The memory that I saw when I closed my eyes when I first went to the Circle was of fire. The memories before that were a bit fuzzy but I remembered a warm home, warm arms, and a warm voice speaking to me, words coming together as if they were poetry.

There were warm hands that held me high, of long grass blowing in the wind, and the coldness of the creek. A small smile, holding my hands to the hearth as I looked up to see their face. Blurry, fuzzy, I can't remember how they looked like. Were their eyes brown like mine? Was their nose slightly pointed out like mine?

I remember their hair, golden like the wheat I saw swaying in the wind. A smile that only held love. My hands grew warm in the fire.

My child of the sky.

I remembered the clatters, the sound of the sword cutting through the air, the warmth of the splatter of blood on my face as the one who held my hands to the fire dropped before me.

The one with the warms hands shouting in fear and in anger, telling me to run before that same sword plunged through him.

And both of them on the floor with cold dead eyes.

I don't remember anything after that. All I remember was sitting outside, watching my home burn. The men with the sword on their armor coming up to me, the dried blood on my cheeks coming off in flecks. They took me and an old man took my blood.

I held my glowing phylactery in my hand. That was the first time I heard of magic.

"Five years of age? I am sorry for what you had to experience but you will be safe here." He said as they led me to a huge tower in the middle of Lake Calenhad.

It was cold, nothing like the fire of the hearth. The stone underneath my feet hurt compared to the wood and dirt of my home. The blankets were soft but it didn't help to stave away the cold.

I remember that I cried a lot during my first few months. The old man that first took me liked to spend time in the library. I spent it there with him as well. He showed me all sorts of heavy tomes and books and explained to me how magic was inside of all mages, of how we can wield the powers of the world itself in our hands.

He was a kind old man. I can't remember his face anymore and I never asked for his name. Sometimes I wonder if I only imagined him or if he was real.

He was the one who taught me that magic wasn't evil. It's odd that the ones that teach you the most important of lessons are the ones who depart so quickly from life.

Not a year that I spent in the Circle and he was gone.

I spent most of my time in the library. Magic fascinated me. I wanted to learn as much as I could but the books were sometimes too hard to understand. There were theories, experiments, and research that I could barely begin to scratch the surface but I wanted to know.

I sat with kids much more older than me, listening to the Enchanters drawl on and on about the dangers of magic, of demons, of how the Maker cursed us with this ability of ours.

While everyone else bowed down their head and accepted her explanation, I stood up and called her out.

"The Maker said that this was a gift that he gave to us. Why do you say it's a curse?"

They took away my dinner that night. I never stopped believing in the old man's words though. Through every old dusty tome, in every corner of the library where he sat, I sat there and remembered the lessons he taught me when I first came.

Magic isn't evil. It is a tool that can help mankind. Magic is no less evil than a hammer. It is a gift from the Maker himself.

While everyone else believed that their gift was a curse or that they need to use their gift to gain more freedom, I sat back and read my fill, trying to absorb as much knowledge as I could.

It wasn't until I was around ten years old with Jowan following behind me that I got to taste what real magic was like.

"Come on, we're going to be late!" Jowan said, as we ran through the corridors to get to the first floor. I spent too much time in the library again. We arrived late and the Enchanter chewed us out.

We had to create a flame over our hands and we were the first chosen.

Jowan fumbled with his flame, barely creating a puff of heat. Everyone laughed at him and I scowled. How dare they laugh at Jowan! When the Enchanter gave me that smug grin, expecting the same reaction from me, I felt something hot inside of me.

I remembered the warm fire of the hearth, of the smile they gave me, holding my small hands.

I held out my palm and felt the mana leaking out of me. I focused, knowing the fire, the heat, the feel, the look, the smell, and the mana reacted to it.

I held a roaring fire in my hand.

That was when they labeled me a prodigy. I didn't care. All I did was stare at the fire that held my most fondest of memories and the worst of my nightmares.

Fire can be used to hurt, to bring pain, to burn but without fire, how could we warm our homes, cook our food, gather around to fend away from the darkness?

It was all about balance, about respect, about following nature's rule of not too much and not too little.

If only the old man could see me now.

Trivia: They mentioned that the elf mage origin might have come from Dalish parents. I kinda worked it in that his parents were dalish at one point but separated from their clan.

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