Gone back and made a few corrections (my mind's being dumb about canon again).

Dreams & Books

V

Fallout

Jowan was dragged into the office the next day along with Morgana, once the ice had been cleaned up. Greagoir shouted at them about "abuse of their power" and "danger to the other students", spittle flying, and Morgana winced.

She opened her mouth, was about to protest that it had just been a childish game, when Jowan gently pushed her backwards with an arm. She looked at him, wide-eyed, but he ignored her and said quietly, "It was me. I used the ice spells." A pause. "Look how young she is. As if she'd be able to do those things."

Irving's eyes dropped to the floor, and he minutely shook his head. Greagoir looked at them both suspiciously with a small, sceptical "Hmm," and then pointed at Jowan. "Amell. Out. You." He glared at the small dark-haired boy. "Here."

Jowan stepped forward, hands shaking, and darted a quick glance to Morgana, nodding to the door.

A year seemed like a large age difference, then. She stepped reluctantly outside, and the heavy wooden door was slammed. She paused a moment, then sat on the floor, the stone cold against her legs.

There was a clank, and she looked up to see a templar glaring down at her. "You should really be in your dormitory, you know," came from the helmet in muffled tones. A man, she thought.

She shook her head. "Please... I... I'm waiting for him."

A sigh, but the templar didn't move, just standing there and muttering, "They'll transfer me for neglect of duty, you know."

She heard Greagoir's raised voice through the door. Something being knocked over. She gazed up at him. "Will they...?" She made the motion with her hand that stood for lashings amongst the apprentices.

The templar shook his head, the helm sliding with a scrape of metal, then quietly cursed, eventually removing it. A weary-looking, dark-haired man, starting to grow an accidental beard, was revealed. He shook his head again, helm placed at his feet, and said, "He's too young. It's rare with apprentices, anyway. I don't know whether what they do is worse, anyway..." He looked at the door, and she saw something far away in his eyes.

She heard Irving mutter, "I am sorry, Jowan."

Greagoir's voice, saying, "If you cannot use your power correctly, you cannot have it." A cry from Jowan, and a flash of light under the door.

Jowan's name wrenched itself from her throat, and she moved to claw at the door, but was restrained by a gauntleted hand; she looked up at the templar, who shook his head again. "There's nothing you can do."

"There's always something!" she exclaimed, with all the earnestness of the very young. She fought, may even have hissed, struggling for the door.

"You'll only make it worse for yourself," the man warned her. "They smote him. You can't help him. Don't try."

That was how she learned of smites, and when Jowan became her best friend.

After seeing him nearly carried into their dormitory by templars, she sat by his bedside with tears running down her face, telling him that it was all her fault...

He just smiled, and said, "It was fun while it lasted, though." He held her hand, and told her everything would be all right, that his magic would return soon.

He'd received applause and pats on the back from the others in the dormitory. Samuel and Neria had sneaked him rolls and cakes from the hall. Even Florian had said that he wished he could be as brave.

Morgana watched, heart sinking and mind guilty. She knew that if she went to the templars, told them what she'd done, that it would make his own punishment pointless; there really was nothing she could do.

She didn't try anything like the ice rink spell again. The anger began to grow as well as the fear, dark and uncoiling inside her.

The templars had no right to do this to them. Hurt them like this.

Connor gazes at the words on the page, mouth tight.

Jowan. Smite. Drawn wonkily next to them is the symbol of Andraste's sword. He stops, finger going back to the name.

Jowan. His tutor, the blood mage. Morgana's best friend.

Underneath the words are more notes, in a hand he now recognises well - careful, looped but small. Mixture for head and joint pain. Ointment for fighting of infections.

He shakes his head sadly, closes the book, and heads to Creation class. Lea nods, gives him a smile, and carries on her work with the stink bomb.

He recites his own instructions in his head. One part deathroot, one part skunkweed...

He's beginning to have second thoughts.

It was a year later, when she was sat in the library with Florian, brow furrowed as she tried to wade through his latest set of notes (he was only nine, how could he understand these things when she couldn't?) that he asked quietly, "Morgana?"

She looked up from her book. "Yeah?"

"What do you think of... Finn?"

It's a year later when he begins to understand the words in Practical Healing, to be able to put into practice Morgana's scribbled notes. Creation is his second-best school after Elemental, and he's nearly worked his way up to Lea's class. He's studying with seven-and-eight-year-olds now, but Mattheu's still with him.

"Why?" he asks the older apprentice one day, frowning.

Matt looks down at him in surprise. "You don't know?" He shakes his head, and Matt explains, "Simply put, I'm your tutor. Everyone has one. Lea's is Cobble." He points to a blond mage whose head is in a book. "His father was a shoemaker, y'see."

Connor nods, still not really understanding, idly flicking through Practical Healing. Another name catches his eye.

Niall.

Mattheu cranes his neck to look, then raises his eyebrows. "Nice bloke, Niall. Killed in the Fade when the Circle..." He trails off, looks away. "Maker, that was awful."

Morgana seemed to like Niall, too. A small arrow with the words mentor is connected to the name, and underneath are the words, Nice. Good with Creation. Isolationist.

He frowns at the last word, not understanding.

"Was... was Niall her mentor, then?" he asks hesitantly.

Mattheu frowns. "'Her'? Hang on..." He places a hand on the book, moves it to his own lap, then looks into Connor's eyes, concerned. "Where did you get this from?"

"She gave it to me," Connor replies, confused at the look on Matt's face.

"Look," says Matt briskly, "Niall was mentoring Amell. Bit older than me, big blue eyes, crap with a staff - "

Connor nods. Sounds like her.

"Amell isn't here anymore. You know why?"

Connor nods again. He does.

"She became a Grey Warden. The Grey Warden. She hasn't been here in months, certainly hasn't been here to give you her diary. So, I'll ask you again..." There's steel in his voice now, and it scares Connor. "Where exactly did you get this?"