, where the solitary opening of stained glass sheathed it in an unnatural glow of shimmering moonlight. The austere beauty was mesmerizing. The font hummed and glittered with strong Arcane magic that pushed and pulled on Jezreel. She had never been in the Chamber and those who had never spoke of what happened there.
She shivered without really knowing why. An unsettled feeling washed over her – the strong, unmistakable sensation of being watched. I wish Irving would hurry - I don't like this.
~oOo~
From the deep shadows of the Chamber, Duncan observed his new "recruit" upon whom so great a burden would fall. She was half-Elven, a rarity of itself, and above average height for even her human lineage. Her figure was trim and graceful enough to put her at ease among the Dalish but with a subtle power to her build that would impress an Orzammar warrior. A thick mass of dark curls framed her face and spilled over her shoulders, cascading down nearly to her waist. Her delicate ears were slightly pointed and not as prominent as those of full-Elven blood but Duncan noticed she was careful to keep them hidden beneath her dark mane. Her translucent skin and smooth features were inset with prismatic eyes that any Denerim noblewoman could envy; though, she would not be considered beautiful, at least, not in the common sense of the term. Irving had confided in him that, even without her potent magical ability, she was a… how had he phrased it? A "singularity".
Even in the almost lightlessness of the vast chamber, Duncan could see those eyes, kaleidoscopic in appearance and piercingly intelligent. At that moment she looked directly at him, her head tilted curiously, though it was not possible she could have actually perceived him in the anonymity of the deep shadows. Duncan knew it usually took many years – decades even – for a full mage to develop such keen sensitivity and attunement to energy that she already possessed; her instincts and magical capacity obviously extending her awareness beyond the bounds of her physical senses. She knows I'm here. Powerful indeed, Irving, there is hope yet.
~oOo~
Revan stood silent, apprehensive. He was roused from his reverie by Jezreel, as she shifted slightly, intent on something undetectable in the shadows. He cast a furtive glance at the Knight-Commander. Tall and battle-scarred, Greagoir's appearance was as harsh and unforgiving as his nature; hardened and unyielding in his belief that mages were the greatest danger to the world and must be controlled at all costs.
Revan certainly bore no love for the man or his stringent reign within the Circle. An unconventional thought wandered through his mind: perhaps Jezreel would be better off – happier even – fighting darkspawn than living under the tyranny the Chantry and its Templars governed the Circle with. Revan shook his head, banishing the thought quickly. She is scarcely 23 years. Still so young, so inexperienced. No doubt she is gifted but – is she truly as powerful as Irving claims?
~oOo~
Greagoir stood stoic, regarding Revan and Jezreel with silent incense. This midnight ritual was irregular – highly irregular – and he did not approve in the slightest. A reckless chance Irving was taking by his assessment. What could possibly be so important that Irving had forsaken his wits to insist upon this? And who was the enigmatic stranger that had appeared abruptly and then disappeared with Irving - the one with the cross-sheathed swords. What dark secrets were being bandied behind closed doors? Of any mage, he trusted the First Enchanter – a monumental feat for a Templar – but Irving still had his secrets and Greagoir was not accustomed to being kept unaware. The Revered Mother will be very displeased with these antics if I decide to inform the Chantry, Irving - very displeased, indeed.
~oOo~
All eyes drew to the First Enchanter as he and Cullen entered the massive wooden door to the Chamber. It closed, seemingly under its own power. The muted sound of Irving's soft tread was barely audible above the clicking of the Templar's boots. He moved purposefully to where Revan and Jezreel stood on either side of the mysterious font. Cullen mirrored his stride, ten paces in tow, and stopped precisely as Irving did - maintaining a cautious distance from the three mages. He saluted Greagoir formally before taking a subordinate position at his side. Jezreel glanced at him questioningly but he refused to meet her gaze. Greagoir regarded him sullenly; irritated at the unease that was rank in his demeanor.
"Jezreel."
She shifted her scrutiny to the First Enchanter and assumed an attentive stance respectful of his superior status and authority.
"My child," Irving's voice was grave. "I am afraid a dire need brings us to this unfortunate crossroad. You have only just been raised to Accepted from Apprentice and, under normal circumstances, it would be unthinkable to force you to attempt this test until you had completed your studies another two years. Regretfully, time fights against us. You have been chosen for your...unprecedented...talents and capability, and must now undergo a secret task which will determine, by life or death, if you are ready for the coming hardship."
Jezreel's eyes widened subtly - life or death?
"This," Irving continued, "is the test every pupil must pass to come to full rites of their power and recognition as a full mage within the circle. It is a deadly, serious undertaking - The Harrowing." Irving paused, regarding her. Jezreel tightened her jaw. She recognized the term and the dangerous enigma it was to all students within the Circle. Despite growing apprehension, she steeled her nerves and nodded, meeting his gaze doggedly.
"If you refuse the Harrowing, you will be made Tranquil."
Jezreel's heart stopped. Tranquil. A mage severed from the Fade, severed from their magic abilities – emotionless and mechanical – the living dead. Being made Tranquil was the greatest fear of any mage; most considered it a fate worse than death.
"What must I do?"
A proud, fatherly smile lit Irving's face for the briefest instant before Greagoir spoke in a grim manner:
"Magic exists to serve man and never to rule over him,' thus spoke the prophet Andraste as she cast down the Tevinter Imperium, ruled by mages that had brought our world to the edge of ruin. Your magic is both a gift and curse, for by it you are attuned to the dream-realm, the Fade, but in turn the creatures which dwell and hold sway there are drawn to you and seek to use you as a gateway into this world. This is why the Harrowing exists. This ritual sends you into the Fade and there you will face a daemon, armed with only your will. Within the Fade, lurk many manner of apparitions. Vile creatures of that realm that would seek to possess you, to use you as a vessel to cross the Veil into our world, to poison the living with evil and madness."
"This is lyrium," Irving passed a casual hand across the font, "the very essence of magic and the medium which allows us to send your conscious awareness into the dream-realm of the Fade. This font is the doorway, the portal. The Harrowing is a secret out of necessity, child, as every mage must endure this trial by fire – but rare few would do so willingly should the manner of this test be known. Keep your wits about you and remember the Fade is a realm of dreams – the spirits may own it but your own will is real…"
"The girl must do this without aid of others," Greagoir said – a little too severely – and Irving nodded formally, his face tight.
"Revan and I will open the doorway and contain it. Your consciousness will pass into the Fade, where you must face and defeat the daemon which awaits you. There are three – and only three – outcomes to the Harrowing. First: you succeed in your task and return unaltered passing into your full rites of magic. Second: you remain too long and your consciousness becomes trapped in the Fade, permanently separating you from your physical form in this world..."
"Last: you fail," Greagoir interrupted and Irving narrowed his eyes at him in irritation. "If you fail, you will fall prey to possession by an entity of the Fade and we Templars will perform our duty. " The last three words were clipped, deliberate. At that, Jezreel's eyes darted to Cullen; his eyes were downcast but his clouded aura belied the intense emotions raging behind his tightened face. His hands clenched into fists so hard his knuckles showed white and a realization swept over her. If she failed - she would return as an Abomination. If she failed - Cullen must kill her.
"As we succeeded in this rite of passage, so shall you," Irving forced a calm tone despite the tension hanging thick in the air. "Are you ready, my child?"
Jezreel took several deep breaths as her mind reeled but she had no other choice. Her smooth voice had only the slightest tremor as she answered:
"I am."
Irving nodded at Revan and together they began weaving the lyrium, expanding the flows of magic to pry the rift open. The portal suddenly gave way with terrifying silence.
Jezreel stepped forward and extended her hand to touch the glowing, mirror-like structure which floated in, what had been empty air, just moments before. The shimmering substance was cool, impossibly smooth. A low, hypnotic tone subtly assaulted her ears. She watched in horrified fascination as the dense, viscous liquid clung to her hand, enveloping her skin, before sharply wrenching her awareness into the portal.
She felt a searing, white hot pain shred her consciousness before darkness took her.
~oOo~