Antiquis Timores

She had felt vulnerable before, a byproduct of her existence as a mage. Her isolation from her peers and any mundane person almost ensured that it would happen, time and again.

One of her earliest memories of being defenseless was when the Templars first retrieved her from her home, from her parents. She couldn't remember them very well, apart from vague impressions. Her mother had been the warm softness always ready to embrace, smelling of embrium and freshly baked bread. Her father had been a towering presence, never entirely close, but always there, keeping them safe.

When the Templars took her, that security vanished. No longer could she hide behind the skirts of her mother, or seek comfort in her embrace. No longer could she gaze in awe at her father's height, a pillar of consolation. Instead she was surrounded by a constant wall of faceless steel that did not care for her. By a tower whose dark corners whispered to her of countless secrets. By fellows that whispered warnings of her to each other, shied away from her.

She had felt vulnerable when Greagoir had dragged her to the First Enchanter to check for possession. When another walked through her dreaming mind, her inner-self laid bare.

She had felt vulnerable when the other apprentices had stolen her clothes while bathing. A Templar taking pity on her and finding her something to wear back to the dormitories.

She had felt vulnerable when she stepped into the Fade. Templar swords bared, should she fail her Harrowing.

She felt vulnerable now. Falling to the ground with a bared blade at her back.

She hit the floor. The stone rough through the cloth of her robes.

She was well acquainted with vulnerability, being exposed to potential harm, but she knew that she was also far from helpless, even now.

To others it must have seemed like something detonated on the floor when she hit. A dull thud rang through the room as an invisible shock wave rippled from Celestine's prone form. Bann Teagan was tossed back as if hit by a battering ram. His head connected with one of the chairs thrown to the side of the room and he slumped to the ground. Motionless.

As Celestine struggled back to her feet, taking care not to have her robes catch beneath her feet, she realised that all sounds of battle had ceased. Isolde was looking even more disheveled, with her hair now also blown out of place, in addition to the paint running down her face. The bodies of the soldiers that had attacked them were lying on the floor around her companions, bloody rivulets trickling along the mortar between the stones.

"Where's Connor?" Celestine asked, her voice hard.

"The possessed boy," Morrigan replied, "ran down yonder passage," her disdain at the situation evident in her tone as she gestured to a darkened hallway that led further into the castle

"No, Connor! Please, you must save my son!" Isolde wailed.

Celestine found herself extremely annoyed by the woman's constant pleas. The abrasions on her hands and knees did not assist her disposition and before she could stop herself, she found herself turning towards the noble.

" I , must do nothing! This entire mess is your fault!" The words came out in a cold fury, words enunciated to bear the weight of what she was feeling. "Countless villagers and castle staff, dead. Because of you. " She pointed at the cooling corpses on the floor with her staff, the blood now painting a grisly mosaic. "One of the strongest garrisons in the kingdom brought to its knees because of your foolishness . What would the Arl think of this? If he were to ever wake?"

Her own words were stirring the anger at her core, stoking the flames until the simmering fury built into a rage. "You're nobility ; here in Ferelden that means that the Freeholders put their trust in you, not like in Orlais. You cannot afford to toy with Magic! You cannot risk-"

Her tirade was stopped by a firm gauntleted hand clapping down on her shoulder. Celestine had to fight the impulse to recoil within herself. The Templars were here . They would punish her if she lost control again.

Suddenly she found herself wrapped in Alistair's arms, shivering, unable to press her hands to her eyes because they burned them. She was recalling the venomous remarks whispered at her in crowded corridors, the source disappearing among the bodies. Behave, Amell. Or you'll be made Tranquil. Oh, Amell, you're not a Formari yet? Know the stockroom layout yet? You'll be working there after all, Amell.

She thought she had buried those words with her youth. Forgotten, as she grew old enough to realise that they had no power over her. Convinced herself that the Templars were not something to be feared. Trusted herself to control her magic.

The heat faded from her hands and she found herself looking into Alistair's eyes - their golden tint warm with worry - the determination from earlier still there, just transformed to something softer. She could also see the question in them, the asking for an answer to her reaction, the desire - no, need - to help.

The realisation at how fortunate she was to have been recruited by this man struck her in full force, causing more tears to escape. She pulled in a deep shuddering breath. As she released it she wiped at her eyes, trying to clear them, to compose herself so she could properly address the matter at hand.

She would need to talk to Alistair about this later, about her reaction, her reasons. That he was not to blame. Just as she would need to explain to everyone else, explain about her magic, how she was different from already perceived-as-freaks mages.

"Later," she murmured, to placate his gaze, which felt like it would pierce her to the core.

Stepping out of his embrace - no, she refused to think of it like that - his arms - Maker, that was no better. She stepped away from him. Turning to address Morrigan, "Is there any way we can save him? I've never heard of anyone being unpossessed."

"Hmmm, interesting idea," the witch mused. "I believe it a futile endeavour - these fools have only themselves to blame for this mess, they should suffer the consequences. But…" she continued, seeing Celestine's glare, "the boy changed before fleeing the room. It may be that the demon has not yet taken proper residence. If were the case, then, if one could find it in the Fade and slay it there, the child should theoretically revert to his original self."

Celestine nodded; it made sense, though there would still be one obstacle. "But to do that, we would need a lot of lyrium. Lyrium we do not have."

"That may be," Morrigan countered, "but we would not need lyrium if blood magic were to supply the power, and we happen to have a blood mage nearby. Blood magic and perhaps a life."

Celestine's thoughtful expression snapped into a scowl. "I'll have no truck with that foul practice, even if we have to go to Orzammar and back to get the lyrium needed."

"The Circle should have the supplies," Alistair offered, "and it's far closer. You can see the tower from the docks on a clear day."

"But what about my son? " Isolde interjected, garnering several irritated looks.

"We could have the Templars from the village chantry watch over him," Alistair suggested, his tone tentative.

Celestine's eyes lit up. "Yes, of course!"

Everyone assembled looked at her questioningly.

"The Templars! Templars use lyrium to enhance their abilities! And there's more than one reason that the lyrium smugglers get away with what they do."

Alistair scratched his arm awkwardly, trying to get his fingers between the splint mail plates, "I suppose there's that; going all the way to the Circle to get lyrium does seem a bit silly in the face of this being the largest inland settlement in the country. Lothering had to get supplies somehow ."

"Well it's true that Templar lyrium is generally not ideal for large-magic casting, being diluted like the potions we drink. But if we get enough together, say a whole Chantry's cache…." Celestine's face was a picture of excitement. Her eyes were still slightly swollen from earlier, but the scar from the Lothering tavern fight that bisected her left cheek and eyebrow was stark against her mildly flushed face.

"When do we start?"

The question was unexpected, interrupting Celestine and shocking everyone else into silence. Sten was standing, statuesque as ever, with his arms crossed and weapon cleaned and sheathed, looking at the Warden mage.

"...now?" She hesitated. There was an undercurrent of urgency to the Qunari's tone. "We still have a whole day to prepare. It should be enough time to carry up the quantity we need."

The white-haired giant nodded and walked out of the room, seemingly intent on beginning the task of bringing up the magical substance. Celestine's eyes shot from him to the others in the room until they settled on Alistair.

~

They had moved all of the lyrium that Morrigan deemed necessary to the castle by the afternoon. Erik and Alistair had led a team of men through the building, collecting corpses to be burned with the others from the village. Templars from the Chantry had been brought in to keep Connor restrained, neither of the two that had been recruited for the task looking very happy with their assignment, or the proceedings. Leliana had explored the remaining keep while Celestine and Morrigan discussed how to proceed with the spell they had planned. The bard returned, reporting that there were still a few rooms with shuffling corpses inside but far fewer in number than anything they had encountered in the working areas of the keep. Those Sten cleared out and dragged to the pile where the cart bearing the bodies to the village collected them.

Elisa spent most of the day sitting in the shade of the large tree in the castle courtyard, complaining loudly at not being allowed to do anything. Fortunately the two Mabari made sure to keep her entertained most of the time. Sometime around midday she was also joined by Bevin and his sister, which quieted any complaints she might have voiced after that.

As evening drew near they prepared for the ritual. Morrigan would cast the spell that would send Celestine into the Fade, while the others would guard over Connor's and her physical forms.

Celestine looked at the large vessel of glowing blue. It had taken ten times the quantity of diluted lyrium to gather enough power to perform the ritual. It was an oddly mesmerising sight, looking into the vat of liquid mineral. She glanced at Morrigan for confirmation; the witch nodded and Celestine reached out to touch the magical substance before her.

~

She opened her eyes and looked around. She was still in Redcliffe Castle, but it was different. The colours were somehow...less. Desaturated and lifeless.

"Greetings, my Lady," a voice called from behind her, "welcome to Redcliffe."

She turned around, slowly. Hands automatically reached for her staff's sling at her back, only to find that she was already holding it. Or - she was holding one , but it barely resembled hers . This one's shaft was of the deepest black metal she had ever laid eyes on, instead of wood. Blackened steel? Obsidian? Eternium? At its tip rested a clear crystal that had shots of jet-like blackness veining it.

The changed staff prompted her to look down at herself. Her robes had changed as well. She could not recall whether these differences had also been apparent when she had been in the Fade during her Harrowing. The robes that had been worn-through, torn and essentially reduced to tatters by her journeys were gone. Instead she was dressed in what could only be described as a uniform. The main colour was cobalt cotton that screamed military; the only place where the colour was interrupted was the chest, which had a solid white panel with leather clasps holding it closed. Her upper arms and shoulders were lined with rows of tight-fitting steel studs that made the outfit almost look like armour. The soft leather gloves that reached up to her elbows and knee-high boots accompanying the black woolen hose though, had her thinking it was more for show than anything else - a dress uniform.

Needless to say, she thought it countless miles more practical than any robe she had ever worn, since even decorative steel would block more than gaudy golden lining would.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Warden Amell?" the same voice from earlier asked.

Embarrassed, she looked up to see who was actually addressing her. He was tall, and had a beard. Those were the first things she noted - his most telling features. His grey was hair collar-length, perhaps slightly longer, and tied back as if to balance out his prominent full-facial beard. It was fascinating - more like a small animal attached to the man's chin than the flowing symbol of wisdom that the First Enchanter had. Judging by how lavishly-if garishly- he was dressed, he had to be a nobleman, a soldier's posture indicating that he had not always lived a life of luxury.

"My Lord," she replied, half-bowing and trying to recall how Duncan had first addressed those of noble birth at Ostagar. "I fear you have me at a disadvantage."

"Ah, did Teagan not introduce us? My apologies, I thought that was where I learned of you, I am Arl Eamon."

So this was the man they had set out to ask for aid? The man that had raised Alistair and consequently turned him over to the Templars. The man who was said to be abed with a deathly sickness wracking him. The man Loghain had had Jowan poison. The man whose son had turned to demons to try and save his father.

"A pleasure to meet you. To answer your question, my lord: do you know where I might find your son, Connor?"