Flora almost fell through the doorway, stumbling inelegantly over the threshold with a grunt. The room was brighter than the dim stairway, lit by several standing candelabras, and she took a moment to blink and regain her vision.
Oh no, she thought wildly, her heart thudding painfully against her breastbone. Noooo.
Calm down, entreated her spirits, gentle and reproachful. We will help you.
The Harrowing Chamber, the subject of much speculation by the apprentices, was smaller than they had envisioned. Circular and windowless, with a vaulted glass ceiling that displayed the heavens like a glorious mural, it was almost devoid of furniture. Only a pedestal stood in the centre of the stone flagstones, with several armchairs placed discreetly to one side. There had once been several paintings of legendary magisters on the walls, but these had been removed by the Templars to avoid inadvertently inspiring too much ambition.
The First Enchanter stood behind the pedestal, his fingers absentmindedly stroking his salt and pepper beard. He was clad in full regalia, despite the late hour. Beside him stood an older woman with white hair pulled back in a severe bun, whom Flora vaguely recognised from the third floor library. Since Flora could not read, the only time that she was ever summoned to the library was when she was running errands for the more valuable residents of the Circle. She felt the silent, immobile presence of the Templars behind her and stepped forward, bowing her head. There was a nasty churning in her belly, and she wondered if she was going to be sick.
Don't be sick on the First Enchanter's shoes. They probably cost more than Herring!
Irving looked her over, curious. With three dozen apprentices currently residing in the Tower, this one had never demanded much of his time or attention. He knew her for her looks - she had the sort of face that was impossible to ignore - but there was little in the way of talent, education or natural intellect, housed within the lovely exterior. Now she bore herself humbly, keeping her eyes lowered to the flagstones, shoulders hunched.
"Look at me, child," he said, curiosity getting the better of him. She raised her face to his and he inhaled, curiosity piqued. Her face was finely hewn, good breeding written across the high cheekbones, sloping nose and delicate jawline. The eyes were vast and solemn, the pale grey of rainwater, outlined as though with an ink-pen.
It was not unusual to have children of noble birth sent to the Circle – it mattered not what class a mage was born into; they all had to submit themselves to a tower. But usually their families sent gifts, boons and patronage to ensure that life was made as comfortable as possible, within reason. Flora had received nothing in four years.
"Your family," he said after a moment, feeling a brief moment of pity for the girl; she was clearly terrified. "Are they originally from Ferelden?"
"My p-parents are from Herring," Flora whispered, her eyes drawn to the chalice of clear liquid sat on the cusp of the pedestal. "My dad's a fisherman."
Irving raised his eyebrows, but did not allow his response to go further than his mind. Probably some noble's bastard.
"Herring? It's unfamiliar to me."
"It's a small fishing village on the north coast, near Highever," interjected Wynne, helpfully. Flora nodded dumbly, quaking in her boots.
"Do you know what a Harrowing entails?" the First Enchanter asked suddenly, a note of steel running through his questioning. New initiates were officially forbidden from discussing the details of their Harrowing with apprentices; yet inevitably rumours and half-truths swirled among the bunks and study carrels of the lower floors.
Flora blinked, wondering whether she was being tricked into demonstrating her own lack of awareness.
"I think- it's to do with the Fade," she said after a moment, feeling the keen stare of the white-haired woman on her. Irving nodded, gesturing for her to come closer. Flora edged towards him.
"I'm not your executioner, child." This was said with surprising patience. "Your success depends on you alone."
That's what I'm worried about, thought Flora darkly, feeling her heart beating against her ribcage. It depends on me being able to do something which, up to this point, I haven't been able to do at all.
"Yes," replied Irving, lifting the chalice and dipping it into the pedestal basin, scooping up a half-measure of translucent silvery liquid. "When you sip from this, you will enter the Fade. A demon will try to claim you. You must defeat it."
The rumours and gossip had suggested as much, and this came as no surprise to Flora. She swallowed, and took a deep, painful breath.
Take it.
But I'm scared!
Just take it, little one.
Flora reached forward and took the chalice. Cradling the silver stem reluctantly between shaking fingers, her eyes moved from Irving to the older woman behind him.
"Just a single sip," Wynne reminded her gently. "Any more and you might never wake up."
Flora glanced over her shoulder at the two Templar, standing either side of the doorway. She did not recognise them, and they kept their eyes angled away from her. Her own gaze was drawn to the steel shortswords that hung from their belts.
"There is always the option to undergo Tranquilisation, if you do not wish to undergo the Harrowing," continued Wynne, following Flora's glance. "Though it would be a shame, I have heard you are a healer of some skill."
Flora, gaping at the prospect of not being able to truly enjoy her dinner ever again, shook her head rapidly.
"Then don't keep an old woman up all night," the senior mage snapped irritably, narrowing pale blue eyes.
Flora raised the chalice and gulped down a sizeable amount of the pale liquid. It tasted very cold and slightly sour, and left a tingling aftertaste in her mouth.
A moment later she coughed, dropping the silver chalice on the floor. The waking world began to constrict, the candles flared brighter and the features of the First Enchanter elongated before her.
Less than ten seconds after she began to look unsteady on her feet, she slumped to the flagstones with a thud, her small hand flung out towards the feet of the Grand Enchanter.
Irving sighed, stooping to pick up the dropped chalice and replace it on the pedestal.
"She took rather a large gulp, did you notice?" Wynne commented, retreating to one of the armchairs and lowering herself into it with a sigh. Irving followed her after a moment, watching the Templars move into position.
The two armed men flanked the slumped girl, hands on the hilts of their shortswords. If she awoke under the possession of a demon, they would kill her without hesitation. It was the reason why there was no carpeting to soften the inevitable slump into unconsciousness; flagstones could be washed clean of blood and gore. Only last week, Irving had watched a promising young apprentice die under the sword of Greagoir himself. Initiate Firthing had fallen victim to a Pride demon in the Fade, and had never awoken. Irving bore no resentment towards the Templar commander; it was a necessary danger inherent in their very existence – and no demon could be allowed to live in the waking world, even limited in the vessel of a mage.
Flora awoke to the sound of an unnatural wind, hollow and thin. She opened her eyes, immediately recognising the ethereal world of the Fade. All mages were familiar with the alien landscape of craggy rocks and greenish sky; their dreams were spent probing the edges of the Veil, squinting through to see what lay behind. Far above her head an arcane storm raged, dark floating islands hovered miles away. On one of these the Maker himself was said to have once dwelled.
Flora clambered to her feet, exhaling. It felt different to be here and conscious, her vision was almost lucid, the edges of her eyes only slightly blurred. She had no weapon or runic robes, but stood there barefoot in her baggy linen nightwear.
" I could have at least dreamed up a staff," she said to herself, the sound echoing slightly. "Or the ability to actually cast a spell."
" Would a weapon be any help?" came a small voice from somewhere beside her left foot. Flora jumped, peered down at the ground. A small brown mouse looked back up at her, dark-eyed and implacable.
Careful.
" Hmmm" said Flora, eyeballing the creature suspiciously. The mouse canted its head to one side.
" You've just arrived, haven't you? Are you going to kill the rage demon?"
" A rage demon?" Flora paled slightly, glancing over her shoulder. "Is that what's here? Oh, noooo!"
The mouse nodded. "I know where it is."
Flora crouched down, peered into the shiny dark eyes of the creature.
" And what are you?" she asked, raising her voice as an arcane storm moved overhead. "Are you a spirit, too?"
" I'm Mouse," replied the creature.
" Have you been here long?" Flora glanced over her shoulder anxiously as she spoke, half-expecting the rage demon to burst out from the rubble behind her.
" I've lost count of the days," replied the mouse, wistfully. "I've been trapped here since my own Harrowing."
Flora grimaced.
" Well, I have to kill the demon somehow," she said, her brow furrowed. "Do you have any advice?"
The mouse trembled. "It's very powerful," it replied, solemnly. "That's why I'm so small. It doesn't notice me."
Flora sighed, clambering to her feet. "You're not very helpful," she replied, glancing around. "I can't heal it to death."
There were several branching pathways, each curling away out of sight through the craggy terrain. As a mage, she was not unfamiliar with the landscape of the Fade- but it had always been experienced through an unseen veil, and she had moved through it as an ethereal presence. The feeling of it solid and real, audible and sulphurous was not pleasant.
" My trial is to kill the rage demon," Flora repeated, picking one of the paths at random and setting off with purpose. The mouse scuttled behind her, barely able to keep up.
" Which might be difficult because I can't cast primal magic," she continued, gloomily. "I ain't- I'm not a very good mage."
The path shelved steeply down the side of a gravelly slope and she edged her way down, wishing that she had also dreamt herself some shoes.
" I know some spirits who could help you," said the mouse, catching up as she edged down the uneven surface. Flora glanced down at him and shook her head.
" I don't want help from your spirits," she said, carefully. "I've got spirits that'll help me."
" Where are they, then ?" demanded the mouse, following her as she came to a rotten wooden bridge that traversed a precipitous chasm. Flora shrugged, edging over the precarious walkway, clutching the rope handles. She was reasonably confident that if she was going to die in the Fade, it would not be from plummeting to her death.
" Let me help you," demanded the mouse, it's voice deepening. Flora, having crossed the bridge, turned around to eye it.
Don't trust it.
" I don't need your help," she repeated patiently, glancing around at the craggy rocks to determine where the path lay.
" Why?"
" Because I don't want it," she said after a moment, raising her voice over the crackling of the arcane storm overhead. "Why are you so annoying?"
The mouse flickered for a moment, for a mere blink of an eye; but it was enough. Flora backed away, her own eyes widening.
" You're not a mouse," she breathed in accusatory tones, feeling the rocky wall against her back. The mouse flickered once more, then seemed to fade out of existence. Flora exhaled unsteadily, feeling her heart thudding against her ribcage.
A moment later the demon materialised in its true form, as a monstrous wolf with prominent spikes protruding over its body. When it spoke, the words came out half-snarled, with an unnatural echo.
Flora felt beads of sweat forming on her forehead, her palms dampening as she clenched her fingers.
" Why didn't you want my help? You might have survived this."
"Argh!"
It had been barely three minutes since the girl had taken the draught. The stars edged across the sky as the deepest part of the night drew in. Irving sat in the armchair opposite Wynne, picking up an old tome on complex potion making. The white-haired woman was continuing to make notes on a slip of parchment, listing supplies that needed to be purchased in her small, careful handwriting. Irving had lost count of the nights they had spent sitting opposite each other, while a young mage lay on the flagstones between them.
"She's moving," said sharp-eyed Wynne suddenly, lowering her quill, her brow furrowing.
"It's too fast," muttered Irving, glancing at the hourglass on the stand beside him. "Three minutes. Stand ready."
The two Templar visibly tensed, unsheathing their swords. Standing only a few feet away, their job would be to strike the girl down if she had indeed become an abomination. Irving placed the book on a nearby table and watched Wynne as she rose to her feet.
The girl was definitely nearing consciousness now, her fingers twitching and her mouth moving silently. The junior Templar glanced at his commanding officer, who gave a slight nod. The younger man would be the one to perform the task.
Wynne, who had approached Flora carefully, lowered herself to her knees. She knew better than to get too close. Although demons who had recently passed through the Veil were initially weak, she had an old scar that reminded her to be cautious.
"What's your name, child?" she asked, quiet and calm. The girl grimaced, then opened one eye. Wynne felt herself relax a fraction- no pale white stare . The iris was a clear, limpid grey.
"Your name, mage!" demanded the younger Templar, and the older woman glowered at him.
Inexperienced. Nervous. Watch him; make sure he doesn't get too overexcited, or quick with his blade.
Flora opened both eyes and squinted at Wynne. Although she was well aware of the procedure, it took her a moment to respond.
"Flora," she mumbled, her tongue still numb from the potion. "Flora, of Herring."
Wynne exhaled in relief, nodding at Irving. The Templars stepped back, sliding their shortswords back into their hilts. Irving smiled through his beard and rose to his feet.
"Congratulations, young one. You have successfully passed your Harrowing. In the morning, your possessions will be taken upstairs to your new quarters. Welcome, sister of the Circle."
Flora barely heard him, her body overcome by sudden and intense fatigue. The ceiling seemed to lurch above her and she squeezed her eyes shut, the voices fading in and out.
"She's exhausted."
"Take her back to the dormitory. Let her sleep it off."
The last memory that Flora had of the Harrowing chamber was of the junior Templar scowling down at her, fingers hovering on the hilt of his sword as though disappointed to be deprived of some action.
Moments later, Irving turned his attention from the lieutenant slinging the unconscious student over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
"If this Grey Warden does indeed come tomorrow, he may invoke the old treaties," he mused, leaning against the stuffed back of the armchair. Wynne, throwing one last glance towards the Templars, approached and sank down in the armchair opposite him. Although the cup of tea on the side table was stagnant, she downed it in several gulps.
"The Circle is obligated to offer assistance," she said after a moment, raising her eyes to the glass domed ceiling.
There was silence for several minutes, interrupted only by Irving's thoughtful tapping of fingers against the leather binding of his book.
"A Fifth Blight," he mused, following Wynne's stare up to the deceptively calm night. "Maker, have we not suffered enough?"
"Maker or no," replied Wynne dryly, stifling a yawn as a silent Tranquil began to clear away the Harrowing apparatus. "They shut us up in towers but they're quick enough to request our assistance in war."
From outside, distant and free in a way that a Circle Mage could never be, an owl hooted. The night seemed deceptively calm, the waters of Lake Calanhad lapping at the rocky shore. It was hard to imagine a seething horde surging up from the Deep Roads, hell bent on the destruction and domination of the surface world.
"I wonder how she overcame the demon," Wynne said suddenly, breaking the finely spun silence between them. Irving glanced at her, feeling a deep tiredness seeping through his brain.
"Eh?"
"The girl. She's a healer."
Irving shrugged as he pushed himself up from the armchair, fatigue gnawing at his bones.
"Many mages are."
"No, she only heals. I remember where I heard her name from, now. Her tutor told me: she's never successfully channelled primal magic."
Irving frowned, but his mind was occupied by thoughts of rest and recuperation.
"Perhaps under the circumstances she found that she was…capable," he replied, retrieving the staff that doubled as a walking stick.
"Hm." Wynne looked unconvinced.
"Get some sleep," he chided her over his shoulder, heading for his private quarters. "We have to do battle with the Grey Wardens tomorrow."
AN: OOC Author Note: Poor Flora - I feel guilty unleashing her on the world as a one-trick pony, but there have to be mages out there who are only proficient at a certain school of magic! She can do two things and two things only: heal and shield! However, she's not had a chance to demonstrate how good she is at these two things because the Circle tower isn't the right kind of environment to display such skills!
