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THE TEMPLARS HAD escorted him back to his chambers. He did not remember which ones, only that when their clawed hands reached out for him he had screamed. Then they had purged him- though he was too weak to summon even a magelight- and his vision had gone black around the edges. Though the emptying of his already hollow body had tore painfully through him, he was glad for the black out. This way, he needn’t see anyone on his way back to his quarters; This way, he need not deal with the stares, the whispers, the conversations he was not ready to have.
He awoke in the mages quarters. The room contained one large bed and the usual dresser and desk, large enough to hold three of his solitary cells in one space. Apparently, the Circle thought he deserved a single to himself after a year of nothing but blank 7 x 7 walls. He sat up, heart pounding against his chest, pulse screaming in his ears. There were murmurs outside his door, shuffling of feet and the irritating scrape of armour. Templars, probably plotting, planning, whispering about the ways they could hurt him. Had they dragged him out too early? Had it only been a year? Perhaps they decided he should go back in longer. His lips began quivering, his shaking hands curled up forcefully in the sheets surrounding him. He fought down the bile in his throat, suffocated it, along with the urge to light the room on fire.
The wooden door scrapped along the floor and Anders met the sad eyes of First Enchanter Irving.
”My sweet child-“
It was so loud. So loud and confusing, every syllable scraping against the sensitive parts of his ears, in his brain- too much, too much.
The younger mage howled. “Stop. Be quiet.”
The First Enchanter choked on his words. Pain filled his face. “I don’t expect to be forgiven, Anders. I tried my hardest to stop them, to convince them this would do nothing for you, but at the end of the day I’m still but a mage to them-“
Scraping, screeching, the words clawed at his brain. What was he saying? It was so far away, and then it was so close, inside his head. Hot tears burned down the mage’s face, and he pulled harshly at the hair on his head. “Shut up, just shut up!”
Irving sighed, leaving a tray of food on the table beside Anders. He turned on his heel, leaving as quickly as the Templars had came on that fateful day one year ago.
The finality of the door shutting reverberated in his mind. Click. His shaky vision focused in on the wooden entrance, and in seconds he was stumbling towards it. Short of breath and desperate, he clawed at the handle, fingers about as useful as a cat’s paws. He finally tore it open, and Anders faced an empty hallway.
He crumbled to his knees, and a sob wrenched from his chest.
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Anders didn’t go to the mess hall. He didn’t go to classes. He sat in his dorms, huddled in a pile of blankets, talking to himself beneath shaking breaths. Every so often, he would jump up and throw open the door, just to make sure he could. He picked at the skin on his fingers until they all bled. A Templar would bring him food sometimes, although not at the same time every day. He forgot to eat when they didn’t. He yearned to see the sun, but when he thought about asking someone to bring him outside, the shakes overcame him.
He began writing; what exactly, he wasn’t sure. It began as a way to voice his anger, a way to yell without opening his cracked lips. He scrawled stories across his paper, atrocities he had witnessed or been submitted to for the past decade. He wrote about the distorted hierarchy of the Circle, the oppression of mages under Templar and Chantry rule. He poured over the Chant of Light, interpreting every line he could relate to mages and the right to freedom.
He could only do this in small increments, though, until the darkness crept up in his mind. The silence eroded away at him, eating his insides. He heard every step of the other mages a floor above, every echo of laughter from the apprentices below. The noises scraped at his mind and he learned after the first three times that yelling only brought Templars and the sudden blast of a purge. Why couldn’t they just be quiet? What were they trying to do to him? He had never exactly made friends in the Circle, but he didn’t think they would be in league with the Templars. The noises bit at the edges of his sanity and he began hating them all for it. He wanted the sun on his skin. He wanted to run. He wanted to be away from them all.
The first time he thought of escaping, he broke into tears. The physical affect it had on his body frightened him. He could feel the walls closing in on him, could feel the lack of air the cells beneath Kinloch Hold. He pulled at his hair and curled into a ball, trying to stop the convulsions in his chest. He closed his eyes tightly and murmured affirmations to himself. “This isn’t real. You’re safe. You’re a mage in the Circle and you’re safe.”
As safe as a mage can be in the Circle. He shoved the voice away.
Days passed. Weeks?
What was time to someone who had lost a year?
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Mr. Wiggums still visited him. He wasn’t sure how the cat managed to get around the Tower without being caught. Perhaps he was a demon. At this point, Anders didn’t care.
No, the voice shouted. You’ll not become what they expect of you.
The cat purred quietly on his lap, the only noise the he could bear to listen to. His stomach growled, and he dimly wondered when the last time that Templar apprentice had come by was. He bit the skin of his thumb and stared at the door in the darkness.
A soft inhale of breath alerted him to a presence outside. He hadn’t heard the intruders steps- perhaps it was a rogue, an assassin sent in the dead of night to take out the ‘problematic mage.’ Anders heart raced in his chest, blood screaming through his veins. He slid off the bed towards the side furthest from the door, while Mr. Wiggums pounced towards the wooden frame happily. The blond crawled beside the bed, hands searching frantically for anything to defend himself with; If he tried to use magic, the Templars would blame him for antagonizing the assassin. He settled on The Chant of Light, and edged around the corner to hide behind the wall.
The door creaked slowly beside him, and his pulse pounded erratically in his ears. For a moment, he considered letting the assassin kill him. He thought about the bliss he would find in forgetting. The Templars could never touch him, never lock him away, if he were gone to the Void. He closed his eyes and sucked in a ragged breath. I will never give them that satisfaction. I will die fighting.
The assassin stepped into the room, their movements slow and hesitant. When Anders saw the toes stepping out hesitantly past his field of view, he lunged, swinging the book with the full force his weak muscles could muster.
”Fenedhis!” The assassin grabbed his forearms, only managing to alter Anders’ course slightly. The book still smashed against their head, though gentled was the blast. They tumbled down together, the blond near foaming at the mouth. “Anders!”
The voice was fierce, but the lilting, silvery quality to it made him stop struggling. He sat straight up, throat tight, and looked at her for the first time in a year.
Offended blue eyes glowed in the dark, in that eerie elven way that had always unnerved Anders. The silky white hair was mussed up from their fight, but it was no doubt her. “Rae.”
The name came out as the whisper of a breath. When was the last time he had spoke? He wasn’t sure. The she-elf’s hands rose to her mouth. “Creators, Anders- you- you look horrible.”
He pushed himself backwards, breath ragged. It had been months since he had dreamed of her, since he had imagined her touch on his in the depths of that solitary hell. “You’re not real?”
Was it a question? He wasn’t sure. His vision shook, blurring at the edges, and he backed up against the bed.
Rae’s hands still covered her mouth, her eyes wet and wide. “What did they do to you?” Tears spilled from her eyes, and Anders dimly noted this was the first time he had seen her cry. Perhaps… perhaps it was real after all? One of her palms reached out, gently, a question waiting for him to answer. “Anders.”
He stared at the proffered hand. Smooth palms, manicured nails, but the idea frightened him. When had he last been touched? He was crying again, and the shaking was taking over him. Awkwardly, he fell forward, seeking comfort but unable to voice it.
Rae’s arms encircled him, foreign yet so familiar. The queen of cold, he used to call her, all ice and hard edges; she touched him now and burned, skin warm and soft, so different from the cold ground of his cell. She held him close as he shook in her embrace. “What did they do to you?”
She repeated the question and it left an empty feeling in his chest. Nothing, he wanted to say. They did nothing, said nothing, gave me nothing. I was nothing.
Instead, he cried in the nook of her shoulder and neck, eyes burning and nose dripping. She held him closer, stroking her fingers through his ruined hair, murmuring sweet words against his forehead. The shaking calmed and he sat up, realizing he had thrown himself across her lap. The touch of another was strange, but he missed it. He missed her.
He met her gaze, but dropped it when he saw the emotions there. Staring at their entwined hands, he let out a long sigh. “I don’t think I can talk about it.”
Her soft palm slipped up his neck, cradling his jaw. Her breath so close to him tickled his cheek, and he remembered dimly all the times they had been this close. How long had it been? Her gentle nudge beneath his chin guided his eyes back to her own. Her brows were furrowed, jaw stuck out in the defiance he was more accustomed to seeing. Tears slipped from her eyes, but they were filled with a fury that would rival any Templars’. “I’ll kill them, Anders. Every last one.”