PART I

-The Winds of Autumn-

SOLENA

Maker, make me not a mage. Please. Let it be some long and terrible dream.

Solena knew nothing of the Harrowing. Mages were not allowed to speak of the test, to apprentices or even among themselves. What she knew for certain was this: she had never met a mage who had not passed their Harrowing—and she feared what that meant for those who failed it. Though, she would not let herself think on that for too long. Preoccupying herself with all the world's injustices would surely not help her today.

Her firm resolve, for all it was worth, made it no easier for her to climb the grand staircase to the Tower's topmost level. Every part of her screamed to turn back and run as fast as her legs could carry her, as little sense as that made. Where would she go if she could leave, she wondered. To seek out the half-remembered mother who did not miss her? To the father she never knew? Not likely. To the far reaches of the map, she decided. To the tall mountains of the Anderfels; the white beaches of Rivain. Sand between your fingers, her mind chanted. Saltwater in your hair. The world would feel so sweet, if only you could live in it.

Her breathing steadied, and she realized she had come to a halt on the staircase. She could feel the cold sweat of her palms through the fabric of her robes as she rubbed them against her thighs. Cullen, sensing her pause, stopped and looked back, his hard brow furrowing—as it did often—before softening at the sight of her.

"Solena," he spoke, before reaching out and awkwardly grazing her arm with his steel armored hand. The ghost of its sharp metal edges pierced her skin and she startled from him. He frowned, and offered her no further comfort. A fleeting thought told her that perhaps he did not know how.

Her eyes, staring blankly at the insignia of the flaming sword on his breastplate, rose to his face. She nodded sharply—not at him—before picking up her deep blue skirts and continuing her trudge up the winding stairwell.

The vaulted stained-glass ceiling of the Tower loomed over the room, filtering moonlight of purple and blue which shone down upon the heads of the gathered Tower officials and the stone floor beneath them. When they saw her at the top of the stairs the air shifted and the soft murmurs turned to silence, and each man and woman appeared as though they looked upon a ghost. First Enchanter Irving was who she laid her eyes on. His sympathetic smile, visible amidst a long, grey beard, stretched his wrinkled skin. Irving's kind gesture ultimately meant little however, with Knight Commander Greagoir standing just to his right, a terrible scowl pulling at his face and his hand tightly gripping the pommel of a sword. Three more templars were lined up behind him. Cullen—who wore a strange look on his face, as though he were uncertain whether to go to her or his brethren—made a fourth when he joined the congregation.

She had told herself that now was the time to be brave. She had determined to leave the little blonde girl with wild hair and bare feet that once ran the rounded halls of the Tower to cower under the bed sheets this morning, along with her silly notions and soft heart; the same little girl that had once dreamt of flight and freedom and joy. Joy. She would find no joy in this world, not unless she made it. Not unless she cobbled it together herself, like a castle in the sand, from unfortunate circumstance.

But she had been a child, of course, with foolish notions. Solena was nineteen now, and a woman in every right. Her salvation would not come from any handsome knight, like in the stories. This she knew. The only knights she knew were the ones that kept her here; kept her tame and docile. And it was knights—not monsters under the bed—that she would have to fear for the rest of her days.

Ser Cullen had not spoken a word to her, outside of the blunt command to follow him as he had stood at her bedside around midnight. She had not known that today would be the worst day of her life until she had felt the young Templar's hand gripping her shoulder through her groggy slumber. Then, she knew, and dread had overwhelmed her, and stale bile had formed in the back of her throat—but she would not cry in front of Cullen. So she did not.

"Welcome, Apprentice." Irving offered another plastered smile, but she did not have the energy to respond in kind.

Greagoir, the most vile man she knew, took a few steps in her direction and considered her, his chest puffing out as he looked down through hooded eyes. His booming voice addressed the room.

"'Magic exists to serve man," he declared in Andraste's name, "and never to rule over him'. Thus spoke our lady and prophet as she cast down the Tevinter Imperium—ruled by mages who had brought the world to the edge of ruin. It is from her we learn that magic is both a gift and a terrible curse: a mighty tool that can fell nations, but one whose use attracts the demons of the Fade, who prey upon mages and seek to use them as a gateway into our world."

As he spoke, Solena finally took notice of the small pool shaped like a stone birdbath at the room's center. She studied it curiously. A soft blue glow emanated from it like smoke from a fire, and a light, almost inaudible hum seemed to travel the distance from the pool all the way to her ear. It was lyrium in the pool—though she had never in her life seen it in such great quantity.

"This is why the Harrowing exists," Irving spoke to her. "The ritual will send you into the Fade, where a demon awaits. You face it armed only with your will."

Irving said it with a hand on her shoulder, and if she spoke back to him, she knew she was like to cry, so it seemed she could only nod stupidly in response. He continued.

"The trial is a secret out of necessity, child. You will go through with it and succeed as I have—as countless others have. Once you pass, your test will end. The Fade will release you, and you shall be back here with us, safe and sound." She turned to the old Enchanter, to see into his kind eyes and know that he was sincere. To her, she knew, he would not lie. She nodded once more and wordlessly.

"Keep your wits about you," he said, "and remember that the Fade is a realm of dreams and illusions. The spirits may rule it, but your own will is all that is real. Take heart in that."

"The apprentice must go through her Harrowing on her own, First Enchanter," Greagoir scolded. Solena kept her head down.

At once, and despite the sick feeling in her stomach, Solena removed herself from between the two men and strode towards the lyrium pool. As she drew closer to it she could feel her magic surge with each step until she touched the pool's surface and the sensation in her body reached a glorious height, the likes of which she had never felt before, and very suddenly she was in the Tower no longer.

Young boys and girls visited the Fade every night to spar with heroes of legend, dance with fairies and soar the sky upon the backs of griffons. Grown men visited it to woo buxom women they could never hope to touch in the physical world, and make sweet love upon a bed of clouds. Women visited to transport themselves to a life of scandalous romance and material abundance that they would never live to see in the small farming villages they grew up in. And still some nights it would be terrible nightmares that plagued the dreamers of Thedas, haunting their subconscious minds and ripping them from whatever silly fantasies they had conjured for themselves. The Fade was a force beyond their reckoning or control, and come morning, they would remember hardly any of it.

Mages were different, or so she understood. Mages remember and manipulate, see and feel. For them, the Fade was a wonder—an endless joy to explore, to experience—a world all of their own to return to each night as they slept. But Solena knew none of that.

All mages drew their power from the Fade, but since Solena was small, she had known her connection to the Fade to be…wrong. At least, that's what the other children had made abundantly clear. When they had blabbed to her instructor about Solena's violent, vivid, repeated nightmares, the woman had given her a haunted stare that Solena was sure she could never hope to erase from memory. She would not have been able to keep the secret for much longer, as it turned out. At the age of ten she had begun to wake up in the dead of night screaming, at a rate of three times each week.

She had been labelled so quickly as being different that she remembered afterwards hoping, for only a brief, perfect while, that there had been some terrible mistake—that she was not a mage after all, and that she could go home. The notion was a stupid one.

Whatever Fade that was—the Fade so full of raw, painful emotion that had once scarred her so greatly—that was not the Fade she saw now.

Her studies had told her that entering the Fade consciously in this way made for a world of infinite possibility. But it was not a thing done lightly—as only with copious amounts of lyrium was it ever possible. She ought to have known the Harrowing would be this. What greater test could there be for a mage's will than to endure the Fade in its true form?

Three Cardinal Laws of Magic—that was the very first thing every mage-apprentice was taught: one cannot teleport the physical self, one cannot alter the finality of death, and when one entered the Fade, their body was always left behind in the physical world. Such things were simply not possible. Only once in all of history had the third law ever been broken, and it was only managed with the consumption of half of all the lyrium in Thedas, and the life-blood of several thousands of elven slaves—when the Tevinter magisters of old had pierced the Veil and entered the Golden City, corrupting it for all eternity.

Entering the Fade in a waking state, under the influence of a great deal of lyrium such as she was now, was the nearest to such a thing as one could ever get.

The landscape before her was something new—something foreign and wonderful. The air felt still and cold but she could not see her breath in front of her. She was surrounded by icy brown tundra, which molded itself into impossible organic-looking shapes.

Everything before her felt like a hasty interpretation of reality, as if from the mind of someone who had been blind since birth. A lamppost suspended in midair flickered into various states of light and darkness, casting light and shadow not only on the ground but onto the forest-toned sky above her. Solena sat in the middle of a four-pillared structure of which the pillars seemed to be broken to pieces, but the rubble held together in its cylindrical form all the same.

Solena crushed her knees to her chest and shivered, adjusting to the dry cold. Out of the corner of her eye, a small brown kitchen mouse scurried from one pillar to the next, but she paid it little mind. The object of her gaze was The City.

The Black City was visible and equidistant from every point in the Fade—and it was Mother Sybill who had taught her that, no mage. No matter where in the Fade you stood, you could always see it above you: a hulking black mass to remain there and remind humanity of its most terrible sin. Such things were inescapable, even in the world of dreams.

"Someone else thrown to the wolves…"

The voice had come from the air. Solena raised her head and glanced around her. When she saw nothing, she rose and spun in search of the noise's source.

"Who's there?" she demanded, her brow furrowing. But as soon as she asked her question, she had answered it. The sound had come from the ground, where the mouse now sat. It spoke with the voice of a man.

"It isn't right that they do this, the Templars. Not to you, me, anyone."

"To you?" Solena questioned—then, observantly: "You're a talking rat."

The mouse scoffed. "And you think you're really here? In that body? You look like that because you think you do. I only look like this because you think I do."

Solena observed her arms and legs. Her own body had the same pale-green hue and the same eerie, inexplicable wrongness that everything from the lamppost to the mouse before her shared. Though her limbs were physically her own she could not recognize them as such. The mouse sighed.

"It's not your fault. You're in the same boat I was, aren't you? You're just a pawn in a much larger game none of us can hope to understand," the mouse pondered.

In a flash of yellow light, the mouse she had seen a moment before was now a man, with a thin mop of blonde hair and a long, crooked nose, dressed in rags. He was balding on the top of his head and had a nasty brown wart on his right nostril. It was an awful face. She wondered who this man had been—a soul clearly now lost to time and history in this never-ending expulsion of abstract thought. He threw open his arms and smiled a crooked-toothed smile.

"I welcome you to the Fade. My name is…well, Mouse, I suppose." He shrugged loosely.

"Not your real name, I take it?"

"Ah, well, I can't really remember anything from…before…" he seemed suddenly very lost; absent. "The Templars kill you if you take too long, you see. They figure you failed, and they don't want something…getting out. That's what they did to me, I think. I have no body to reclaim. And you don't have much time before you end up the same."

She shook her head. "I won't. I won't let that happen."

He tsk-ed at her. "Those who came before you were much the same. Cock-sure and recklessly confident. You're wrong to think you know everything. There is so much, still, that evades you. I know more than you of the danger ahead."

"And what is the danger ahead?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"There's something here, contained, just waiting for an apprentice like you. You have to face the creature—a demon—and resist it, if you can. That's your way out."

"Yes, I was told as much."

"By those Circle people? Men such as they will tell you just enough to mislead you. What's one more dead mage? A safer world, if you ask them. Take anyone at their word, and you're a fool," he told her. "You're not a fool, are you? There's more to it. There's always more. It's a riddle, you see. All of it. Nothing so simple. But then, I suppose, life is much like one big riddle, isn't it? Haha!"

She bit her lip, not sharing in his laughter—as nothing seemed to her to be very funny—and instead taking a moment to gnaw on the dry flesh there in contemplation.

"And do you know the answer?" she asked the man. He gave a long and hearty laugh.

"I daresay if I did, I wouldn't be here."

She considered his words. She found them strange. Their exchange, in its entirety…strange. When she turned to leave, he was beside her in a flash.

"I'll follow, if that's alright. My chance was long ago, but you're more cunning than I ever was. You might succeed where I failed."

He quickly transformed back into the kitchen mouse and scurried alongside her as she walked through forests of upside-down trees set ablaze and hopped across large chunks of rock that formed a floating path. Should she step off one, she wasn't even sure where she should fall to, or if she would fall at all. The latter scared her more. She soon stepped off into a clearing which seemed to be made up of brown cobblestone, but was no more than dust and blew away in a gust of wind that she could not feel on her skin.

On a hill a few yards ahead of her there was a small fire burning, and a bright white figure which moved between two impossibly shaped trees that were surrounded by the most wonderful flowers she had ever seen, and even more besides that floated in mid-air around the fire. Marigolds, she recalled. That must be what they were. As she neared the fire, the figure turned, and she could see that it wore the plate of a templar. She halted.

"Another thrown into the flames and left to burn, I see. You…I've waited for you, though. For time immemorial." He spoke with a roaring voice that echoed as though he were shouting in a deep cave. She tried to speak, but words could not seem to form from her lips at the sight of him. He was beautiful, and bright—so bright that she could hardly see him.

"You've been sent unarmed against an unknown demon. Sleeping; waiting for prey. No soul is prepared for that." He said it sadly.

"It is templars that force the Harrowing upon us," she reminded him, gesturing to his plate.

"Aye, that it is. This trial is a graveyard. A garden of bones, of innocents come before, and innocents yet to come. I wait. And I watch. And am powerless against the wheel." His voice—the haunting echo—made her sad. She felt it very deeply.

"I see a great battle in your future against a powerful creature of the Fade. Let it be known, no matter what comes, I wish you victory. And afterwards, peace." His response made her curious. He spoke earnestly, full-heartedly—as if he knew her.

"Thank you," she told him.

Snow fell from a green sky, and both looked up to watch it. Suddenly, they stood knee-deep in the stuff, and the sun set around them. Inexplicably, tears fell from her eyes.

"Shed no more tears," the figure said. "We two will meet again."

"When?" she asked desperately, as he faded from her.

"I'm sorry," said the wind, and he was gone—the snow and the sunset with him.

"An odd fellow, that one," said Mouse from her side, far below her.

They continued walking.

As they moved further and further, an eerie whistle of wind could be heard, even though she could feel none on her skin, and the Fade seemed to turn darker and more foreboding, even though the sky remained the same bright shade of green. Around her she saw ancient ruins threatening to fade out of existence as they lost opacity, and piles of massacred bodies as tall as trees overcame them.

She heard wolves howling in the distance—prowling at the fringes of the Fade—and the sounds of a violent battle that was nowhere in sight. Decaying toadstools of an abnormally large size surrounded her as though they were a forest of their own, and eventually another, smaller clearing came into view, and a sleeping bear lay in the center. She inched closer, as quietly as possible.

"Be cautious…" Mouse whispered, "There is another spirit here who may help us…I believe him honorable, though I do not think he is as benevolent as the last…"

But as she drew closer the bear awakened anyway…and it was no bear. As she approached, she saw its claws were once over again the size of its paw, its eyes were bloodshot, and its fur was matted and decayed and torn away so as to see bloody flesh poking out across its entire body. When it spoke, its voice seemed as though it were coming from all directions, surrounding her and making her feel as small as her companion.

"Hmm…" it chuckled malevolently from where it relaxed on the ground, "so you are the mortal being hunted? And the small one…is he to be a snack for me?"

"I don't like this," Mouse spoke, transforming again into a man, though acting as a child might. "I take it back. He's not going to help us. We should go."

The beast slowly rose and stretched its front legs as it let out a yawn which sounded vaguely like a growl. "Oh, no matter," it spoke, "The creature will find you eventually, and I…I will feast on the scraps." The beast's mouth stretched into a wide grin which showed off a full set of yellow teeth as sharp as blades imbedded into crimson gums.

"Begone," it commanded, "Surely you have better things to do. You are a fly in the ointment, and I tire of you already. You have lost your battle before it has even begun, mage."

She took a step closer to him, and Mouse squealed again. "I need help defeating the demon. If you aid me, I'll leave you in peace."

"You have your magic," the bear yawned. "For all that is worth. Go. Use your wiles. You do not need my help.

"Not me. Mouse." She explained.

"What?" Mouse squeaked in shock.

"Teach Mouse to be like you. Dangerous. Strong. So he can help me," she demanded, persistent in her efforts.

"Like me?" Sloth asked. "Ah…I suppose. Mice are such cowardly things. Not intelligent enough to think for themselves; forge their own identities."

"I…I don't…" Mouse garbled.

"Or perhaps he doesn't wish to learn. Perhaps that is for the best. Teaching is so…exhausting."

"If you want me gone, teach him." She repeated once more.

In exchange for the inconvenience, the old bear demanded answers for three riddles. She agreed to hear them, playing at the game in exchange for the aid. He began, in a measured voice:

I have seas with no water, coasts with no sand,

Towns without people, and mountains without land.

What am I?

While you live, we cannot part,

I live inside you, locked forever in your heart.

What am I?

Often will I spin a tale, never will I charge a fee.

I'll amuse you an entire eve, but, alas, you won't remember me.

What am I?

When she answered them all correctly, he appeared dismal. But within moments, Mouse grew to the size of a bear, and the demon of Sloth slumped to the ground, sleeping or dead.

At once, the forest around them was set ablaze by fire from the sky. The ground beneath them trembled and lava rose vertically from the circle's center, coalescing into the head of a great beast. Solena stabilized herself on the shaking earth.

The demon laughed, a dark and malevolent sound. Mouse lunged for its throat, but the demon cast him off, sending him tumbling to the ground. Solena remembered Irving's words. Not real. Not real, not real, not real. Only your will.

She closed her eyes. Opened them. And when she did, the demon was gone—its fiery visage dissolved into water, which fell back to the earth as rain. When she held out her hands, she could even feel the drops on her fingertips.

Mouse stood over the fallen demon and in another flash, had transformed back into the ugly man. He jumped for joy, skipping in the puddles that the rain made, splashing water all around. "You did it—you actually did it! When you came, I hoped that maybe you might be able to—oh but I never dared hope that—"

"The Harrowing is designed so that I shouldn't remain in the Fade after passing my test," she spoke, all answers coming to her suddenly.

"Precisely. Which is why we must leave. You must take me with you! Oh, the sights we will see! Unstoppable we'll be, you and me! The world will be ours, just you see!"

"No," she told it. Mouse stopped his skipping.

"What do you mean? We cannot stay here! The demons, they'll find us, and they'll tear us to bits!"

"Not you. You're staying," she said.

Mouse froze, but not for long. His lips curved upwards into a malicious, hungry grin.

"…you are a smart one." The voice changed, as did the air around them. Mouse began to tower over her as he had not before, and the grin he wore grew to fold over half his face, making him unrecognizable. His skin fell off in slimy, black, ashy layers and beneath was a different being entirely.

"Simple killing is a warrior's job," he boomed, louder than the valor spirit, even louder than Sloth. "The real dangers of this world are preconceptions, careless trust…pride."

In an instant, the light and the world around her disappeared, and Mouse had evaporated into smoke, and the smoke surrounded her and encompassed her form and would not allow her to breathe. She collapsed and choked on the air.

"Keep your wits about you, girl. True tests never end."

The smoke cleared, and it was over.

A/N:

I am rachelamberish on tumblr.

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