9:29 Dragon, Circle Tower
This is what she wanted, but it sends her into turmoil. She almost regrets the words said in anger, some time ago now. You didn't even tell me, she'd said. She'd scolded him, shouted at him, and ultimately broken down in front of him. He hadn't known how to react. They pretended it never happened. But now, here he is, standing in front of her, looking as though he expects her to try and land a blow.
I'm leaving tonight. The words he'd said echo, bouncing around inside her head. She doesn't know how to react, doesn't know what to do. Can't tell if she should ask for more information or go bury herself in her bunk and pretend she never even knew. Anders' face slowly retracts from fear, to nervousness, and finally, to concern.
"Tamsin?" he prods her. She blinks out of her stupor—Anders usually calls her Surana—to look at Anders, but her attention is drawn by the window behind him. She walks straight past him and over to it. She pushes the shutters, which are already ajar, open, and leans out into the dusk light. Clouds cover the sky, the ground is damp from rain. She breathes in heavily, taking in the scent of the fresh rainfall. She slowly leans farther out the window, reaching farther for more air, more sun. She is startled by Anders' hand on her shoulder, and she spins around to face him.
"I'm coming."
She doesn't give herself any time to consider, high on fresh air. A few unreadable emotions pass over Anders' face before it settles on resolve. He nods decisively and turns around, gesturing for her to follow.
She does, and he begins walking her through his plan.
They make it two weeks. Surana realizes she's slowing him down about halfway to Gwaren. Anders thinks it's a better bet; they'd look in Denerim's ports first. Anders is trying to go to Kirkwall, and there's no stopping him. This she knows, and it's all she can do to keep up.
All she wants to do it stop and savour the world she hadn't experienced since she was six years old. She had no memories of how grass felt on her feet, or the sun on her skin. She'd never swam before in her life. It's all new, it's all exciting, and those two weeks are probably the best of her life.
They ditched their robes in a small village and stole laundry off the line. It's leaving a trail, she thinks, but she doesn't correct Anders' methods. He must know better, she convinces herself of it.
The people in the villages they pass through were what she expected to be awed by. More strangers than she had seen in eleven years. It isn't, to her surprise. It's the nature. There are people in the tower, and yes—some are strangers. There are faces she doesn't know. It's a big place, considering it is the only one in all of Ferelden. It's a big tower.
But there are no trees, no rain, no sun, no grass. No flowers. These are the things she marvels at.
She can tell Anders is in a state of stress. He wants Kirkwall, he wants Karl, desperately. His rush to get there doesn't pause for her childlike wonder, though every now and then she sees his eyes soften. It's all that lessens the wounds on her heart from his distance. And his hurry to see another person.
Gwaren smells like filth, like all big cities. It reminds her of home, of Denerim's alienage. She revels in it.
That is, until a smite crashes over her. It's an unfamiliar feeling, and she doesn't understand what it is right away. It's not just a magic drain, which can be violent, unpleasant, and frightening; it's a holy fucking smite, and she falls to the ground in the middle of the crowd. Anders had been farther from her, attempting to find passage while she hung back. She regrets it. Nausea floods her and she curls in around her knees. The complete, utter absence of magicka pains her as her aura frantically and reflexively flies out from her body, violently reaching to grab anything. She has to consciously reign it in before she begins experimenting with ambient magics as a side effect. It's all she can manage, and controlling her aura has the opposite effect on her. It retreats as far as possible into her mind, leaving a bone-deep chill in her body.
Something else grapples with her aura; she is contained and completely helpless. She rolls herself onto her side and heaves violently, the contents of her stomach coming up in waves over the pavement. She's barely able to notice the civilians rushing to make a space around her, forming a ring. The last thing she sees is Ander's concerned face bursting through the crowd, only to be grabbed by metal hands—
She comes to in the back of a wagon, wrists chained. Her head is pounding, the light only causing her more pain. The rough wood digs into her bare arms and into her back where her shirt had ridden up. Her arms are shackled behind her, and she can't sense her magic at all. The loss is still terrifying and she feels utterly empty, but she now expects it, so she avoids the panic. She squints around.
Anders is across from her, sitting with his back against the wall of the wagon. They aren't closed in, though she supposes templar swords are a rather good incentive. Their escort is made up of four templars and as many horses.
The look on Anders' face says bitterness, anger, and longing. She wonders if he is plotting an escape route, but knows she stands no chance. She hopes he can get away, but resigns herself to her fate in that moment. The pain and emptiness is too much. All she can hope for is a merciful punishment. Anders doesn't even have that hope, she realizes.
She doesn't like thinking about what he was like after he came out of solitary the last time, and she doesn't like thinking that he might be going back there.
She rolls her head back without meeting Anders' eyes. Guilt consumes her; he may have gotten away without her as a vulnerability. Her eyes slide closed and she falls into unconsciousness again.
By their arrival at Kinloch Hold, she still hasn't dared even look Anders in the eye. She wonders if he is angry with her and doesn't want to know. The templars march them in by the arms, still shackled behind their backs. After the travel, her whole body screams, especially her arms from being tied behind her. They were only released when they were piled into the boat to row over to the tower.
To her relief, there is no one waiting inside. She almost expected a twisted gossip party, standing around waiting for her to be flogged. A few templars were milling around the entryway as usual; it was constantly guarded. Her relief melted down from her chest and froze at the pit of her stomach, turning into bitter fear as they were steered into the basement. She'd never been down there before, and for the first time since waking up, she meets Anders' eyes.
He returns the look stonily, and it sends a flash of pain to her chest. She suppresses a sob of fear and pain, and he watches the expressions cross her face. The elf only catches a brief look of pity and guilt before she can't look any longer, and watches the floor as she is marched into a cell.
The sound of the door slamming shut behind the templar as he leaves echoes down the hallway. She doesn't look up immediately, studying the cobblestone floor beneath her feet. There is a rug, a simple, rough material with no decoration. The room is dark, and it takes her eyes time to adjust before she can see those details. Slowly, she raises her head. A small bed on one side with thin linens and two pillows. A lone, rickety stool sits at the edge of a simple wooden table. There is a drawer on it, which she takes a shaky step to open. She finds inside a pack of matches. A candle sits on the desk, unlit, and she quickly remedies that. The light illuminates the small room effectively.
She doesn't have to test her magic to know that it is supressed here. The empty feeling of her aura's absence was a wearying, unnatural feeling, and she had grasped at precious moments of freedom between the boat and her new abode. Now it was gone.
"How long will I be in here?" she wonders aloud, taking some kind of comfort in the sound of her own voice.
When the templar comes back in, she doesn't ask him, and he doesn't offer the information. He looks uncomfortable as he sets down a tray of food on the desk and instructs her to push it out the door when she is finished. She keeps her silence until he finally asks her something.
"You're permitted to read. What types of books?" the templar, helmless—an initiate? Not possible. Just kind? —looks as unused to the situation as she does. He's old enough to be her father, with graying hair and crow's feet in the corners of his eyes. She wonders if a less generous templar wouldn't have offered. The question gives her pause, though. After all, there were few requests she could make. She'd read every readily available history book, and didn't want to ask for a book on magical theory on anything above a basic level from a templar. There were books on other subjects, but she had perused enough of those to be concerned about getting books she'd already read. Then, she settles on an idea.
"Romance, ser," she replies, attempting and succeeding in looking meek. She looks at the floor while she talks, only glancing up at the man after a moment. He catches her eyes and nods resolutely before retreating from the room.
And she is left alone.
At first, she dismisses the solitude. The boredom is the first thing that occurs to her as she lays back on her cot to consider the situation. Well, she'd read. It was all she liked doing anyway: reading, alone. Really, for her, this could be quite the vacation, even if it was romance books she'd be reading. She could get a laugh or two, and perhaps some would have at least a slightly enthralling story. Resolved to be grateful for the blessed privacy she'd always wished for, she slides onto her stool to scarf down the leftover porridge the templar left.
When her dinner is shoved under the door later that day, a book is with it, as well as a spare candle. It's called His Queen, and as requested, it's a romance. She spends a while reading it, and with little else to do, she manages to enjoy it mildly. She's halfway through when she goes to sleep, and the next day, when she finishes it, she shoves it under the door again. It is picked up with her empty food tray, and a new book is there with her evening meal.
For a while, this routine is bearable. The lack of sunlight is something she's accustomed to, though candlelight is a severe downgrade from the usual magical lighting in the circle. It feels much less like real light and makes her feel as though she's living in a cave. But ultimately, it isn't unbearable, just uncomfortable. She wished for full brightness, where once she was happiest by candlelight.
She brings her tray of food up to the table. She's always given leftover from whatever they were having upstairs, and today it is fish with potatoes, one of her favourites. The elf manages a small amount of cheer from this as she scratches another notch in the table with the end of her fork. One for every meal, grouped in twos to count the days. She drags her left hand across them, counting, as she eats. It hasn't been long, yet.
The next thing to get to her was the silence. The walls there are thick, and she can hear nothing until the meal tray comes by. If she knew songs to sing, she would've sung them. Instead, she begins talking to herself at times, only to make some noise. Her more benign thoughts, she forces out of her mouth. At first, her voice cracks with disuse—how long has it been?—but it evens out eventually.
She speaks to herself about Moiraine and Jowan, avoiding the subject of Anders as she had since entering this place. She couldn't bear to think about him suffering the same fate. The blonde was built for this far less than she was, a people person at heart, charismatic and friendly. And he'd already been here before. She shivers at the memory before picking up her newest romance novel. This time, she reads sections aloud to herself.
And yet, even her nights are lonely. She cannot dream in the cell, with her magic suppressed. She wonders if Curiosity worries about her.
She takes to exercising in the mornings. She tumbles her sheets onto the floor so that the stones don't dig into her skin while she works out on the floor. As a few days pass, she exercised for longer and longer, spending most of her days sore to the bone. The elf stretches frequently, revelling in the painful soreness in her muscles. It satisfies her, distracts her as the days pass.
It doesn't last. It isn't enough. She's seated at her table, candle burned down low, tracing her hands over the scratches on the table. She tries to count them but can't anymore, losing track as the lines spread across the table and back, then across again, over and over, days passing. Her muscles are getting used to the strain, the pain is no longer enough to ground her. Food is slid under her door, but she makes no notice. Tears leak from her eyes, pooling into the scores in the wood as she chokes out sobs, shivers wracking through her body.
The next morning, her eyes have dried, but she feels no better. She hasn't moved, still sitting on the stool with her upper body sprawled over the table. The position is uncomfortable, with corners digging painfully into her skin, but she is drained. The reading no longer occupies her for long, the exercise no longer keeps her sane. She hasn't slept.
Abruptly, the door is open and light filters into the room at an alarming rate. Tamsin springs to her feet, knees bent. She takes a fighting stance first, but as the outline of an armoured templar steps into the room, her feet carry her backwards until she collides with the wall. Suddenly, her vision is fuzzy, blurring from the exposure to light, and she finds she can no longer breathe. Pain grabs her chest like a vice, constricting, and her throat feels tight. She opens her mouth to speak, to scream, to breathe, and finds none of it works. She gulps for air, quicker and quicker, as the templar approaches her, step by step, until her vision blurs completely and her lungs can't find air any longer.
When she comes to, she is on her bed, on top of the covers, a new candle has been lit, and the door is closed. She is alone. It is both a comfort and a curse. Tamsin pulls herself to her feet, head throbbing. She wishes it was the type of pain that grounds her. There is a plate of food sitting on the table, and this time she pauses in her thoughts to eat it. She finds she doesn't want someone coming into her space again. After the plate is finished, her headache is eased, though not gone.
Resigned, she turns to push-ups on the floor. She had long since stopped throwing her sheets to the floor in order to cushion her, but this time she goes further; she flips the floormat up and begins to exercise on the rough stone floor. Her robes and boots were abandoned long ago, so as she works, her toes grip the jagged surface.
She lifts herself up and down, up and down, without pause, without any sense of time. All she can focus on is the feeling of the coarse stones scraping the palms of her hands and pads of her feet. She feels her skin rip and tear, feels her hands become wet, but still does not halt. Pain, pain means one is living, and that is all she can hold onto.
Pain feels like an old friend.
She does sit-ups on the rugged ground, stone digging into her skin and wetting her mostly bare back with blood. The elf goes so far as to tie up her hair and pull off her breastband, baring herself fully to the merciless ground as the effectively drags herself across it, day after day.
The scratches on the table stop. She loses track of time entirely; nothing but pain, food, and sleep remain to her.
One day, she beats her fists bloody against the door, scouting and screaming, punching and clawing until she passes out in front of it, sheer expenditure taking her from the waking world. She'd long since forgotten the feeling of the Fade, of magic, but still feels the loss keenly. Something in her is missing, something vital.
With so long living in the dark, what is there left to do but descend into madness?
Drip. Drip. Drip. It must be raining outside.
