Freedom's Price

Before the Storm

'When the world comes crashing down, I'll pluck the sword from the nearest soldier's flesh and fight with the rest, brewing up a rich and viscous storm from fingertips to protect most Holy's creation, in repentance for my ancestors; mages past,' eyes flitter ahead as they always do, words I've memorised I've practised them so much, and I see a lewd doodle in age-stained margins. The words catch in my throat, a red flush to my cheeks.

'Trevelyan?' His voice a hammer, smashed against the stone of the Circle and reverberating through my skull. Knight Commander Tyrell leans forward in his velvet, plush chair, stone-grey eyes peering at me as though I've gone completely mad.

I feel like I might have gone completely mad, silent and thoughtless like this; a halla peering down the edge of a sword. 'It's–' I stammer, and a soft glaze of laughter rumbles from the tables around me.

Darcy and Stefan peep and chatter in mouse-like voices. Bastards. They must have snatched my tomes whilst I slept or studied – drew this monstrosity in here knowing just how much I would fluster and make myself look like a fool in front of the entire group.

'Umm–' I try, but Knight Commander Tyrell is now decidedly walking towards me, a face of both fury and confusion flaming the way.

Shit, shit, shit.

If he sees this rather detailed depiction of himself... serving the Maker, I'll be throttled. Maybe killed.

Would he make me tranquil? Andraste, people have been made tranquil for less. Since the rebellion began overseas, Templars like Tyrell here have taken a much firmer hand at the sight of any incongruence. I knew Stefan and Darcy didn't like me, but... would they really risk my mind? My life?

My heart rages through robes, beating up into my throat as he stands above me, blocking out yellow light from doming stained windows above, held together with magic and a prayer.

'Can't finish the bloody sentence, Trevelyan-'

'She studies late, Ser.'

Kitsuma cranes lazily back and sends a shock of deep, bark-brown eyes up at the Knight. His scowl fails for a short moment, returning in halves.

'Una is most studious in the early hours of the morn, I'm sure her failing is a result of poor sleep,' she offers.

I watch the sting of electricity – the wonder of acceptance, the tease of punishment – pass silently between the stares of the two, until Tyrell seems to falter; shoulders soothing from his paling ears.

Tyrell's mouth twitches. I gaze up, hoping the explanation sticks and he doesn't swipe the tome from my hands. 'You should sleep when light's out, mage,' he says, before retreating.

Slowly, my breath finds a way to actually circulate around my body and my heart beat starts to recede as Tyrell does the same. I can almost hear the annoyed sighs of Darcy and Stefan, but quite frankly I don't care: I'm alive, that's more than enough for me.

Tyrell slides into his chair as I manage to mouth a thank you to Kit, and she returns a glare which insinuates: it's no problem, really, I love picking up after all of your inadequacies.

She's been picking up after them for 13 years, no less.

'Continue, Trevelyan, so we're done before the sky falls down,' Tyrell grunts.

'Yes, ser,' I breathe, ignoring vicious eyes judging from across the room, and I pull myself together and let the words flow free.

**************************

Sloped up high, wooden beam beneath me, I slouch and stare out at a sky of stars. Endless, whirling, a promise of something more. Tied to my centre is a crimson satchel, sewn by Kit and contraband. I take out my prizes; books.