This is a (quite sad, really) little idea that struck me about the Tower; I'd been looking for a way to write it, then along came Florence + The Machine's "What The Water Gave Me" - hence the chapter title's quote. (Details like this are what make the mage origin so interesting to me.)

I'd say drowning is a trigger - so a small warning for mention of it.

Pockets Full Of Stones

Morgana

In the case of new apostates, the resourceful templar can use water to their advantage; due to the Towers, any swimming experience is unlikely, often making it a useful trap.

~Ser Trevor Hawthorne, "On Methods For the Capture Of Mages"

She wonders if she's pushing them too hard, but they have to get back to the Dalish; part of her wants to postpone it for as long as possible, is afraid of what they will say about Zathrian, but she knows that it's best to get it over with. She sighs at the thought. Night has fallen, all of them showing signs of fatigue from still walking, but no-one quite seems to have the nerve to ask to stop until they see a pool, the river ending, and she asks if they want to stock up their supplies. There are nods and sighs of relief.

She hears Alistair's sharp exhalation next to her a few minutes later; things don't quite make sense until that horrible tingling is in her head and down her spine too, the thrum of the taint growing louder in her blood. "Darkspawn," she announces, seeing her fellow Warden's curt nod. "Just what we need."

They draw their swords in unison, and look to each other in surprise at the sound; she hears Leliana's daggers and a muttered incantation from Morrigan behind her.

Then the darkspawn are upon them, screeching and laughing in gargling corrupted voices. Once, they would have terrified her, and really, they still do - but she is a Grey Warden, she reminds herself, locking fear away in a box somewhere inside her. Having her friends by her side helps, too.

She isn't sure quite how it happens, only that a hurlock finds its way past her guard one time too many, one step too close to the water, and she's falling.

She hears a shout as she enters the water with a splash, icy coldness hitting her. Then darkness overtakes her, and all she can hear and see is the press of the water around her, grabbing at her hair and trailing it in front of her. She closes her eyes as it buffets at them. Rational thought is wiped away by panic; she's never swum in her life, always keeping to the shallows for bathing - she feels herself beginning to sink, her lungs starting to burn, and desperately kicks, scrabbling through the water's resistance, movements awkward in armour which she knows is weighing her down, but it makes no difference. Still she falls.

Her thoughts turn simple, childlike and desperate, as she fights not to open her mouth, not to let the beast holding her as she struggles and kicks in. Cold. Dark. Not like this. Not like this.

She drifts slowly in her own personal darkness, the water's shock dulling, breath bursting for release, and she finally loses the fight; Just one breath... She opens her mouth, and it's in her throat, terror returning even stronger than before.

She nearly misses the second splash close in the water, but then she's being pulled up, away, and she clings tightly to her rescuer by sheer instinct - the only solid thing she can hold.

They break the surface, Alistair with a desperate inhalation, her coughing and spluttering out the unwelcome water in her mouth until she can breathe again, limp in his arms, the sudden breeze cold on her soaked skin. He holds her like he's afraid to let go. Maybe he is, she realises abruptly. "Never... do that to me... again," he gasps, voice close to her ear, and something flutters in her involuntarily at his words. She opens her eyes to be greeted by the sight of him, hair plastered to his forehead and water dripping off his nose, still trying to recover his breath as he begins to wade further towards dry land, away from the spot she fell in.

It occurs to her what he's doing; she coughs once more before she can speak, in a similar state, and places a finger under his chin. "You're... stronger than you look."

He inhales sharply in surprise at her touch, then smiles, glancing down at her. "Templar and Chantry training, remember?" There's a pause before he adds, "Besides, you're not exactly an ogre. Though Maker, armour is heavy."

"Not exactly?" she teases quietly, though suddenly the "beautiful" comment comes back to her, and she refuses to allow her cheeks to colour. She should really be getting back to her feet and saving him the trouble of doing this, but everything seems so overwhelming - the water, their fatigue... She sighs, falling silent, shutting her eyes and finding herself settling closer to him, seeking his warmth. His breathing and the splashes of his steps are the only sounds around her, and they are more than enough.

There's a jolt as they reach hard ground, and, eyes still shut, she hears rather than sees Leliana rush over to them, muttering worried exclamations, a few in Orlesian.

"She cannot swim?" asks Morrigan in surprise.

"None of them can," he replies shortly. "Part of being shut up in a Tower. 'Water is one of the resourceful templar's best weapons,'" he paraphrases, voice bitter and repulsed.

Even those of them occasionally let into the grounds on jobs were kept well away from the lake, she agrees silently and sleepily.

"Is she - ?" the witch asks, surprising worry in her voice.

"She seems all right," he says quietly, his usual animosity towards Morrigan gone, "but I'll keep an eye on her."

Much as she tries to cling to it, consciousness is fast slipping from her, and she's barely aware of being gently lowered to the ground.