2.
"Why did you become a Templar?"
Sam started, blinking and smacking his lips together as a very unique voice yanked him out of his daze. The apprentice from the other day was standing in front of him, a pile of books in his arms as high as his chin – Kurt, Sam's mind helpfully supplied. The lit sconces in the library burnished Kurt's porcelain skin, throwing autumnal light into Kurt's cool blue-green eyes. Sam blinked again, opening his mouth to speak.
What came out as his gaze planted itself on Kurt was, "Do you need help with those?"
Kurt blinked, hefting the books in his arms easily. "I may not have the upper-body strength of you humans, but a few books on the arcane spell trees aren't going to kill me."
"'You humans?'" Sam echoed, wishing he wasn't wearing a helm and gauntlets so he could rub sleep crud out of his eyes. These late shifts, coming at the tail end of his daily lyrium dose's usefulness when most mages had retreated to their beds anyway, did nothing for him.
Kurt raised an eyebrow, turning his head slightly in a way that emphasized the delicate contours of his high cheekbones. Sam got the rather hilarious mental image of Kurt practicing in front of a mirror for hours, calculating the best angle for light and shadow across his face. "Can you not tell?"
"But you're not an elf," Sam said lamely. "You can't be. Haven't got the ears."
"Like you could tell through that great sodding bucket, anyway." Kurt dropped his pile of books on a nearby table with a dusty thud. "My mother was. Dalish, in point of fact." Kurt rolled his shoulders with a grunt.
The heathen Dalish were an entire unit in Templar studies. All that remained of the once-mighty elven nobility, the Dalish had long refused to recognize the authority of Andraste and the Maker, paying homage instead to their own tattered pantheon. Each clan was led by a mage known as a Keeper, a dangerous apostate practicing wild disciplines of forgotten magic. As far as the Chantry was concerned, Dalish Keepers were to be killed on sight.
Sam had never seen a Dalish, though he'd seen drawings, heard wild tales from the field agents. He eyed Kurt uncertainly. "I thought they were covered in tattoos," Sam ventured.
"Not covered." Kurt smoothed his robes beneath him as he sat, then pulled a book towards him, running a hand over the worn cover. Slender fingers traced the embossed title – On Spirits Arcanum – before Kurt glanced up again. "She did have the – oh, what do they call it – the vallaslin, the facial markings. All Dalish adults do."
Sam stared at Kurt, trying to imagine the pale perfection of that face through a bramble of tattoos. Kurt stared back, his eyes narrowed slightly as though trying to see through Sam's helm to whatever lay beneath. "So then," Sam began, "why aren't you..."
"Because my father was human," Kurt interrupted shortly. "Half-elven children come out human, Ser Samuel." Sam's own name jarred him, harsh in Kurt's mouth. "Maman died when I was six, and I was found to have magic shortly after. Strong emotions do nothing for an untrained child's self-control, and I... I didn't take well to taunting, never have."
Kurt looked away, his jaw tight, and busied himself with flipping through On Spirits Arcanum for a few moments. Sam got the serious sense that Kurt was leaving much of the story out, though he could fill in the blanks for himself. Elves were the second-class citizens of Thedas, scorned and reviled, left to do menial and demeaning labor or beg, borrow and steal as best they could. Crammed into squalid alienages in the cities, driven out of most small towns, elves today were the scraps left after a once-proud civilization fell not once, but twice.
In distant Tevinter, they were still slaves.
"Let us say simply that the local Chantry did not take well to a heathen apostate's elf-blood child lobbing lightning about, no matter the extenuating circumstances," Kurt finally said. He was staring down at his book, his lips pursed. "So your brave brothers in the Order were alerted, and they dragged me, a child of scarcely eight, away from my Papa kicking and screaming. They tied me up so I wouldn't bother them and took turns casting Cleanse on me the whole way to the Circle so that I could not defend myself or run." Kurt shut On Spirits Arcanum, throwing a curling brown lock out of his eyes with a toss of his head.
"I'm sorry," Sam said, feeling quite obvious and foolish in his pounds of armor. "I didn't know."
Kurt glanced up at that, gaze flickering with surprise, before giving a small nod with a smaller smile. It lit his canted eyes gently. "A sorry, from a Templar? Rare."
He probably wasn't supposed to apologize, Sam reflected. The Templars in Kurt's story had followed protocol for extracting mage children to the letter. But... but it sounded horrible, and the flatness in Kurt's voice had been at such tense odds with his words.
Kurt pulled forth a different book and bent his head over it, dark hair falling forward a little. Now that Sam knew, he could see Kurt's elven heritage all over his face, in his wide bright eyes, his sharp cheekbones and high brow, even down to the slender bones of his hands and wrists, his long fingers.
"Did you really want to know?" Sam blurted out before he could stop himself, his voice sounding muffled and tinny even to himself. Kurt looked up again inquisitively, candlelight brushing warm tones into his dark hair. "About – me being a Templar."
Kurt's brow wrinkled slightly, but he nodded. The earlier still tension dissolved into faint amusement. "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't."
"It's not very interesting."
"I'll judge that, Ser Samuel." Kurt's pink lips quirked up a little, as if to some private joke.
Sam shook his head, feeling sweat drip down the back of his neck. "You can just call me Sam. No one calls me Ser anything."
"I wouldn't want to be disrespectful, Ser Sam."
"Just Sam, Kurt."
"All right." Kurt rested his chin in his palm, curled fingers resting against his cheek, turning his face towards Sam. His abrupt full attention made Sam want to check and make sure there weren't any rust spots on his armor. "Sam."
The way the apprentice said his name - the way he gave a sweet, slow blink as he spoke that single syllable - made Sam's heartbeat stutter. Sam shifted on his feet as he began, "Um, well, I was a foundling..."
He had been orphaned as little more than a babe-in-arms, found squalling and forgotten in the bloody wreckage highwaymen had left of his family by a passing lay sister; not an uncommon story, unfortunately, in the lawless Fereldan hinterland. Sam was distinguished only by his survival.
He'd grown up in the Chantry of a sleepy nearby village, where he'd said his prayers every night, helped with the vegetable garden, and gotten into mischief along with every other foundling and orphan there. Country life was simple and quiet and full of hard, honest work, and life passed slowly, in tune with the gentle rhythm of the seasons. The Revered Mother told the stories of Blessed Andraste, the miserable slavery from which she rose and the corrupt empire over which her holy armies triumphed and the mortal betrayal that caused the Maker to turn His gaze once more from His creation, and Sam listened with his whole heart.
But as Sam grew into the tall strapping vigor of youth, he found himself restless, without direction. The clean simplicity of the Chantry's teachings suited him, but neither the quiet life of a Chantry Affirmed nor the studious existence of a brother cleric appealed to him. It was the Revered Mother herself who suggested that Sam pursue a vocation with the Templar Order, and the idea of seeing the world and protecting the vulnerable in the name of Andraste sounded better than fighting for some lord over earthly squabbles that meant nothing to the Maker.
"I didn't want to stay in the same village for the rest of my life, I guess," Sam finished up with a shrug, meeting Kurt's attentive gaze shyly. "I wanted to live for something more."
"Hmm." Kurt's lips curled, a little sadly, a little sharply. "I understand that."
Kurt glanced up, and Sam followed his gaze, high up on the wall where a window must have been once. It was bricked-up, as were all the windows in the Circle Tower save for those in the Harrowing Chamber. Wordlessly, Kurt looked back at Sam.
Sam got the point.
"Kurt," he said softly. "Magic is -"
"'Meant to serve man, and never to rule over him.' Transfigurations 1:2." Kurt shook his head with a disdainful snort and closed his book, standing up. He was Sam's height, or close to it; his gaze barely flicked up to meet Sam's through the slit of his visor. "I've read the Chant of Light, Sam, I know what it says. It's our fault the Maker turned away. Our hubris, our power. Our fault." Kurt crossed his arms, his fingers clenching in his sleeves. "'And so is the Golden City blackened with each step you take in my Hall. Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting. You have brought Sin to Heaven and doom upon the world.' Canticle of Threnodies, 8:13."
Chapter and verse. It was the first time in Sam's life that the words of the Chant made his stomach drop like a weighted sack. "I don't hate mages, Kurt."
"Your Chantry does."
"I don't."
Kurt's smile twisted, his eyes flashing. He reached out, pressing his hand to Sam's helm. Sam tensed, his gaze darted aside in an attempt to track the mage's hand. This late, they were alone in the library. If Kurt attempted some magic against him –
"Tell me that again when you're willing to show me your face," Kurt said quietly, "and I can see more than the mere shadow of your eyes." He dropped his hand and turned away, smoothing his hands over his robes unnecessarily. "It will be curfew soon, anyway. Thank you for the talk. Good night to you."
"I can walk you to the dormitory," Sam offered, feeling an urge out of nowhere to try to make amends with Kurt, though he wasn't sure what he'd done wrong. "I'll help you clean up. Kurt, I – I meant no offense."
"Leave the cleaning for the Tranquil to do. They haven't much else to occupy their days with," Kurt said, his careless shrug belying the tension in his voice. "Their punishment for daring to be mages who dreamed, I suppose."
"Kurt—"
"Good night."
