No, it wasn't, [though it's said with a sigh, it's also without guilt; this had not been the part of the story where Myr was at fault.
No one was at fault for the derailing of Iseult's dream but the Maker Himself.]
While most of us come into power as young children, it's not unheard of that someone older might--in her fourteenth or fifteenth year. Iseult was well into her novitiate when she awakened as a mage, not all that far from taking orders. Which of course she couldn't, once she had magic; magic was made to serve man, never to rule over him, as the Chant says, and a mage in the Chantry itself would be unthinkable.
[He says it casually, but there's a dull old pain beneath the words. It shouldn't be unthinkable; the Chantry shouldn't treat mages as a mere step away from demons, but nevertheless that's where popular sentiment ran among the clergy.]
She--as many do--believed magic a curse and marked her out as damned before the Maker. A mage is fire made flesh, and a demon asleep. So--you can imagine she was inconsolable. And I was much younger, and stupider, and full of heretical ideas, [the last one hasn't changed, at least,] about what mages were and what the Maker meant us to do, and I'd gotten together a group of us who talked about those heretical ideas and how the Chant really hadn't anything in it condemning mages.
[He lifts his head again, like he could look off at the horizon beyond the walls of the little cottage and back into that past. There's yet a smile on his face, wan and thin; there's a thread of humor at his own pretensions woven in among the heartache and guilt. As seriously as he sometimes takes himself now, he was a lot worse as a kid. It warranted compassion but also some laughter at who he'd been.]
I thought she'd be grateful to hear that, you know? That she simply hadn't been taught any other way and all she needed was a little time with us theological geniuses and she'd come to accept life as a mage.
I invited her to come join us, so glad to know we'd be helping someone--and it took her five minutes to reject all our arguments and become an utter pain-in-the-ass about how if she were Hasmal's Grand Cleric, she'd have the whole Circle Annulled for harboring heresy. [The utter annihilation of a Circle really wasn't a joking matter, but she'd also been, what, fifteen and completely unable to do a damned thing about it. The Circle's leadership knew of Myr's little discussion group and exactly how harmless they were.
Better heresy that painted mages as the Maker's chosen instruments than a blood magic conspiracy and demon-summoning.]
And then, rather than go off and sulk on her own, she came back every week to argue with us. Good arguments, too; she was sharp, [there's a remembered thrill in that combat, though it's tainted in a way his joy at sparring with L never has been; his and Iseult's relationship had been acrimonious and marked by deep disappointment on both sides, start to finish,] and picked apart any number of our precious conclusions, much to our embarrassment. She'd been trained for it, after all.
I hated it--it got to the point where even seeing her made me furious, though I told myself I cared for her and wanted her to be as happy with her magic as I was with mine. But I couldn't reach out to her, couldn't simply be her friend, because I wanted that for her on my terms--her accepting my reading of the Chant and giving up her own. And because she wouldn't, because we were both stubborn and I was prouder of my conclusions than I'd any right to be, I made her into my adversary and all we ever did was fight. [What faint amusement he'd managed at his own youthful folly has ebbed away entirely now, and with it much of his animation in telling the story. If Iseult had stayed in Hasmal, and they'd simply gone on as bickering enemies, there might have been some future where they both grew out of it and could laugh together over their own foibles.
But she hadn't stayed.]
When they finally transferred her out to Tantervale, you couldn't believe my relief. I shouldn't have felt any--they're the worst sort of strict with mages there--but she was gone somewhere they shared her interpretation of Andraste's commandment and maybe she'd be happier with that.
Three months later, I got a letter from her. She was nearing her Harrowing and didn't expect she'd survive it. She planned to be made Tranquil instead, because at least that way she'd be free of the curse the Maker laid on her, and she'd been told they might even let her serve as a lay sister in her Circle.
She said if there were anyone in all the world who could persuade her not to take the brand--and I truly believe now as I did then she didn't want to--it was me.
And I fucked it up entirely. [He's gotten very quiet, as he does when exerting all his effort to keep his real emotions from his voice.] I scarcely knew her as a person, let alone a friend, so I couldn't write to her that she'd lose everything she took joy in because I didn't know what that was. I couldn't tell her the world would be poorer without her talents because I didn't know what those were, beyond infuriating me. I couldn't tell her what she meant to me and how I'd mourn the loss of all that made her her, because I never bothered to know her.
So I cobbled together some stupid, preachy, inadequate bit of tripe after a week of handwringing and sent it off, knowing I'd failed her. Failed her before she'd ever even written me, trusting somehow I could help.
I never heard from her again. The Tranquil don't write letters, of course. And so many of them died or were lost during the rebellion, I don't know I'll ever learn what became of her.
no subject
No one was at fault for the derailing of Iseult's dream but the Maker Himself.]
While most of us come into power as young children, it's not unheard of that someone older might--in her fourteenth or fifteenth year. Iseult was well into her novitiate when she awakened as a mage, not all that far from taking orders. Which of course she couldn't, once she had magic; magic was made to serve man, never to rule over him, as the Chant says, and a mage in the Chantry itself would be unthinkable.
[He says it casually, but there's a dull old pain beneath the words. It shouldn't be unthinkable; the Chantry shouldn't treat mages as a mere step away from demons, but nevertheless that's where popular sentiment ran among the clergy.]
She--as many do--believed magic a curse and marked her out as damned before the Maker. A mage is fire made flesh, and a demon asleep. So--you can imagine she was inconsolable. And I was much younger, and stupider, and full of heretical ideas, [the last one hasn't changed, at least,] about what mages were and what the Maker meant us to do, and I'd gotten together a group of us who talked about those heretical ideas and how the Chant really hadn't anything in it condemning mages.
[He lifts his head again, like he could look off at the horizon beyond the walls of the little cottage and back into that past. There's yet a smile on his face, wan and thin; there's a thread of humor at his own pretensions woven in among the heartache and guilt. As seriously as he sometimes takes himself now, he was a lot worse as a kid. It warranted compassion but also some laughter at who he'd been.]
I thought she'd be grateful to hear that, you know? That she simply hadn't been taught any other way and all she needed was a little time with us theological geniuses and she'd come to accept life as a mage.
I invited her to come join us, so glad to know we'd be helping someone--and it took her five minutes to reject all our arguments and become an utter pain-in-the-ass about how if she were Hasmal's Grand Cleric, she'd have the whole Circle Annulled for harboring heresy. [The utter annihilation of a Circle really wasn't a joking matter, but she'd also been, what, fifteen and completely unable to do a damned thing about it. The Circle's leadership knew of Myr's little discussion group and exactly how harmless they were.
Better heresy that painted mages as the Maker's chosen instruments than a blood magic conspiracy and demon-summoning.]
And then, rather than go off and sulk on her own, she came back every week to argue with us. Good arguments, too; she was sharp, [there's a remembered thrill in that combat, though it's tainted in a way his joy at sparring with L never has been; his and Iseult's relationship had been acrimonious and marked by deep disappointment on both sides, start to finish,] and picked apart any number of our precious conclusions, much to our embarrassment. She'd been trained for it, after all.
I hated it--it got to the point where even seeing her made me furious, though I told myself I cared for her and wanted her to be as happy with her magic as I was with mine. But I couldn't reach out to her, couldn't simply be her friend, because I wanted that for her on my terms--her accepting my reading of the Chant and giving up her own. And because she wouldn't, because we were both stubborn and I was prouder of my conclusions than I'd any right to be, I made her into my adversary and all we ever did was fight. [What faint amusement he'd managed at his own youthful folly has ebbed away entirely now, and with it much of his animation in telling the story. If Iseult had stayed in Hasmal, and they'd simply gone on as bickering enemies, there might have been some future where they both grew out of it and could laugh together over their own foibles.
But she hadn't stayed.]
When they finally transferred her out to Tantervale, you couldn't believe my relief. I shouldn't have felt any--they're the worst sort of strict with mages there--but she was gone somewhere they shared her interpretation of Andraste's commandment and maybe she'd be happier with that.
Three months later, I got a letter from her. She was nearing her Harrowing and didn't expect she'd survive it. She planned to be made Tranquil instead, because at least that way she'd be free of the curse the Maker laid on her, and she'd been told they might even let her serve as a lay sister in her Circle.
She said if there were anyone in all the world who could persuade her not to take the brand--and I truly believe now as I did then she didn't want to--it was me.
And I fucked it up entirely. [He's gotten very quiet, as he does when exerting all his effort to keep his real emotions from his voice.] I scarcely knew her as a person, let alone a friend, so I couldn't write to her that she'd lose everything she took joy in because I didn't know what that was. I couldn't tell her the world would be poorer without her talents because I didn't know what those were, beyond infuriating me. I couldn't tell her what she meant to me and how I'd mourn the loss of all that made her her, because I never bothered to know her.
So I cobbled together some stupid, preachy, inadequate bit of tripe after a week of handwringing and sent it off, knowing I'd failed her. Failed her before she'd ever even written me, trusting somehow I could help.
I never heard from her again. The Tranquil don't write letters, of course. And so many of them died or were lost during the rebellion, I don't know I'll ever learn what became of her.