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call-me-honkie · 1 year

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Never Meet Your Mentors

Irving held up a hand. The Warden’s mouth snapped shut, but ire flickered through them. At first, it had relieved them how quickly they were sliding back into the roles of mentor and apprentice. But, suddenly, they weren’t sure that’s what they wanted to be to Irving. They had passed their Harrowing, among many other ordeals.

The Mage Warden comes to some realizations about Irving as they talk about the Circle. Takes place after the Broken Circle quest.

Also on AO3!

Their party had an extra member, First Enchanter Irving, that evening. The Warden had been put on watch duty first at Wynne’s suggestion.

“At least one Grey Warden should be on watch duty at all times, if we can help it,” she’d said, in that gentle yet firm voice of hers. It was a voice the Warden was all too familiar with: one of a higher-ranking enchanter who was used to herding around apprentices. “That way, we minimize the risk of a darkspawn attack while we’re caught off-guard.”

Now that the night was still, though, they wondered if she had known they wouldn’t even try to sleep after the day they had. First Enchanter Irving had volunteered to keep watch along with them. Wynne objected at first, since he out of all of them needed the rest the most, but she relented when he insisted that her healing spells had done a fine job on driving the brunt of the pain away. Still, he walked with a visible limp.

The Warden dared a glance at their former mentor, who was staring into the fire. The firelight made his deep worry lines seem even deeper, and his unkempt beard couldn’t hide his frown. Yet he hadn’t said a word to his former apprentice. It was his lost-in-thought look; the Warden knew it all too well when they used to walk into his office in the seconds before they cleared their throat to get his attention. They wondered if he volunteered for watch duty because he knew he would not be able to sleep, either, after what happened in the Tower.

The Warden turned their gaze into the fire. The Tower they left mere weeks ago did not feel like the Tower they had returned to. They had not expected a warm welcome—one of the first things Greagoir did was glare coldly at them and remind them they were still a maleficar’s accomplice. But they had not expected to return to…

The Warden felt their eyes glaze. The flames danced in front of them, bright and hypnotic, springing up from the embers, glowing red as blood.

Blood trailed up the stairs into the Harrowing Chamber, the stains messy and disjointed. Whoever’s blood it was, they had put up a fight. The Warden’s stomach turned—not at the gore, but at not knowing what was happening through the door.

From his translucent cage, Cullen fell to his knees. He buried his head in his hands, clutched together in prayer. “Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.”

A scream ripped through the fourth floor just as the Warden’s hand touched the Harrowing Chamber’s door. The air prickled with electricity and mana, as if the Tower itself raised its hackles at whatever was happening upstairs. The Warden flinched.

Cullen’s head was bowed so low it nearly touched the ground. “Oh, Maker,” he whimpered. “Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Maker's will is written.”

The Warden’s feet were frozen. When the great doors had shut behind them (it felt like an eternity ago, but it could have only been an hour at most), the first thing they did was step over the body of a familiar woman. Not a friend. But she had been kind, and had congratulated them on their successful Harrowing, and—

The Warden couldn’t do this. They couldn’t do this. If the First Enchanter was dead, or if he was an abomination—

“The First Enchanter’s sharp as a whip, and just as dangerous, too. Personally, I don’t believe for a second that there’s no hope,” Alistair said from right behind them. To their companions, it must have sounded like a simple observation to no one in particular, but there was a softness to his voice; he was reassuring them.

The Warden nodded mutely. He was right. They couldn’t afford to get choked up now. They were a mage. Their willpower was their strongest weapon.

They pushed the door open.

Cullen’s voice guttered and grew distant as they ascended the stairs. “Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and wicked and do not falter…”

Irving’s voice cut through their thoughts: “I do not believe I had the chance to thank you for what you did today.” His voice was gravelly, heavy, and tired.

The Warden shivered, as if their body was shaking off the memory. “You already did. In the Tower.”

Their former mentor paused, then chuckled quietly enough that the Warden wondered if they had misheard it until he said, “Yes. Yes, you are correct. I truly am getting too old for this, aren’t I?”

The Warden smiled weakly. Irving did the same. The invisible, stony barrier between them, erected the day they were conscripted into the Grey Wardens, felt like it had begun to crumble, like they were one step closer to returning to what they had been: mentor and apprentice.

Their chest ached for that stability again. The Circle was constricting with its many rules and the Chantry breathing down the mages’ necks, and there were certain dangers, like the Harrowing, but it was stable. There were hot meals, beds, peers, mentors, and the opportunity to hone one’s skills and knowledge. It was a home.

Or it had been, until Greagoir shut those massive doors closed and locked the mages inside. Then it was a slaughterhouse.

Irving stroked his beard passively. “It will take a long time for this wound to close. For everyone.” He looked at the Warden, and they looked away. He always seemed to sense their thoughts. “Even Greagoir.”

The Warden clenched their jaw, fiddling with a strap on their boot. “He didn’t seem that upset about trapping everyone inside to fend for themselves.”

“If you are to blame anyone, blame Uldred and his pride. Blame the Chantry’s distrust of mages that obliged Greagoir to seal the doors.” Irving’s voice was quiet yet sharp, and it stung. To an outsider, they were conversing civilly, but the Warden knew he was scolding them. It was the genius of Irving’s diplomatic skills. “Greagoir, as the knight-commander, did what he could, given the circumstances. He is—”

“‘A reasonable man,’” the Warden finished curtly. “I know.”

Irving and Greagoir’s strange friendship was common knowledge in the Tower. They, a mage and a templar of all things, were childhood friends somehow. And although they argued at least half a dozen times a day, there was a familiarity in their bickering, as if they knew what the other would say before he said it. As a result, Irving never tolerated the Warden’s disdain for Greagoir and the templars; a phantom cramp pulsed in their palm as they remembered all the sentences Irving made them write for mouthing off to Greagoir in their teenage years.

“Unfortunately, I believe recent events were…” Irving shook his head. “A long time coming. There were many factors in this collision course. Greagoir sealing the doors was the least of them all.”

“I know,” the Warden insisted. “I just…” They grappled for the words. They couldn’t get the sight of those great doors out of their head—how easily the mages, who could spout jets of fire and ice from their hands, were trapped like animals. How easily it could have been them stuck in there, too. Would they have turned into an abomination? Or could they have helped Wynne protect the children? Saved that girl who had congratulated them on their Harrowing? Freed Cullen?

“I am glad you became a Grey Warden,” Irving said as a way of answer. They looked at him, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “You came exactly when we needed you most. It was as if the Maker Himself had sent you.”

The Warden looked away again to hide their stinging eyes, the twist of a smile. “You already said that as well.”

Irving put up his hands in defeat. “Maker, child, you must excuse this old man’s failing memory.”

The Warden laughed, and the act felt as though it dusted cobwebs off their heart. Irving continued, “You will always have a home in the Circle. Perhaps, when the Blight has ended, we will gladly welcome you home again.”

“Even after what happened?” they blurted. “With Jowan and Lily?”

“Jowan’s escape and Lily’s fate are unfortunate. However, like Uldred’s takeover, I fear what happened was also an inevitability, influenced by many factors.” Irving stroked his beard contemplatively. “Perhaps even the same factors.”

The Warden furrowed their brows. “So you were going to make Jowan Tranquil.”

The First Enchanter nodded once. “He was maleficar. You know the consequences.”

“You know he couldn’t have meant anything malicious by it,” the Warden said quickly, eyes wide and pleading. “Jowan, he—he never thinks things through. He was insecure, that’s all. He thought blood magic would—”

“I am aware that a sense of competition in the Circle—whether real or perceived—breeds such temptations as to seek out forbidden magics.” Irving waved his hand over the campfire, and the Warden swore it burned just a bit brighter. “I know Jowan felt as though he were… a disappointment. I am certain his actions were that of an insecure, jealous boy, not a cruel-spirited maleficar. Envy is powerful.” Irving looked at them with that piercing look like he was about to continue that thought, hesitated, then sighed. “But the Chantry does not care one whit whether Jowan acted out of malice or insecurity. He had proven himself dangerous even before his escape. He would have been made Tranquil, regardless.” Irving shook his head grimly. “Perhaps, if things were different…”

The Warden fiddled with the ring on their middle finger, the one they were given after their Harrowing. “I… understand.” Yet knowing that there was little they could have done was almost worse.

“Jowan knew the consequences of practicing blood magic,” Irving said with a sense of finality, “even if there is injustice to be found in Kinloch Hold.”

The Warden sighed. “I feel sorry for that initiate, Lily. She had no idea he was a blood mage, yet she paid the heaviest price.”

“Their relationship was forbidden as much as blood magic is.”

“I know,” the Warden said, “but Aeonar? The mage prison?” If the Warden hadn’t known him for years, they would mistake his convinced attitude for a laissez-faire one. “You can’t justify that. Even Greagoir could tell she wasn’t Jowan’s thrall.”

Irving shook his head with something that was not quite sadness, but not dismissive of Lily’s plight, either. “No. But, collateral though she was, she proved to be valuable.”

The Warden’s stomach sank at his wording. Valuable? They scrutinized Irving’s face, but it was unreadable.

“What do you mean, ‘valuable collateral?’” they asked slowly.

“There is little that goes on in the Tower that I do not know about.” The Warden raised a brow and thought, Was Uldred part of that “little” you didn’t know about? But Irving gestured to them, continuing, “Tell me, how did Lily discover that Jowan would undergo the Rite of Tranquility?”

The Warden tilted their head toward the sky in thought. “She said she had found the signed papers. She saw them on Greagoir’s—”

Terrible realization struck them. Their eyes snapped to him, mouth parted.

“You.” They fought the urge to point at him. “You planted the documents on Greagoir’s desk for her to find.”

“Astute as always,” Irving praised sincerely, but the Warden’s eyes were wide and incredulous.

“You led them into a trap.”

“As I said before, both were already engaging in forbidden acts. But had I simply reported them, the Chantry would have defended Lily, claiming she was a thrall and absolving her of any consequences. She needed to be caught red-handed.” Irving’s eyes were bright, fiery. “I do not take pleasure in the outcome, but if one of my mages is to be doomed to Tranquility or worse, then one of the Chantry’s priestesses must face the consequences of her own misconduct. I refuse to let the Chantry pretend their disciples are above suspicion while regarding my mages with distrust for their Maker-given gifts.”

Irving was fiercely intelligent, politically minded, and right. They knew he was right, and yet… They looked back down at their ring, remembering Lily’s kind earnestness. They hadn’t known her for long, yet she had thanked them for their help before Jowan did. She didn’t seem to care that he was a mage, either, despite the Chantry’s teachings. Their relationship had been forbidden and borne of infatuation, but it was not worthy of Aeonar, whether she was a maleficar’s accomplice or not. And Jowan—foolish, foolish Jowan, who could barely light a candle with his magic…

The Warden didn’t know what to think.

“I know it is a lot to take in.” Irving rested his hand on their shoulder. It felt cold, even through their armor. “Jowan was your friend, and you were trying to help a friend in need. I do not hold it against you.” He smiled a little. “A ‘bleeding heart,’ as it were, is an admirable thing to possess.”

The Warden nodded absently. Their mind was still whirling.

Irving stroked his beard again. “While I wish you would have come to me when you discovered Jowan and Lily’s plan, it took a great deal of compassion and strength to help them. I know that is what Duncan saw in you, even if you had broken a novel’s worth of the Circle’s rules in the process.” Irving laughed. “I told him you had a rebellious streak, and I’m not sure he believed me when you first greeted him, all politeness and hospitality.”

The Warden swallowed, shoving back their racing thoughts. They would sort through it another time. They mustered their most collected voice: “When you introduced us, I wondered what you’d said about me to him. I’m glad to hear they were good things… assuming a ‘rebellious streak’ and a ‘bleeding heart’ are good things to have.”

Irving nodded sagely. “A rebellious nature can be a double-edged blade. Challenging the status quo too much hardens those around you to change, but never challenging it breeds stagnation. It is a difficult balance to strike.”

The Warden wondered how Jowan’s escape and Uldred’s takeover would affect the status quo in the Circle. Would the Circle finally have meaningful discussions about the treatment of mages, or would they clamp down even further? The Warden gestured to Irving. “You have personal experience, I take it.”

Irving laughed. “Child, that is what it means to be First Enchanter.”

They allowed themself to smile a bit. “Were you a rebellious apprentice?”

He looked into the fire affectionately. “I got into my share of trouble. Weaseling in and out of mischief; seeing what I could get away with; pestering the harsh templars and befriending the more reasonable ones, like Greagoir… Not unlike yourself.”

The Warden fought a grin, but—“Befriending templars? I’m afraid we differ there.” The Warden tried to sound confused.

Did he know about…? Would Cullen get in trouble if…?

“Oh?” Irving combed his fingers through his beard. “I was under the impression that a certain young templar was quite fond of you. Oh, what was his name…?” He looked with a knowing smile at them, waiting for them to give it up.

Annoyed, they said, “So you knew.”

“As I said, child: there is little that goes on in the Tower that I do not know about.”

“Fraternization between templars and mages is forbidden,” they shot back, “so why didn’t you tell Greagoir?”

“There are problems in the Tower bigger than a budding friendship between a mage and a templar,” Irving waved a hand flippantly, “namely blood mages, as you know.” Yet he was looking at them with a pointed look in his eyes—the same pointed look as when he justified throwing Lily to the blight wolves.

“The Tower could be packed to the Harrowing Chamber with blood mages and templars would still find time to scold us for taking a little too long in the latrines.” The Warden crossed their arms. “Templars need to be ready at a moment’s notice to cut us down if we are possessed. There can’t be room for hesitation. Cut the horseshit.”

Irving blinked. “Watch your tongue,” he said, but he sounded surprised, as if he’d scolded their foul language on instinct. He stayed silent for a moment as he collected his words, opened his mouth, then sighed.

“You are correct,” Irving started, “that mage-templar friendships can be risky, due to the inherent dangers of being a mage. I assure you, however, the risk was calculated: I knew you would not fail your Harrowing, just as I knew that Cullen was—is—one of the most devoted and earnest templars in Kinloch Hold—”

The Warden cut across him, “A ‘calculated risk?’ What do you—”

Again, Irving held up a hand; again, their mouth snapped shut.

He continued, “As I was saying, I looked the other way because I believe some kinship between mages and templars can benefit the culture of the Tower.”

“We’re one mage and one templar,” the Warden said dryly.

Amusement twinkled in Irving’s eye. “And there is not a single apprentice in the Tower who has not heard rumors about Cullen’s hopeless infatuation with you.”

The Warden’s face went hot. “Rumors. Like you said.”

Irving laughed brightly at the obviousness of the lie. The Warden cleared their throat and continued, “Anyhow, I fail to see how that ‘benefits the culture of the Tower.’ Unless you think gossip boosts morale.”

Irving was chuckling again as he said, “Maker, no. Gossip already crosses one side of the Tower to the other in minutes.” He shook his head, sobering. “No. The truth is, Kinloch Hold would be a much more oppressive place had it not been fortunate enough to have a knight-commander at the masthead who is least somewhat sensitive to mages’ needs, thanks to his long-standing friendship with the First Enchanter.”

The Warden’s stomach fell inch by inch as they parsed his meaning. One part of them could have cried out of joy; the other part was thrown off-kilter. Unsettled.

They swallowed past the dryness in their mouth. “You wanted me to be First Enchanter and Cullen to be Knight-Commander one day.”

And look how you botched his plans, sneered a small voice in the darkest corner of their mind.

Irving nodded. “I believed you and Cullen at the head of the Circle would be a secure future for the mages in Ferelden. I see much of myself in you.” He looked at them again with fondness and warmth. The Warden’s heart clenched painfully as they knew what he’d say next: “And I have come to see you as my own.”

The Warden knew the bonds between mentors and apprentices often became familial, but they still blushed, moved, despite the growing sick feeling. “I’m honored.” They paused, then added quietly, “And you are the closest thing to a father I have ever had.”

Irving blew out a breath. “My condolences, child.”

They both laughed quietly. A stick snapped in the fire, sending a flurry of sparks upward into the night sky. The Warden watched them float up, a thick knot in their chest loosening for the first time in weeks.

But not completely.

The smile that lingered on the Warden’s face faltered when they thought about Jowan and Lily again. Maker, they should just accept that Irving was right—he was always right—but they couldn’t get the way Lily’s face paled when Greagoir sentenced her to Aeonar out of their head. Irving may have been a surrogate father to them, but Jowan was their brother and friend.

Most of their fondest memories in the Tower were with Jowan. Their earliest memory with him was how he had given them an excited piggyback ride after they had cast their first minor spell. They had mastered basic healing spells far sooner than their peers because of how often he would injure himself while doing magic; they’d tut and shake their head while he complained about how much it stung. And they snickered every time they recalled how Jowan once fired a spitball on a dare and struck a particularly stuffy templar right between the eyes, as if there’d been a bull’s eye there. They had tried to sweet talk the templar down from furious yelling to spare Jowan of punishment, but all it did was ensure that they got punished, too. They scoured pots with Jowan for a whole week. Jowan still preened when they brought it up. “And I did that without magic!” he would say, chest puffed.

And what they had with Cullen—a kind, earnest friendship, though still budding and awkward and tempered with infatuation on Cullen’s part… Irving saw it. He saw it, and began honing it to fit his political goals, well-intentioned though they were. He couldn’t let a precious thing be. He just had to make it about the good of the Maker-damned Circle.

Not that it mattered anymore. Judging by the wild look of disgust and fear that Cullen had given them as they departed, he would never speak to any mage again.

The Warden crossed their arms as if they were hugging themself. Every moment they had spent reveling in Irving’s flattery—in the realization that he saw them as his own, in his forgiveness for aiding Jowan and Lily—made the pit of their gut crawl with dark shame. It felt like their relief was betraying Jowan, wherever he was; disregarding Lily, who had to be well in Aeonar; and weaponizing their friendship with Cullen.

Maker, if Sten cleaved them in two with his greatsword, it still wouldn’t do justice to how torn they felt.

“One day,” Irving’s voice startled them; he was looking over his shoulder, in the direction of the Tower, “this open wound will close.” He nodded once with finality, and the Warden knew the conversation was over—sealed firmly shut, like he hoped the wound would be in time, and how they were unsure if it ever would be.

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