AU: Mended Circle

[wolfehawke]

It's quiet in Kinloch Hold.

Far too quiet for Adalwolfe, curled in the corner of his bed and trembling. There are no crickets, no night birds. No wind through drafty windows or his siblings' breathing from their shared bed across the room. Instead it's a hollow quiet. There are voices in it, soft whispers that he knows are other mages but instead sound a susurrus of demons to him in their unfamiliarity. Hushed enchanters' voices become that of rage and pride. And fear. Fear that he'd faced in his harrowing and was a thousand times worse than his father had even made it sound.

He'd thought himself ready for it because he knew what was coming, but even his father's stories of his own Harrowing could not have prepared him. Malcolm's Harrowing was different. A demon of pride, one that tempted him with power and taunted him with failure. But the demon for Adalwolfe was a soft, insidious thing, giving voice to every insecurity as he walked the Fade, trying to find it, telling him in hushed whispers what a disappointment he is, how he'd gotten caught. Stupid child, fearful child...

And then it had him.

Fear that stood over him and screamed, it's breath like rotting paper and grave dirt and the legs like needle pointed spindles protruding from its back and gripping his arms and shoulders, holding him in place so it could devour his mind and wear him like a second skin.

And in a burst of frozen magic, it didn't have him any longer.

He flung spells at it until he could no longer cast, until his mana ran near completely dry and long after the thing was done.

When he woke up, he was here. In silence save for far off voices through stone walls and solid book cases, around corners. It's all at once too private and not private enough and he trembles in the dark, unable to go back to sleep for fear of the demon again, but unable to will himself to get up and face the realities of his new life either.

Instead he lays there, huddled in a ball, and trembles in the dark.

Comments

[wolfehawke]

He wants to argue, say he was apologizing for almost casting his magic on the other man, for losing control in fear. Just as the demon said he would...

Adalwolfe can't even bring himself to say that much, just shakes his head and shrinks against the wall, hugging his knees and looking at the blond over them. They should go to bed. He should go to bed and not make himself a target for the Templars. He knows what they do, knows everything his father told him about how the Templars can turn off his magic, how they can back him into a corner with their cancelling abilities. But he also knows what his father didn't tell him in depth. Things he started to say then refused to speak of, saying Wolfe would never end up there so all he needed to know is that it was nothing good.

Wolfe is an intelligent young man and has at least an inkling of what that is. And now he is here...

"I shouldn't have called my magic on you. That's what I was apologizing for." His voice is quiet, barely carries past his knees. But even so he regards the other mage with a hesitant curiosity, likely for the very fact that he is another mage. Or maybe not even that. It's simply because he's another person. Someone other than his sister, brother, and parents to talk to that he doesn't have to hide from, not really. The cat's already out of the bag, after all. He's caught. The worst thing that could ever have happened to him has already happened. He's a Harrowed Circle mage now.

Emboldened by that gloomy thought, Wolfe sits up a little more. "She called you Anders. Are you from the Anderfels?"

[apurrstate]

He doesn't tell him he might have been able to dispel it -he'd been getting pretty good at that- he also doesn't say he could have healed any damage. He simply shrugs like the apology wasn't unwelcome, but inconsequential.

There's fear in the poor boy's face and hesitation and part of him wants to ask if the rumors are true, but there's so many already running about that he's not sure where to start, plus it's probably not fair to start prying into someone only a few minutes after waking from their Harrowing. He certainly wouldn't have appreciated it. Before he can make up his mind, the question posed to him draws a flicker of surprise.

It had been six years, he'd nearly forgotten it might sound strange to someone else.

"Oh...no, the Bannorn. I'm just called that. What's your name?"

Hopefully something better than 'Apostate Boy' or whatever the popular title was right now.

[wolfehawke]

"Wolfe," he replies automatically, then pauses. He nearly always gives his name as Wolfe for the strange way that his full first name sounds to most people. It's an old family name, something borrowed from Navarra according to his mother. Not that they're Navarran at all; Kirkwaller, yes, and Ferelden on his father's side too, but he'd gotten a Navarran name anyway because of great great great grandfather somethingwolfe marrying in. Or something. It never mattered, living in the small villages they always did. Mages don't get to be nobility, even when they're free, so Wolfe had always been angry he didn't have a more normal name, like his brother or his father.

But now it matters. It matters because he may never see them again, because it's the only thing his parents gave to him that the Circle cannot take away, and he feels suddenly angry with himself for not embracing his stupid given name. "Adalwolfe. Hawke."

[apurrstate]

That is an odd name...but he didn't necessarily feel like he had room to judge when he'd just gotten an odd look for his own. Besides, someone would tease him for it, Anders was sure. He didn't need to be that person.

He offers a smile instead and his hand. "Nice to meet you. Sorry it's here, welcome to the circle, as good as those two words go together."

He could offer panacea as a away to be calmer, to find peaceful sleep for at least one night, but he doesn't. It's too much and too risky for a boy he'd just met. "You should try to get more rest. We can talk more tomorrow."

[wolfehawke]

"I don't know if I can." The spark of defiant anger that had lit in him at the question of his name flickers out when faced with the prospect of going back to the Fade in sleep after his Harrowing. His voice is hushed and thick, heavy with fears realized and a desperate need to avoid more of them. But what can Anders do for that? Nothing Adalwolfe is comfortable asking for. He's been kind, the first kindness he's interacted with here in the tower. Before that had been surly templars and wizened enchanters both regarding him with derision and suspicion. He'd been given a robe, a moment to wash himself from the road - with armed templar guard of course - and then shoved in a room that smelled of lyrium and fear, four templars and the first enchanter - Irving, as he'd introduced himself. If he'd been any more understanding than anyone else, Adalwolfe has no memory of it in his panic. All he remembers is the Fade.

All he remembers is the feeling of being pierced by those arms and the screech that will never leave his ears.

All he remembers is that he is here, alone, and he's never been alone in his entire life.

He takes Anders' hand, not in the spirit its meant for a handshake of greeting, but instead as a lifeline. He grips it white-knuckled like a life line, a tether to keep him from drowning. Don't leave, he begs without words, expression shorn up against the lump in his throat and the despair that threatens to overwhelm him. He looks blank, but it's better than breaking. It's better than the thousand pieces he wants to shatter into, matching the shards of the life that the templars stole from him.

He wants to apologize, to let go, roll over, cover his ears as if he can block out what's happened that way, but he just holds fast to Anders' hand, mute in terror and clinging in loneliness.

[apurrstate]

His expression falls to concern and a deep sympathy as his words aren't met with any sort of comfort but a sudden, icy fear. He'd seen it plenty of times in new apprentices, he'd worn it himself once, and now it was here in this boy's face. Officially a mage of the tower without any of the acclimation of having been here longer. He'd known freedom and now he was facing a cage.

Anders curled his fingers over Adalwolfe's, tight and firm and his other hand moved to trace lightly at the side of neck, his fingers chilled with aimless mana. "That's alright...you're alright...I'll stay here." At least until he slept. He shored up what shreds of courage he could find and offered a softer look, one he reserved for the patients sometimes brought before him. "I could...work some magic? Make it so your sleep is pleasant. I promise, no demons, not tonight. If you'll let me."

This was foolish and silly, he didn't owe this boy anything, not his attention, not the loss of sleep, not the spirit healing he tried to keep largely unmentioned for how some people reacted...but that look of fear, that grip on his hand...he couldn't ignore those.

[wolfehawke]

"How do you do that?" He asks in a voice thick around the lump in his throat. That's not anything his father had ever taught him. Barriers, control, attack and defense, those he'd been tutored in, drilled over and over for his survival - fat lot of good that it did. But nothing that could soothe away dreams. Perhaps tomorrow the spark in him that loves to learn will kick in and he can pursue the question that had fallen from his mouth without him thinking about it. "Nevermind"

Tonight, he simply lets out a breath and nods, begging with his eyes. "Please. I can't-..." He worries at his lip and looks down. "Just... please."

[apurrstate]

His mind turns with lies he could offer and thankfully none are needed as Adalwolfe lets go of the question himself and leaves Anders to his secret for now. "Alright. Lay back, get comfortable."

He offers the direction gently, his mana gathering and then releasing into a gentle aura of a light glow that radiates from him. He lets it spread and fill the room and even a slight, almost imperceptible shift of the armor of Ser Della in the hall tell him it's bled through to her as well. It wouldn't leave the thick stone walls and she wouldn't say anything, he knew, for now they could just exist in the comforting, healing, ease of the feeling of a warm blanket on a chilly dawn. A drink of something cool in the sun. A mother's hug. Not for the first time, he wishes he could feel it himself, the only way he even knew what outside of the epicenter felt like was from Wynne and description, but it would help ease into sleep and keep dreams pleasant and offer what little help this poor apostate would find.

"Sleep, Adalwolfe, and things may not seem so dark in the morning." That Was a lie, but a harmless one to offer once.