Chapter Text
Nys Surana doesn’t remember life before the Circle tower.
Only small flashes of memory or a strange sense of familiarity at the most innocuous things – the scent of spices in the tower kitchen, the sound of rain, the feeling of someone’s hands running through her hair. Simple things, everyday things that surely everyone’s mother or father did, said, made. Only Nys can’t remember her mother or father. All she knows of them is what the chantry sisters told her when she was a child, freshly arrived at Kinloch Hold, a large, high white stone tower and home of Ferelden’s Circle of Magi.
“Your father was from the Denerim alienage, and your mother was Dalish,” was all they said to her, all they could say. The templars keep scant records of a mage’s life before the Circle, unless they are a child of some noble. A poor elf family in the Denerim alienage were of no consequence to the Templars, except for the danger their young daughter and her newly revealed magic posed to the souls of the good men and women of Ferelden.
Nys spent many nights as a child wondering of her parents. Her father, an elf in the alienage, who somehow convinced her Dalish mother to stay in the filthy city. Why did her mother leave her clan? If she had stayed, if Nys’ father had joined her mother instead, maybe she would be living free in the Brecillian Forest with her people, her parents, and not looking down on Lake Calenhad from a height only the hawks should know.
“What are their names?” She asked the chantry sisters, desperate for any scrap of information at all.
“Oh, child,” the sisters replied piteously, “We don’t know. The templars did not record them when they brought you to us.” They can record where they stole me from, but not my family name? Nys thought, a dull ache and rage taking root in her young heart. What’s a poor elf family to a templar, she thought bitterly.
The bitterness never fades. Not that she could ever hope to see them again, what with years of schooling left until First Enchanter Irving will begin to consider her ready for her Harrowing. Even if she does pass, the opportunity to leave the tower is rare, and reserved for only the most knowledgeable and senior mages, and to go so far as Denerim… even if her parents are still alive, all she can do is study and avoid the gazes of the templars who watch her, and every mage in the tower, at all times.
***
Years pass.
Nys grows from girl to woman, all the while successfully avoiding as much contact with the templars as she can.
Until, in the autumn of her nineteenth year, a young man comes to the tower: a newly knighted templar with kind eyes and a nervous air to him. Her natural aversion to his kind prevents her from speaking to him, but she catches his eye a few times across the sprawling library his first week in the tower.
At her private lesson later that week, Nys asks First Enchanter Irving who the new templar is. She tries to use the most casual tone she can muster, as though she were asking after the weather, hoping Irving does not question too closely her newfound interest in templars of all things.
“His name is Rutherford. Comes from Honnleath, I believe. He was knighted just before he arrived to the tower. He seems a fine sort of fellow, mild of manner. It is good for a young man to join us.” Irving continues with his reading, not suspicious of her question. Nys breathes a small sigh of relief.
Rutherford is a rarity among the templars of Ferelden’s Circle: he is young, and kind. Nys has grown up among the likes of Greagoir, the crotchety Knight Commander. He has been the Knight Commander for almost as long as Nys can remember, just as Irving has been First Enchanter. The templars he commands are shining examples of their order; devout, cold, distrusting. Every one has been easy for Nys to avoid for they avoid her in turn, as though they might be infected with the curse of magic if they are too near.
Nys learns from the other young women in the apprentice dormitory that Rutherford’s given name is Cullen, spoken in tittering voices and giggles. He becomes the talk of the dormitory for many weeks afterwards, in hushed tones the girls speak of him as Nys reads before bed or combs her hair and plaits it for sleep.
Did you see Cullen in the templar training yard this morning? How well he swings his sword! Yes, the sweat from his brow, his strong arms… Cullen wished me good day in the hall near the class rooms! Oh how lucky you are Arinna, if only he would pay attention to me. On and on it went nightly like clockwork as the girls ready themselves for bed.
One night, Arinna, the daughter of some Denerim noble whose father and mother still wanted her as their daughter, comes to Nys’ small corner of the dormitory floor and sits on her bed without invitation, followed by the usual entourage of human girls who held on her every word. They make a wall of humans pressing much too closely for comfort.
“Has Cullen spoken to you, Nys?” Arinna asks, a grin on her face that doesn’t reach her eyes. The other girls giggle behind her. Nys remains silent and looks them all over. She knows them well through observation only; they would have nothing truly to do with an elf save to make themselves feel better in some mean way.
“Well, has he?” Arinna pushes.
“No.” Nys goes back to reading the book she took from Irving’s personal library earlier in the day during their lesson time. She needs to finish it and write a report before her next lesson.
The girls begin their giggling again, but it lacks any friendly mirth. Arinna lets out a scoff as if she knew the answer all along.
“Of course he hasn’t, what would a templar like him want with some orphan elf from the alienage?” She laughs then, knowing what to say to irritate and barb. The dark look in her eyes is full of enough disdain to cause Nys’ stomach to turn in equal parts rage and fear. If she were anywhere in Ferelden but the Circle tower, under the dutiful and caring watch of First Enchanter Irving, these human girls could do as they liked to her. The thought always causes her hands to go cold and her blood to race.
“I’m not an orphan. As you well know.” Nys replies dryly, the grip she has on the book tightening slightly. The human girls all know she never knew her parents, but that does not mean she does not have any.
“Then what were your parents’ names? Hm?” Arinna’s ceaseless questions that stick in Nys’ side right where she wants them to has been a familiar game since they were both young. Nys tries her best to hold her tongue, to not give the satisfaction of getting a rise out of her, but Arinna seems to wait just long enough between harassments to make Nys grit her teeth in tightly controlled anger.
Nys shuts her book tightly, throws her legs over the side of the bed to put on her boots, and stands, walking quickly away with her book held in a vice grip at her side. The idiotic giggling follows her out of her own room, along with the taunting voice of their leader saying “Poor thing, to be an orphan and from an alienage! Who wants to bet her parents died long ago!” Hot rage courses through her whole body as Nys flees the dormitory; she has tried in the past to get them to leave her, but the humans are steadfast in their occupation of her space no matter what she says. Her only option is to leave until they all eventually have their fun and go to sleep.
The long stone halls of the tower are dark now, most of the lanterns and fires put out in the common areas for the night, and the templars have begun the night watch. Nys uses her usual night-time route through the darkened halls that the templars usually leave relatively unguarded. The chill of winter is finally arriving on Lake Calenhad, and she clutches her shawl tightly around her body until she can reach the fireplace she knows is still lit in the library.
Irving gave her special permission to be in the library after hours years ago, after she had finally had enough and told him of what Arinna and the others had said to her.
“I say nothing to them, Irving! I do nothing! I keep wholly to myself and yet they pester me always with questions of my parents, of the alienage, of my ears, for the love of the Maker!” Nys nearly shouted. She did not like to raise her voice, especially around Irving, but the feelings she had kept inside were starting to spill from her against her control. “I want nothing to do with them, their stares and their words and their whispers when they think I cannot see or hear them. I cannot control who I am, what I was born to be! I cannot help that my mother and father didn’t take me to the Brecillian to be free among their people, or that the templars took me from them and did not even care enough to leave their names to me!” Her voice finally broke. “How lucky they are that their parents love them still.”
Irving sat silently, gazing hard into Nys’ face with concerned eyes. He was almost as a father to her, and he tried to fill the large hole left in her heart the best he could. While many of the mages in the Circle were taken from their families as children as chantry law dictates, Nys was one of the only elves in the tower.
“My child, I will talk to the other Enchanters of this.” He gripped her shoulder, his usual gesture of reassurance. “You are one of my most promising students, Nys. You will rise above them in time, in your own way.” He smiled at her, the deep lines of his aging face creasing around his eyes and mouth, “and if you were my daughter, I should be very proud of you, indeed.”
That was the day he called the Knight Commander into his office and told him of the special permissions granted to Nys: She would be allowed to walk the halls of the tower past the beginning of the night watch if she was headed to the library or to Irving himself. That was more freedom than any other apprentice mage had been allowed.
“They are for her safety, Greagoir!” Irving said, hand outstretched in a silent plead.
“Why should we treat this one mage as special?” Greagoir scoffed, his usual demeanor angering Nys even more than usual as she kept her eyes fixed on him from behind Irving’s shoulder. “They are merely words, First Enchanter.”
Irving brought his hand to his face to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Greagoir, listen to me. Nys is a bright girl, she has a sound head on her shoulders. She is receiving this permission from myself not as a reward, or as a boon as you may think, but for the peace she deserves as a student of the Circle, as my student. Her treatment by Arinna and the other girls in her dormitory is unacceptable, and unless you and your templars will put a stop to it, I will do what I must to ensure her education and her safety.” Irving says, with an air of finality that stuns the Knight Commander.
“...Fine, Irving. It will be as you will. You,” he said and stared at Nys for a long moment, “do not let me catch you crossing the line graciously extended well before you by the First Enchanter,” and with that he left the room.
The Knight Commander kept his word, and the girls never followed Nys when she left the dormitory, for they feared the wrath of the Knight Commander more, at least marginally, than they enjoyed tormenting her. Nys thought they also enjoyed the new sense of power as they watched her retreat from their jabs and taunts; but that concession was more than worth it to Nys for the peace of the night-darkened halls.
Eventually the large doors of the library come into view, the end of the long hallway lit by two large braziers. There was always a templar standing guard at the library during the night watch, and they all knew of Nys’ permission to enter. Except this night a new face greets Nys at the entrance, lit by firelight.
Cullen.
Nys has never spoken so much as a word to him since his arrival weeks ago, and she stares at him dumbly for what seems like too long. He stares at her just as long, looking into her face for a long moment, to then look her up and down seeing her shawl, night robe, boots, and book clutched tightly to her chest. Nys stays silent.
“I’m sorry, Miss Surana, but the library is closed for the night,” he says softly.
He knows my name? Her golden eyes stay fixed on his face.
“Miss Surana…?” He says her name again, and she still has no words. How many templars have called her by name and not had some current of contempt or frustration in their voice? She can count them on one hand.
“...Nys? Are you quite all right?” Cullen steps forward, and Nys steps quickly backward.
“My name,” she starts, “how do you know my name?”
Cullen gives a small, shy smile, and looks away from her face for the first time since they met. “I asked someone, I think her name was Arinna, today when I saw you walking to the First Enchanter’s quarters.”
Oh.
That explains why she came to taunt Nys tonight after being dormant for some time.
“I just thought that I should find out, since we seem to see each other a lot,” he says, “across the library or in the halls, I should say.” He and Nys have caught the other’s eye many times since his arrival, but always from a distance that Nys would never broach. “There aren’t many mages here like you.”
“An elf, you mean.” Of course. Arinna must have told him everything.
“Oh, no, I didn’t mean,” Cullen cuts himself off, the flush of embarrassment on his cheeks and in his voice, “I didn’t mean it like that. I just – there’s an air about you. I don’t quite know how to explain it. I don’t want to seem… untoward. But it just seemed right for me to know your name.”
Nys could feel her brow furrowing in confusion. She was trying to be better about showing her emotions so clearly on her face.
“I apologize. That was wrong of me,” Cullen bows his head, “for using your name in such a way. I haven’t even introduced myself.” He raises his head. “Cullen Rutherford. Please forgive me.”
Nys sees a genuine light in his eyes, hears an earnest tone of voice that many humans lack in the tower. How curious.
“Nys Surana,” she replies, bowing her head in return. Their eyes meet again. Cullen’s eyes are a warm brown. Nys finally says, “I… I have permission to be in the library, Ser Rutherford.”
“Call me Cullen, please, Miss Surana.”
“Very well, Ser Cullen. I do have permission, however.”
“Oh.” He stutters, not quite sure what to say. “You do?”
“Yes. For many years. We can ask the First Enchanter if you would like. He should still be awake – he keeps late hours.” There were many nights spent in the First Enchanter’s quarters in her childhood.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” he shakes his head and holds up a hand, “I’m sure you do. You’re very close with the First Enchanter?” Cullen asks as he steps back and towards the large oak doors.
“Yes.” Nys responds plainly. She says no more than she must as a personal rule in her dealings with templars, no matter how handsome and kind they seem to be.
“I see,” Cullen says as he pulls the door open for her.
“Thank you, ser.” Nys says as she walks into the library, grabbing a lantern and making for her usual spot in the far corner of the second floor, at a large wooden table tucked closely into the towering shelves.
“Good night, Miss Surana,” Cullen calls quietly after her retreating form.
Nys stops for a moment, lantern in hand, and turns to look back at him still standing in the open door.
“Good night, Cullen.”
She ascends the stairs, heart racing and a flush of something heating her cheeks.