He thought he was alone in the library, it being late. The apprentices were in their beds by now, most of the senior mages retired to their own quarters. It was a time of day he liked, when he could enjoy the library in peace, without the endless chatter of the younger mages or the pompous pontifications of the senior mages. Just him and the books, and the occasional templar passing through on patrol.
He wondered where Anders was this night - somewhere out there outside the tower was all he knew, the mage having managed another escape the week before - and was surprised at how much he missed the younger mage's company. Even if his association with the rebellious youth was seen as unwise by some of the other harrowed mages. Likely to draw unwanted attentionfrom the templars, he'd been told. And then been shunned, himself, as a result of his friendship. As if Anders was known to have some rare disease, and he feared as a possible carrier of it because of his association with the youth.
Realizing he was unable to concentrate on the book he was currently trying to read, he decided he might as well call it a night and go to his own quarters. He rose, picking up the heavy volume and carrying it back over to the shelf it belonged on.
Only then did he hear the faint sniffling coming from the darkened space in back of the shelves, and realize he was not alone in here after all. "Who's there?" he said sharply. The sniffling stopped. He waited; there was no answer. Whomever it was must be hoping he'd think he'd imagined the sound, and leave, but he was not so easily fooled. He did walk away - but only as far as the end of the row, where a practised twist and side-step brought him into the area between the shelves and the wall they stood well out from. There currently being no templars in the library, he didn't hesitate to summon a handful of energy, providing a faint pool of light.
He heard a gasp, and walked to where it had come from. The light revealed bare feet, first of all - bare feet, pale and blue-veined, and the bottom hem of an apprentice robe. Thin, equally pale arms, curled protectively across a narrow chest. Lank black hair half-hiding a pale, narrow face, with large, frightened, pale-grey eyes staring fixedly at him.
An apprentice, judging by the colours of the robe; a very young one. He almost didn't recognize him at first, and then the fearful grey eyes and the tilt of the black-haired head as the youth looked away, seeming fearful of even meeting his gaze, brought back a memory of the child's name. For a child was what this young mage was; not even a teenager yet, he'd already lived in the tower longer than some harrowed mages, having manifested and been brought here at a disturbingly young age. And years yet to go, before he'd be old enough to be allowed harrowing.
"Jowan?" he said, softly, then crouched down, so as not to loom so over the boy. "What are you doing back here? Shouldn't you be in bed now?"
"H-hiding. Ser," Jowan answered, stuttering.
"Why?"
He shook his head and looked away. Karl frowned as he took note of the darker patches of skin on the boy's thin arms; marks – bruises- that stood out all the more for the extreme paleness of Jowan's skin, skin that had not been exposed to sunlight since the child was first brought here. Only harrowed mages were allowed out of the tower, and then only with permission, under rigidly controlled circumstances, with a templar - or more commonly, a pair of them - in attendance on them. Unless, of course, you were Anders, in which case you escaped the tower any chance you could, no matter what increase in punishment it might bring.
For someone like Jowan, brought here as a toddler, it meant long years spent locked away in the tower, before there was any chance of seeing more of the outside than a glimpse of sky out the tiny windows far overhead. No sunlight on his skin, or wind in his hair - no idea of any life beyond the towering grey stone walls that confined him, or of any society but that of other mages, and the omnipresent templars.
"Who did this?" Karl asked, angrily, reaching out one finger to touch the bruises.
The boy flinched away, and shook his head. Too scared to speak out; too cowed, by some templar or some other apprentice or some older mage given to cruelty, to seek help.
"Who, boy?" Karl asked, a second time.
But Jowan merely shook his head, and refused to meet his eyes. "It was an accident," he said, voice wavering on the edge of tears. "I was climbing on the shelves. I fell."
Karl snorted, but said nothing, merely running his thumb gently along the line of bruises, knowing, with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, that if he matched fingertips to the little dark patches, they would correspond to the spread of adulthands. "If you say so," he said, and sighed, then smoothed his hand along each thin arm, the dark mottling vanishing as he fed a trickle of healing energy into the boy's skin.
"If you change your mind, some time… I would listen," he told the boy. "And would do what I could to help."
"Don't need anyone's help," Jowan insisted, fearfully. "It was an accident."
Karl snorted, again. And felt old, old beyond his years, which weren't much more then twice those of this frightened child, but felt like far, far longer. "Come. Best we get you to bed. Pretend you're asleep; I'll make excuses," he said, and scooped up the boy before he could protest. And then decided it would be even easier to lie if he could tell at least part of the truth, and put sleep on him, before carrying him out from behind the bookcases.
He resettled the limp form against his shoulder, and set off in the direction of the dormitories. The library door opened as he approached; one of the templars, on his rounds.
"Shh," Karl said, before the man could question. "Found him asleep in a corner; must have dozed off earlier and been missed."
The templar nodded. "Want me to take him?" he asked quietly.
"No, that's fine, he's less likely to wake up if I carry him the rest of the way myself," Karl whispered. The templar nodded, and accompanied him down the hallway, escorting him past the other templars so he didn't have to face questioning from them as well. The templar waited silently at the door while he carried Jowan over to his bed, placing him quietly in the upper bunk that was his. He fought back an urge to brush the boy's hair back out of his face, settling to twitching the covers up over him.
Poor lad, he thought, as he turned away. What sort of childhood was this for him, locked away in the tower his whole life.
Some times, he thought, he could understand all too well why Anders rebelled.