"Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For visions and revisions which a minute will reverse"
- T.S Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
When the Ostwick Circle of Magi falls, it does so quietly, without fanfare. There is no fighting, no blood spilled. Most of the mages leave, clustered in the same small groups that they studied and ate their meals with. Some of them are filled with the spirit of rebellion, seeking justice and adventure in equal spades. Most are simply curious of what the world is like beyond the tower.
Others stay. The elderly, the tranquil, the children without loving homes to return to. The ones not ready for adventure, or for war. Not even for dreams. They are a part of the tower, just as much as its brick and mortar. As every uneven step in the spiraling staircases.
When the last of the mages leave, Fennec is not among them. He is curled up under the blankets in his bunkbed, tearing through the pages of the same treatise on applications of exotic herbs that he was reading before anyone in Ostwick heard about the vote for independence.
The only real difference between now and then is that he usually studies in the library. That at this time in the afternoon, the dorms are usually full of his fellow apprentices. Gossiping, studying, trying to get a nap before heading up to the roof to study the stars at night. And there will be no tests on his understanding of the text. No early morning lectures or seminars. His teachers are gone. and with them their lesson plans and homework.
Yet Fennec is studying, with the same diligence as before.
There is a knock on the bed frame. Fennec startles, dropping his heavy tome into his lap. He hadn't noticed the templar's approach. Despite the fact that she is in full armor, the heavy plate rustling with every step.
"You're not going with the others, then?" Emily asks.
Fennec shakes his head.
"I'm sure uncle wouldn't mind if you went home. He writes me all the time you know, asking about you."
"You never said, before," he says, wondering why but not quite knowing how to phrase it.
Emily scratches at the back of her head, and a few strands of hair from her hastily tied hair bun come loose.
"I…I'm sorry. It seemed unfair to mention it, when I know you wouldn't be allowed to read any of his letters. Or write back. I didn't want to taunt you with it."
"It's fine," Fennec says. "I haven't thought about home in ages, anyway."
He knows his father must have cared about him, since he sent Fennec's older cousin to the templars not long after he gave up Fennec to the circle. When Emily first arrived, he had pestered her with questions of home, begging her to break him out and take him back. His longing for his family had been a desperate, wild thing, clawing at his heart like a feral beast.
But it's been over a decade since those days. The beast is domesticated. He has lived with it for so long that is has blended into the background, rarely seeking him out.
"I could take you there, if you want. I'm not going with the rest of the Order. Not that many of us are. To be honest, nobody really wants to fight," Emily says.
"I…I don't know."
"Think about it. I don't think you can stay here forever. Once the food runs out, there won't be any more deliveries. I don't know what's going to happen to the kids or the really old mages," she says, a slight quivering to her lips.
She sighs, as if exhaling will release the pressure that they must both be feeling. She has given voice to the worries that Fennec hasn't let himself linger on, opting instead to fill his thoughts with how to best tweak recipes for various herbal remedies.
It had been easier not to think on it, to lock himself away far from the fear and uncertainty.
"Everything's a mess," Emily continues. "But I promised uncle I'd take care of you, and I don't break my promises."
"Why ask, if you're going to drag me home, regardless of what I want?" he asks, and then snaps his hands over his mouth. But it's too late to retract his outburst. Tears are already gathering in the corner of his eyes.
He doesn't understand why.
All he knows is that the word home feels wrong in his mouth. He can't picture the place as it was anymore. It's like the fade, distorted and surreal, lacking something essential that he can't define, but that he feels deep in his bones.
"No!" Emily yells, and there are tears running down her cheeks too. She clenches her hands into fists. "I'm not taking your choice away, nor did Bann Trevelyan ask me to. Do you think so little of us?"
"I'm sorry," he says, shuffling backwards further into his bed. Making himself smaller. "I don't know what came over me."
Emily smiles then, though it doesn't reach her eyes. "Maybe I should be glad you're at least feeling something. You're too quiet, always have been since you came here. Shy and skittish like a fennec fox."
The nickname she once gave him is cold on her tongue, an insult rather than the fondness it used to signify.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he repeats, and then it becomes a mantra. He rocks back and forth, whispering his apology over and over until Emily places her hand on his shoulder. He flinches away from her, even if she is safe. Even if she has never hurt him before.
It's another betrayal, just like his outburst before. Like his quiet nature, turning her away when she only means well.
The only thing to do is to say he's sorry. Even if she doesn't accept it. Or believe him.
She is speaking again, but her words are far away. He looks up to read her lips but facing her is too much and he buries his face in his hands. His legs want to run but can't decide on a direction. They never can.
In the tower, there's nowhere to run. He learned that the hard way.
(The Ostwick Circle of Magi is a quiet place. A dull one, according to most. There are no malifecarum, no uprisings. No overt abuse or cruelty. But beneath the surface, darker truths lurk. Nobody leaves a sanctuary for a life of uncertainty, if it's truly a safe haven.)
Before he understands what is happening, Emily is grabbing at his hands. "Don't do that!" she yells.
It takes several seconds before the pain registers.
Oh.
He can feel the blood running down his cheeks, thicker than tears. He looks at his hands, and they are red with it. He didn't know his fingernails were so sharp.
"I didn't mean to upset you, not like this," Emily says, still clutching his bloodied hands. "I'm not angry with you, kiddo, not really. It's not your fault the world has turned to shit. I only wish you could trust me enough to…" she says, her words trailing off into nothing.
"I do trust you," he mumbles, not trusting himself to speak above a whisper.
It's not a lie.
He has no reason to distrust her, except for the insignia of the flaming sword on her armor. But she took up that mantle for his sake, or at the very least his father's. To be a protector, rather than a jailer.
It's not her fault that she failed.
"You should heal yourself, so you don't risk scarring," Emily says softly, as if she's talking to a young child. She releases her death grip around his hands. Trusting that he will do no more harm.
He moves them over his face, and his flesh knits together under their faint glow. He is whole again, though the blood remains.
"I guess we should go home," he says.
…
Before they can leave, there is the matter of packing. Emily gives him a worn rucksack and tells him to bring whatever he wants. That she will take care of the necessities.
His task is to be one of sentimentality. Or rather, of picking over the bones of a still-warm corpse.
The shelves in the library have already been thinned out when he starts scouring over them. He runs his fingers across the spines of the tomes, and picks his mementos based on nostalgia rather than utility. The first book he read when he arrived at the Circle, thrust into his hands by an impatient enchanter with no time to coddle homesick children. A treatise on creation magic that he'd practically stolen during his early teens, and already knows by heart. A well-worn and hidden copy of The Tale of the Champion that had officially been a banned book, but still found its way into the Circle's library, though it was always impossible to find.
Fennec only stumbles on it by luck. He's never read it before, only heard rumors of the heresy within its pages. He's seen the small sparks of revolution that it birthed among his peers - the ones who left first, to join forces with the rebels. He hesitates before taking it, feeling as if he's stealing a relic. But he can't resist the temptation.
Before he knows it, the rucksack is heavy with books. There is room for little else, yet Fennec wanders the halls of his dying home in search of more. He's never been attached to things before, having never been allowed to keep much as his own despite his noble birth. Now he wants his memories of this place to be solid. As proof, though of what he isn't sure.
He takes half-burned candles. A lute with missing strings. A worn chess set. Every pawn a small reminder of what his years here have taught him. You are expendable, mage.
He finds his way to his old classrooms, desks now covered in dust. In the last few weeks before people started leaving, not many still bothered attending their lessons. Fennec did, until his teachers stopped coming.
He'd begged them to let him undertake his Harrowing, before everything collapsed. To get a chance to prove that he was safe enough to be around, to be called a mage rather than an apprentice. They'd told him there was no longer any need for it. That the ritual itself was cruelty, and that life would give him far kinder opportunities to prove himself.
Enchanter Lydia had confided in him that in her eyes, he could already claim the title of mage. That his talent for spirit healing was enough to prove that he could safely interact with any beings of the fade.
Fennec still isn't sure if he should believe her.
She doesn't know of his other studies. The ones inspired by curiosity rather than textbooks and lectures. Fennec was always the model student, when observed. Left to his own devices, his mind often wandered further than it should.
He's reigned in those tendencies now, but only because he suffered for them. But if put to the test, he isn't sure if he'd succeed. If he'd gotten the chance to be Harrowed, maybe he would have found the certainty his teachers claimed to have in him.
Maybe he would have found worth.
For now, whatever he can fill his rucksack with will have to suffice.
He meets Emily by the apprentice dormitories when he's done packing. She's leaning against the wall, two huge packs resting by her feet.
"All packed?" she asks, when she sees his approach.
Fennec nods and follows her as she picks up her bags and starts heading toward the entrance hall. He always found it peculiar that the apprentices resided closest to their most obvious means of escape. As if the lure of freedom was being dangled before the most homesick of the mages, daring them to give it a try. To reap the consequences when they inevitably fail.
When they walk out of the gates, the sun is setting. The clouds are shifting in hues of orange and purple, and all the more beautiful to look at with the wind in his face. Although he's leaving in the company of a templar, Fennec feels as if he's committing a heinous crime.
…
Emily sets off in a steady pace but is soon forced to slow down to allow Fennec a chance to keep up. He's used to running up and down stairs, but not much else. It's an often-told joke that the only reason mages are kept in towers is to force them to exercise, lest their bodies grow weak while they sit and study. Evidently, such minimal exercise is not enough to keep up a brisk walk for several hours. Fennec tires after only two.
"It's only an hour or so until we reach Ostwick proper, and then another two to the estate," Emily says.
To his tired feet, it sounds impossibly far.
"Will we stop to rest?" he asks.
She chuckles. "Yes, when you get hungry. I've packed bread and cheese. But if we walk through the night, we can be at the estate by early morning. I'd prefer not to dawdle. My sword should be enough to protect us from any danger, but I'd prefer not running into anyone at all."
"But if we go through the city, isn't that impossible to avoid?" Fennec points out. The thought of Emily needing to brandish her blade sends shivers down his spine.
He isn't carrying a staff or wearing robes, but he feels as if his appearance is damning enough even without them. As if, at the mere sight of him, people will freeze or flee in horror. Or fight, to rid the world of his wickedness.
"Maybe so, but fewer than we would in daylight," Emily admits. "Either way, we will be fine. Just don't cast any spells."
"I didn't plan to," Fennec says. He scowls at her, but she elbows him lightly before the expression has time to fully take shape on his face.
"Your father will be happy to see you," she says, changing the subject. "So will Maxwell and Evelyn, no doubt."
She doesn't mention his mother.
Fennec can only hope he will not be alone when he faces her.
He still remembers the horrified look in her eyes when she'd caught him bent over the small tortoiseshell kitten, crying over its ravaged body. She had been his favorite. The one he'd been given responsibility for after the stable cat gave birth. An eagle had attacked her, and he'd chased it away. But it had been to no avail. When he picked her up from the ground, the kitten had been gasping for breath, already close to death's door. Then, as he held her to his chest and wished to reverse the damage, the wounds had closed.
His mother hadn't screamed in terror, but her eyes had betrayed her fear. Then, they'd turned cold. She'd given him one last look that he hadn't been able to discern, before walking away. After that they'd never spoken again. His father had come to the garden and placed his large hand on Fennec's head. He'd told him he'd done well to save the kitten, but Fennec knew that he hadn't. His father had been crying as he praised him.
"Are you alright, Fennec?" Emily says. At the sound of her voice, he snaps back to the present. "We can stop and rest if you need to," she continues, perhaps mistaking his solemnity for weariness.
"I'm fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Just thinking about everyone, is all. Will they even remember me?"
"The twins could hardly forget you, now could they? Max and Evie had seven years to tease and spoil you. I know it left a hole in their lives when you left."
"It's been so long since then. Sometimes, I think I can't remember their faces," Fennec says.
"I'm glad you will get a chance to rediscover them, then. If something good can come out of this chaos, I might sleep a little better. In a way, I can't I say I blame any of the mages for wanting to be free. I miss our family, and I'm allowed to write them, and to visit once a year. You get none of that. I only wish you could all leave peacefully. But without templars to protect you…" Emily trails off into silence.
Fennec doesn't blame her for not following her line of thought to the end. He doesn't want to think about how much blood will be spilled either. Already, he's heard rumors of skirmishes between the free mages and their former guards. Of mages clashing with ordinary people, frightened into violence.
His side of the conflict can wreathe so much destruction. Fennec's own brand of magic can easily be twisted into evil too. He has to extend his hand into the fade for aid to heal the most severe injuries. The spirits he seeks out sometimes turn out to be demons in disguise. If he misjudges only one…
And that is only what his sanctioned school of magic might bring if wielded clumsily. The rest of what he can do, he doesn't want to examine too closely as it is.
"I'm sorry it turned out the way it did," he says. "I didn't want to leave."
The Circle may not have been a refuge, but within its walls he'd only had to live with a quiet kind of fear. One that looms overhead like a cloud, threatening a storm that will only come if you deserve it. Out in the world, the fear is not only in the sky, but in every blade of grass. Surrounding him from every direction. Magnified in every detail that brushes past his senses. In every step he takes on the road toward Ostwick, and a half-forgotten home.