
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7589641.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Dragon_Age:_Inquisition, Dragon_Age_(Video_Games), Dragon_Age_-_All_Media
      Types
  Relationship:
      Male_Inquisitor/Iron_Bull, Inquisitor/Iron_Bull, Iron_Bull/Original
      Character(s), Iron_Bull/Male_Trevelyan, Male_Mage_Inquisitor/Iron_Bull,
      Mage_Inquisitor/Iron_Bull
  Character:
      Iron_Bull, Male_Trevelyan, Cassandra_Pentaghast, Varric_Tethras, Dorian
      Pavus, Solas, Sera_(Dragon_Age), Vivienne_(Dragon_Age), Blackwall_|_Thom
      Rainier
  Additional Tags:
      revised, Post-Traumatic_Stress_Disorder_-_PTSD, Slow_Burn, Circle_of
      Magi-Freeform, Mage_Headcannons, Abuse, BDSM, Light_BDSM, Tranquility,
      Incest, trigger_warning, This_can_get_intense, You've_been_warned
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-07-26 Updated: 2016-08-02 Chapters: 3/? Words: 6332
****** More than a Mark [Revised and Expanded] ******
by Euleogy
Summary
     Damien Trevelyan is a mage from Ostwick. Having been put into the
     circle at a young age, he's suffered just as any mage under the
     abuses of the templars. It's quite by accident that he finds himself
     an important player in a terrifying game. Targeted by a Magister and
     a Qunari though with differences in intent, he finds himself trying
     to sort out his life, his past, and the scars that he insists don't
     exist.
Notes
     I will warn you now, before you read this, that I associate heavily
     with abuse toward mages, and mages in general. While this fanfiction
     is just that, Fiction, the situations in this story do happen. Please
     read the tags and be aware of your triggers before diving into this
     story. This is the revised and expanded version of my fanfic; More
     than a Mark, under the same pen-name, previously Shivasyla. Any
     chapter with smut in it will have a warning ahead of time, both at
     the beginning of the chapter in the notes, as well as before things
     get hot and head in an in-chapter Author's Note. Said Author's note
     will be at the beginning and end in bold, so that if you want to skip
     the smut, you can just look for bold lettering.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Prologue Pt. 1 *****
          The day started with the blaring of a horn, same as it always did,
precisely as the sun crested over the horizon. Damien was already awake,
staring at the ceiling. It had been 6 months since his Harrowing, and still the
nightmares wouldn't let him sleep. Not that it mattered, he'd never gotten much
sleep, not for as long as he could really remember, anyway. He was sure that in
his early years he’d gotten plenty of sleep. Perhaps enough to make up for the
lack of sleep in his later years.
 
          Damien had only been 5 when his parents had promptly sent him to the
circle. His entire family were good, faithful Andrastians. An uncle, two aunts,
and two cousins in the templars, two sisters and a brother in the Chantry. It
was just their luck to get a mage. So, as soon as he exhibited magic, they sent
him away. Hide the disgrace while showing how they obeyed the laws of both
Maker and Man. Damien often wondered if there had ever even been one moment of
hesitation, even one. He also wondered if they regretted it, though he doubted
it.
 
          The horn blared again, a shrill trumpet echoing along the stone of
the tower. The door to the men's hall was knocked open as Damien rolled off his
cot to stand at the foot of his bed, his roommate doing the same. The dorms of
the Circle at Ostwick were by no means lavish, but they were more than some had
outside the circle, Damien knew that much.
 
          There were 6 halls total, each of varying sizes based on some
statistic at the time the Circle was built. Every few years they’d do some
checks and decide of the housing was to be changed or not based on the Circle’s
population. Damien had only moved rooms once, and that was when he was an
apprentice. Moving rooms was less common once you were Harrowed, he’d heard.
 
          There were two Halls for the Templars, one for the men and one for
the women. The number of Templars in the circle rarely changed. If a Templar
died or was reassigned, a replacement was received within a month. Each Templar
hall could house 20 Templars, a total of 40 Templars, max. Only 36 ever lived
at the circle at any given time, though. Two rooms, one in each of the Templar
halls, was reserved for guests. Damien couldn’t remember them ever having been
used, though.
 
          The 4 remaining halls were for the Mages. Two for Harrowed, and Two
for Apprentices. The Apprentice halls were small, but one was larger than the
other. At the moment, the girls had the larger hall, with its 8 rooms, housing
14 girls. There were only 7 male apprentices at the moment, now that Damien had
become Harrowed. That meant the boys were in the smaller hall, with 5 rooms.
 
          The two Harrowed halls were of the same size, both with 10 rooms. For
a total of 40 Harrowed mages. At the moment though, there were 26 harrowed
mages. 15 of them were male, including Damien, and 11 of them were women.
 
          Damien referred to the small alcoves within each hall as rooms
loosely. The hall was long and without its walls would be like any other large
hall. There were doors at either end of the Hall, both on the left side, closer
to the center. The exterior wall of the circle would be on your right. Jutting
from the exterior wall were perpendicular walls branching inward, stopping
after about 10 feet to divide that wall into segments. At the end of those
walls were half walls, as tall as a man, but no taller. These walls did not
connect to their opposing wall to make a closed ‘room’. They went only as far
as the length of a cot, a chest, and another foot or so. Then there was a 4-
foot gap before the next perpendicular wall marked the next ‘room’.
 
          Each room had two cots, each with a chest at their base. Since the
mages were allowed few personal possessions, these chests mostly just held
spare robes. The younger mages might have an old toy or two, and even then the
toy couldn’t be flammable, or be something that could be used as a weapon.
Fist-sized cotton balls, treated with a magical flame-resistant barrier were
the most popular, though there were yarn dolls as well, also treated with this
barrier. Anything wooden was almost expressly forbidden, as was anything hard
such as clay, porcelain, or stone.
 
          Damien heard the footsteps of the Templar as he walked down the row
of ‘rooms’, looking in each for anyone not out of bed, or worse, missing
entirely. Damien could only remember a missing mage twice. Once, shortly after
he’d arrived at the circle, and once, shortly before his harrowing. The first
time was back when relations between mages and Templars were far less…
strained. A decent number of the Templars had actually seemed concerned. Of
course, Damien was only 5 at the time, and he was probably adding in the
emotions of a scared child. That missing mage had been found. He’d been in the
library, under a table reading so that the Templar patrols throughout the night
hadn’t seen him. According to him, he’d wanted to keep reading after curfew,
and hadn’t even noticed that it was morning.
 
          The second time, Damien could still remember vividly. The missing
mage had been found, within a couple hours. The girl, she’d only been 17, had
been found outside the tower, on the ground, dead from the fall. She’d somehow
managed to unlock the roof-top door, though exactly how no one was sure. It was
obvious that she’d jumped though. She was too far from the tower walls to have
been pushed, or tripped on accident. Plus, no one had heard a scream, and a
slip or push would have been fearfully loud.
 
          The Templar this morning was Ser Kendal.  Kendal was one of the nicer
ones. He did his job, nothing more, nothing less. He wasn't a power-hungry
sadist either. He wasn't kind, but he wasn't cruel. Many of the mages were so
wanting for affection that he could have slept with half the population of the
tower, had he wanted. He didn't though, and for that he had earned Damien's
respect.
 
          Once Kendal had taken attendance, he left the room, allowing the men
to dress themselves before leaving for their day to day tasks. A good portion
of the Templars would stay to watch the women dress, and a handful would stay
to watch the men, but Kendal left, like he was supposed to. Damien, in his
younger years, had also felt the attraction to the solemn Templar, but this
faded with age, and now he even found his respect fading. Kendal did his job,
nothing more. He was never up for promotion. He never advocated against his
fellow knights. He did not defend the mages, just didn't do the abuses himself.
To some, that was enough. It had been enough for Damien, when he was in his
teen years. Now, it was almost as bad as having a hand in the abuse himself.
 
          Breakfast was lukewarm porridge, leftover from the pot the Templars
made for themselves. Sometimes there were bits of meat, fish, sometimes even
fruit thrown in, but today it was just the bland, flavorless porridge. Grains
and water, cooked to mush. Sometimes, if there was a particularly good
Harrowing, the Templars would give salt, sugar, or milk to the mages to flavor
the porridge, but today was nothing extraordinary, and the porridge was barely
warm, and bland. It went down like the paste used to repair the books as they
fell apart, sitting in the stomach like a particularly soft rock of tar. It
kept your stomach from growling, but did little else.
 
          After breakfast, the mages had their chores. Chamber pots to be
emptied, clothes to wash, dishes to do. Each day the mages were assigned a
different section of the circle for the cleaning that wasn’t daily such as
scrubbing the floors, dusting the shelves, organizing supplies. That way the
rooms all got cleaned on the same time frame. Lunch and Dinner for both mage
and Templar alike was cooked by the mages, though usually a small group of
Apprentices were assigned that task. Stews, roast meats, breads, it all had to
be made, starting first with breaking apart a whole animal, or rather, several
whole animals. All the while, the Templars watched, waiting for any excuse to
alleviate their boredom with…. Something. Most of the time it was a pass at a
mage, but once every few days it would be a beating. The Templars would find
excuses.
 
          Meat not cooked enough, floor too wet, floor too dry, shelf still
dusty. Anything could be used as fuel, especially if a pass was resisted, or
even not given due enthusiasm. The Apprentices were in the library most of the
day, with the senior enchanters who taught them. They were far from exempt
though. The Templars watching them would often ‘test’ the Apprentices,
sometimes on things they hadn’t learned yet.
 
          "Block this, Mage."
 
          "Heal this, Mage."
 
          "Burn this, Mage."
 
          Any failure would only cause a rebuke. A painful rebuke. Even if you
managed to 'pass' a Templar's test the most you could expect is an aggravated
yet affirmative grunt. Failing to block a blow was usually considered
punishment enough, same as failing to heal whatever wound they chose to inflict
upon you. Fail to create fire, or lightning, and you think they'd be happy that
your magic was weak, but this was often met with pain, fists both open and
closed. If an apprentice was particularly disliked, sometimes they'd even get
you on the floor, only to give you a final kick.
 
          The mages of the Ostwick Circle had long learned to remain silent.
Make a noise, they fed off your pain. Remain silent, and they'd leave you
alone. You weren't any fun if you just took it like a good little subordinate.
 
          Damien had long learned the behaviors. Look toward the ground. Nod
vigorously but silently, unless they were yelling. If you were being yelled at,
simply answer 'Yes, Ser', or,'No, Ser'. Even then sometimes, you were a target.
 
          Too smart, too fit, too fair, too ugly, too stupid. Anyone but the
average was a target. You wanted to blend in. You wanted to be 'just another
mage'. If a Templar knew your name, there was trouble to be had.
 
          The day ended with dinner, then bed. It used to be you heard crying,
soft sobs and gentle weeping. As you got older, as your group of mages got
smaller, as you all became harder, the noises grew less and less obvious until
finally, there was silence. Children, aged up to 10 was one group. Ages 11-15
another. Ages 16-19 was the third. Granted, the official ages were 16 and up
with the last group, but everyone knew if you weren't out of the apprentice
barracks and into the mages barracks by then, you were going to be made
tranquil.
 
           Damien had almost been tranquil. To this day he attributes his last
name to his sense of self, because he fears without it, he would be a no one,
just another tranquil. Menial tasks, taking inventory, spell checker, things
that required little skill and even less thought. Originally the Tranquil had
also done the chores and cooking around the small circle of Ostwick, but the
population of the Free Marches was spread into City-States, and Ostwick was not
a large one. Each group of Apprentices numbered less than 15. If you kept track
of the ages of the Harrowed mages you'd see that number shrink to less than 15
with those who were under 35 alone. For every 5 mages it at least felt like
there were 2 Templars.
 
          Damien had been 19 when he'd finally be slotted for his Harrowing.
They had no reason to wait so long for him, really. He'd eavesdropped in on
some of the senior enchanters as an apprentice. Had heard them talk about him.
Saying how he wasn't an amazing mage, but he was certainly more than proficient
enough to take his Harrowing. Still however, the First Enchanter, or the Knight
Commander rejected him every month.
 
          When he was finally slated into place, he almost cried. He'd been
sure they'd planned to make him tranquil. Damien had undergone the same abuses
as most of the other Apprentices, and it was well known that being made
Tranquil made you nothing more than an object to the Templars, to do with as
they pleased. In some ways the abuse got better, but in others it got much
worse. Not like you'd care though, becoming Tranquil was like dying, but your
voice and face could still haunt your friends. That damned sunburst of a brand
seared into your forehead as a constant reminder than you were no longer whole.
 
          With night brought fitful sleep. Sleep without sleeping. The Fade,
the world of dreams, demons. Damien used to enjoy sleeping. No Templars. Just
dreams, just the Fade. Sure, he could feel the hair on the back of his neck
prick as demons whispered their promises of false futures, but they’d never
been a true temptation to Damien. Now though, he rarely dreamed, and when he
did, they were only nightmares. Demons took the shape of the Templars. Those
Templars who knew his name, and knew just what to do to break his silence.
 
          He wasn’t sure what it had been about his Harrowing that had spurred
the nightmares. They weren’t replays of his hours spent wandering the fade,
fighting his way out both physically and mentally. The Harrowing had
been riddles layered upon attacks, but it had been only draining, tedious, but
not overly difficult. The abuses from the Templars had prepared him well, as
ironic as it may be. No, perhaps the Harrowing made his presence more apparent
to the demons of the fade. Made him a bigger target. Allowed them to see those
things that did tempt him.
 
          Two hours, staring at the ceiling. One hour sleeping without
dreaming. Another half hour staring at the ceiling. An hour of half-sleep. 2
hours of nightmares. An hour of half-sleep, and hour of sleepless sleep, and
then 30 minutes of staring at the ceiling before the daily monotony of the
tower continued once again.
***** Prologue Pt. 2 *****
          The reports came in slowly. The Blood Mage outbreak in Kirkwall,
followed by the explosion, and then the order to annul the circle by the insane
Knight Commander Meredith. Of course, Kirkwall was only the first. Afterwards
there was the Annulment of several other circles, to ‘prevent the inevitable’.
There were apostates killing those who supported the Chantry. Finally, news
that there would be a vote. A vote by the mages, to decide whether or not they
would continue to follow the Chantry. Senior Enchanters left their circles in
droves to go to this meeting, to vote. In Ostwick at least, that left all the
apprentices, and all the low ranking enchanters alone.
          With each new development the Templars had grown more restless. More
Apprentices made Tranquil. More mages locked up, starved. Tower-wide
punishments. Skipped meals. Confined to quarters. Anything could tip the
delicate balance of the circle. Until finally, news of the vote returned to the
circle. The Enchanters had voted to break away from the Chantry. The Chantry
had called the Templars back to Orlais. All Mages were free. Apostates, but
free.
          At least, that was how it was supposed to be. For some circles, it
really was that easy. The Templars left, the mages took their things, left or
stayed, it didn’t matter. Ostwick was different though. Too many Templars,
perhaps. The good ones left, of course. Followed their orders. The ones who
remained though? Those were the worst of the group.
           At first, life was as you’d expect. The Templars did a lot of
damage. Then, they ran out of Lyrium. That was it, for some. Those that left to
find more Lyrium left behind those who didn’t care about Lyrium for want of the
power over mages. There were three of them, compared to the remaining 14
apprentices and enchanters, including Damien.
          The Three Templars must’ve sat down, must have reached some sort of
agreement, because in unison, they decided to kill off the mages. So there was
slaughter. Only 4 months after the voting, Ostwick Circle became nothing more
than a pool of blood.
          Damien had hidden. Cowardly. Hide away, don’t save your brothers and
sisters. He could hear their screams, their begging, pleading. He didn’t know
if anyone else had made it out alive. He hoped at least two or three others had
hidden themselves as well, or perhaps the Templars had kept one or two alive
for themselves. Damien remained ignorant of this, for he remained hidden, too
scared to move lest he be discovered and slain. His hiding place, a chest in
the Templars’ own barracks.
          The screams finally stopped. It felt like hours. Then there was
silence, blissful silence. An hour passed, then two, then the soft weeping
began as he could hear footsteps shuffle in the rubble that the Templars had
created when they destroyed the tower. Looking for friends, siblings, anyone.
Damien kept to his chest, and even those who survived did not find him. It had
answered his question though; some of the mages from Ostwick still lived.
          He stayed in that chest all night, curled in a ball as the cold air
permeated the wood. His robe pulled tight around him for warmth, he summoned
fire to his hands, allowing the flames to lick across his skin, close enough
for heat, but not enough to harm him. He’d always been good at fire. It was
fierce. It did damage. It couldn’t be caged. It was feared, and respected, and
if it wasn’t kept in check, it could wreak more havoc than ten mages.
          Fire was everything he wished he could be. Powerful. A force to fear.
True, as a mage he was feared, but it was an unjust fear. Fear of fire was
just. Fire was dangerous. Fire was also clean. Burning everything and leaving
only hot blackness in its wake.
          When Damien had been 19, afraid he was going to be made tranquil, he
tried to envision the positives to the process. A brand. Burning pain. Just
like fire. And then nothing. Just scarred black emptiness. Just like a fire. It
had made the prospect seem particularly less daunting. Like he might actually
be able to face the brand with a stern face and dry cheeks. Now though, in the
cold of the Tower, in the chest of a Templar, he cried.
 
                       --------------------------------
                                        
          The next morning, Damien woke up. Sunlight came through the windows
of the Templar barracks and in turn filtered through the cracks in the wooden
chest. It occurred to Damien that he’d actually slept, and in a chest of all
places. Carefully, he lifted an arm, pushing up on the lid of the chest, a
‘creak’ filling the otherwise empty air.
          Damien climbed out of the trunk, his heart hammering, almost
expecting to have a Templar bare down on him. He straightened his robes,
looking around the room. Frantically, he began searching everything he could,
chests, sacks, trunks, armoires, bookshelves. Anything that had been left
behind. He managed to find some gold, and a weak staff. It was better than
nothing. His searching finally led him to what was left of the pantry; some
stale bread, and some dried fruit. Everything else was rotten, needed to be
cooked, or was otherwise indigestible. Hungrily he ate the bread before shoving
the fruit into his pockets, and for the first time in his life, he left the
tower that had been his home for over a decade.
 
                       ---------------------------------
                                        
          Eight months. Eight months avoiding Templars and mages alike. Eight
months stealing what food he could. Eight months camping in the woods, bathing
in rivers, and eating leaves that he hoped were edible. He had had some
training as far as survival goes. Enough to draw pictures of poisonous leaves,
and medicinal ones. As far as ‘What to Eat’, they’d never thought that
necessary. Likewise, for berries, roots, and animals, he could only hope he
could heal himself of any toxic substances.
          He didn’t eat anything hearty. After 2 weeks of a vegetarian diet
(he’d managed to steal a wedge of cheese, and sneak into a barn to milk a cow
once), he finally gave in and ate those critters that were less than
appetizing. They were crunchy, fairly flavorless, and went down like a
particularly nasty string of mucus, but he knew it was supposed to be good for
you.
          His cheeks had grown gaunt, the bones of his wrists protruding. He’d
been able to start fires, but even the energy for that life giving element was
growing scarce. He was a circle mage. He’d been sheltered from the elements, if
not from the cruelty of humanity. Even as he cursed his own lack of skill, he
could not find it in his heart to feel any sort of anger toward the mages who
had brought about the disbanding of the circles. Had he been in attendance, he
was sure his vote would have joined them.
          Then the Conclave was announced. He may have been avoiding humanity,
but you’d have to be under a rock to miss the Conclave. The roads were full of
merchants and sisters, mages and templars, mercenaries and soldiers, nobility
and peasants, all heading toward Haven, toward the Conclave. The Divine
Justinia had called for peace talks. To try and end the war. Damien found
himself following the throngs, heading toward Haven, to hopefully, an end to
the madness.
***** Shoulda Spun a Story *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
          A flash, bright green. Spiders. Another flash, pain shooting up his
arm, up to his shoulder blade. Then consciousness. Damien was kneeling in the
center of a dungeon, his robes had been replaced- No… No he’d changed into
these clothes. He’d wanted to look like a faceless Mercenary. Why had he wanted
to hide his apostasy? The Conclave. Right. It was all coming back, slowly.
Sneaking into the Conclave, hearing shouts. He’d debated running, sure an
authority figure would find the source, and sure he would not want to be found
near it. Against his better judgement, he followed the yells, and then…
nothing. That was all he- No. No there were spiders. Huge spiders. And green.
Everything was a sickening green.
 
          Another flash followed by pain drew his attention downward. His palm.
His palm was… glowing? No. Not exactly. There was a mark, a wound of some kind,
slashing across his palm in a jagged line. There was no blood. There was…
 tendrils of that sickening green curling away from the tear in his skin. It
was glowing. Then it faded slightly, pulsing. It ached, but the shooting pains
up his arm were even worse.
 
          ‘What is this?’
 
          He didn’t have long to think about his predicament before the door in
front of him burst open, a tall woman stomping through. She was… quite angry.
Demanding answers about the Conclave. It had… blown up? Like the Chantry in
Kirkwall? And of course, he was a mage. Of course another explosion in a holy
place would be a mage. Why did they suspect him though? Did he actually do
something? Is that where his memories had gone? What could have made him attack
the Conclave? No, no, for now he didn’t know he’d done anything. He didn’t
think he would either. He wasn’t the violent type. It wasn’t him. He was a
coward, not a terrorist, not an attacker.
 
          “You think I had something to do with it.”
 
          It wasn’t a question, the way he phrased it. They did think he did
it. It was obvious not only in their mannerisms, but in the questions directed
at him. He was a mage; it was obviously his fault as far as anyone else was
concerned. His own brothers and sisters may very well blame him. If he didn’t
know himself, he might have easily thought he was trying to emulate Anders. As
it stood, he knew he couldn’t have done this. Nonetheless, it was demanded that
he explain the mark on his hand. The tall woman was pacing around him as he was
left to think a moment, his brow furrowed.
 
          “I... don’t know. I don’t even know how that got there.”
 
          “You’re lying.”
 
          “Of course! Because the mage always lies!”
 
          The woman withdrew her arm as if to strike him physically, only to
have her arm held by another, this one in a hood. She might’ve always been
there, or entered with the… Antivan? He didn’t know accents, having not heard
many of them, but if he had to guess, he’d say she wasn’t from Ferelden, or the
Marches, and he didn’t think Orlesian would sound so… coarse. The woman in the
hood though, she spoke how he always imagined Orlesians would sound, a roll to
her letters that made her words flow together, even as the urgency shaded her
phrase.
 
          “We need him, Cassandra!”
 
          So the Antivan was Cassandra.
 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
          The breach. That’s what they called it. It was a giant gaping hole in
the sky, pelting out missiles of demons like rain from a cloud. It matched the
mark on his hand. He could understand why they had assumed he’d had a part in
its occurrence. It was terrifying, huge, and it was threatening every single
life within all of Thedas. It had a twin on his palm, and so why shouldn’t they
think they were related?
 
          Walking out of the dungeon had been a nightmare. He’d tried to focus
on Cassandra’s words. He’d managed to reply here and there, and she seemed to
have found his answers adequate. If you’d asked him to repeat them though, he
could tell you. His main focus was on the heraldry surrounding him; The
Heraldry of the Chantry. That ever-present sunburst was displayed proudly no
matter where he turned. Walls, clothes, chests. He found himself fighting for
breath as they walked toward the gates and out of them. Down the path, around,
more wagons, more chests, dead bodies. Everything was stamped with that damn
symbol. As if he didn’t have it seared into his memory enough as it was,
reflecting off foreheads with emotionless voices.
 
          They walked up the path, the mark on his palm still shooting pain up
his arm, his elbow aching. The path was burning, books, clothes, wagons,
remnants of people’s lives, all interrupted by the explosion that had rocked
the area. The Breach spasmed, green lightning shooting from it with a crash as
an echo of that same pulse traveled past his shoulder and across his back,
sending Damien collapsing to the ground, gripping his arm. Cassandra helped him
up and looked on his with a modicum of pity before informing him that it was
only going to get worse.
 
          Continuing along the path took them to a stone bridge which would
otherwise have been completely uneventful if not for the fact that another
demon-chariot came thundering down to the earth, shattering it and sending both
him and Cassandra falling to the surface of the frozen river below. Damien
slowly righted himself in time to see Cassandra advancing toward one of the
demons that had materialized from the debris of the bridge. As seemed to be
typical of Damien’s luck lately, her absence was followed by a churning along
the ice at his feet, signaling something, and he had no doubt that it was
nothing good.
 
          Damien looked around in panic, his eyes falling to a staff not 5 feet
away from him. He dove for it, snatching up the wooden stave and spinning it
around, his stance defensive as a shade rose up from the bubbling that had
overtaken the ice. He whipped out with the staff, grateful that using a staff
had been taught at the Circle, even if they weren’t actually allowed to keep
one. The motion cause a small projectile to hurl itself toward the demon,
shattering on impact. It appeared like he was lucky enough to have found an
ice-oriented staff.
 
          “Of course, it would be ice.”
 
          He continued to fling hardened snowballs, his stave kicking out
chunks of the freezing matter wildly before the demon fell the ground,
crumpling into a green mush. He idly poked at it, then noticed a small glimmer
in the… remains. He prodded about a bit more, digging through the demon-sludge
and picking out a small crystalline lump. He wiped the gem off on the tunic of
his armor, then tucked it into his pocket. Who knew what it could be used for?
 
          He jogged up to Cassandra as she slayed her own foe, only to have her
turn around, her sword pointing on his chest. She demanded he lay down the
staff of all things. Damien bit his lower lip, his brows pressing together. He
could do as she said, and lose his only method of defense, or he could think of
a way to keep it. He clenched his jaw and glared at her. Maker preserve him but
he wouldn’t risk his life any more than he already was.
 
          “I don’t need a staff to hurt you, you know!”
 
          “Is that supposed to reassure me?”
 
          Her tone was biting, and Damien’s glared increased.
 
          “Well, I haven’t used my magic on you yet, have I?”
 
          Cassandra also clenched her jaw, and they spent a moment staring at
each other. She couldn’t know how his heart pounded in his chest, how his palms
grew slick with sweat. She couldn’t know how he was fighting back a sobbed out
apology out of pure instinct not to be reprimanded. She may not have been a
Templar, but years of brutality had woven those patterns into the recesses of
his mind. Those instincts were a part of his being as much as his need to
breath.
 
          “... You don’t need a staff… but you should have one. This should
have been enough to show me that I can’t protect you from whatever we may face.
I should remember that, like you said, you didn’t attack me, or run.”
 
          Damien searched her face for any sign of treachery, any sign that she
was lying, that she was just trying to get his guard down, any sign that there
was a falsehood in her speech. He couldn’t find one. Either she was telling the
truth, which was doubtful given the circumstances, or she was an excellent
liar, which was also doubtful, just because she didn’t seem like the type who’d
be skilled at lying. Perhaps that meant he should be even more suspicious of
her. Either way, there was little choice for Damien to do anything about it if
she was trying to lure him into a false sense of security, so he only nodded,
his grip on the staff tightening as he followed her up the hill back onto some
semblance of a path.
 
          “We’re getting closer. You should start to hear the fighting ahead.”
 
          Fighting? There was more of that? Damien was not a fighter. He wasn’t
made for combat. Sure enough, though, as they crested the hill, the sound of
bow twags, the sounds of a staff discharging and the sounds of swords biting
into soft meat met Damien’s ears. Not a full second later, the path turned past
a dilapidated wall and he was looking down a ruined foundation into what might
have been a cellar of some building or another. Demons and men alike fought,
and in their midst was a smaller replica of the breach, bright green crystals
protruding from it as it compacted itself inward.
 
          Cassandra leapt into action, jumping down the foundation and into the
dirt to take up arms herself. Damien hesitated to literally jump in like she
had, instead opting to stay on the small ledge and fire his staff from the
safer vantage point. As the demons fell, he found himself growing bold enough
to slide down and walk closer, still staying along the outskirts of the
grouping. Once the last demon was defeated, he felt his wrist being grabbed as
he was tugged toward the mini-breach.
 
          “Quickly!”
 
          Numbly he allowed himself to be yanked in the general direction of
it, his palm searing as the same green tendrils from earlier shot out, touching
the rift. He could almost feel it, as if it was an extension of himself,
caressing the tear before there was a tug, his arm growing taunt as the
tendrils straightened, pulling on the mini-breach with increasing force. He
took a half-step closer to it before there was an audible burst, the tendrils
whipping backward toward him, the rip snapping shut as the mark on his palm
seemed to almost suck inward, pain lancing up his arm once again.
 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
          Varric, Solas, Cassandra, it seemed these were to be his companions
for the time being. First it was to the forward camp, and then it was to the
massive breach at the temple. Damien didn’t know anyone who had been at the
temple. He hadn’t lost friends, nor role models. Loved ones, nor acquaintances.
Even still, walking amongst the corpses, was difficult. Many of them were
nothing more than burned husks. Shells of their former occupants, some still
burning with green flames.
 
          Damien had never seen a dead body. Any mages that died or were killed
were always disposed of efficiently at the circle. These though, were
unrecognizable. They could have been humans, elves, adults, children, dwarves,
it didn’t matter. All that remained were charred, frozen bodies. Positioned in
varying stages of agony, Damien walked silently among them, his hands clenching
against his clothes.
 
          It was habit for him; that whenever something bothered Damien, he
only grasped his tunic. It kept his nails from biting into his palms, gave him
something to grab onto, and the fabric of whatever he wore absorbed the sweat
from his hands. This was no exception as he tightened his grip, trying not to
stare too long at the deceased.
 
          “This… is where our soldiers found you.”
 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
          The breach hurt. It wasn’t just the mark on his palm, either. He
could feel it in his head. The fade was bleeding into the waking world,
distorting his reserves and draining his energy. It was bad enough that he
still wasn’t sure what exactly had happened in that room. He remembered hearing
a cry for help. He now supposed it must have been the Divine. As to what
exactly was happening in that room, though? Cassandra’s guess was no less
informed.
 
          The men and women surrounding him were prepared for the demons that
Solas had warned would be attracted by the opening and subsequent closing of
the Breach, but Damien wasn’t sure if he was as ready. They didn’t have time
for him to hesitate. He closed his eyes, whispering a quick prayer to the
Maker, painfully aware that this may be his last chance to beg redemption and a
place at His side.
 
          With a clenched jaw, Damien held up his hand. Once again he felt the
tug, but this time it was stronger, as if his arm was going to be yanked out of
his shoulder, as if the bone was stretching. He felt a vibration, growing in
intensity as there was another snap, The Breach opening with a tearing noise
beyond what he thought possible. Just as it opened, a large demon materialized
in the air, dropping down and surveying the gathered forces.
 
          It gave a dark chuckle, cruel eyes glinting before it swung it’s arm
outward, sending a soldier flying backward. Another moment and it seemed to
create some form of whip, purple sparks lining up obediently for it. Damien
furrowed his brow and sent a beam of blue to hover around their forces,
creating small temporary shields from the damage to come as best he could.
 
          Otherwise, he hovered back, away from the demon, firing ice crystals
at it. He watched as it drew energy from the breach, creating its own
shielding. Damien did the only thing he could think of to try and get rid of
that shield. He disrupted the breach again. Pain shot up to his shoulder blade,
mixing in the vibrations as, with another snap, the creature was stunned, it’s
shield gone.
 
          ‘Perfect… stun and weaken them by weakening the breach… I can deal
wi-’
 
          His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp pain against his back.
Spinning around revealed a shade, it’s claws bared. Of course. Disrupting the
breach may stun the demons, but it also attracted more of them.
 
          Summoning lightning up underneath the creature, he continued to fire
ice into it as finally it crumpled, leaving behind the same green goo that the
one under the bridge had. He then turned his attention back to the larger
demon, only to see that it had once again brought up a shield.
 
          This push and pull of disrupting the breach, fighting the smaller
demons, and then harming the larger one until it was time to disrupt the breach
again continued for the better part of an hour before finally the creature
crumpled to the ground, and the breach remained open, ripe for closure.
 
          “Now, Close it!”
 
          The voice was Solas’ but Damien didn’t make the connection. He was
exhausted, his arm was throbbing from the repeated use. As if in a trance, he
raised his arm one last time only to have it jerked forward as the green
tendrils pulled him toward the breach. That same gut wrenching pain, that tug
followed with a snap. But this time, there was no snap, just blackness.
Blissful unconsciousness.
Chapter End Notes
     Okay, so I'm bad at reading through my own work. After the second
     read through, I get bored and skim a bit... a lot. So. please feel
     free to let me know of any odd wording, or typos, so I can fix them.
End Notes
     Also PSSSSSSSt, look it's my baby: http://i.imgur.com/RtOXUD0.png
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