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They chained him to the hitching post outside the tavern, heading inside to the light and the warmth and leaving him to sit in the mud. Granted, the last week had rapidly lowered his definition of luxury, or even ‘acceptable standards of living’, and so he made an effort to focus on how nice it was to have something to lean against, rather than think about how desperately he’d like to have a bath, or have somewhere to sleep rather than the ground, or eat something besides sparesely portioned travel rations.
Something like the shepherd’s pie his mother would make, singing softly to herself as she chopped vegetables at the table. She was quiet, to not disturb his father in the other room, so he would need to sit close in order to hear her. Usually he would help her, peeling potatoes or slicing carrots and lending his own voice to her music when he knew the words. She would always smile at that, a genuine smile that he felt he might be the only one to ever see, and -
No, no. It was best not to think of his mother.
But he couldn’t help it, not entirely, as he glanced down at the pillow still held safely in his hands. He could sit on it, give his backside some reprieve from the unforgiving ground, but he didn’t want to get it dirty. He ran a thumb along the lovingly placed stitches that made up the yellow sun, the symbol of the chantry, the reason he was there in the first place.
His eyes moved from the embroidery to the shackles around his wrists. They had started to rub his skin raw days ago and at this point his arms nearly felt numb, which he supposed was better than the pain. They were thick and heavy, almost humorlessly so when the person they were holding prisoner was just a skinny twelve year old kid. But they were also covered in runes he had no hope of knowing how to decipher. He didn’t even know how to read the common tongue, never mind ancient symbols used to keep magic at bay.
Magic.
He hated the word, even in his head.
He needed to think of something else, so he busied himself taking in the surroundings of the town. It seemed quite small - though not as small as his own - and everyone seemed to know each other. People nodded greetings and exchanged pleasantries as they crossed paths in the street, and the only shopkeep within earshot seemed just as interested in knowing the wellbeing of each customer and their mother as he was with selling them any goods.
But just as the locals all seemed to know one another, so did they know he was very much not of their town. No one would meet his gaze as they passed by, instead turning their heads and quickening their pace. In a couple instances, usually young children or older folk, they even crossed the street entirely when they saw him and passed with as much distance as possible between them. That turned out to be the preferable option, when shortly afterwards someone else hurrying by thought it necessary to spit at him for good measure. A couple times someone’s boot even met his side or his leg, but he just decided to write those off as accidents. He was sitting on the street, after all.
Of course, he knew it was not at all because he was an outsider. It was who he was...what he was.
It was still ridiculous. What did they think he would do? He doubted he would have been able to walk another mile that day, never mind turn someone into a frog.
Or maybe a bread roll. He might do that if he could.
Maker, he was hungry.
The long afternoon slowly crept on, and eventually the people busy in the street slowly began to thin out. Almost a shame, he had less people to watch to pass the time. Almost, because he had decided hours ago boredom was the preferred alternative to being pointedly ignored or hated.
He watched a family make their way slowly down the opposite end of the street. Well, the parents moved slowly, walking hand in hand despite the fact they were each holding a swaddled bundle of cloth in their free arms. The father had another child perched on top of his shoulders, long black hair braided into twin plaits, intently watching her other siblings chase each other in circles around their parents even as they kept walking. A boy, perhaps a few years older than he was, barely needing to run to keep away from another girl who looked strikingly similar to the first. She followed her brother with a stubborn determination, waving a stick in his direction even as he laughed and continued to keep a few steps ahead.
He wondered, fleetingly, what it might be like to have siblings. He had always thought it would be nice, but maybe it was for the best that it had never happened now. One less person for him to miss.
They eventually arrived at the shop across the street, and the father passed off the sleeping baby he had been holding up to the girl on his shoulders before lifting her down to the ground in one quick and steady movement. He moved to join his wife at the storefront, who was speaking even as she browsed the products laid out on the tables. “Honestly, Garrett, I don’t know why you provoke her.”
“I don’t know a Garrett, I’m a dragon.” The boy had stopped jogging to reply to his mother, and it was enough time for his sister to catch up and smack him determinedly in the shin with her stick.
He laughed quietly at that, he couldn’t help it, but not quietly enough. The brother and sister both heard him, and his heart sank as the stick was pointed in his general direction instead. “Who’s that?”
Three more heads turned in his direction at her question, and he dropped his gaze immediately, instead opting for only pulling his thin coat closer around his shoulders and turning away slightly. He was entirely not in the mood for any more attention today, not from stupid little kids or their parents.
But he didn’t receive any. No kicks, no muttered swears, he wasn’t even made into the children’s lesson of the day with any ‘magic is a sin in the eyes of the Maker’ lectures. He didn’t hear any follow up comments at all. He spared a quick glance back their way after a moment, just in time to see the father gently pushing the girl with the stick through the shop’s open doorway. The rest of the family must have already been inside. The man turned to look back at him once more, something unreadable in his expression, before he too disappeared inside the building.
Well. It was probably the best outcome he could have hoped for.
When the family left the shop a few minutes later, the three oldest seemed to be making a point of not looking in his direction. The boy was holding one of his baby siblings, the mother still had the other, and the father had a little girl holding each of his hands. The girls still didn’t bother to hide their stares, probably too young to know any better. Once he was sure neither of the parents were about to glance around and notice him again, he stuck his tongue out at them. One of the girls frowned, but the other laughed even as the family turned a corner and disappeared from view.
It took another few hours for evening to finally fall over the small village, but it took several more for him to understand the templars really weren’t coming back out to get him that night. He could hear music coming from the tavern now, upbeat and joined by bouts of laughter and entirely mocking his misery.
He must have dozed off somehow, eventually, because when he was startled awake by a hand on his shoulder, it was nearly pitch black out in the street. It was a little disorienting, why would the templars want to leave in the middle of the night? But he quickly realised it was not, in fact, a templar. It was someone else kneeling in front of him, the hood over their head obscuring most of their features from the dim light provided by a small torch in their hand - and the disorientation changed to bewilderment.
He did his best to push himself backwards, away from this new mystery threat, but he didn’t get far with his back already resting against the hitching post. “I don’t - I don’t have any coins or nothing, mister.”
The figure chuckled quietly, but it didn’t sound at all threatening. They pulled their hand back, used it to pull the hood down after one final check to be sure the street was still empty, and the face that was revealed was surprisingly familiar. Dark hair, naturally tanned skin, and somehow, a grin in place as he held out a small cloth bag and a larger bundle of fabric. “This is for you.”
He stared at the man, the one from earlier with the wife and too many children, not making any attempt to reach for the offering. “Why?”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m...you know.” He looked down at the shackles but made little effort in raising his arms. They felt heavier all the time.
“I know. Please take it, you’re half frozen already.” The man held out the fabric more persistently, let it unroll from his hand to show it was a coat, obviously well-worn but also well cared for. “It belonged to my son, he’s bigger than you but it’s better than what you have now.”
He hesitated a moment longer, still rather convinced it was some sort of trick, or trap, or test - something, because no one would be so kind to him, not anymore - but when the man made no move other than to reach into the bag and add a large chunk of bread to the gift, his resistance crumbled.
When he made to reach out, the chains locked to his arms slowing his movement, the man moved further to meet him halfway. The food was gently placed in his hand, and the coat unfolded as the man gestured towards him again. “Can I help you with this?”
Soon enough, he was sitting more easily with a small pile of food on his lap and the coat settled snugly around his shoulders - he wasn’t able to use the sleeves with his shackles still firmly locked, but the extra warmth was much appreciated all the same. The man had nodded with another grin, apparently happy with the outcome, and then rather than up and disappearing had instead sit down beside him. He’d tensed up at first, he couldn’t help it, but when the man made no other moves, instead just looked up at the stars in the sky with a smile still playing on his face, he slowly relaxed again and turned back to his meal.
“What happened?” The man asked after a few more minutes of silence, leaning back more comfortably against the other post and not seeming to mind one bit that his coat and trousers were being soaked through with mud.
He stopped chewing, looked down at the apple in his hand and no longer felt hungry as memories came back to him unbidden. But he supposed he could tell this man, with a quick smile and comforting presence, who didn’t seem to mind he was a...what he was.
“The barn caught fire. It was my fault.”
“Didn’t just kick the lantern over, I imagine.”
He scoffed at that. “I don’t think the templars arrest people for being clumsy.”
“So how did you do it then?”
“How do you think?”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure I know. I just want to hear you say it.”
He frowned then, couldn’t find the words proper to explain that he wouldn’t, that he couldn’t, but as it turned out he didn’t need to.
“Magic is nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a gift, and if harnessed and used properly, it can be used for far more good than all the bad that’s drilled into our heads at the weekly chantry services.”
At first he thought he’d misheard, he must have, and he glanced up at the man. He was still smiling, but there was also a seriousness in his eyes. And sincerity.
“How would you know?”
Whatever he had been expecting, it was not for the man to raise a hand, palm up, and have a small flame ignite from nothing directly above it. He winced, he couldn’t help it, memories of sparks flying from his fingertips, and then his mother crying and his father staring silently as they all watched the building burn to the ground.
And yet...
This wasn’t the same. The flame was bright, but small and controlled, and gave off the slightest warmth. He watched it for a moment, before realizing what that meant and staring at the man with renewed awe and still a little apprehension. “You’re...one of them?”
The man closed his hand into a fist and the flame went out. “A mage, yes. Just like you.”
“No, not like me.” He thought of the countless sermons in the chantry he had attended, as far back as he could remember. He thought of the words and phrases used to describe the magisters, the fear in the voices of the sisters who spoke of the evil of magic, of those who used it outside of the circles. “You’re an apostate.”
The man grinned. “Yes, I suppose I am. But that seems a loaded term. Have I caused any harm?”
“It’s hard to say, I only met you ten minutes ago.”
At that the man laughed again quietly. “You’d get on splendidly with my children. Smartasses, all of you. How about this, then - are you afraid of me?”
He thought again then, for a moment. Was he? Had he not lived his entire life up to this moment being taught that magic and those who used it were to be feared, avoided, hated even? That they may be possessed at any moment, unleash things even worse from the fade into their side of the veil?
But here was this man, this mage, this apostate. The only one who had shown him any kindness at all since he was dragged away from his home. Who gave him food and warm clothes rather than dirty looks and kicks to the side. Who seemed to see him as still human, still worthy of respect and basic human decency.
So no, he wasn’t afraid of this man. And that revelation surprised him nearly as much as the words that left his mouth next.
“Could you teach me, then? I don’t need to go to the Circle.”
The smile slipped from the man’s face then, only a little and only for a moment, but long enough to show that he might not actually be so confident, so sure of himself. Maybe it was just a show he was putting on after all. But it was back almost immediately, perhaps a little more reassuring and a little less amused, but back all the same. The man placed a hand on his arm, large and warm, and gave a small comforting squeeze. He didn’t wince this time.
“You should go to the Circle. It’s not right, and it’s not fair, but it’s still the best education you can hope to get. Go to the Circle and learn to be the best you can be.”
The irony wasn’t lost on him. “But you -”
“Go to the Circle. That doesn’t mean you need to stay.”
He frowned, then. “Will they really let me leave?”
The man shrugged slowly. “Well...not likely, and not exactly. And maybe you’ll enjoy it there, maybe you won’t want to leave. I’ve known mages like that, and if that life suits them, so be it. But you’re old enough to know and remember life outside of the Circles, to know what’s been taken away from you. If you decide to leave, you’ll find a way. You could do much more good with your magic out here anyway.”
He wasn’t sure how interested he was in doing good - what did he owe anyone else? At this point, he would choose simply choose freedom over the Circle if only for the chance to stay with his mother -
“I wouldn’t be able to see her again.”
“Your family?”
“They told my mother she’d be imprisoned if she ever came asking about me.”
The hand on his arm tightens again. “I’m sorry.”
And somehow it’s those words - not the clothes, or the food, or the company - just those two small words of understanding sympathy, that suddenly break the dam he hadn’t realised he’d been holding back with sheer denial and stubbornness alone.
The tears started before he could even fully comprehend what was happening, the sobs shaking his thin and exhausted frame even as the man released his grip on his arm, instead opting for sliding over a bit closer and slowly, carefully, wrapping an arm around his shoulders instead. When he didn’t resist, instead leaned into him before he could think about it, the man embraced him fully, a solid presence that did nothing but hold him tightly even as he sobbed into his chest.
It wasn’t like his mother’s comfort, nothing ever would be, but it was still more than he had ever expected to receive again, and he wanted to hold onto it as long as he could. Slowly, eventually, his tears stopped but he made no attempt to leave the man’s hold, and the man didn’t relax his grip in the slightest. Not for another few minutes, not until he was the one to finally pull away from the firm grasp.
He figured he should probably be embarrassed, or apologise, but all he felt now was near overwhelming exhaustion and some sort of numb acceptance.
The man still had one arm around him, allowed him to lean heavily into his side. “It won’t be easy,” he said after a time. “The Circles are an injustice, and I know you probably feel you’ve been shunned or abandoned by the Maker and the rest of the world. But if magic is a sin, why would the Maker allow us to be born with it?”
“The Maker has a shit sense of humour, I think,” he yawned, shrugged, knew it was something he’d ponder later when he wasn’t to close to sleep.
The man chuckled. “I won’t deny that. But you’ll be alright. Go and and learn. And then stay if you want, or leave. You’ve got some extra hurdles now, but it’s still your life to do with as you please.”
It was the last thing he heard before sleep finally pulled him under, warm and full and feeling entirely safe for the first time since he'd been forced to leave his home and his mother behind.
And when he woke again several hours later, the sun barely cresting the hills in the distance, alone again but still with an extra coat and another small bundle of food tucked beside him, he realised it was the best sleep he’d had in days.
They left the village not long after that. The two templars on horseback walking ahead of him seemed to have enjoyed a little too much of the drink and the company the night before, and didn’t even seem to notice his new coat.
Well, it was that or they simply didn’t care. Either way, he kept the bag of food hidden within the fabric, not at all interested in sharing with the knights.
The horses were moving slowly enough that he could keep up with relative ease, and after a few hours he risked a question, one of few he’d asked since the first day nearly a week prior. Surprisingly, it was also the first he received a straightforward answer to.
“How much further to Kinloch Hold?”
“About four more days.” The one on the left answered, not bothering to turn around in his saddle but speaking loud enough for him to hear.
He knew he’d be pushing his luck, but he went ahead anyway. “And how long until I’ll be able to leave again?”
They glanced at each other at that, silent for half a moment before laughing, cruel and mocking and so much unlike the man he had spoken with only hours before.
“You won’t be leaving, you stupid kid. The King of Ferelden himself couldn’t get you out of that tower once you’re in.”
But he thought of the man in the town now miles behind them, with a trade and a family and a life despite the hand the Maker dealt him. He thought of the small flame in the palm of his hand, not uncontrollable and terrifying, but warm and comforting, and maybe even beautiful when there was no reason to fear it, and he smiled.
“We’ll see.”