A/N: Although I usually use just one word prompts for this story, these two prompts seemed to really want to be together, and after struggling for days to ignore them, I caved in. I'm weak…I admit it.
A big thank you to Lisa for her suggestion on the last line, as well as her beta-goodness!

Change and Dignity

It seemed to Joss that everything started changing at the end of her thirteenth year and life became a maelstrom during her fourteenth.

The sudden growth spurt in her chest only added to the shifting world around her, making it impossible to hide the fact that she now had breasts. And breast-bands had to be the work of a demon. They were uncomfortable on the best day, and, on one particular day, hers had nearly strangled her when it had given up its hold on her chest in favor of becoming a neck warmer. Her fault, really. She should have gone to Belka, the Tranquil seamstress, and asked for a larger breast-band, but she'd held on to the foolish hope that, just as quickly as they'd grown, they'd shrink back to their original buds. As if.

"And they call me Melon?" Niall joked one night while they were playing Spin the Gauntlet with Ser Bran's silverite glove.

"Bastard," Joss snarled, hunching her shoulders.

"Bitch," he replied with a wicked grin. She supposed there were worse things than making Niall smile, although she'd have preferred it wasn't over her attributes.

"They aren't that big," Joseph snickered, spinning the gauntlet. It landed with the fingers pointing at Petra, who rolled her eyes and waited for Joseph to ask a question.

"So, how old were you when your bazooms grew?" he asked Petra, who giggled and shook her head.

Really, what was it about breasts that turned young men into little boys? Joss was thoroughly disgusted. She glared at her brother, who shrugged with another merry grin. Sure, because he didn't have any bazooms.

"Josslyn's breasts are perfectly proportional to her waist and hips," Owain remarked calmly, as if the whole thing was a mathematical computation.

For some reason, his comment sent everyone into gales of laughter. In fact, they laughed so loudly that Bran, who was watching from the doorway, was forced to come in and pick up his gauntlet and tell them to get to bed and go to sleep before he got into trouble with the knight commander.

Ines explained that she'd been a late bloomer too and not to worry about it. Sure, botany jokes. Just what she needed.

Lucian Caravel kept her after class to demand she pay more attention to his lessons and less to her sulking. "Life is change. Growth is optional," he intoned.

She glanced at her newly-formed chest and then glared at him. Apparently, not all growth was optional. Thanks for nothing, she hoped her expression said. He raised an eyebrow.

"Perhaps there is a cure, Josslyn. Check in Riddimith's Remedial Remedies," he offered with a smirk. He was a plonker. A widger. A tally whacker. She slammed the door on her way out of his classroom.

On the upside, her developments dispelled the nasty rumor floating around that she was actually Joseph's twin brother. Not that the other mages didn't find new things to tease her about, although she noticed the boys teased her less and the girls teased her more, and in a spiteful way at times.

In fact, the number of young men who wanted to explore the linen closet with her grew in direct proportion to her newly enumerated assets, but she was fiercely loyal to Owain, for all the good it did her.

He found her growth almost as awkward as she did; even more so when they were kissing. She had a need to press against him, and she had even moaned one night when he'd tangled his hands in her hair. Of course, it had been an accident because his cuff caught on one of her hairpins. He had stepped back so quickly that she had nearly fallen flat on her face. Or, as flat as she could, considering her breasts would land first.

She knew what she was experiencing was normal. It wasn't like a mage in the Tower didn't know the basics about sex almost from the time they moved into the apprentice dormitory, although she had been slow to acquire the knowledge. It wasn't until she'd asked Joseph what a plonker was, after the Pepper Caper, that she realized how woefully inadequate her knowledge was. She'd immediately set about rectifying that lapse and now knew twenty-two words for plonker. However, knowing the basics and actually putting them into practice were not the same. At. All.

And it wasn't just the physical changes in her that got on her last nerve and rode it with willful glee. People were coming and going like the Tower was a tourist attraction of some kind. In the space of a week, three templars left for new assignments, and two new templars arrived to take their places, both newly affirmed and as innocent as babes in arms, according to Petra.

When Greagoir escorted the two new templars through the Tower, Joss had to agree with Petra's assessment. The one named Carroll was as eager and cheerful as one of the mabari pups in the Formari's kennels. Not that she had seen many puppies, but there had been two occasions when puppies had escaped and she'd helped search for them. Petra was sure, given the chance, Carroll would lick a mage rather than behead them.

"He's very chipper, isn't he?" Merrisoo said after meeting him, tittering behind her hand.

Joss thought that was a perfect way to describe him, and, within days of his arrival, he became known as Chipper. She liked him well enough, although she felt he was easily confused, which, she supposed, was not a bad thing in a guard if you wanted to get away with things.

Petra was smitten by the second recruit; a very shy young man named Cullen. She spent as much time tripping over her tongue as she did finding excuses to walk down the particular hallway he guarded. Joss agreed that he was cute enough, just not her type. He was, she commented, too sweet and a bit thick, like the cream Cook Killdare put on their tarts from time to time.

"Go ahead, Petra, k-k-k-iss – C-C-Cullen," Niall teased one night when they were all sitting on her bed, discussing various ways to torture the newest recruits.

Two weeks after the newest templar recruits arrived, a young elf mage arrived, and, with him, two very irate templars. They were the type of templars that Greagoir rarely tolerated in the Tower: cruel and harsh. Of course they would be, they were mage-hunters, after all. Happily, they were shown the door almost immediately.

Aneirin, the new mage, came with a giant chip on his shoulder and he immediately announced his dislike of humans. Dislike? Joss snorted. Despise, abhor and detest all seemed much more descriptive. Naturally, Irving decided that having a human mentor was a brilliant idea to help Aneirin adjust more quickly. There was a reason they called him the Worst Enchanter behind his back.

"What a blithering idiot! He assigned Wynne to mentor him. Why not just feed him to the demons and be done with it?" Niall snorted in disgust.

The worst change of all was the announcement that Uldred would mentor Owain in preparation for Owain's Harrowing. Joss was furious, flying into Greagoir's office and demanding he do something about it.

"Please, Ser Greagoir," Joss implored. Apparently her pride had failed to accompany her to his office because she could feel the hot wash of tears. Andraste's navel lint! Crying? She sniffled pitifully. "Enchanter Uldred is a horrible choice for a mentor."

"I'm sorry, Josslyn, I have no say over the mentor assignments," Greagoir said and the kindness in his voice was her undoing. She burst into hiccupping sobs, and Greagoir patted her shoulder.

"I'll talk to Irving but I doubt it will do any good," he finally added, once he could be heard over her noisy blubbering.

It didn't do any good. Owain spent two hours every morning with Uldred, and as the days passed, he became more and more withdrawn. At first it was so gradual that Joss didn't notice. He stopped offering her a reassuring smile when he went off to his lessons. Then, he stopped playing Spin the Gauntlet, which wasn't all that surprising since he didn't like answering personal questions. It wasn't until they were in the practice room and he didn't immediately kiss her that she began to put it all together.

"You won't fail your Harrowing, Owain. I'll help you with your spells," Joss promised, taking his hand and squeezing it.

His smile was little more than a grimace and Joss felt her insides begin to quake. "Owain, you're a good mage. You won't feed the demons," she added, her voice beginning to shake along with her stomach.

"You don't need me, Josslyn."

What, by the Maker's tight arse, did that have to do with anything? She squeezed his hand harder. "I do so need you!" she argued hotly.

His smile reminded her of Greagoir's smile the day they'd discovered old Phinneus had died. Joss squeezed his hand even harder and saw him wince. "Sorry," she added, but her hand refused to let go its death-grip on his.

Owain bent and touched her lips lightly with his and then shook his head. "Little Keili says magic is a curse, but it isn't a curse. Sometimes it's just a mistake, given to the wrong people."

Was he crazy? "Magic is the best gift in the world! It isn't a curse or a mistake," she argued, trying to sound as grown up as he did. She stomped her foot, because clearly that would show him just how adult she really was. Or not.

"Please, Owain," she heard herself beseech. Maker's widger! Her pride had obviously gone walkabout. "Please don't see magic as a mistake."

Owain's smile faded and he shook his head slightly. "I'm not like you, Josslyn Winifred Amell."

Well, of course he wasn't! And lucky for him too. He was sane and rational and maybe too calm at times, but he was Owain and had been her first friend and she loved him. Andraste's knockers, didn't he know that?

"I saw you talking with Belka and Methis. You want to become a Tranquil," she accused. "But you can't, Owain. I – I love you," she whispered.

Owain nodded solemnly, as if she'd just declared there was an attack on the Tower and he was the only one who could stop it. "That's why I haven't spoken with Ser Greagoir and First Enchanter Irving about the Rite yet."

Joss tried very hard to contain her sigh of relief but her insides were cavorting with joy. "Then don't. I'll help you, really."

He kissed her again, and she pressed herself tightly against him, so tightly that he staggered slightly. Maker, she ached for something more, but she wasn't sure what to do about it. He finally stepped back again, his cheeks scarlet. She realized that he ached for something more, too.

"Enough practice for one night," Ser Stoker announced, rapping sharply on the door.

Stupid templars with their stupid rules. Joss leaned up and kissed Owain and then marched out of the practice room, head held high, only to trip on the hem of her robe. Owain reached out a steadying hand.

"See, I do need you."

The talk helped for a time. But she saw the look in his eyes sometimes, as if he was trapped inside a prison. Not that the Tower wasn't, of a sort, but Joss knew somewhere deep inside that it was more than that, she just wasn't sure what to do about it because allowing him to become Tranquil wasn't the solution. It couldn't be.

One afternoon as she was working in the potions lab, Lucian Caravel came to sit beside her. "Do you know what becoming a Tranquil means to some mages?" he asked sternly.

She looked up from the vial and glared at him. "Don't know. Don't care."

He cocked his brow and shook his head, looking cold and disapproving, which didn't make Joss feel any better. At. All.

"Of course not. Too busy fighting the natural order of change."

Joss felt a creeping sensation in her blood, as if it was squirming inside her veins. She put her vial down and shrugged. "What does that mean?"

"It means, child, that change happens whether we like it or not, and the best way to deal with change is with a bit of dignity. Owain is demonstrating that quite nicely but you are behaving like a petulant, spoiled child."

Joss felt her mouth fall open and she snapped it closed so quickly her jaw popped. "I don't want him to become Tranquil," she said stubbornly. Maker's smelly socks! The old wanker was right. She sounded like a selfish prat. She wasn't happy with that knowledge, not one little bit.

"I suggest you stop wallowing and go talk to Belka or Feldryn."

She stalked off, nose in the air. She didn't need to talk to them because Owain wasn't going to become a Tranquil. Except that he was sitting in the library, staring at Tranquil Feldryn like Joss stared at sweetmeats. He wanted to be Tranquil. She backed out of the library before he could see her because her emotions were all jumbled and she'd just say the wrong thing if she talked to him.

Belka was sitting in a bright patch of light filtering down through a window set high in the wall, sewing. She looked up as Joss entered and set her sewing aside.

"Have you come for a fitting, Apprentice Josslyn?" she asked calmly.

Joss shook her head and sat down beside the woman. There was a serene expression in her eyes, a look she had rarely seen in Owain's eyes of late, now that she thought about it.

"I want to know why you became Tranquil," she blurted out.

"Do you know how the ocean sounds, rushing to the shore?"

Joss rolled her eyes. "I've never seen the ocean," she replied impatiently. What in Thedas did an ocean have to do with the Rite of Tranquility?

"Imagine a constant noise in your head, day in and day out, that clouds your thoughts and makes it impossible for you to concentrate," the woman said calmly.

Joss closed her eyes and tried to imagine it but she heard only the soft stirring of her magic, something she found calming. She shook her head.

"Wait here, Apprentice Josslyn," the woman said and rose, walking sedately out of the room.

A few moments later she returned, a large spiky shell in her hand. "Hold this to your ear until I tell you to stop," the Tranquil instructed in her calm voice.

Joss held the shell to her ear and heard a faint roaring sound, like the constant hum of the wind during a winter storm. After a few minutes, she began to feel irritable and soon she was wrestling with herself to keep the shell pressed to her ear.

"Now, remove the shell and tell me how removing it makes you feel."

Joss happily set the shell aside and felt her irritation begin to ease. "Calmer," she replied and the truth was like a punch to her stomach. "So you became Tranquil to stop the noise?"

"I became Tranquil so I could concentrate on something other than the noise in my head," Belka replied evenly. "For some, magic is a source of constant noise; such noise can drive a person to despair, or madness. It prevents us from doing tasks we find soothing, and, for some, it is worse than the constant whisper of demons. I chose to be made Tranquil because I knew I had talents to share with the world underneath all the noise. It was my choice."

"Do you ever wish you hadn't?"

"Not for one moment. I may not feel as you do, but I watch you and others with strong emotions and I do not think my decision was wrong. I gave up my ability to experience feelings, but I found peace. Is that not a worthy trade?" the older woman asked placidly.

Joss was unable to sleep that night. She stared into the dark, and, for the first and only time in her life, wished she had never come to the Tower. In the morning she went straight to Lucian Carvel.

"I hate you," she told him and then sat down to make a potion.

He didn't say anything to her which was lucky for him because she would have slapped him in the face with a blast of cold magic. Instead, he watched her, an eyebrow arched as she stirred the potion.

As she was leaving, he spoke. "Give your body time to adjust to the potion. A day or two won't matter."

"Hate," she muttered to him and stomped out.

The potion was vile tasting and made her faintly queasy, but she drank it every morning. Three days passed and still she said nothing. She watched Owain struggle each day and it was then that she noticed he wasn't even painting any more. He was drifting away from her, and from life, and it was all her fault because she was a coward. Maker's pointed beard, she hated growing up because everything changed, and not for the better.

Her opening came two days later when Aneirin decided Tower life wasn't for him and he ran away. Everything was chaotic. The senior templars were busy organizing search parties, and the senior mages were busy wringing their hands. Joss wasn't sure if she was grateful to Aneirin for the diversion or furious with him for forcing her hand. Either way, the time to act was upon her and she was too stubborn to back down.

After supper that night, she gathered her pillow and blanket and went to the practice room.

"What kind of spell requires those?" Chipper asked, shifting slightly on the balls of his feet.

"The kind where templars can get hurt if they barge in," she assured him, and he laughed nervously.

"Would you please, please promise not to bother us?" she added, giving him her best wide-eyed smile.

"Us?"

"Owain needs to practice, too," she answered and went to find Owain.

He was sitting at his desk and looked up at her with a half-hearted smile. "Josslyn, we need to talk," he began but she shook her head, pulling him out of his chair. Best do this while she had the nerve. If he gave her an argument, she'd fold like a neatly pressed bed-sheet.

"Sit down, Owain," she commanded once they were in the practice room. She pointed to the makeshift bed, thoroughly disgusted with her finger for shaking like a little old mage.

Owain obediently sat and she joined him, wishing the floor was just a bit softer. "I know you aren't painting anymore. Why?"

"I can't concentrate, Josslyn. I can't think sometimes. There is too much noise. Uldred is convinced it's only a matter of time before I give in to the demons because they promise peace and quiet."

"What? What kind of a mentor is he?" Joss yelled.

"It's not Uldred's fault that I lack the ability to concentrate," Owain reproved.

Lovely. Her planned seduction and capitulation was going wonderfully well. She sighed.

"Never mind that ugly old git. Just please, don't feed the demons, Owain. Promise me."

He nodded and they sat holding hands for a few minutes while Joss mentally went in search of her courage, which seemed to have stayed in the dormitory, no doubt hiding under her bunk.

"I talked to Belka the other day," she finally said.

"I know, she told me."

"Is it really what you want, Owain?" she asked and her voice went all quivery. She cleared her throat, waiting for him to reply.

"You are the only reason I don't want the Rite," he confessed quietly.

While that wasn't really a surprise to Joss, it made her feel as guilty as if she'd taken money out of the collection box that was in the chapel, which had always struck her as an odd place for it, considering mages had no money to speak of.

"I'd rather you were Tranquil and happy than feeding the demons, not that you'll actually be happy, but at least you wouldn't be unhappy anymore either," she said and then wanted to bite her tongue in half in the hopes that it stopped working. Couldn't she do anything right? "I mean…" she started again and then fell silent.

Owain took that moment to bring his lips to hers in a brief kiss.

"Are you sure, Josslyn Winifred Amell?"

Was she sure? Of course she wasn't sure! She had always carried around a ridiculous hope that he would become First Enchanter and she would be at his side, teaching Potions. She'd promised herself that he would be her first. She had dreamt of a life in the Tower with him by her side. Sure? The only thing she was sure of was that change stunk and dreams were for idiots.

"I'm sure," she lied and slapped a smile on her face. "But I want you to do something for me before you tell the Worst Enchanter," she added. A blush seemed to creep up from her toes to well past her nose as she explained what she hoped he would do with her.

Owain blinked. "Are you sure?" he asked when she was done humiliating herself. "You're only fourteen. I don't want you to regret it."

Again with that question? But at least this time when she said, "I'm sure," it wasn't a lie. The quiver in her voice had nothing to do with lies. At. All. Or rather a different type of lying. And her mind took her to an unexpected place that made her heart jump around in her chest like a frog at a fly festival. She reminded herself that in many parts of Thedas girls her age were already married and some were mothers as well. She did want it. She just didn't want it to be the only time, but she kept that to herself.

It hurt. A lot. And she was the clumsiest person in all of Thedas. But Owain approached it as he did everything else, with a gentle grace and dignity. When she whimpered the littlest bit at first, he cast a healing wave of magic over her, and, after that, it was very pleasant.

Owain was so intent on trying to be gentle and he was so earnest in his desire to do it correctly that she was sorrier than ever that he was going to become Tranquil. But he seemed much more peaceful. She wished she could be as gentle and she wished she knew what in the Void she was doing, but what she lacked in knowledge she tried to make up for in enthusiasm.

Afterwards, when she was staring up at the ceiling, wondering if her breath was ever going to catch up with her, she thought with a bit more practice they'd get the hang of it and would probably never leave the practice room again. The notion of practicing that in the practice room brought on a serious bout of giggles. When she explained why she was laughing, Owain chuckled.

"I'll miss your humor most of all," he whispered.

But he wouldn't, of course. There was a chance the Rite could strip away his memory, according to Greagoir. Even if he didn't lose his memory, he would forget the emotions associated with her, any joy he'd ever felt. She blinked back a rush of salty tears and turned away from him.

"Josslyn Winifred Amell. Do you know what Josslyn Winifred means?" Owain asked as they were gathering up the pillow and blanket.

"It probably means evil spawn," she said, trying very hard not to cry.

"It means light-hearted joy. I will remember," he vowed.

"From your lips to the Maker's ears," she replied thickly. "But even if you don't, Owain, I'll remember enough for the two of us," she added.

It took her a long time to fall asleep and in the morning he was gone, his bed stripped.

They had let her sleep in, probably to stop her from carrying on when he left. She slipped out of bed, stripped off her bedding and went to his bunk. Joseph found her struggling to make the bed and helped her without saying a word.

Joss wanted to find Owain but Greagoir explained that he had withstood the procedure quite well and was currently in the cavern under the Tower, working with the rune-crafters. Each new Tranquil became familiar with the Formari's business, to determine where they were most comfortable working. It would be several weeks before she'd see Owain, he explained. She suspected that it was as much to allow everyone an adjustment period as anything else, but she kept thought to herself.

The templars returned two weeks later, without Aneirin, but with a scruffy, lanky boy in tow.

Oh yay, Joss groaned inwardly. Another angry mage who would no doubt whine and pitch fits about every little rule and regulation. She took an immediate dislike to him.

"Who are you?" she demanded the minute he walked into the dormitory.

"Anders," he replied, giving her a glare.

"I didn't ask where you were from, I asked your name," she shot back.

"Anders," he repeated coldly.

Apparently, the King's tongue was foreign to him. "You're from the Anderfels, I get that, but what is your name?"

"What are you, a Tranquil?" the mage asked with a smirk.

Joss flew at him, fists pummeling his skinny chest, and, when that didn't wipe the smirk off his face, she blasted him with ice. In fact, his smirk seemed to be frozen to his face. She returned his smirk but before she could let loose with another spell, Greagoir was there, escorting her to Irving's office.

"It's good to know some things will never change," he remarked dryly.

~~~oOo~~~

She watched him from her hiding place in a little alcove. He seemed serene, dressed in the crisp brown robes of the Formari. He was standing at the entrance to the stockroom where the magical items were kept. She wanted to go to him and ask him how he was, but was afraid he had forgotten her in the month since he'd become Tranquil and she didn't know how she'd react to that, deciding she didn't want to know. Not yet.

Turning, she walked back to her dormitory. Sitting on her pillow was a small, flat parcel, wrapped in plain cloth and tied with a green ribbon. She picked it up and looked around to see that Niall, Petra and Joseph were all watching her, as if they expected her to break down. Anders, lounging on his bunk reading, glanced over at her.

"Some Tranquil brought it in while you were in the library."

The way he said Tranquil made her want to fry his scrawny arse but she was too intent on unwrapping the parcel to bother with him. And then she was sobbing like a complete nodcock.

The girl in the portrait was much too pretty to be her, but the coloring was right, and beside her was a tall, good-looking man with blue eyes and dark brown hair, wearing a gentle smile.

Underneath the painting were the words: "Light-hearted joy."