Templar - Chapter 1 (Patreon)

Year 9:25 Dragon, Kinloch Hold, Ferelden

In the dimly-lit hallways of Circle Tower, the sound of stomping boots could be heard. Not uncommon, as far as things were concerned, were it not for the ungodly hour. The tower had a curfew, and all mages with sense knew to be in their beds by now. A rule they didn’t grumble too much about, honestly - their studies, and the practice of magic itself, strained their constitution heavily.

However, a closer look at the source of the stomping sound revealed that he was no mage; the symbol of a flaming sword on his breastplate made that abundantly clear. He was an older fellow - well on his way to sixty, if the wrinkles on his face and his iron-grey head of hair were to serve as testimony.

Turning a corner on the way to his destination, he saw something that made his upper clip curl in displeasure. In front of him, a young man with blond hair was slouching against a wall, clearly fast asleep. His chest was likewise decorated with a flaming sword, signifying his allegiance to the same order as the older man.

When the grey-haired veteran saw that his young subordinate did not rouse from his sleep despite his loud stomping, he reached out a gloved hand and cuffed the lad on the side of his head.

With a start, the kid’s eyes flew open, the expression on his face somehow managing to look threatening despite his clearly groggy state. That is, until he saw who had just slapped him upside the head. Like a stage actor changing masks, he immediately went from furious to supplicating.

“K-knight-Commander Greagoir, you’ve returned! How went your journey? Without troubles, I trust...?”

The old man, Knight-Commander Greagoir, didn’t deign to reply. Instead, he fixed the rookie with a glare that could make even the most experienced demon-slaying templar tremble in his boots.

“Cullen.”

“Ahem, yes sir?”

“Did you not personally request to join the night-watch? Why then, are you not watchful?”

“U-uhm, I did, sir. It won’t happen again, sir.”

The seconds felt like hours to Cullen as he awaited the punishment that would surely be forthcoming. However, to his great surprise, Commander Greagoir turned and started walking away. With a final look over his shoulder, and a ‘Shape up, lad.’, he disappeared into the dark hallway. Only the ever-present stomping sound of his mailed boots told the tale of his passing.

Cullen had to pinch himself twice before he was finally convinced that he wasn’t still dreaming. Knight-Commander Greagoir did not forgive transgressions. It simply wasn’t a thing he did.However, he soon realized the reason for the commander’s uncharacteristic mercy.

‘The commander is in a good mood. He must be looking forward to seeing Valiën.’

The young templar looked a little uneasy as he thought of that elf.

‘Well, I suppose it’s none of my business.’

Shaking his head with a sigh, he resumed his vigilance. He wouldn’t succumb to the demon of sleep this time.

Hopefully.

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The night’s cold had arrived, and mist rose from the surface of lake Calenhad, blurring the large figure of the Circle Tower. It stood in the centre of that large body of water – inaccessible except by boat. Those who were unfamiliar with the structure’s purpose would certainly wonder why its owners would go to such lengths to keep visitors away; building a tower in the middle of a lake was no easy feat, after all. Of course, that wasn’t the reason why it had been built there – the owners were less concerned with keeping people out, and more concerned with keeping people in.

A small spire jutted out from the large Circle Tower, like a branch growing from a tree trunk. It only had a single window, which was slightly opened. Through that crack, the dim light of a lantern could be seen. The inhabitant of the room was clearly still awake.

Peeking through that open window would allow one to catch a glance of his elusive figure – the one who calls this sequestered nook of the tower his home. He sat hunched over his desk, his pale-gold hair hanging down to cover his eyes. He was writing something or other on a piece of parchment, his feather-quill scratching and scribbling as he left indecipherable markings on the yellow paper.

His pale hand momentarily shifted from its position on the wooden desk to tuck a wayward golden lock behind one of his sharp ears.

Time passed as he continued writing his letters, the markings written in a script only he could understand. It was getting late, even for him, and he’d started contemplating whether it wouldn’t be best if he turned in for the night.

However, his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a soft knock on his door.

His eyes widened slightly in surprise. ‘Who could it be, visiting at this hour?’

He stood up slowly, taking care not to knock over his inkwell and ruin his projects. He was in the habit of locking his door at all times; not because the tower was dangerous, in fact it was extremely safe. It was simply that: a habit.

Walking over to the entrance, he turned the large key sitting in the lock, slowly opening the creaking door.

The expression on his face made it clear that the visitor in front of him was certainly a surprise, but not an unwelcome one.

“Father, you’re back early! I wasn’t expecting you for at least one more week.”

On the other side of the door, Knight-Commander Greagoir stood with a parcel clutched under one arm, a weary smile on his face.

“It’s good to see you, Valiën.”

Shoving his way inside in that brusque manner so well known to Valiën, he dragged out the wooden stool the young elf kept under his bed and took a seat.

His eyes roamed the boy’s figure while he closed the door, re-locking it.

One hand went to his bushy, gray eyebrows, rubbing them with a sigh. “I can’t believe you answered the door like that, boy. It’s indecent.”

Valiën seemed to notice his state of undress for the first time. His chest and half his abdomen were exposed, revealing his defined figure. He retied his robe with a shrug, his expression entirely unrepentant.

“Welcome back, how was your-...” However, when he saw the two books his father was holding in one hand, his question died in his throat.

On their spines, each of them written in a different language, the same title was spelled out: ‘Tome of the Mortal Vessel.’

Every inch of Valiën’s body simultaneously broke out into goosebumps. He felt as if he’d been electrocuted.

Greagoir watched as the boy’s golden eyes dilated, those familiar glowing orbs turning black from shock. His face remained like that of a marble statue, but the old templar had raised the boy since he was three years old. He knew exactly what was going through his head right now, no matter how stoic the expression he wore.

With hands that were surprisingly un-trembling, Valiën reached towards the two tomes. However, Greagoir moved them out of his reach.

The templar spoke to his son, his voice low. “This is practically blood magic, Valiën. Do you honestly think I would hand it over? I’m aghast that you would even ask me to collect these for you.”

The boy looked at his father. “It is not blood magic.”

Valiën looked down at his open palm, the five fingers splayed wide. He turned it this way and that, gazing at it with an almost admiring look in his eyes. For a brief moment, Greagoir saw a flash of light emerge from within the pale flesh, illuminating the room.

Then it was gone.

Valiën looked at his father, the golden glow having returned to his eyes.

“And besides...” His voice was measured, powerful. “I need it.”

Greagoir pressed his tongue against his teeth. For a moment, he looked as if he wanted to tear the books in his hand to pieces.

“You know I never ask, Valiën. I trust you. But this time, this time...”

The two of them stared at each other in silence. Neither of them said anything. Greagoir looked like he was waiting for his son to reply, but the young elf remained silent.

Finally, he caved.

Shaking his head with a sigh, he handed the two books over to his son.

Valiën held them in his hands carefully, almost as if he were cradling a newborn baby.

“Father... thank you.”

Greagoir didn’t say anything. Instead, he stood up and walked over to the window. It had started raining, and it wouldn’t do for the damp to get to Valiën’s papers.

It wasn’t the first time the two of them had come into confrontation over one of Valiën’s ‘requests’, and he doubted it would be the last. His affection for the boy would doom him, one day. That was no exaggeration – he’d seen it happen before, to people with more conviction than he.

His features softened as he looked out the window. It had been much like now, a softly raining night, when he’d found a golden-eyed young urchin staring at him in the darkness. He didn’t know what it was, why he’d picked up the child. The Maker knew, he’d passed plenty of orphans by before. The cities were filled with them, children who were victims of circumstance or of their parents’ bad decisions.

He was on duty at the time. Not hunting a mage for once, but doing much worse – at least in his opinion. He’d been commanded to perform a task for a noble, which rankled him to no end. It made him despise his superiors; templars were to remain true to their purpose, not play Games with the gentry.

That day, his life changed forever. He’d become the boy’s father, although not by blood. He found that it didn’t matter. His affection for the clever lad grew day-by-day, and when the time came, he found that he couldn’t hand him over to be taken care of by the Chantry.

He decided to raise the child himself.

Of course, there were objections, but few could command the Knight-Commander. And the few who could where either too busy to or simply didn’t care.

Shutting the window, he turned around to see his son paging through his new books, already having forgotten his presence.

His throat felt thick as he looked at the familiar features: grown now, but still unmistakably belonging to that young child he’d picked up all those years ago.

“Are you well, son?”

Valiën smiled softly in the lantern-light.

“I have enough to eat, a place to sleep and all the books I could ever read. I am content.”

Greagoir nodded, not trusting his voice enough to reply.

He’d never wanted this for Valiën, never wanted him to be a mage. He knew what he’d have to do if things turned out that way. He was the Knight-Commander – he needed to set an example for all, even if it meant jailing his own son.

For years, the boy had shown no sign of magic. Then his twelfth birthday came. The rest was history.

During those early years, before Valiën had manifested the ‘gift’, Greagoir had carried a quiet hope inside of him, one he’d never shared with Valiën. He’d wanted the boy to follow in his footsteps, to become a templar.

The profession was wrought with danger, certainly. Yet, danger wasn’t all there was: there were many benefits to becoming a templar. It was better than being a commoner, and certainly better than becoming a mage.

Although, perhaps the benefits weren’t the real reason why Greagoir had held such hopes.

The order was crumbling. Anyone who’d been with the organization for long enough would be able to see it. Being a templar had once meant having a greater duty than simply acting as judge, jury and executioner for mages. What had become of honor? What had become of Justice? What had become of God?

The boy was made of the right stuff, and he had the sword-arm to back it up. Greagoir had confidence that, if Valiën had been able to succeed his position, he would have made an excellent Knight-Commander.

He glanced over to his son, the sensation of guilt welling up from within his chest and filling his mouth with a bitter taste. He felt like a robber, like he’d taken away the bright future that surely waited for the lad from him by locking him up in this tower, likely for the rest of his life.

That was why, whenever he found himself confronting Valiën, whenever he found himself staring into those glowing eyes, he had to look away. He couldn’t bear to see his own reflection in them.

‘I’m sorry, my boy... I’ll do what I can for you, what you ask me to. Just, please... don’t ask me to go too far...’

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An elfin mage, pale skinned and red haired, was sitting in the tower library, preparing for an upcoming examination. She skimmed through the book in front of her with an expression that kept growing more displeased by the minute. Eventually, she let it flop closed with a frustrated sigh.

‘This is useless. There material I’m looking for must be written somewhere else...’

Her companion, a stubbly man with shoulder-length black hair, noticed her situation. “Didn’t find what you were looking for, Neria?”

She shook her head at him. “Back to the shelves with me, I guess.”

“Stay strong. You’ll find it.” He smirked at her, making a flexing gesture with one of his arms.

Anyone who didn’t know them would certainly suspect that Jowan was pursuing her, but they were nothing but fast friends, and had been such for years. Anyway, if he were to be believed, he was already in a relationship with someone. She’d been trying to get him to introduce her for ages, but he’d been suspiciously cagey about the whole thing. At this point, Neria doubted that the girl was even real.

Rolling up her sleeves and shoving her red curls out of her eyes, she steeled herself. The library was, quite frankly, enormously huge. Finding the tome she needed was like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

A sigh left her mouth.

‘The sooner I get started, the sooner I’ll be done with this.’

She looked over at a large row of shelves to her left. Above it, a plaque had been nailed. It read: ‘Tevinter Manuscripts on Lyrium Permutations: 1195 TE – 1404 TE’.

Her willpower almost flagged when it finally struck her just how big the haystack was that she needed to scour.

‘This is going to be torture.’

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She had no idea how much time had passed when she finally found what she’d been looking for. She looked down at the musty old book in her hands with indifference. If it had been a few hours ago, she would have been happy, exuberant even. However, now she just wanted to go back to her room and crawl underneath her covers. She considered going to the mess hall to grab something to eat, but found that she wasn’t even hungry.

Sighing for what was perhaps the millionth time today, she made her way to the counter so she could sign out the tome. The place was almost completely empty, with the last few stragglers like her similarly in the process of finishing up their business.

She eyed the librarian poisonously as he helped her complete the necessary paperwork.

‘Gods, why can’t they organize this place a bit better?’

The fellow, if he noticed, payed her no attention.

“That will be two silvers.”

She eyed him incredulously.

“You can not be serious. Since when does it cost money to borrow books from the library?!”

He looked at her like he was a storekeeper, and she a particularly troublesome client.

“Most of the time it costs nothing. In the case of that manuscript, it costs two silvers.”

Her face turned red in anger, but instead of continuing to argue with him, she took two silvers from her robe and slammed them down on the counter before leaving in a huff. Fortunately, she remembered to grab the book at the last moment. It would have been extremely embarrassing if she’d needed to return for it, considering the tantrum she’d just thrown.

She stomped out of the library in a foul mood.

‘Once I become an enchanter, I’ll do something about that godforsaken library!’

Neria, lost in her fantasies concerning the future, didn’t think to slow down as she rounded the corner of the hallway leading to her dorm. Though the hallways were hardly narrow, so there wasn’t much danger of bumping into someone usually.

However, today wasn’t turning out to be her lucky day.

She bumped head-first into a figure the moment she stepped around the corner. It felt like she’d rammed full-speed into a stone wall. The person she ran into didn’t budge an inch, yet she was sent flying backwards, scattering paperwork and books like a she was an upended bookshelf.

“By the Maker, who...?!”

One hand went to the back of her head, rubbing at the bruised spot. Her fall had been stopped by something hard, and it had been painful. She looked at her fingers in concern, but was relieved to find that they came back without a drop of blood on them. Still, she was going to be sporting one hell of a bump tomorrow.

She opened her mouth furiously, planning on scolding the offending person to kingdom come. That is, until she saw who exactly she’d bumped into.

“Valiën...!”

She felt as if bucket of cold water had been dumped over her head, cooling her anger in an instant.

“Are you hurt?” He asked, holding out his hand to help her up.

She took his hand in a daze, letting him pull her up while she shook her head.

He said something else, but she hardly even heard him. She could only stare at him in amazed silence. Seeing that he wasn’t getting a response out of her, he turned and left, but not before picking up her papers and placing them in her arms.

She stared silently his tall figure as he left, stiff as a salt pillar.

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The next morning, Jowan found her in the mess hall, shoveling porridge into her mouth absentmindedly.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Neria.” He said, plopping down next to her. He shoved his spoon into his own oats, covered in a generous amount of butter, and brought it to his mouth. However, seeing that it was a bit hot, he decided give it a little blow. It wouldn’t do for him to burn his tongue, after all.

Neria looked over at him with wide eyes, like that of a startled animal. “Either I did see a ghost, Jowan, or...” She didn’t continue, choosing instead to resume the act of shoveling food into her mouth.

He looked at her in annoyance. “Come on, now. If you’re going to say something, then say it. Don’t get cryptic with me – I don’t think its amusing.”

That managed to get a small snort out of her. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone as intolerant of mystery as you, Jowan.”

Her friend didn’t reply. Instead he fixed her with a look, one that demanded she spill the beans right now.

“All right, all right.” She said, smiling at his attitude. Then, after spending a moment to gather her wits, she spoke. “Last night, when I was returning from the library, I saw Valiën.”

Jowan, who’d clearly been expecting her to share some tidbit of girl gossip, or something else equally insignificant, wasn’t prepared for that revelation.

“Bullshit!” He shouted, spraying porridge over the table in his excitement. The outburst attracted the attention of the other students, who looked over with curiosity. However, it quickly turned to disgust when they saw Jowan’s little ‘accident’.

Neria brought her index finger to her lips in exasperation.

Jowan quickly nodded, wiping his mouth, as well as the table, with a rag he’d procured from somewhere on his person.

Seeing that he’d calmed down, and that everyone’s attention had turned elsewhere, Neria told him of how she’d run into Valiën on her way back to her dorms late last night.

After hearing the story, Jowan was silent. After a long while seemingly spent contemplating her words, he spoke. “Are you sure about what you saw? It wasn’t someone else?”

She shook her head. “You don’t ‘mistake’ someone else for Valiën.”

Jowan grumbled in agreement. “The pretty boy is still alive, then. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“You know how he is. He probably just went back to doing what he always did – ignoring everyone else while locking himself away in his tower.” Neria whispered, agreeing with her friend’s statement.

Jowan had to admit that her words didn’t sound too far fetched. In fact, it was very likely that Valiën would have done exactly that, given his personality.

The two of them chewed silently on their oats, lost in their own thoughts for the moment.

The revelation became less and less shocking to Jowan the more he thought about it. Valiën was... gifted. The news that he’d died during has harrowing had sounded rather ridiculous, even at the time.

If someone suddenly told him that First Enchanter Irving had died during a mugging gone wrong outside the tower, he certainly wouldn’t had believed it. This was the same kind of situation.

After sorting through his thoughts and calming his emotions, he looked over at his friend. “What are you going to do now, Neria?”

The redhead shrugged. “Nothing, I guess. You know I prefer to stay uninvolved in Tower gossip.”

Jowan’s expression turned teasing has he looked at his friend. “Aren’t you relieved, though? I knew you were rather sad after the news of his passing was released.” He eyed her like a hawk for even a hint of reaction. “You locked yourself in your room for days after the incident. And besides, you told me you had a crush on him when you were younger.”

Nelia buried her face in her palms, but she couldn’t stop the blush that crept down from her face to her neckline. “Yes, me and every other girl in the tower. I doubt he even knows who I am.”

Still, she couldn’t stop herself. Despite everything, she was happy that he was alive. Soon, she was silently sniffling, her face now buried in the crook of her elbow.

Jowan reached over to her, awkwardly putting one arm around her shoulders and hugging her against his chest. He regretted teasing her now, although it was already too late.

After desperately searching for something to say, he settled with “Don’t worry. Love will find a way.”

“Shut up, Jowan.” a choked voice replied irritably from the area near his chest.

He smiled ruefully. Lily was really going to let him have it when he told her about this.

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A handsome figure sat silently in a spartan room, empty of everything except an intricately woven mat and a few flickering magical lanterns.

Exhaling, he opened his eyes and stood up. He walked over to the door and, after double checking that it’d been locked, stretched out his opened hand in front of him.

The hand that had been empty until now suddenly contained a book. It had just appeared there, with no flash of light to signal its arrival, or even a hint of perturbation in the magical currents flowing within the tower.

On its spine was written a familiar title: ‘‘Tome of the Mortal Vessel.’

Then, another one appeared on top of it, seemingly out of thin air as well.

Those were the two books he’d received from his father yesterday.

...But then, as if appearing out of the same invisible pocket, a third one apparated.

...and a fouth.

...and a fifth.

This continued until the whole room had practically been filled to the brim with copies of the same book.

If someone had seen this, their eyes would have surely popped out of their sockets, even if that person had been the First Enchanter himself. There was simply no way to perfectly duplicate an item without causing even the slightest fluctuation of magical energies. It was impossible.

And yet, that was exactly what Valiën had done.

How on earth had he done it? Could it be that he’d discovered a form of magic completely unknown to the circle? Or was he doing something... else?

Then, something even stranger happened. Every single book suddenly evaporated into countless particles of golden light. They sparkled and spiraled in the air like millions of dancing fairies.

Valiën spread his arms wide in a beckoning gesture, and immediately the motes of light were drawn to him. They wriggled and struggled against each other in their haste to reach him, and soon they covered every inch of his skin. Not even his eyes remained exposed.

He looked like a spirit, descending from the golden city to visit the world of the living.

Then in a single pulsating wave, they were drawn inside him. With a flash of light, and a powerful gust of wind, they were gone.

Valiën looked completely unchanged, except for the ethereal steam that now constantly rose from his body.

He had been staring off into the middle distance expressionlessly ever since the start of the ‘procedure’, and hadn't reacted to the phenomenon at all.

In his field of vision, invisible to all but himself, floated a curious object - the very thing he had been staring all this time. It was some sort of image, filled with strange letters and numbers. Even if all the linguists and historians of Ferelden had gathered together, they wouldn't have been able to make out hide nor hair of what it said.

He didn’t bother to read everything, his attention instead focusing on a single number in the top right. The last time he’d checked, it had been a three. Now, the number one hundred had taken its place.

He raised his hands to rub at his face. This time, he couldn’t stop them from trembling.

He chuckled softly.

Through a gap in his fingers, one of his golden eyes was revealed. It was wide open and trembling.

“It worked...!”

He’d confirmed it with other objects before, but those things were of little value compared to this.

Lowering his still trembling hands from his face, he realized he was hyperventilating.

He sat down and closed his eyes.

After an hour, after he'd completed two cycles of the templar breathing technique he’d learned from his father, he finally managed to calm himself.

He exhaled softly.

With one finger, now still and untrembling, he pressed one of the little golden arrows drawn on the floating image.

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