Fereldan's Circle is Kinloch Hold, and it isn't as bad as most. Who decided this and how is never entirely clear, but there seems to be some consensus among its residents.
His first years are hard. There is no wind, no sky, no dirt. Ceilings tower, dust collects on unpopular books, the only animals to be found are cats and rats. He finds himself surrounded by humans-children, mages, templars. The first time he sees another elf it is an instructor named Lasa, and Alim finds himself clinging to her skirts in tears. His lips form a string of broken Dalish sentences unable to articulate his relief, struggling to explain how alone he's felt surrounded by chantry prayers and enchanted walls, no vhenadahl to rest beneath, no gods but the Maker while they bless their foreign food and foreign clothes and he sees in the blankness of her face that she understands nothing.
A substitute is sent for. Lasa steps with Alim into the hallway while students murmur among themselves. She kneels, meets his eye.
"I'm sorry," says Lasa. "It's been a long time. Forgetting is so easy."
They do this, she tells him, to help them blend in. To encourage unity. There are other elves in other classes but they are a minority here. It isn't so bad once you're used to it. The Circle is a shock for everyone. It's better to let go.
He doesn't talk much after that, picks at his food, sleeps when he can. Tries to commit his mother's face to memory. His studies go poorly and people murmur that it's only to be expected of one of them. Lazy, stupid elf-child.
Alim finds himself sitting under windows often, even if it means practicing runes on the floor instead of a desk. He doesn't want to forget what the sun feels like.
Eventually, someone sits next to him.
"Hey." Stubby ears, eyes too close together, stringy brown hair. Shoulders that seem too big for the rest-maybe a year or two older than him, but it's hard to tell with humans. "You've been here a while. Figure out anything interesting?"
Alim says nothing.
"I'm Jowan," says the boy. "Runes aren't my best subject either."
Jowan doesn't have a lot of friends. Jowan has a habit of talking too much too fast when he gets nervous, and he's often nervous. Jowan doesn't force him to answer questions but listens anyway and sits with him at meals, complains about the cooking, goes beyond wearing expressions on his face by channeling them through his hands. He's kinder than he is bright.
When Alim talks to Jowan about his mother a strange expression crosses his face, pulling his brows together and pressing his lips like he's been hurt. It passes quickly into something more neutral. Something silent. After a time Jowan says he wouldn't understand something like that. Not from his experience. But he'll do his best.
They begin working through studies together. The first time Jowan calls him falon his accent is terrible and it doesn't make any grammatical sense, but Alim knows he must have looked the word up. For several seconds, his voice seems frozen in his throat.
"Try lethallin," says Alim quietly, and it's a word only a few people used in the alienage, but when Jowan smiles he seems to understand.
"Alright, cousin. Lethallin it is then."