Chapter Text
The view through the narrowly cut window was beautiful, and Will pressed his face against the cool stone, lining his eye up perfectly with the thin arrow slat. From the nook in the library where he currently resided, Will could spy the full northern expanse of Lake Calenhad, and the little dock village beyond. The ground past the shoreline was obscured with early morning mist rolling up from the lake, but he could make out the humble Inn, where visitors of the tower often stayed, and the templar on patrol beside the rickety rowboat, and the rather dilapidated old man whose job it was to carry folk back and forth over the water.
He squinted at the sun’s reflection; it dazzled brightly on the lake’s smooth surface, like diamonds shattered, brilliant and blinding. Would that the pane of glass separating Will from the cool breeze was gone, for it had been such a long time since he’d breathed fresh air. As recently as a few years ago, he would have had an hour or so to spend, once a week, to roam about outside - under the watchful eyes of a dozen templars, of course, but that was no bother. It was only after the escape attempt of a fellow apprentice that outdoor privileges had been revoked. Now the rule was strictly enforced: no one not yet made a full circle mage was allowed to go outside. And the apprentice who had tried to escape? He had been made Tranquil.
Will shuddered. As much as he yearned to feel fresh air on his skin and sunshine warming his face, as long as the threat of Tranquility hung over his head, he would swallow the desire. Nothing was worth the threat of Tranquility. Not freedom. Not anything. Will could stand the isolation of life in the Circle of Magi. What he could not abide was the idea of being lobotomized, cut off from the Fade, from his dreams, from his sole source of happiness. A world without sun he could take. A world without his imagination…he would rather be dead.
And death, it seemed, more and more apparent to him each day, was a solution with a growing likelihood, especially as Will was passing more and more birthdays with no clue as to when he’d be summoned for his Harrowing. He was twenty now, and the only mage apprentice he knew his age, besides Peter, who had not been called for the test. Without the test, he could not become a full member of the tower. That’s if he passed it at all, he reminded himself, not without an edge of grumpiness. If he did not pass his Harrowing, he would either die or be made Tranquil.
A bird swooped low over the lake, and Will followed its graceful dip with wide, envious eyes. What would it be like to feel so free? He sighed and took his face away from the window, slumping pitifully against the stone wall at his back. His fingers idly traced the leather-bound tome in his lap. It was useless to think of such things. Freedom was nothing more than a fantasy for most mages, for a mage like Will Graham in particular. If he had to harness a guess as to why he’d not been summoned for his Harrowing yet, he would liken it to the pity of the First Enchanter, who surely anticipated his failure, and thus was keeping him from it for as long as responsibly possible. Hadn’t he seen it in her icy blue eyes, that pitying sorrow? Didn’t Will consistently discern a similar gaze from everyone in the tower, apprentice and full-fledged mages alike? He sighed, glancing back down to the yellowing parchment of the spell book he’d been studying that morning. He should not feel so eager for his Harrowing, he supposed. Dreamers almost never passed; they were too susceptible to demon influence. But he’d like to know his fate, one way or another, regardless of his Harrowing’s outcome. If he were to die, or be made Tranquil, he’d like to know. Let it happen, he quested inwardly, his eyes focusing on the inked cursive of the tome. Let it happen and be done.
His mind wandered thusly, adrift between spellwork and unknown fates, until his attention was grabbed by a newcomer to the library. Will lifted his head and swept a loose curl from his eyes in time to spot the First Enchanter entering the circular tower level, and an unfamiliar man he’d never seen following closely. He lifted the tome to partially hide his face, his clever blue eyes peering around the worn page edges, and he watched them move amongst the walls of bookshelves. First Enchanter Bedelia was a small woman, but, to Will’s perspective, terrifying. Frosty, Peter always said. And there did seem to be a chill that accompanied her everywhere she went. Today, she wore a tidy smile on her porcelain face as she led the stranger through the library. Will’s eyes narrowed on her company: a man, muscular, dark, in his fifties, maybe. His strides were confident, and strength was a promise in every movement of his body. His clothes were strange, but Will was so accustomed to the long robes of the mages that anything else always looked strange to him. This man wore armor, but it was unlike the armor of the templars. Sleeker. The man turned as First Enchanter Bedelia introduced him to the Inventory Master, and Will could just make out a griffin printed on the back of his leather chest piece. Will’s lips parted in a silent gasp. And he was not the only one caught by such surprise.
“Will?” came a small voice at Will’s elbow.
He turned his head, still hiding behind his lifted tome, and saw his only friend standing next to him in his reading nook. That Peter had managed to sneak up on him at all was proof of the extent of Will’s distraction. After offering the slight apprentice a toothy grin of greeting, Will alerted his eyes back to the First Enchanter and her curious guest, who was apparently, to Will’s great astonishment, a Grey Warden.
“D-do you see what’s on his tunic?” Peter whispered at Will’s ear. “I-is that w-what I think it is?”
Will shifted over on the nook and patted it. Peter sat beside him and Will lowered the cumbersome tome across both their laps. He tried, nonchalantly, to lower his head as if reading, while continuing to stare through his curtain of curly hair.
“W-will?” Peter asked, and Will shushed him with a breath of laughter.
“Pretend we’re studying,” Will murmured, digging an elbow into his friend’s side. “I don’t want them to catch us looking.”
“Is that a-a-,” Peter stumbled over his words, as he so often did, and Will waited patiently for him to collect his thoughts. “Is that a-a Grey Warden with the First Enchanter?”
“I think it might be,” Will answered in a soft whisper. He turned a page in the tome for authenticity. “But why would there be a Grey Warden here?”
“M-maybe he’s friends with the First Enchanter?” Peter ventured.
“Maybe,” Will agreed, but he didn’t mean it, not really. Nothing about the First Enchanter’s demeanor was necessarily friendly. Her body language screamed with tension and her smile was a study of patience and skill, nothing more. She did not want the Warden there, that much was obvious to Will, but there he was all the same. The question was why? People did not just come to the Circle to visit uninvited. In fact, people seldom came at all who were not mages or templars. The little rowboat across the lake and the man who rowed it hardly had occasion to do such work. People didn’t like to visit; it was an unusual occurrence. But the strange man, the Warden, he walked with such authority that Will could only assume he belonged exactly where he wished to belong. At present, that was directly at First Enchanter Bedelia’s side, speaking low with the Inventory Master, a Tranquil. Will was studying the griffin etched across his back when the man suddenly turned, looking right at him.
“Peter?” Will muttered under his breath, heart racing beneath the attention of the Warden’s dark eyes. “Is he looking over here?”
The tremor in Peter’s voice was answer enough as he whispered, “Y-yes. Oh, M-maker. They’re w-walking over h-here.”
Will’s eyes were huge as he watched, horror-stricken, First Enchanter Bedelia saunter in their direction, the Warden following close behind. Time slowed down as Will’s anxiety built up, and he thrust the tome into Peter’s lap entirely and stood, straight shouldered, upon their approach. His sweaty palms smoothed down the creases in his apprentice robes. There was nothing he could do to fix his hair, he well knew, but he tried anyway, fruitlessly running fingers through it, only to have them tangle at his crown. So it was that he was trying to escape his own wild tresses when the First Enchanter and Grey Warden stopped in front of him.
He could practically feel Peter shrinking beside him, and he wished he could do the same, but two stern sets of eyes were already fixed upon him, and he knew no spells for disappearing or magically jumping inside study tomes. He ripped his fingers free of the knots, untimely ripping a few strands from his scalp. His eyes watered, and he was blinking rapidly when the First Enchanter nodded in his direction, her icy eyes cutting back and forth between the Warden and Will.
“I’d like you to meet one of our apprentices,” she said. Her voice had an oddly languid cadence. She looked straight at Will and he thought he might burst into flames, his face was burning so. “This is Will Graham. Extremely bright. Will,” she said, her hand sweeping to her side before the Warden, “this is Jack Crawford.”
“A Grey Warden,” Will whispered as he bowed politely.
The Warden, Jack, let out a hearty laugh and bowed in turn. “My reputation precedes me,” he said.
“We have an extensive collection of Grey Warden lore in the library,” the First Enchanter explained drily, eyeing Will suspiciously, “and our apprentices are well-versed in the Blights. Will, especially. Isn’t that right, Will?”
At being asked a direct question by the First Enchanter, Will nearly choked on his next breath. He could hear Peter fidgeting uncomfortably behind him. “I have made it a goal of mine to read every book the tower library has to offer, ser.” He hoped his voice sounded stronger to them than it did to his own ears.
“It’s nice to meet a young man with an interest in history,” Jack continued. His expression was one of warmth and, after Will had mustered the courage to truly look at him, he found his eyes were bright and welcoming.
Will swallowed hard and tilted his head, curious. It was not every day he had an opportunity to speak with someone who lived outside the tower, let alone a Grey Warden. “Would you call the Blights history, ser? Something only belonging to the past?”
He heard Peter’s stifled moan from behind the pages of the tome, and he saw First Enchanter Bedelia arch her perfectly plucked eyebrow disapprovingly in his direction. But Jack Crawford, the strange Grey Warden, merely smiled and nodded his head.
“Some think the days of Blights and darkspawn are behind us,” Jack said. He glanced at Bedelia. “Some are not so easily fooled.”
“There must be a continuous threat,” Will continued cautiously, “for the need of Grey Wardens to remain. Is it not your only purpose? To end Blights and keep Thedas safe from darkspawn?”
“Many assume darkspawn are a dwarven problem only,” said Jack.
“Pardon me, but I think if that were true, you would much more likely be in Orzammar than here,” Will said. “Unless, of course, you're here recruiting.” A long pause followed these last words, and Will could hear his own voice echoing in his head.
Jack laughed and turned to the First Enchanter. “It’s too bad we’re not allowed to recruit apprentices, Bedelia,” he said slyly.
“You’ve come at an opportune time,” the First Enchanter said, crossing her arms across her chest. The bracelets at her wrists jingled together musically. “Will’s Harrowing is tomorrow morning.”
The light in the room seemed to dim, and Will nearly lost his balance as Peter tugged at his sleeve excitedly. He jostled his arm out of Peter’s grasping fingers, and then took a step forward, his face shockingly white, his eyebrows high on his forehead. He looked at the First Enchanter, amazed.
“My H-Harrowing?” he asked dumbly, so nervous he sounded like Peter. “It’s tomorrow?”
Jack looked amused as he watched the exchange, but Will only had eyes for the First Enchanter. She nodded slightly and blinked slowly, looking rather like a cat. “Tomorrow at dawn, in the Harrowing Chamber. A templar guard will escort you, and then,” she said, with an ease that set Will’s teeth to grinding, “we will see the stuff you’re made of, once and for all.”
The stuff Will could possibly be made of seemed suddenly ominous. His heart raced. His Harrowing. It was finally happening. Why now? Had he been in his right mind, he might have connected the dots and assumed it had everything to do with the Grey Warden’s arrival, but he was so utterly flustered by the whirlwind of life-altering news, Will could only think of one thing. Harrowing. His Harrowing. Tomorrow. Finally.
Through his haze-shadowed vision, Jack and the First Enchanter were watching him closely. Scrutinizing him, he realized. With quite a lot of effort, he stood himself as straight as he could and gave them each a graceful nod of his head.
“I look forward to it, First Enchanter,” Will said, trying his hardest to muster some confidence.
“I, as well,” the First Enchanter said. She placed her hand on the Grey Warden’s elbow to stir his attention. Jack tore his eyes away from Will at last, and smiled at her.
“I also find myself looking forward to it,” Jack said. He turned back to Will, smiling. “Good luck."
“Thank you, ser,” Will said, and then the First Enchanter was leading the Grey Warden away. Jack looked over his shoulder at Will one final time before they exited the library. Only when they were completely out of sight did Will collapse onto the cushions.
Peter bounced from the weight of Will’s exuberant plopping, and grabbed at his robes earnestly. “D-did you hear that? Y-your H-H-Harrowing is t-tomorrow!”
“I heard, Peter,” said Will, leaning his head back against the stones, drained and more than a little shocked.
“Y-you know what this m-means,” Peter said, his voice nearly a whimper. Will looked at his friend, concerned by the angst in his words. Peter was shaking. Tears welled in his eyes. “I’ll be the o-oldest apprentice h-here who hasn’t h-had their H-Harrowing.”
Will bit at his lower lip, unsure of what to say to comfort his friend. If anyone was more worried about becoming Tranquil than him, it was Peter. Even now, his eyes were terror-bludgeoned and wet.
“Don’t worry, Peter,” Will tried, placing a soothing hand on Peter’s shoulder. “You’ll be summoned for your Harrowing soon. I’m sure of it.” He wasn’t sure, of course, and as he looked at his friend, practically in pieces, hunched over the tome, he wasn’t sure the result of Peter’s Harrowing, when it did come, would be a favorable one.
They had arrived to the tower, the both of them, around the age of six, within a week of one another, and they had been fast friends. Maybe because they were both shy, both more than a little strange. But Will knew, as he had always known, that Peter didn’t entertain the same strengths of mind as Will. Peter was –and he hated to say it, for it sounded cruel – weak of body and, worse, of mind. Will had always feared his own Harrowing, because he was a Dreamer, and everyone had taught him he should fear it. Dreamers were weak-willed against demons. But Peter? If Will wasn’t supposed to have a chance at passing with his life, what was expected of a gentle soul like Peter when his time came?
“It will be fine, Peter,” Will said, squeezing his friend’s trembling shoulder. However, as much as he wished him comfort, Will was decidedly more concerned with his own problems at the moment. Like his Harrowing being tomorrow, and the stomach acid quickly rising in his throat. He stood abruptly from the seat cushion, feeling more and more positive he was going to both vomit now, and die tomorrow. Well, one thing at a time. “I’ve got to take a walk about,” Will muttered in the general direction of his cowering heap of a best friend, and he dashed from the library in a blur of swishing robes and bouncing curls. He was vaguely aware of the metal-plated figure that followed him out of the library as he headed swiftly for the apprentice’s quarters.
The heavy step of the templar tracking him drowned out the slippity-slap of his own soft-soled boots as he half-ran, half-walked down the torch-lit corridor. When he entered his dormitory, shared by nine other apprentices, he was relieved to see no one there but him. The bathroom, also, was blessedly unoccupied, and he bent over it with gusto that wracked his ribs and set him to gasping helplessly into the toilet bowl.
Thank the Maker he could be sick in private, for he did not relish the usual sneers and smirks customary of his fellow apprentices. It was true that Will’s only friend in the tower was Peter. To most everyone else, Will was a time bomb. It was only a matter of time - or so they whispered loudly behind his back - until he succumbed to his innate weaknesses and become an abomination. Ever since they’d discovered he was a Dreamer, which had been very early on, he’d been leprous. Even a few teachers made sure to keep their distance, and the templars seemed to eye him more determinedly than anyone else in the tower. Even now, Will could still hear one lurking behind him. But it didn’t bother him overly much. Templar shadows were another element of tower life, and nothing else. They were necessary, Will had been taught, in case a mage became dangerous. Templars were there to keep them in check. To kill, if need be. If Will didn’t pass his Harrowing tomorrow, it would be a templar that ended his life. Unless he was made Tranquil. Will shivered and heaved anew into the ceramic bowl.
He heard the templar move closer, heard the creak of his armor as he kneeled. Will shuddered when he felt a cool hand press against his forehead. It wasn’t unusual to be followed so closely by one of the tower guards, but to actually interact with one…that was decidedly less usual. So when the hand pushed back the curls from his damp skin, Will turned his head weakly to see the templar beside him. It was the one he’d expected to see, the one that normally shadowed him. He blinked, but did not speak. Apprentices were not supposed to fraternize with the templars, just as the templars were advised against speaking with the apprentices, the full mages as well. It could make things uncomfortable later, if the templars had to kill them. So Will did not thank the templar, only blinked in a way he hoped conveyed thankfulness, and then he resumed to dry heave into the toilet.
The templar remained at his side until he felt well enough to stand, and then he handed Will a cool washcloth for his face. Will couldn’t help but smile as he accepted it, pushing it over his sweaty brow. The part of his mind that was not consumed with panic and fear hoped this templar was the one present during his Harrowing, for he had a kind face, and if it was to be the last thing Will saw before he died, he supposed it could be much worse.