Chapter Text
It was so jarringly bright outside the tower; Will had to hold his hand over his eyes in order to spare himself from total sun-blindness. He found himself stumbling nonetheless, over the robes he was, as of yet, unacquainted with wearing, and it wasn’t until the templar held out an arm for him to hold that Will gained any semblance of balance. Thankfully the Grey Warden was walking far enough ahead that Will’s awkwardness escaped his detection. As for the templar, he responded to Will’s squinting eyes and uneven footing with a minimal forward lean and the following words of encouragement: “Your body will adjust faster than you’d imagine.” Will was too shaken to answer so he said nothing, keeping his hand folded tightly around the templar’s vambrace.
The prediction proved true about halfway through the boat ride across the lake. The blinding white burning Will’s unaccustomed retinas began to slowly fade, replaced with true-to-life colors of the crystal blue water rippling beneath the stroking paddles of the boatman. Fresh, cool wind danced over the lake, blowing the fallen curls from Will’s forehead. He lowered his hand, no longer requiring its shading visor, and drank in the expanse of scenery surrounding him.
“It’s been years,” Will whispered. The templar’s head turned, but Will was occularly occupied, his gaze soaking up the environment he’d spent the last humdrum years – Maker’s breath, it had been nearing a decade – only longingly staring at through the narrow windows of the tower. To be in it, to be a living, breathing piece of that environment and not a powerless observer, was to be free.
When they reached the opposite bank, Will accepted the templar’s hand, thanking him as he was helped from the boat. The grass was vibrantly green and soft beneath Will’s boots. Grass he’d never yet trudged upon. Jack was tipping the boatman, and Will turned to take in the tower where it sat on a little island at the center of Lake Calenhad. From a distance, it seemed to eternally reach into the clouds. The air around Will seemed, suddenly, to become too breathable, too open, too much. With no walls to contain him, Will felt like he would stretch and grow and float away. As panic began to scratch at his insides, he felt the presence of the templar beside him. He, too, watched the tower, and when Will glanced at him, he recognized the same awe of freedom in his eyes.
“Strange, to be free,” the templar commented pleasantly.
Will nodded, and then he turned away from the tower, deciding he’d seen enough of it to last a lifetime.
The boatman paid, there was nothing left before the group but the journey ahead. Of course, as it was late in the day and only growing later, they had not long to journey before the sky began falling to twilight and their leader beckoned them to halt for the night.
The clearing Jack chose was not far from the main road, a patch of soft grasses with tall trees growing about it. Nothing extraordinary, but, to Will, it was a haven of exoticism. After sleeping in his creaky, narrow apprentice’s bed, the idea of laying his head on the grass beneath a sky full of stars sparked excitement in his heart. He wished that Peter could have shared this experience with him, but then, Peter was a blood mage. Had been. Peter, his only friend in the whole world, had been practicing dark arts for Maker knows how long. And, worst of all, he’d used Will to help destroy his only harness. The spark inside Will burned out at these thoughts and, after the bedrolls were laid out and the sticks stacked for a fire pit, he sat heavily on the ground and put his head in his hands.
The problem was that Will was in shock. He’d had no time to process the new realities of his increasingly odd life. He had still been in the process of digesting the tumultuous events of his Harrowing when Peter had petitioned his aid. He was trying to come to grips with the blood of the templars on his hands when Peter had become an abomination. And then even that had taken the backburner when Will was conscripted to join the Wardens. Thinking to this last event, Will realized his faux pas. He looked up from his introverted gaze to Jack, who was trying to light a fire beneath the sticks.
“Thank you,” Will said, but his voice was so quiet, so timid, that he had to say it again, louder. “Thank you, Jack.”
The Warden looked up from his flint, his strangely thin eyebrow arching in amusement. “I should be thanking you, I think,” he answered. “Mages are invaluable. We don’t have nearly enough within the Wardens. The King will be thrilled when he meets you.”
A thousand questions bred together in Will’s confused head, but he settled with the point of his conversation. “You saved my life.”
“The First Enchanter wasn’t going to kill you.”
From the recollection of his almost-fate, Will’s heart began to speed up to the point of discomfort. “For many, Tranquility is a fate worse than death.”
Jack frowned, striking unsuccessfully for more sparks, to no avail. “I was impressed with you, you know,” continued the Warden, finally settling down his flint with a sigh of frustration. “I asked the First Enchanter who she thought was her smartest pupil, and she didn’t even have to think before saying your name.”
Will shifted uncomfortably. He was especially aware of the templar, whose presence lingered on the opposite side of the unlit fire. He was sharpening his sword, but his head was tilted to the side just enough for Will to conclude he was listening to every word said. “I’m not so smart,” Will muttered. He knew his face was flushed from the compliment and hoped it was dark enough that neither Jack nor the eavesdropping templar could see. “I just spend a lot of my time studying, practicing. Same as anyone who has nothing better to do.”
Jack laughed, a warm chuckle, and patted Will on the back. “She also mentioned how unsociable you are.”
Will sucked a breath in through his teeth and exhaled with his hand spread over his face. “I’ll bet.”
“A Dreamer, too,” Jack continued nonchalantly. “Those are rare.”
“Yeah, and they’re also dangerous,” said Will.
Jack was angled toward him with immense interest, sitting beside him with his legs crossed, his hands steepled beneath his chin, the lighting of the fire completely forgotten. “Explain that to me. When I first arrived, the First Enchanter told me not to set my sights on recruiting you, because she didn’t expect you to pass your Harrowing. Now why would she say that?”
At that point, Will definitely knew the templar was listening, and he wasn’t trying to hiding it. He looked up from the polishing of his sword with bright eyes; they seemed to almost glow in the encroaching darkness. Disconcerted by the templar’s attention, Will looked solely at the Warden, whose interest at this point was keen.
“Dreamers are capable of,” Will paused, searching for the right words, “…manipulating the Fade. Theoretically, I could invade someone’s sleeping mind and tinker around with their dreams.”
Jack nodded along. “Give an enemy nightmares.”
“Theoretically,” Will clarified. “The truth is…I don’t know much about it. There was little to no literature on the subject accessible to me in the tower. First Enchanter Bedelia made sure of that. But she let everyone know I was a walking abomination time bomb, waiting to detonate.”
“Because you’re more susceptible to a demon’s influence than other mages,” Jack said.
“So I’ve been told.”
“And that’s why we have our templar friend along with us on our journey,” Jack laughed with a gesture toward the man watching them atop the dry pile of sticks.
Will ducked his head in embarrassment. “He would probably be more use to the Wardens than me.”
The templar spoke, his words confident and coaxing in the dark. “Ah, but which of us here could have had this fire lit a half hour ago?”
Jack quirked a quizzical brow toward Will, and the templar smiled. They both stared at him expectantly for a few moments until Will sighed and acquiesced, leaning toward the sticks with the palm of his hand stretched out. He waved it slowly with his eyes shut. When he opened them, it was to the crackling of flame and the beginning of a glowing pit. Jack clapped his hands with the lighting of the fire, and Will couldn’t help the sheepish grin that spread his lips. When Jack settled down, his expression morphed into something more serious.
“If Grey Wardens cowered away from threats, well, we wouldn’t get much good accomplished,” Jack said. “You might be a risk, I don’t know. But the fact is this: There’s a Blight coming and the Wardens are gonna need every powerful warrior, rogue, and mage we can get our hands on to help fight it. If my best bet is a Dreamer everyone else is afraid of, I say good. Great. Because maybe the blasted darkspawn will be afraid of him too.” Jack placed his hands close to the fire, warming his fingers, and then fell into a contemplative silence.
Will stole a glance through the flames at the templar. With his helmet off and his face lit up and glowing, Will could make out the sharp details of his face he’d never noticed before. High, prominent cheekbones, pale eyebrows on a strong brow that casted deep shadows over his eyes. Lips pursed into a sleek line, full, the color of wine in the low light. In the tower, Will had hardly dared to pay much attention to the templars, and he hardly dared to do it now. As the templar’s eyes met his, Will lowered his head, hiding beneath his flop of hair. Beside him, Jack was standing and brushing some stray ash from his leathery tunic.
“If you’ll both excuse me,” Jack said, patting his stomach amiably, “nature is calling.” And like that, he was gone, stalked off through the line of surrounding trees, and Will was alone with the templar.
He made to lie down, avoid any weirdness through the escape of sleep, but before he could manage a horizontal position, the templar stood up and crossed to Will’s side of the fire, where he proceeded to sit down, not directly on his bedroll, but close enough to it to make Will inch back with apprehension.
“I know you must be tired,” the templar said, “but I really must insist you take some sustenance before escaping into the Fade.”
“I’m not hungry,” Will replied with eyes cast down, disappointed that his plan had been so transparent.
“No, I don’t imagine you are,” the man said, all the while reaching into the large pack Jack had been hauling on his back all evening. “But I’m afraid I won’t feel at ease until you have something to eat.” The corner of his mouth quirked up and he added wryly, “Or maybe you’d prefer a drink of water?”
Right. Of course he would bring that up. Will sighed, embarrassed. The templar pulled his hand from the pack and revealed a piece of bread.
“Preconceived roles in the tower forced us both into taking unsavory actions,” he said, tearing the small loaf in half. “Shall we break bread between us and call a truce?” He held the bit of torn bread out to Will.
Will looked between the bread and the man. “You’re here to handle me if I become…difficult,” Will reminded him, feeling more than marginally chaffed. “Even outside of the tower, you’re still a templar and I’m still a mage.”
“Of course,” he said, looking slightly scolded. He bit into his own piece of bread. “It’s only natural that you would feel reticent of me, especially in light of the day’s unfortunate events.”
“You referring to Peter’s death as an ‘unfortunate event’ is a perfect example of why I’m ‘reticent,’” Will hissed, his ire stoked unexpectedly. He rudely snatched the bread from the templar’s fingers and bit into it with an angry gnash of teeth.
The templar chewed contemplatively, swallowed, and said, “I apologize, Will.”
Will hummed as much disdain as he could muster through a mouthful of bread, happy only when the templar finally got to his feet and returned to his own side of the fire. But his eyes still lingered on Will, and when Will finished his ration of bread, he nodded at the canteen of water at his side. Will took a few gulps, his cheeks burning red. Requests fulfilled, he fixed the templar with a look of annoyance. “I’m going to sleep now.”
“Good night, Will. I’ll keep watch over you until Jack returns.”
Will curled up on the bedroll, turning his back to the fire as well as the templar. “I don’t need you to keep watch over me,” he grumbled.
He could hear the amusement in the templar’s voice when he responded softly, “I am aware.”
--
Will wasn’t surprised to find himself so quickly succumbed to his exhaustion, nor was he startled by the inevitable presence of the demon and its perch over his thighs when he opened his eyes to the misty, grand hallway of the Fade. He was, however, astonished to discover his nakedness.
Despite that concern, Will felt too tired to haul himself from the marble floor, so he allowed his position beneath the demon to continue, finding its looming presence oddly comforting. It settled its skeletal, leathery black hands on Will’s chest, smoothing over him with sharp, caressing fingers. It was gazing at Will, its antlers spiraling high into the torch-lit ceiling.
“Poor, sweet Will,” it said, leaning down to nuzzle against Will’s bare chest. “Betrayal can sting like a blade’s point.”
Will swallowed, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks at the sensation of the demon’s head against his chest, and its slow track downwards, stopping to mouth over his navel. Mystified, Will gripped his hands on a rung of spiked antler, stilling the demon’s wandering head. It flashed its black eyes at Will and waited.
“He was a blood mage,” Will told the demon. He didn’t need to say Peter’s name, because he innately understood that the demon already knew.
“Do you think he was evil?” the demon asked, its lips vibrating against the bared flesh of Will’s stomach as it purred his words.
Will bit his lip and held tighter to the antlers in his hands. “He was in the end,” Will admitted. “And isn’t that what matters?”
The demon didn’t respond right away, but continued to drag its mouth down Will’s abdomen. Its hands slid across his torso and came to rest at Will’s hips. He sighed into the sensation. It was becoming more difficult to articulate his thoughts.
“He was scared,” Will stammered. “A demon took advantage of his weakness. Blood magic killed him. It’s evil.” The demon sank the sharp tips of claws into the soft skin of Will’s hips and he gasped, bucking slightly in its hold.
“Your power is immense in its reign over others,” the demon rasped, its breath hot against his skin. “You have simply to grab control.” The demon rubbed its cheek over Will’s unbidden swell, and Will moaned helplessly beneath its ministrations. “Beautiful boy,” the demon soothed, mouthing against him, letting the sharp edge of its teeth scrape and drag over soft, sensitive skin. Will’s knuckles were white from his hold of the antlers as he held the demon’s head in place.
“I don’t want to end up like him,” Will whispered, his eyes wet.
The demon pressed a kiss to the tip of his hardness before rising up to place another on his lips. “That won’t happen,” it whispered. Its long body heaved gently against him. “Don’t you know I’m watching over you?”
Will dragged himself from the Fade too quickly; it took him several, breathless seconds of hyperventilating on his bedroll before he regained his awareness. But finally, he was able to take in the solid details of his surroundings and realize his wakefulness. When he did, he noticed Jack’s sleeping form a few feet away, slumbering deeply with his face turned toward the fire. And he noticed the templar, leaning against a tree nearby, wide awake, his posture very much that of a templar on duty.
Will scrambled to his feet and crossed the camp to stand before him, painfully aware of the hardness beneath his robes. The templar looked at him curiously, but did not speak.
“We can’t be friendly,” Will declared, “because if I’m weak, if I become something evil, you have to kill me without hesitation.”
The templar’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “You insult me if you think I lack the ability to compartmentalize.”
“I’m dangerous,” Will said, annoyed by the templar’s lackadaisical attitude.
The templar’s eyes sparkled with the reflection of flames. “So am I.” Will gaped wordlessly at him for a moment before he continued, this time with a friendly smile. “Rest, Will,” he said. “We have quite the adventure ahead of us.”
--
Will refrained from sleep that night, but laid on his bedroll as appealed with his eyes closed. Instead of slipping back into the Fade, he concentrated on the sounds of the crackling fire, the steady breaths of the slumbering Warden, and the soft footfall of the templar as he periodically strutted back and forth across the camp. He was in no danger of falling asleep; he was too wired, and the vividness of his last dream still gurgled queerly in his gut.
Not only had he appeared completely nude, a seldom occurrence for Will’s trips to the Fade, but he had allowed the demon to control him entirely. And even more disturbing was the fact that Will hadn’t minded. The physical invasion had felt contradictorily welcome. He rolled to his other side, eyes shut tight as he recalled the weight of the demon on top of him, the hot press of its lips, the way he’d been touched, and the way he’d enjoyed it. He was a Dreamer. He was capable, or should be capable, of controlling these things, and did in the smallest of degrees. He’d eventually wrenched himself from the demon’s arms. But had it truly been his will to do so, or had the demon merely taken pity on his vulnerable body? These were the worries that wracked Will’s brain, and continued to do so for hours.
After a distressing time of tossing and turning, wide awake, he heard Jack rousing. A shift change, he supposed. It was the Warden’s turn to keep guard over their camp while the templar took his rest. Their greeting was whispered briefly and then Will heard the templar sitting down nearby. There sounded discernible clinks of armor in the air as he unfastened the chinks of his breastplate and slid his arms free of their weighted gauntlets and vambraces. Will found it hard to imagine a templar shed of its metal cage, and he felt a twinge of curiosity, almost rolling over to crack an eyelid and spy what the man looked like beneath the armor. But he didn’t. He just lay there in silence, listening to the sounds of the templar settling into his bedroll, his soft sigh upon a stretch, and then, after a few minutes, his tell-tale rhythmic breathing of deep sleep.
Will envied him that deep sleep and he spent the time until daybreak mimicking it on behalf of the Grey Warden standing guard.
--
Dawn arrived eventually, and Will watched his first sunrise outside the tower since he’d been taken to the Circle. The events of yesterday glimmered dimly like the memories of someone else, and when Will thought back to them, he was greeted with a chill numbness and snapshots of horror: The reek of melting flesh, blood splattered on the floor, a demon with black eyes, coming closer, closer.
By the time Will had finally given up on his ruse of rest, the templar had already refastened his armor and was sitting at the cooking pot with Jack. He gave Will an annoyingly knowing look as he passed him the canteen of water. Will sipped it reservedly and they proceeded to partake in a humble breakfast around the leftover fire with his two companions.
Jack was well rested, his positive mood igniting a desire to finally explain why he’d been snooping around the tower for recruits in the first place, which was fine with Will since he had little to no information on where they were headed or what he was meant to do once they arrived. “The First Enchanter told me you were well acquainted with study of the Blights.”
“I’m no scholar, Jack, but I know the basics.” Will tightened the laces of his boots, an excuse to keep his gaze elsewhere while he spoke to the Warden.
“Then you know what a Grey Warden’s job entails.”
“Grey Wardens fight darkspawn. End the Blight. Save the world,” replied Will. He glanced up through his fallen curls at Jack and the templar, and hastily looked back down at his shoes. “Has another Blight come to Ferelden?”
Jack was swirling the water canteen in his hand. “The King doesn’t think so. He thinks a few darkspawn have escaped the Deep Roads to the South. He’s organized an army in the ruins of Ostagar, just beyond the Korcari Wilds.” Will noticed the deep vein of disagreement in Jack’s voice and the grim lines around his mouth as he spoke of the King. “It’s his belief that this darkspawn invasion is minor, and that their army can be wiped out in one grand battle.”
“But you don’t think that,” supplied Will.
“I don’t.” Jack stood up to tighten the belt around his tunic and check the buckle of his scabbard. “The King has a fetish for the Grey Wardens. Wants to ride out with us onto the battlefield and end this threat before it has the chance to grow teeth.” He shakes his head. “I’ve seen Blights before, and they aren’t fixed with a single battle. We’re woefully unprepared.”
“So you need all the Grey Wardens you can find,” said Will. “So we’re going to Ostagar?” Will had read of the place, and of the Korcari Wilds. They were infamous for being full of apostate mages and numerous other dangers. He supposed it made since for the darkspawn to show themselves there first. Birds of a vile feather.
“We’re going to Ostagar,” Jack agreed. He turned his head toward the sun. “We should get there midday tomorrow if we’re lucky. We’ll stop in Lothering tonight.”
“Lothering?” Will stood up to straighten his robes, hoping he sounded less panicked than he felt. “Why don’t we just travel through the night, get to Ostagar in the morning?”
Jack’s answering laugh was barkingly loud. “I admire your work ethic, Will, but we’ll need supplies. Lothering is the only decent village between here and the Wilds. We’ll stock up, rest up, and head out in the morning.” He slapped Will’s shoulder good-naturedly, laughing again, and slung his traveling pack over his back. “But we won’t make it to Lothering by sundown at this rate. Let’s get a move on. Hannibal, you ready?”
It was weird to hear the templar addressed by his Maker-given name. Will’s eyes drifted in his direction. He appeared more than ready to commence their travels. While Jack and Will had been speaking, the templar had been strapping on his broadsword, smothering the remnants of their fire, and somehow grooming himself to the point of looking entirely fresh and clean, despite their lack of baths and layer of road-dust.
“Ready when you are,” the templar told Jack, though his gaze fell to Will as he spoke.
Will wasn’t ready, not to go to Lothering. The mere idea of Lothering made him feel sick with anxiety. But the two men were looking at him, studying him, probably wondering what weird reaction he was having, so Will forced a smile and picked up his staff, tapping it with feigned confidence on the ground in front of him.
“Let’s go,” he said, and they began the beginning of a very long day.
Their party was a mostly quiet one, the three of them walking down the road untroubled, each lost to his own thoughts. Occasionally, the templar would insist on their stopping for a rest, during which time he made sure Will drank plenty of water and had a small something to eat. Jack didn’t seem to find this an inconvenience, but it made Will uncomfortable, the way the templar, someone sworn to kill if he needed killing, was being so considerate toward him. “You’re unused to such physical exertion,” the templar would say, placing the canteen in Will’s hands.
And when he wasn’t actively catering to Will’s fluid intake, he was watching him closely for signs of fatigue. “Jack, let’s stop a moment,” he would say when he sensed Will’s exhaustion. “I’m afraid I didn’t sleep well.” That was a lie, and they all knew it. Will was the tired one, the one who hadn’t slept. The templar was trying to be thoughtful, but it burned at Will’s nerves. By the time they were close enough to Lothering to see its lights in the distance, his mood was so sour he couldn’t even look at the templar without his eyes narrowing.
The day felt agonizingly long, but when they finally reached Lothering, it was far too soon, and Will hesitated at its threshold. He wished to be anywhere but there, even back at the tower. Anywhere but Lothering.
“Will?” The templar was studying him with some interest. “You’re uneasy.”
“Just jittery. I could use a drink, to be honest.” He could use several drinks, to be brutally honest.
Jack liked that idea, grabbing hold of it immediately. “Tell you boys what. I’m gonna head over to the blacksmith and get a few things. Why don’t you two go on to the inn? Get some drinks. Get a room. I’ll join you soon.”
Sharing a one-on-one drink with the templar had not been precisely what Will had had in mind, but it was all but inescapable now, as Jack had already turned away and was stalking off down the village road, toward the blacksmith, presumably.
“Shall we?” The templar looked pleased. Will felt sick and was sure a nauseous sweat was breaking out on his forehead.
“Fine.”
They didn’t need to ask for directions, because Will knew the precise location of the Lothering inn and pub. The town hadn’t much changed since Will had last been there, including the hustle-bustle surrounding the ale house when the sun began to set. Unpleasant nostalgia hit him hard as he held the door open for the templar, and then they were inside.
It was crowded and smelled like yeast and pipe smoke. He kept his head low as they made their way to the bar, but a templar walking side by side with a mage was not an ignorable sight in Lothering, and before Will had even reached the bartender, a hand pushed into the center of his chest, stopping him in his tracks. The templar stilled beside him as he and Will took note of the man keeping them from their drinks. The man opened his wide mouth to speak and Will cringed well in advance of his words.
“What ‘ave we got ‘ere?”
Will kept his head down, but he knew the templar was staring him down, eyes probably lit up with righteous rage at being accosted by the foul smelling Lothering man.
“A mage with a blasted templar leash, eh?” he kept on, poking a dirty finger into Will’s sternum vigorously enough to make Will think it might bruise. “You need a leash, mage? We don’t like trouble ‘ere.” He rammed his finger into Will’s chest again, but this time, Will grabbed his wrist before he could connect. “Oh! This one bites!” He twisted out of Will’s hold and shoved him in the shoulder. “’ands off, love, or I’ll get the wrong idea.”
The templar took a single step to the side, moving exactly enough to stand directly in front of Will. “My friend and I are having a drink. I suggest you remove yourself from our path immediately.”
The Lothering man, whom Will had decided at this point was several pints deep, staggered toward the templar. Will saw, peeking over the templar’s shoulder, that the man was ruddy-cheeked and scowly-browed. By pure accident their eyes locked, re-amping the man’s drunken swagger. “’ave I insulted your lady love? Oh, don’t give me that look. That one’s pretty as a bloody picture. Almost worth gettin’ my ‘ead knocked in to get me ‘ands on that tight little ass. Ha!”
The templar punched the drunkard square in the jaw. The man wheel-barrowed backward, his eyes rolled dizzy in their sockets, and he crashed, knocking into multiple patrons on the way, until finally, with a heavy smack, he fell in a pathetic, unconscious heap. Will stood frozen in place, his hand clasped over his mouth, the templar still standing like a guard dog in front of him.
A silence had swept through the crowd upon the punishing smack of impact, and there was a brief moment when Will thought that maybe, just maybe, everyone would be content to go back to their business, that they’d decide it wasn’t a good idea to mess with a templar and his tight-assed mage on a leash.
“YOU KNOCKED OUT OL’ FARMER DAY, YOU SON OF A WHORE!”
And so began Will Graham’s very first tavern scrimmage. The man who’d hollered the indecency at the templar swiftly ran straight for him, only to be met with a well-placed throat punch, which the templar delivered efficiently, before gracefully turning on his heel and smiling at Will. But Will was distracted, looking over his shoulder at yet another brave, stupid man with a death wish who was running straight for the templar’s back, a shot glass held high over his head. Thinking quickly, Will grabbed the templar by the shoulders and yanked him to the side just as the glass came hurtling through the air. It flew right past them and smashed against the head of another man, who turned to Will with a fierce glower, a trickle of blood trailing down his face.
Suddenly, they were surrounded, the whole tavern collective an enraged enemy. The man who had thrown the shot glass swung at the templar, and Will, lifting up his staff, beat him in the forearm to stilt his aim. Then he swept the staff low, cutting straight at the back of the knees and the man fell to the floor, piling on top of the unconscious Ol’ Farmer Day. The templar swished past Will and met the next fool rushing them with a brutal head-butt that sent him staggering, bloody-nosed and crying. Will observed the exchange in astonishment. He didn’t think anyone actually head-butted people in real life. But there it had happened, right before his eyes. And it hadn’t even fazed the templar; he turned around immediately and took Will gently by the shoulders with an apologetic smile, shifting him out of the way just in time to escape the splintering chair as it landed right where they’d been standing. Someone had thrown a chair?! Will gasped and the templar laughed. Will met his gaze, felt a matching smile spread his lips, and then they both turned, in unison, pressing back to back as more Lothering derelicts had a go.
Will swung with his staff, knocking three men down at once. Their legs jumbled together and more men behind them tripped. The pile of failed attackers grew. At his back, he felt the templar bringing down even more, with elegant fists and crystal-sharp elbows. The stream of attacks felt endless, but Will felt tireless. Though he was being careful to keep his mana from harnessing through his staff, he was immensely enjoying the satisfying crack of hard wood on petulant, blundering skin. Across the room, he saw someone picking up a barstool, and Will nudged at the templar, alerting him of their next wave of assault, and then –
“WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?!”
Everyone in the tavern stopped, still as statues, except for Jack, who was standing in the doorway, shaking his head, arms crossed. He spotted the man with the barstool in the corner of his eye. “YOU, WITH THE STOOL. PUT IT DOWN.” It dropped to the floor with a clatter. “EVERYONE, GET OUT.”
Something about the tone of the Grey Warden’s voice pierced through the very heart of everyone in the tavern, and even the felled men began hauling each other to their feet and staggering, bloody and defeated, out the door. In a minute, it was cleared out completely, save the man still lying unconscious on the floor, the bartender (who was looking unimpressed as he wiped down his counter), and Will and the templar. Jack walked straight past them, crooking his finger at the Innkeep, who was hovering at a door behind the counter. “I need a room,” ordered Jack. He shook his head at the fight-grimy men and followed the Innkeep up the stairs. Will watched him disappear around the corner before turning to the templar with a broad grin. His heart raced.
“Buy you a drink?” the templar asked casually, and that was it. Will felt it bubbling up in his chest, his throat, and then the laughter burst forth, unstoppable. He bent over with the force of it, hands on his knees holding him up as his shoulders shook. Beside him, the templar began laughing as well. More controlled than Will’s, perhaps, but just as frothy with pleasure.
“Yes,” Will gasped, “yes, Hannibal, please.” It was the first time he’d used his name and they both noticed. It felt weird, but Will supposed if he was able to fight side by side with someone, he should be able to call them by their proper name.
Hannibal looked even happier from the sound of his name on Will’s tongue than by the laughter still lingering between them. He walked to the bar and fished out a handful of coins from his waist pouch, slammed them on the counter, turned to Will, and said: “Come, then.” He turned to the bartender with a grave expression. “Your wine list please.”
--
Jack had come back downstairs, demanded they help clear out the mess they’d made, and then stormed back up the steps with a declaration that he was going to bed, but Will had caught the smile on his face before he’d turned away. Now, Will and the templar – or, er, Hannibal - were sitting beside the fireplace, which, after making sure the bartender wasn’t watching, Will had easily set to blazing with a stoke of his magic. Will sipped a pinkish brew with warmth in his belly he couldn’t recall feeling previously.
“Lothering is an interesting village,” Hannibal commented idly. He’d removed his plated gloves and set them on the floor beside his feet, and Will noticed for the first time his long, elegant fingers as they loosely draped around the cup.
Will grumbled something under his breath, a throw-away line to snatch Hannibal’s attention away from the discussion of their location, but the templar kept hold of Will’s eyes with a steady gaze, with no apparent intention of releasing him until his curiosity was sated. With a sigh, Will tipped back his glass and the pink wine drained down his throat in a couple of gulps. “I was born here.”
Hannibal pulled a face, not of disgust or disagreeableness, not even of pity, just a face that said, simply, ‘go on.’ Will didn’t want to go on, but Hannibal leaned toward him, the wine bottle in hand, and he poured a fresh stream of alcohol into his cup. Before he could think of a reason not to continue, Will took up his refilled cup, savored a healthsome sip, and, to his dismay, continued unprompted. “Lothering was my home before the tower.”
“And yet you don’t appear happy to be back.” Hannibal’s hair looked highlighted with bright strips of blond in the light of the fire. Blonder than Will had taken it for in the past. Not that he’d been oddly dedicated to examining the shades of the templar’s hair (especially when it was usually plastered down by a helmet when on watch in the tower). But he was noticing it now, as well as the buzzing, frilly sensation in his stomach. Was it the wine? He took another deep drink.
“I hardly remember my life before the tower,” Will said with a shrug. “But the pieces I do remember aren’t exactly…tasty.”
“You never felt at home, even amongst family.” Hannibal set his cup to resting on the arm of his chair. A piece of hair fell forward, and he tucked it back behind his ear. “Did your family send you away very young, Will?”
It didn’t sting anymore, the memory of not being wanted. Will could talk about it now and only feel a smothered, empty sadness in an obscure corner of his mind. “It was only me and my dad, but yeah. I was six.”
“You knew exactly where to find a drink,” Hannibal said.
“My dad was often drinking,” Will provided with an air of distance.
“I know what it is like to feel betrayed. Punished for being different. Is that how you feel?”
“Maybe I used to, but not anymore.” Will drank down more of the wine. “It’s been a long time.”
“Not so long that you didn’t feel the burden of sickness when you heard we were going to Lothering,” said Hannibal.
“I’ll be happy enough when we leave, if that’s what you mean,” Will said, beginning to feel the twinge of tipsiness. “I’m trying to look ahead. The past is full of ghosts and regret.”
“Never regret your past, Will,” Hannibal said, holding out his cup and clinking it gently against Will’s, “for it has shaped your present.”
They downed the remaining dregs of wine, and Will stood from his chair. A bit too hastily, maybe, because he teetered a bit and had to grab hold of the templar’s offered hand to steady himself. He laughed weakly, about to explain it away to too much drink, but Hannibal was leading him toward the stairs, speaking so he wouldn’t have to. “Your handling of the past few days has been inspiring. But tonight you must rest. I will not tolerate another night watching you pretend to be asleep. Not with Ostagar ahead of us tomorrow.”
Had he been less exhausted, or less drunkish, Will might have argued with the templar and berated him for his bossiness. As it was, he was thoroughly tired, and though he was hesitant to re-enter the Fade, he had no choice. He was a Dreamer. He would manipulate his dream. Simple. He need not show up naked and writhing in a demon’s arms if he didn’t wish it. He held on to Hannibal’s arm all the way up the stairs, until they reached the door of the inn room. Will could hear Jack’s snoring through the walls.
Hannibal eased open the door and they tiptoed in.
“There’s only one bed?” Will whispered.
“And Jack is in it. Hmm.” Hannibal leaned Will against the wall and crouched down to their packs in the corner. He unfurled their bedrolls with a flourish and motioned to Will. “Not as soft as grass, but I think you’ll find there are less bugs.” He looked around the room and arched his brow. “Perhaps not.”
Will climbed onto his bedroll and sighed gratefully, stretching out and lying on his side, his hands pillowed beneath his head. He meant to thank Hannibal, wish him good night, but as soon as he closed his eyes, he was asleep.