The days after her brief, tantalizing almost with Stephen only fill Rhyanon with a bottomless sense of emptiness and can't. She's been forced to realize, with new clarity, all of the things she is not allowed to have. She'd always known that, as a mage, she'd never be allowed to have children, or any kind of long term relationship, or love. It hadn't mattered, then. She hadn't wanted it. She isn't sure if she wants it now, but the hole she's trying to fill seems all consuming. It hurts as badly as a physical pain, it exhausts her with its heavinesss. Nightmares haunt her. They never go away, not completely. She wakes up with her heart thundering in her chest and her breath stolen by panic.
A vial of artificial energy is enough to get her through the day, but it can't combat the lethargy she feels. She keeps to herself in the dining room, listening to the hushed chatter all around her. She pushes her potato hash around on her plate instead of eating. She stuffs a bite or two into her mouth, then gives the rest of it to a scrawny younger boy who reminds her too much of Jowan, despite being an elf. The kid flashes her a shy smile and whispers a thank you, and her heart aches because she can't do anything for him except give him a plate of half-eaten mush.
She scowls at the templars guarding the room, but, predictably, they don't react. She almost – almost – wishes that they would. It might be nice to fight; to feel, to let someone else notice that she's feeling. Tension and fear and anticipation all twist up inside of her, enough to make her stomach hurt. The pressure is intense and neverending and it feels like she's been holding her breath for so long that she's not even breathing, like she hasn't been breathing for years.
She cannot bring herself to pretend to study, and the climb up to the hidden storerooms near the top of the tower, accessible only via tightly spiraling staircases and hidden crawlspaces and ladders, seems like too much trouble to be worth the gain. She doesn't want to go back to the dorms either. How many words can you scrawl down on paper that will never be read, how many drawings can you start and then give up on, before the pointlessness of it all crushes you?
Instead, she steals down to the dungeons. She argues about it with herself, voices clattering inside her head: What are you doing? What are you hoping to accomplish?
She has no idea how to answer those voices. She doesn't know what she's doing, she just knows what she wants. Sometimes. When you ask her at exactly the right minute.
She needs her friend, the one person who might understand how terrified she is, and how alone. Her fingers scrape the rough stone walls, and they feel icy cold when she clenches them into tight fists at her sides. It's so dark down here, but she doesn't dare conjure a light.
She listens, but the sounds she hears are warped. Every minute background noise seems too loud, and no matter how much she strains, she cannot hear anything that will answer the questions that are jumbled in her brain.
She holds her breath for as long as she can, but the stuttering puffs of air she inhales in shallow gasps still echo back, overwhelmingly loudly. She can feel her mana pulling to the surface, bringing heightened awareness and a need for action, a release for the energy coiled under her skin.
She stretches her senses, the internal more than the external, skimming the ripples of the Fade. She presses gently, leaving fingerprints at the edges of the Veil, gentle impressions that are quickly absorbed. But even this is enough to accelerate her heartbeat and fill her with a restless energy, ripping open a hole, a need for more, a thirst she is desperate to quench.
She controls that thirst, burying it down deep inside of her her, reacting to the pressure of temptation with walls of equal force. Her entire body hums, for a few brief heartbeats, until it reaches familiar equilibrium. The forces of magic rarely overwhelm her these days. They are more comfortable than frightening, even down here in the dark.
She quests out, feeling for Anders' presence. But all she touches is... nothingness, a blinding, painful wall. She recoils as if burned. Antimagic. But, of course, she knew that.
She chokes back a whimper, and stands frozen, uncertain whether to move forward, or to flee. She presses herself against the wall, cloaked by flickering shadow. She knows without needing to look that this narrow corridor will soon branch off and spiral away, the hall to the right will hit a few bare storerooms before ending abruptly; the hall to the left grows even more claustrophobic, sloping steeply down, into the places she doesn't want to go.
She can hear the scrape of metal and the too-loud voices of guards, laughing with each other. Why should they keep quiet? They must think they're the only ones down here.
Two guards, always paired. Every day for a year.
Maybe they're getting slow and stupid. Rhyanon's been down here half an hour, and she's already feeling disoriented and desperate to get out. How long have they been here? Hours and hours at least – the tower isn't so overwhelmed with templars that all that many could be spared to guard a prison cell that most people don't even know about.
Rhyanon boosts her own confidence as she weighs the risks, running calculations in her head... she could break Anders out. The two of them could run, just run forever. They could be free.
What are you doing here? scream the voices of her insecurity in her head. What do you think you can do?
Nothing, she replies immediately, in not-quite-spoken words. Her lips wrap around the shape of the murmuring whisper as she talks to herself, but the sound doesn't carry. She can't do anything... can she?
She shakes her head, knowing that her doubts, while comfortable and familiar, aren't true, not really. She can do something. She knows how to fight – with and without magic, she's been practicing for years because they make her. And she's been pushing herself harder than she ever has before, with Stephen's help. If she tried to take down Anders' two guards, she might win. It's only fear that stops her.
She watches the two armored men, catching their movements in the flickering torchlight. She keeps her body pressed against the wall, hidden behind a corner. She concentrates on keeping her magic hidden – they won't notice it unless they're really trying, not unless she does something stupid like actively cast. It makes her nervous though. She's spent too many years being judged as guilty even without doing something as obviously suspicious as lurking in a restricted area. The templars can't read her thoughts – she knows that – but it doesn't stop her from anticipating that they might catch her at any moment. A possibility that only grows more likely the longer she stands her debating it.
She watches the guards, trying to actively read their threat, but she can't tell much about them, not in the dark, not this far away. They're slouching, tired, but that's no reason to assume they're not doing their job.
Rhyanon licks her lips, trying to figure out if she's really brave enough to do this. Then she clears her throat quietly, and pushes into the small pool of light. The bigger templar glances up, immediately tense, hand on his sword.
Rhyanon swallows. He's not actually going to attack her, is he?
"What're you doing here, girl?"
Rhyanon meets the templar's eyes through his helmet, projecting a sense of security she doesn't feel. She won't let him see her falter.
Irving has told her she's good at this – diplomacy, a different kind of fighting. Anders has told her, too – that when she talks, people listen. She just has to believe them. She has to believe in herself because of them.
She draws herself to her full height, and announces, with a calm, steady voice. "Greagoir said I could see him."
One of the templars – the younger, more rash one – shakes his head.
"Are you going to override the Knight Commander's orders?" She pushes, just a little, a subtle influence on his already sluggish thoughts.
But not subtle enough.
The man lashes out with a Smite, sending Rhyanon staggering.
"If you're so eager to find your way into these cells, I can oblige," the man sneers. Rhyanon crawls backward, slamming against the wall. She shakes her head.
"I'm sorry," she whines. Tears sting her eyes. She's more pissed at herself than pissed at them. She's angry at how scared they can make her. She doesn't even fight them. What would be the point?
"You should be sorry," the man growls.
"Leave her alone," the other templar volunteers nervously.
"I'll send her to the Knight Commander," the nameless voice spits, as he slams Rhyanon against the stone wall. "See how he feels about the girl forging his orders."
He lets go of her, suddenly, pushing her forward, away from the reach of the torchlight. But Rhyanon breathes again. Gregoir might listen. And even if he doesn't, she trusts him. She fears what he'll do a lot less than what these unwatched men might do, alone in the dark.
The atmosphere in the Knight Commander's office is tense. It always is, but it's a thousand times more uncomfortable when the miscreant they're arguing about is her. They talk about her like she's not even there, it's annoying. But it might be slightly better than trying to figure out what to say if they ask her what she was thinking. Rhyanon tries to make herself as small as possible, sitting on the edge of Greagoir's desk as Irving tries to speak for her. She traces her fingernail into the deep grooves of wood spiraling and cracking under the surface.
"You let the girl get away with too much, Irving. As have I. She needs to learn." Greagoir isn't angry – his voice is calm. But Rhyanon damn well knows that doesn't mean much for her. He's always calm when he does his job; it doesn't make the punishments hurt any less.
"Like Anders has learned," Irving challenges. Rhyanon looks up, just in case. But Irving's protest lacks conviction, and she can tell. It fills her stomach with a churning, empty hole that hurts. The First Enchanter's basically given up on Anders, and they all know it. He's probably given up on her too.
She's not a little kid anymore. She's on her own. Honestly, she's surprised it took this long. She tries as hard as she can to block the worry and helplessness radiating out from her mentor – more of a father than her real father ever was. She knew what she was doing, Greagoir is right about that. She looks the Knight Commander in the eye, daring him, without words, to do his worst.
"Solitary," Greagoir orders.
"You can't..." Irving starts.
"Yes. I. Can." The Knight Commander growls. "I can, and I will. This isn't a game." He turns toward Rhyanon, and her heart sinks as Greagoir tells her – still calm – that her curiosity has consequences. It isn't a punishment so much as an object lesson, but still, anticipation batters at the inside of her stomach, like fluttering wings.
This is what she wanted, isn't it? To get down into the underground cells, so Anders wouldn't be alone. If he can survive it, so can she. She's stronger than they think.
She holds onto that false confidence as they lock her in, alone in an unused hall that twists down in the depths of the stone tower. The cell isn't so bad. There is almost enough space between the bars to stick her hand through, and those bars let in air and a sense of space, if not light. There is both a pallet and a bucket for her to relieve herself. When she closes her eyes, she can feel time passing by, constricting closer. She crawls onto the pallet, and stares at the ceiling.
The loneliness is too familiar to be disconcerting, at least at the start. It's the uncertainty that gets to her. She doesn't let herself sleep. She listens instead, stretching for every sound. The fear she feels grows heavier and more intense with every passing minute that something doesn't happen, until it turns into a pervasive, heavy dread. She cracks her knuckles. She counts her breaths. Her cell isn't warded. She can feel the templars nearby, too close and too far all at once. They haven't hurt her, and they won't. But this punishment is doing its job, and that bothers her too. Greagoir is getting exactly what he wants.
The hours pass infinitely slowly, she feels like she can count each individual heartbeat, each breath. Every sound makes her jump, every time the templar patrol passes by, she gathers her mana, calling it to her. She doesn't let go.
They shackle her only when her sentence is ended, when they shove her, stumbling, back up to the apprentice dorms. In the early hours of the evening, they're not empty. She wishes that they were. It hasn't been long – a day, maybe two. Not long, but long enough.
Some whisper in her mind remembers the long-time-ago when Anders came back from his first time in solitary, how rattled he was then, how she didn't know how to approach him. The laughter of the younger children seems too loud, it feels wrong. An anger rises up in her, a desperate need to scream and snap at them. A little boy with wide blue eyes and a trembling lip flees from her, ducking into a corner to hide. Rhyanon sighs in exasperation, clenching her fingers into a tight fist. Adrenaline floods her, but her skull is still buzzing with a sleepy fog of confusion.
She wants to talk to Irving, the one person left in her life who might be able to let her pretend that this is a safe place. But she knows that would just be perpetuating a lie, so she avoids him. She tells herself he wouldn't be any help anyway. Irving doesn't lie to her, even when she wants him to.
She goes to the library instead, though she's spent enough time alone – both in and out of the punishment cell – that she's incapable of escaping into the written word now. Reality pulls at her: voices, hushed laughter. She sits at a table close to where one of the younger Harrowed mages is attempting to tutor a small group of recent arrivals. The children are young enough to still look wide-eyed at simple displays of power that will never be enough to get them out of here.
Rhyanon traces meaningless lines onto her notepaper, chewing on her lip. She's afraid of herself, afraid of the gamble that she's lost and afraid of what it means. What if she's ruined everything? It scares her that she wouldn't change it. She'll keep launching herself against the immovable stone walls because at least it's a kind of motion.
When she shows up at Irving's office, unable to avoid it anymore, he does not speak to her. His disapproval is palpable. "I'm sorry," she whispers.
He only shakes his head. "What were you thinking?"
"I... wasn't."
"I know." His voice is hard, as if that is the end of the conversation.
Rhyanon recoils. "I'm sorry," she spits out again. And then she retreats from the room, as quickly as she can manage. It feels worse than if he'd yelled at her. She needs somewhere safe, she needs someone to talk to. She needed him to invite her in, not lecture her. She's on the edge of breaking, afraid of even minor rejections because all she is is alone.
She's done. She is so fucking done with this place!
She starts to understand Anders a little better, how holding things inside becomes the only way to hold yourself together, how solitary clings to you. It isn't that bad for her, she can shake it off, because her time down in the dark was just a warning, no true punishment, and she knows it. It's a warning she didn't need; she already feels the constriction of this place, the walls closing in around her. She can feel the claustrophobic pressure of not being allowed to fall apart, when that's all she wants to do.
The ghosts and silence follow her no matter where she goes, no matter what she does or doesn't do. She slips into the dorms again, the empty bathrooms. People hide in here all the time, when they need to pretend there's a such thing as privacy, when they need to gossip, or cry. No one will bother her in here, by mutual agreement. She fills the tub farthest away from the bathroom door, watching the water swirl and steam, and then she climbs inside. She tries desperately not to think. It doesn't much work.
Time passes, until the water in the tub is cold as ice. Rhyanon barely notices. She drags the dagger across her skin, watching white lines turn to red, accompanied by a sharp pinprick of pain. She bites her lip to compensate, making sure that she remains silent even as she shivers in the shallow pool of deepening pink around her naked body. She can't remember when she started carrying a knife with her everywhere. A long time ago, when she started to realize that their promise not to hurt her was bullshit. A long time ago, when she went digging through the stash under Anders' bed, looking for something to hold onto. The weapon feels comfortable in her hand, more comfortable still as she presses it down deeper, pulling it through her flesh.
You don't want to die, whisper the voices in her head. She blocks them out. There is a way out, they sing.
She thrashes and shakes her head and kicks, flailing and sending up small waves in the cold bathtub. "There isn't," she snaps. She screams out loud. Even hurting herself doesn't hurt enough, she doesn't feel anything, except for flickers here and there; flickers of pain, and cold.
The sensations that touch her are the ones that aren't real. She hears a sarcastic laugh that sounds too familiar, but she also feels a gentle touch.
Look, that unplaceable voice insists. Feel.
Rhyanon glances down at the gradient of damp, swirling color. White and pink and red. Her breathing begins to accelerate into a shallow gasping that doesn't provide enough oxygen as she begins to panic. Her head spins, and she grasps desperately, her fingertips scrabbling against the slippery smooth tile. She sinks backward and her head smacks hard, against the thick edge of the tub. The echo of her own impact rings loud in her ears. Her arm stings with fiery pain as the soapy water mingles with the blood of her raw wounds; but she holds onto that. The pain keeps her awake. Feel.
She looks down, and draws in a ragged breath that she holds onto with as much force as she holds onto the new awareness that is almost too strong to put into words: I don't want to die. I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't want to...
She pulls on what she has; colors, and pain, and blood. She pulls on it, and it strengthens her.
The scars remain, but they close into smooth white lines, too fast, without her direction or control. She suddenly feels everything, more strongly than she has in years.
She can feel the tiny breezes that blow in the windowless room, the humidity clinging to her skin, the resonant vibrations that echo off of the tile, the ripples of the water. She feels like she can breathe, really breathe, in a way she can't remember since she came to the Tower. Maybe not even then.
She isn't scared anymore. She feels powerful.
"What the hell are you thinking?!"
She shakes her head, shocked awake. Emotions spike through her, too tangled and complex to name, they swirl together into a panic. "Don't tell," she babbles.
"Of course I'm not gonna tell." Stephen whispers, as he hugs her close. "Maker, Rhyanon. I'm trying to help you."
"What are you doing here?" Her thoughts are heavy and confused. Feelings are easier, she doesn't have to explain them or assign them names, she just has to ride them.
"Why didn't you talk to me?" Stephen asks, instead of answering her question.
Rhyanon doesn't answer either. She just shakes her head, and lets him hold her. He drains the bath before she can stop him, and wraps her in a towel. "Do you want to talk?" he asks carefully.
"No. Yes. I don't know."
"Talk," he orders, holding her gaze.
"Tell me what happened when you left the tower," she demands. It seems important, though she cannot pinpoint why.
Stephen holds his breath, and Rhyanon waits; for him to tell her not to deflect, for him to skirt around the issue. But then he nods. He doesn't let go of her, and his touch is warm and safe and stable. And he talks. "I was just a kid," he reminds her. "Well, older than you. But not half as mature. I'd just passed my Harrowing and I thought that meant I could do anything, you know?"
He waits for Rhyanon to answer, as though maybe she doesn't know. But she's smart – smart enough to know that even after you've passed their test, the templars still make the rules.
A tiny flutter of butterfly wings presses beneath Rhyanon's ribcage. She wants to ask the questions she knows he won't be able to answer – the questions Jowan did not ask either, even though they could have saved him. Why didn't he tell me? She'd asked herself a thousand times when the boy she'd once called friend decided to choose Tranquility over continued confusion and loss. But this is why. What good does telling do?
Stephen has mentioned the Harrowing before, warned her that she's close, but Rhyanon is afraid; afraid she's broken the rules beyond repair, afraid that her one chance may be stolen before it's ever offered.
Stephen squeezes her hand as Rhyanon sets her shoulders. She waits, for what seems an eternity, but he does not continue to speak. "I know," she finally replies. Both because she does know, and because her response seems to matter, to him. Her spoken words are a necessary prompt. He nods, and traces his fingertip over her knee.
Maybe she doesn't agree with his assessment – her experiences won't let her agree, but she understands that most people, at the age she is now, view the Harrowing with a kind of reverence, a belief, a hope that it will change things. It has to, because what else do they have? She doesn't fault a younger Stephen for believing in that promise, and she tells him so.
"I was transferred to the White Spire, for a few years. From there, sent to Jader. Maker knows why."
"You're a good fighter," Rhyanon reminds him.
Stephen shrugs. "Sure. But there was no war to fight. I was sent because my Ferelden heritage would likely have seemed less threatening to those in the border town. And I was needed because of a fast-spreading plague killing many in the farms and outlying villages."
Rhyanon frowns. "Not the cities?"
She's no healer, but she's paid enough attention to those who are to know that the close quarters of the slums and alienages are where illnesses cluster and spread.
Stephen shakes his head. "Not yet," he spits angrily. "And not ever. I'm not a healer, Rhyanon, you said it yourself. I'm a firestarter."
Cold dread settles in the pit of Rhyanon's stomach, an awareness that radiates outward in a painful burst. She doesn't respond, because what in the Void is she supposed to say?
Stephen doesn't have to tell her anymore, her mind has already filled in all of the details. He seems to know it too.
"It's not your fault," she tells him uncertainly.
"Maybe," he agrees, less than helpfully. "Maybe not. Are we the slaves they try to make us?"
The question suddenly feels very, very important. And "I don't know," is the only answer Rhyanon can give.
"Yes, you do," Stephen tells her, as he heals the scars across her wrists, to draw no suspicion.
"Only if we let them," she decides.
Stephen nods, with a determined smile on his face. "I don't plan on ever letting them again. And you're a lot smarter than I was at your age."
"There are probably a few people who wouldn't agree with you there."
"They're probably wrong," he tells her, his smiler growing wider as he relaxes.
Rhyanon isn't so sure, and the guardedness of her stance reflects her hesitation. Stephen notices – of course he does. He tucks her hair back behind her ear, and won't let her break away from his gaze. "Your turn to talk," he reminds her. He won't let her get away with not. Rhyanon blows out a long breath.
"I wasn't trying to kill myself," she demands, in a too-quick rush of words. In truth, she isn't sure anymore. Maybe she was and maybe she wasn't. Either way it doesn't matter now. If she was trying, she didn't succeed. And she won't try again.
Stephen doesn't try to confirm or deny her assertion. He simply waits. Rhyanon knows he means well, but she squirms anyway. She doesn't know him, not really. How can she explain her actions when she doesn't even understand them herself?
"You feel trapped," Stephen whispers softly, and Rhyanon rolls her eyes because of course she does. She feels trapped because she is trapped, and isn't that obvious. The anger suddenly flaring up inside her is familiar. It gives her a reaction, a direction to move, even if it's completely unhelpful.
She wants to react, but she steadies herself. She blows out a long breath. You feel trapped. "Don't you?" she asks carefully, instead of fighting.
Stephen holds her gaze. "Not as much as you'd think. This place does not have to be a prison."
"Easy for you to say."
He shakes his head. "Not easy at all."
Rhyanon nods. She understands. But what else is there?
She remembers overhearing conversations among other mages who've long since been Harrowed, adolesecents asking themselves if you could be trapped somewhere for long enough that it wasn't a trap anymore. Some of them seemed hopeful, but Rhyanon is almost certain now that those hopes were horribly misplaced.
She does what they tell her, even when everything inside of her wants to fight it. The whispers she's afraid to listen to, and even more afraid to voice, nag at her constantly. She wants to make things better. She's constantly looking for any possible way that she can, and coming up short. Nothing she does is good enough. But the turmoil, when it rages, is all inside.
