Dragon Age: Phoenix Origins

The letter is written on crumpled, slightly stained parchment that looks as if it has been pulled from the bottom of a bag. The ink is often smudged, the handwriting large and hurried, looping across the page with reckless abandon. In the corner of the letter, there's a doodle of a female Templar with exaggerated bosoms, panicking as her breaches burn.
Hey Evie,
Brace yourself for this one. I'd apologize in advance, but I'm not sorry at all.
Why do sneaky rogues prefer leather armor? ... Because it's made of HIDE!
I'll wait while you recover from that one... Is Ferelden treating you well? How's Knight-Enchanter Croft? Is he as uptight of a prick as I imagine, or does he at least crack a smile every once in a while?
We all miss you, by the way. Sorin's been his usual broody self, but I'm working on getting him to smile. No success yet, but I'll let you know when I break him down. Write back soon. I'm still your favorite Templar, aren't I? I better be.
Henley
***
"So, Evie... how was yer first week?" Rhetta tilted her head to match the angle of Evelyn's resting on the table. The novice pyromancer groaned in reply, attempting to pick her head up so she could shovel some food in her mouth for nourishment. Her body had taken a beating the last seven days, feeling as if she had been trampled by her father's Rangers. "Is there a Templar's shield out there wit' a matching dent to the bruise on yer face?"
With an unamused look, she sat up with a wince at the protesting of her aching shoulders and upper back, "No, but there is a Templar recruit with one. I thought I told you about that?"
"Must've slipped yer mind after you smashed it on that bronto's skull," the elf descended into a fit of laughter at her jest and Miriam subtly joined her.
"Croft still won't let anyone heal it? Sweet Andraste, it looks painful!" The novice healer cringed, waving a hand before the dark blotchy bruise. Over the past few days since the injury, it had changed color daily, but always got darker. It was just off-center on the right, and the swelling even gave her a black eye. "Did he mention why?"
"Because it was a mistake. One that could cost me in real battle, so I'm paying the price now in practice rather than later."
Just then, Master Rutherford walked by shadowing one of the full-fledged Knights. As he followed close to his mentor, he did a double-take to stare at her in passing. His bruising wasn't as bad, but there was still an elongated dark purple mark there. Averting her gaze back down, she mumbled an ' oh no ' causing Rhetta with all the subtlety of an Archdemon to spin around.
Upon seeing his matching injury, she burst out cackling again, "You tried to headbutt him? Maker's balls, ye might as well have tried it against a stone wall! Everyone knows Rutherford is as thick as they come!" As if knowing they were speaking about him, Evelyn watched as the blonde looked away blushing. His well-defined jaw flexed in annoyance like Henley's did, but his mortification was clear.
She scolded her elven friend, "Keep your voice down, would you! I do have to see him everyday!"
"Just because he is a devout Andrastian doesn't mean he's thick, " Miriam chided, "in fact it's admirable. It would be wrong for a Templar dedicating their life to Andraste's Holy Order not to be."
"Pff, it's more like the place they send unwanted children or the violent ones." Rhetta retorted. Though she didn't agree, Evelyn let it go as guilt ate away at her remembering his face.
During the afternoon training session, Evelyn felt like she owed Rutherford an apology for Rhetta's behavior. Despite not knowing if he was able to hear what was said, it didn't sit right with her. On one of the few water breaks that they had, she placed her pride aside and approached him. Having just dumped a cup of water over his head, he was leaning against the armory's wall shaking out his wet blonde locks. Even with how short his hair was, the water was making the ends curl slightly. She found it odd that he was that hot in the chilly weather, but she supposed her northern temperament made her more sensitive to the cold.
"Um, excuse me, Master Rutherford." Turning his head to the side he froze for a moment eyeing her over his shoulder from head to toe before standing to face her. "Hello, I'm sure you remember me," she pointed to her forehead and his.
"Yes, I have a constant reminder of you," at his words he became flustered, "n-not of you particularly, just of the incident, that is." His lips pursed together slightly and he seemed put off by her company.
"I'm sorry about that, though if it makes you feel better, it probably hurt me more than it did you." She gave him a wan smile.
He crossed his arms, narrowing his gaze down on her, "Are you saying I'm thick-headed?" The way his golden eyes deflated, caused her to believe he had heard this of himself before - even before Rhetta.
"Yes– I mean, no! You probably do have a thick skull, considering your bruise is lesser than that of mine, and you are larger than me, but you are not thick-headed. " He glowered at her, as she internally cringed at her rambling. Come on, Trevelyan! You were raised better than to speak like some uneducated churl. "That came out wrong." She cleared her throat and lifted her chin, "My apologies, for the injuries and my friend's laughter earlier. I hope she didn't cause you any offense. She can be slightly unrefined at times. I do not believe you are thick-headed."
"Oh, no, she didn't, I was just... trying to keep up with my mentor," he scrubbed at the back of his wet hair nervously. It seemed he had heard them, but preferred not to let her know it bothered him.
"Right, of course! I just didn't want you to think we were speaking out of malice about you."
"Out of what?"
"Malice?" She paused waiting for recognition, but there wasn't any. "Meaning speaking ill about you..." Evelyn began to cringe realizing that he may not be as educated or had the opportunity in his upbringing, and was embarrassing him once more.
"Oh, yes, I knew that. " He obviously didn't, but she was happy to let it go. Her father had taught her not to judge people based on their lot in life.
Evelyn shrugged, "Sorry, it was probably my accent. I'm sure you don't hear a Marcher one around here often." Her polite smile was enough to calm his nerves a bit as his gaze finally met hers. "I'm Evelyn Trevelyan," she held her hand out but he just stared at it leaning away as she was about to smear rashvine on him.
"I'm Cullen, but you shouldn't--"
"Hey! Separate you two!" A nearby guard barked harshly at them before rushing over.
Surprised by the interruption, the young mage sought to explain the situation as she would if she were back in Ostwick. Holding her hands up, she spoke normally, "Sorry, ser, we were just--"
"Step away, mage ," the command in his tone was clear, as was the threat behind it as she felt the pull of his powers readying itself.
Rather than say more, she backed away in cold shock, but Cullen stepped between them. Standing at attention before the Knight, he defended her actions, "Ser, she was apologizing for the wound she inflicted on me during sparring. Nothing more."
By this time, Lieutenant Arlo had appeared to see what the issue was, "What's all this then? Rutherford, explain yourself!"
"Ser, she was simply apologizing for..." As Cullen explained the situation, Evelyn couldn't help but wonder what the big commotion was about. She had shook hands with Templars and mages alike back home. She and Henley roughhoused without anyone thinking she was attacking him. For Maker's sake, it was just a handshake! There was a greater fear of mages in Kinloch as she was coming to realize. "... she in no way was channeling her magic. I'd stake my life on it, ser."
Arlo looked to her as she chewed on her bottom lip embarrassed and slightly perturbed, "Trevelyan, I'm not sure what lax rules they had in Ostwick, but in Ferelden , mages do not touch Templars unless sanctioned by an instructor. Am I understood?"
"Yes, ser. Apologies, I was not aware." For good measure the Knight still poised to Silence her yanked her arms out and pushed up her sleeves checking for signs of blood magic. Patting her down from head to toe leaving no part, nor pocket, unchecked until he was satisfied there was no foul play intended. Leaving her feeling slightly unnerved and violated by the sudden physical inspection, the young mage and trainee exchanged pained looks before they were sent in opposite directions.
Abraxas was quick to pull her aside, with a hard jerk on her shoulder. "Seriously? What were you thinking?"
"I was thinking of apologizing and introducing myself."
"Introduce yourself to a Templar in front of everyone? " He whispered harshly, "They are not your friends, they are your superiors. If you want to be a Knight-Enchanter you must obey them blindly. They make the mold and you squeeze into it, in whatever way you can. If you don't, well you'll be stuck behind these walls the rest of your days. Or worse..." She knew what worse, was; worse was why she was in Ferelden training to be the most dangerous of ranks.
Seeing she was getting upset, he grasped her shoulder again facing her away from the yard. "If you want to talk to Rutherford, you do it in private. So long as you don't make it so bloody obvious as you just did, no one will bother you about it."
"One of my best friends in Ostwick was a Templar. No one ever cared that we were always chatting or in each other's company. This is... strange and rigid."
He sighed when she gave him a huff, "Look, some here do interact with them, just not openly. Most Fereldens hate and fear magic. You take a chance when you try and talk with them, and coming from the Free Marches some may try and take advantage of you."
"What do you mean?"
His radiant blue eyes bore into hers as he bent over slightly, "Just... stay away from the older Knights, like the ones older than me." She guessed that he was around seventeen or eighteen years of age. "Rutherford's harmless, from what I hear. It doesn't mean you shouldn't be careful with who you fawn over."
Evelyn shook her head in protest, "You've got it wrong, I'm not–"
"Even that Knight who yelled at you, I know for a fact he's fucking an Apprentice Healer, but you'd never know because he does it quietly and discreetly. The Knight-Commander and First Enchanter cannot do anything to you on rumor alone. There's enough going around about Gregoir and Enchanter Wynne to damn the two of them, yet nothing official is ever done. It's as if they know fraternization is bound to happen. I mean what do they expect."
She didn't ask for a lecture or the latest gossip from the Apprentice. As much as she appreciated his watchful eye, acting much like a big brother, he came off as abrasive most times. While she was used to being an unwanted presence at times, having experienced it with her kin, it was no less grating. "I simply sought to–"
"Save it for Croft. No doubt he's already heard and hunting for you now." Seeing her shoulders slump, he gave her a playful jab. "Buck up. If he sees you moppy he'll definitely thrash you."
"Thanks." Evelyn looked over her shoulder at Cullen, who seemed to be getting the same lecture from two of his brothers. He was shrugging a lot, probably explaining to them that it was all the crazy mage's fault.
"Just follow orders and keep your head down. Only when you obtain the rank will you get an ounce of respect from anyone? I mean, look at Croft–"
"Where is she?!" The two mages cringed at hearing their mentor's roaring voice bounce off the walls.
"Andraste save me–" Before she could finish her prayer, Croft grabbed her and pushed her off towards the mage's training yard. Evelyn stumbled, catching herself before smacking her face off the ground. Yanking her back up, he dragged her the rest of the way there by her shirt. She could feel his mana spiking at how angry he was, yet he said nothing until they were away from the bulk of Templars.
"Are you trying to give them a reason to brand you?!" His pale face was flushed red with anger, "Look at me, Trevelyan!" She obeyed, though trying to hold back tears, knowing it would only make things worse for her; Abraxas had told her such. "This is not some bloody holiday for nobles to meet and play The Game! You're not here to make friends, you're here to show the Templars you're capable of becoming a disciplined weapon for them to deploy." Evelyn swallowed hard as he stepped closer, lowering his voice to a growl, "We are mages, girl. Hated, reviled, and feared; not all may see you that way, but start assuming everyone you meet here believes you one step from possession."
Gazing at him seriously, knowing he was truly trying to help her, she replied, "Y-yes, Knight-Enchanter. I will."
He pursed his lips together, "You've seen the Tranquil here, correct?" She nodded. "I want you to take a good hard look at a few of them next time. Three were former students of mine who failed too far into their training, and another six were candidates who I rejected to teach because they were too dangerous." He couldn't quite hide the slight guilt that crept into his tone with that last sentence. It was subtle, but there—like a crack in the armor he always wore around his words.
Evelyn swallowed hard. The thought of the Tranquil, their hollow eyes, and soulless expressions haunted her now more than ever. She'd seen them around the Circle, of course, but never once had she considered that they might have once stood where she did—full of potential and promise, only to end up as shells of their former selves.
It was a lesson she wouldn't forget. Couldn't forget.
Croft's sharp gaze lingered on her, watching, weighing her reaction. His expression was unreadable once more, the brief flicker of guilt gone, replaced by the usual hard-set lines of discipline and authority. "Go to the library," he said abruptly, his voice low but commanding. "Find a book titled Death of a Templar ."
Evelyn blinked, surprised at the shift in conversation, but nodded nonetheless. Gavril paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as if choosing his next words carefully. "The Templars here in Kinloch..." His voice trailed off for a moment, his brow furrowing as if something troubled him. Then, his gaze hardened again. "Just read the book."
He turned away as if that would be the end of the conversation, but then he added, "If you're smart enough, the book will do more than just inform you—it'll make you see. You'll understand what they see, and feel the weight of their choices. You'll walk in their armored boots, if only for a moment. The Knights of the Order aren't just guards standing over you. You'll be serving alongside them, depending on them. And you need to grasp what that truly means." Evelyn nodded once more, and as she turned to leave, Gavril's voice cut through the silence one last time. "Don't let this Circle take your soul, girl. It'll try."
***
The library and its archives had its own floor due to it being so vast, and even then there was another floor dedicated to preserving the knowledge of Thedas. Most of the Circle's students could be found in the main library, where they kept the most used books for classes. It was usually bustling with people coming and going with mages studying quietly at the long tables placed about. The area housing lesser-used tomes or archived works was kept in lower lighting so as not to fade the ink on the parchment. Some were hundreds of years old, and the stored scrolls on the shelves seemed to stretch forever. It was a cataloging challenge for even the Tranquil who tended the cold storage.
And naturally, it was the most popular place to conduct one's more intimate affairs, as she heard it said.
Having asked about her query, the young lady had been directed by one of the Tranquil to the back quieter sections of the main library. She had been scouring the shelf for some time, with no luck beginning to think that the Tranquil were not all perfect. Only around five foot and four inches, the higher shelves were proving difficult to reach. With no stools around as far as the eyes could see, Evelyn was forced to reach up on the tops of her toes to graze her fingers along the bumpy book bindings, squinting at the titles. With a huff, she even began jumping up and down to try and divine any information off the spines.
For the life of her, where was...
Someone cleared their throat quietly beside her. Looking to the other side of her upstretched arm she spotted Master Cullen. Freezing, she watched him curiously. "Can I be of assistance?"
Weary of why he was speaking with her after their previous conversation went so poorly, her eyes never left him as she pointed to the shelf. "I, um, am looking for a book called Death of a Templar . Do you see it up there?"
He hummed in thought, running his rare amber eyes all about the upper levels of the shelf. As he searched, he lowered his voice further, "I'm sorry, for today." Evelyn halted, simply staring blankly at the tomes listening to him. "It's just... odd that you'd try to get to know me. That's not the expectation we're taught."
"I'm a person like anyone else here, why should I not expect to be treated as one and in turn, treat you as one and not just a Templar."
"We are taught to distance ourselves from our charges."
"Is that a polite way of also saying you believe the Chantry when they say mages are inherently evil? Does that make it easier for you to look upon us like monsters?" He swallowed hard, glancing over to her despite her non-combative tone. She sighed, "I was taught the same by the Chantry Sisters. I don't feel like I want to hurt people though." Holding her hands out and looking them over, Evelyn felt her mana coursing through her veins. It tingled, but in a comforting way as it warmed her. It wasn't malicious, nor was she.
"Where you're from–"
"Ostwick, in the Free Marches," she interjected.
"Right, Ostwick, do they really allow you to casually touch your Templars?"
"Yes, for no one ever was harmed from a handshake. Our Templars treated us a bit more like real people too. In fact, the first friend I made was a Templar. To this day he's one of my best friends. He even writes me here."
Cullen's brow creased, "Not all mages – especially in Ferelden – have been so accepting of their fate. But it's still true that magic is dangerous, as are those who wield it."
She frowned at his implications, "And yet, not all mages are out to harm you. I'm certainly not, for I want to fight with you and the other Templars against demons and maleficar. To do some good."
He scowled at her, "I've never heard a mage say that."
"Well, how would you like it if I said all Templars were cruel and oppressive?"
Cullen took offense as she predicted, "We're keeping people safe, including mages! The 'cruelty' you speak of is the misunderstood distance we place between us and our charges. We aren't cruel. I'm not."
"Then how do you suppose we learn to trust each other?" He stared at her blankly. "I say I'm not out to harm you, and you say you're not cruel. I know nothing about you, but you don't seem the type that hates mages. I guess that's the risk involved in getting to know people; giving them some trust to either break or build on."
"Why do you want to get to know me? Oh," he poached a book from the very top shelf, "here it is."
Handing it to her, she was still stuck on his last question. "Why not? I don't really know many people, let alone Templars. Do you know any mages well?"
His nose crinkled up, as his voice harshened, "No, and I'm not supposed to."
Evelyn hummed in disappointment, "That supposedly doesn't stop some people. Well, then I apologize for being a bother to you." She turned from him and walked away clutching the book, only then remembering her manners. "Thanks, by the way," she whispered with a bit of sass from the end of the aisle.
Kinloch was certainly different from Ostwick, and though it brought her sadness at the way Cullen reacted to her overtures of friendship, she also knew it was not his fault for what they - the Chantry - taught him to think and feel about mages. Having apologized to him and settled her guilt, there was no further need to bother him if that was what he wished.
Evelyn slipped into her room, the door clicking shut behind her. A quick check revealed that her redheaded roommate was nowhere to be found, gifting her a bit of solitude from the turmoil seemingly raging around this accursed Circle. Together with the massive tome she brought from the library, she sank onto the edge of her bunk, her legs curling beneath her. Croft would expect her to finish Death of a Templar in a couple of days, he always had those expectations, always pushed her like that.
The cover illustration—a dying Templar, rain-soaked and alone on a battlefield, the forest looming like a judgment—gave way to the first page. Her eyes scanned the preface, the words written in bold, grim strokes:
"Living comfortably amongst material possessions, it is easy to misunderstand the true meaning of uncontrollable hate. Failing to understand the power of fighting against pure, unfaltering beliefs, against foes that listen only to their soul. Uncontrollable hate. Influenced and thus removed from innocence. The scar is permanent and internal."— Ser Andrew, Knight of Andraste and Templar Archivist, 9:4 Dragon
Evelyn paused, the words settling in her mind like stones dropped into deep water, rippling out but never quite breaking the surface. She let out a long, slow breath and leaned back, her head resting against the cold stone wall behind her. A quiet chill crawled up her spine, not from the wall's coldness, but from the emptiness that lingered in her chest.
Henley's terrible jokes. Sorin's disapproving, long-suffering sighs that always followed. She'd give anything to hear them right now—to have them with her. Yet, she knew it would be years before that could happen again. Years . That thought was like a bolder lodged in her heart, too heavy to move, too big to ignore.
There was work to be done—so much work—but the urge to reach out, to touch something real, something familiar, overwhelmed her. She snapped the tome shut with a decisive thud and slid out of bed.
Her desk sat in the corner, a lonely island in the otherwise spartan room. She took a seat, pulled out parchment and ink, and let her frustrations pour out onto the page in hurried strokes. Letters to her friends back in Ostwick. Here, at her desk, she could pretend she was still with them.
When she was done, her hand ached, but the knot in her chest loosened just a little. Yet once the ink dried, the reality crept back in. She was still here, trapped in a place that felt as cold and unforgiving as the battlefield on the cover of her book.
Succeed, or wear the brand. There was no in-between.