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“I don’t understand. I passed my Harrowing a week ago.”
Alyna hurried to follow Wynne up the winding stairs leading to the Harrowing chamber. They reached the top of the stairs, and the older mage turned to Alyna before opening the door leading inside. “There is more than one initiation we mages must pass through. Remember only that we by our very nature are dangerous and must be kept in check.” With that she pushed the door open gesturing Alyna inside.
Greagoir stood by the lyrium fount, arms crossed imposingly across his armored chest. “As requested, Knight-Commander,” Wynne said.
“Thank you, Enchanter. You may go.” Alyna looked back in confusion as Wynne bowed and left the room, letting the door close behind her with an ominous thump.
“Magic exists to serve man,” Greagoir said, bringing Alyna’s attention back to him. “Say it.”
“What? I don’t…”
The templar scowled. “Magic exists to serve man. Say it.”
“Magic…magic exists to serve man,” Alyna stuttered, trying to understand what was happening.
Greagoir simply stared at her. “And?”
Alyna had been raised in the alienage before the templars found her, and the Chant had never come as easily to her as it did the human apprentices. She searched her memory. “And… ‘foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children.’”
“You say the words, but do you understand their meaning?” Greagoir reached a hand towards her, and Alyna screamed as she felt the mana stripped from her body. She crumpled, hands grasping after the energy as it escaped her. Alyna shook her head to clear her senses, hearing the clanging of Greagoir’s boots approaching. She craned her head up, trying to see him through the haze. He stood over her with arms folded. “Get up.” At the best of times the order of a templar had to be obeyed immediately, and Alyna struggled to her feet.
“Why?” she croaked.
“How do you feel now?”
“Horrible, laid bare…”
“What your are feeling is life without the perversion of your nature. I understand that you when you have your power, you mages feel that you can do anything.” Greagoir shook his head. “This is not the case, and it is when you have been brought low that this can be best made clear to you.” He gestured towards her dismissively. “Strip.”
“What?”
Greagoir frowned, and reached out towards her. Alyna flinched, expecting another smite, but instead he wrapped his fingers in her hair, brutally pulling her head back until she was almost pulled off her feet. Greagoir waited until her whimpers subsided before speaking again. “Strip.”
Slowly, Alyna brought her hands down from where they clutched at his gauntlet. She opened the fastenings on her robe one by one, feeling flush creeping up her chest and neck under his gaze. She was perversely glad for his grip; how Greagoir held her head prevented him from looking into her eyes. “Can I…can I go now?”
“When you’ve done what you were told to do.”
Alyna bit her lip and slide the robe off her shoulders. She had no need for a wrap around her chest like the more thoroughly-endowed mages used, but elves rarely did. She shrugged out of her small clothes without protest, standing in the Harrowing chamber wearing nothing but her slippers. “I can’t take my shoes off like this.”
“You can, it merely isn’t easy.” Alyna struggled to bring her foot up close enough to reach the slipper without losing her balance, and Greagoir sighed. “The Maker asks us to do many things that aren’t easy. I am tasked with reminding mages of their place without breaking my vows. It is a difficult duty, but one I am sworn to.” He released her, and Alyna fell to the stone floor with a yelp. Greagoir returned to stand next to the fount and crossed his arms again. “Say it.”
“Magic exists to serve man,” Alyna whispered from the ground.
“Good. Rise and approach.”
Shakily she took to her feet. “I don’t know what I did to earn your ire…”
“You are a mage. Your very existence is an offense to the Maker.” Alyna tried to cover her modesty with her hands, and Greagoir snapped, “Behind your back. There is no hiding from the Maker’s sight.” He studied her for a long moment, then: “Say it.”
“Magic exists to serve man.”
“Come here.” Alyna approached and Greagoir pointed to the fount. “Place your hands on the far edge and lean over it.” She bit her lip as she slowly obeyed; the fount was low enough that she when she leaned over her forearms pressed flat against the rim. Greagoir circled in front of her and Alyna ducked her head, hiding behind the curtain of hair. He had none of it, gripping her hair again and forcing her to meet his eyes. “Say it.”
Resentment and something approaching fury rose in her gut. Alyna averted her eyes.
“Magic exists to serve man,” Greagoir repeated in a lecturing tone returning behind her. She dipped her head down again, but at the sound of a sword being draw free of its sheath she straightened.
“Greagoir, what-!”
A hand pressed between her shoulderblades, keeping her in place and pressing her breasts into the pool of lyrium in the fount. She grimaced at the infuriating buzzing spreading across her chest. “Silence.” She felt his other hand reaching under her, scooping more of the lyrium up. “You are a mage. You are foul, and corrupt. Say it.” A slight shake of her head was all the defiance she could manage.
She suddenly felt something; an object pushing its way between her nether lips, and coated in the infuriating lyrium to ease its way. Alyna swallowed a gasp at the penetration, and the object stopped with a few inches inside of her. His sword, she realized. He’s violating me with the hilt of his sword.
“Say it.”
“I am an elf,” she snarled over her shoulder. Greagoir made a disappointed noise, and Alyna screamed outright as he shoved the hilt deeply into her. He let her feel it for a few seconds, then yanked the object back out. She shrieked even louder at that.
“Hmm. Blood.” She heard him smear more lyrium onto the hilt. “You may be corrupt, but at least you’re not a whore. Better than most.” Alyna steeled herself as the pressure returned, but there was no keeping the hilt out. This time he pressed in slowly, bottoming in her before pulling back out and starting again. “Say it.”
“Elf,” she whispered.
The irritation of the lyrium spread across her chest and through her nethers, the constant buzzing not allowing her relief even when the hilt was only seated shallowly. It was maddening, and almost distracted her from the violation.
“Please,” she whimpered, “I can’t…it’s horri-” she choked on the last word as Greagoir slammed the hilt home.
“Say it.” She moaned in denial, and he began to press in to her faster. Over and over the hilt crashed into her, bruising her thighs against the edge of the fount and sloshing the lyrium. The sensation of itching burn spreading across her arms and stomach and only Greagoir’s hand on her back and hilt in her belly kept her in place as she spasmed.
“Please! Please, I’ll do what you want, I’ll say what you want, just stop! Please!”
“What are you?”
A small part of Alyna hated herself for her immediate answer. “I’m a mage!”
“Which means?”
“That I am foul and corrupt! That I am an offense to the Maker!”
Greagoir pressed the hilt deep into her, keeping the pressure unrelenting. “The Chant.”
“Magic exists to serve man!” She sobbed. “Oh Maker! I exist to serve man!”
“Very good.” Greagoir pulled his sword free, and Alyna collapsed to the ground with a broken moan. The templar loomed over her; he’d sheathed the sword, and held it by the guard so that the hilt hovered in front of her face. Alyna winced as she saw her own wetness mixed with the lyrium soaking into the leather of the grip. “What will happen if you ever forget yourself?”
“You will bring me here, and put me back in my place.”
“It is the duty of the templars,” Greagoir nodded. “Once more. And let me see the truth in your eyes when you speak.”
Alyna slowly raised her gaze to meet his. She only prayed that he chose to believe her obedience. “Magic,” she intoned, “exists to serve man.”