"Rhyanon, I'm scared," Jowan mumbles. She only nods, because she understands, of course he is, but what the hell is she supposed to say? She scratches at the lines carved into the library table by some bored kid who knows how long ago.
A few feet away from them, a boy, maybe ten years old, is mouthing off to Senior Enchanter Nolan after the man had caught him running through the stacks. Rhyanon pretends not to notice as the draconian old man 'teaches the kid some respect' in the same way always does. Jowan notices the way she flinches though. It's not like she's subtle about it. She doesn't bother hiding her scowl, and without realizing it, she's curled her hand up into a tight fist. She can still feel the sting of that cane, though it hasn't touched her for almost a decade.
"You scared that you'll be called for your Harrowing? Or that you won't?" she asks Jowan softly.
It's his non-answer that locks it in for her: it's the second one. He's nearing his twentieth birthday now, an adult by every measure except the one that matters. He's still wearing apprentice robes. "I wish they'd just get it over with already," he spits.
Now, Rhyanon does look up, because he sounds so desperate that she's afraid he might really do something stupid. She wishes Anders were here. Somehow, he's always known what to say, how to talk to Jowan enough to keep him trying, at least for a little while longer. But Anders is gone, and has been for months. And although Rhyanon still makes a tiny mark in the corner of her notebook for every day he's away from her, and knows the number without having to look at it, his absence now feels more normal than his presence.
"I think you're just worrying too much," she tells Jowan.
He lets out a long sigh and starts gathering his books. "Yeah," he mutters. "I guess you're right."
Rhyanon watches him go, and doesn't follow him. He just needs space, and she knows that. He never hunts her down either when she's feeling helplessly trapped by their whole fucked up situation. It does bother her more than she'll ever say out loud, though, the fact that neither of them have any say in their future.
She goes looking for the kid Nolan had been harrassing, thinking it'd be easy enough to heal him. But he's already gone.
She doesn't feel much like studying. She never really studies, not like Jowan does, not like most people do. When she goes to the library, it's only because there's nowhere else to go, or because she's trying to hide. Or because she's trying to fit in.
There's not really much point in trying anymore though, at least not tonight, so she goes to bed early and wakes up early, and she retreats to Irving's office instead of being forced to go eat breakfast in the crowded dining hall. So this time, when Irving gets the word that Anders has been recaptured, Rhyanon is there.
And one look is all it takes for the First Enchanter to understand that there is no way in the Void he can send her away. If he tries to, she'll just sneak around and follow him, and they both know it. Greagoir watches her with his usual grim demeanor, but he seems almost satisfied that she chooses to follow the two men in charge of the Circle. Like maybe she'll get to really see the consequences of the dangerous defiance she doesn't do too well at hiding. He doesn't say as much, not in specific words, but Rhyanon's been around the Knight Commander enough to know him better than he probably thinks she does.
This time, the templars don't bother to wait. There's no suspense, everybody knows what's going to happen to Anders. She watches him, shivering in the autumn chill. He won't look at her. And she wonders, belatedly, if maybe they will kill him after all. She looks at Gregoir instead, pleading wordlessly with all that strength inside her that he won't. That whatever happens, some hope or prayer within her can still buy her best friend a chance at life.
She realizes suddenly that she never wanted this to happen. There's no conflict anymore: she had hoped – already started to believe, in a secret hidden part of her – that Anders had somehow managed to escape the Circle for real. Forever. It obviously isn't true. And this moment more than any other drives that knowledge home.
She bites her lip and won't let herself cry as she follows the oddly subdued procession to the tower's tiny courtyard, where nothing grows and nothing happens, except punishment. Even out here, they are surrounded by thick stone walls. No breezes blow.
"Don't watch," Anders had once told her, but it's different now. She cannot safely hide. They're both on the same side of those walls now, there's nothing between him and her, no barrier to shield her from the worst of it. The thought seems brutally selfish given that he's the one they're shackling to the whipping post – he's the one who ran.
Anders sneaks her a glance and she tries to look calm and reassuring although she's certain she isn't fooling anyone. She does not have to be here. But it still seems like an unforgivable betrayal to leave Anders alone to take the punishment when the only difference between them is that she's too scared to go through with it even when she desperately wants to escape. She's more afraid of leaving than of staying. Obviously. There's still that whisper inside her telling her to run now – to protect herself. To save him. But she doesn't even move, she just stands there, watching without really seeing, feeling it all deep inside even when she tries to shut herself down and dull her senses.
She doesn't even try to count. She doesn't try, but she does it anyway. Too many years of doing it, she can't break the habit now. She adds the numbers without thinking.
It's hard to resolve what's actually happening as anything more than a haphazard input of unrelated images and sounds. That's easier to deal with than recognizing the fact that the blood is real, that the sound that makes her flinch is a signal of real, overwhelming pain. She doesn't cry or scream, although she is constantly, painfully aware of the part of her that wants to. She stands completely still, barely watching but unable to look away. Which is ridiculous, because they're not touching her. She can move. She's only standing there paralyzed because... why? Because she's just as trapped as he is. She's trapped because he is.
She focuses on Anders, on the changes in his movement, in his breathing. She pays attention when his eyes slip closed and he can draw in only ragged gasps. The templars don't seem to care. This is the point, after all. It's supposed to hurt.
Rhyanon bites her lower lip and listens and tries not to look but she can't help it. Anders moans and cries. He no longer struggles. The whip keeps cracking down, with agonizing stretches of silence and stillness in between. Each lash cuts deep and draws blood that pools dark and red. As the numbers count higher and higher, Anders relaxes, only occasionally letting out a strangled whimper, barely audible.
Far from making her feel better, his lack of response only makes the fear churn in Rhyanon's stomach, overwhelming. What if it's too much? What if they kill him? Thirty lashes can kill someone, she's pretty sure.
Before she can think, she runs out into the center of the courtyard, directly in the path of the whip. She puts herself in between Anders and the implement of torture. She shields him with her body and swears to herself and to him that she won't let them kill him. She just hopes it's not too late.
It is too late for the templar administering the punishment to stop the downward cut of the whip. Or maybe he just doesn't care. Rhyanon flinches, somehow managing to think enough to throw her arm up to shield her face. The braided leather cord wraps around her upper arm and cuts across her shoulder.
The pain doesn't hit instantly. There is a flash of white, blinding agony that overwhelms her suddenly. She gasps and struggles to get control of her breathing. Tears sting her eyes in an uncontrolled reaction, and she chokes out a whimpering cry.
"Get out of the way, girl," the templar snarls.
Rhyanon is vaguely aware of the blood pouring down her arm and staining her robes. Her head is ringing as she tries to compensate for the pain. Time seems to be moving incredibly slowly. The adrenaline pounds through her system. She can't process the question. She can't process anything but pain. And the threatening smirk on the face of the templar holding the whip. He shrugs, and raises the lash again.
"Don't much matter to me, mageling," he sneers.
He's going to hit her again. Panic begins to overwhelm her as she recognizes this.
She starts to scramble to her feet, but before she can get anywhere, armored arms wrap around her. She cries and thrashes uselessly. Her fists pound down against the smooth steel, but the templar holds her still.
And she's forced to watch, helplessly, as the punishment continues. Slowly. Deliberately. The whip cuts deeply and the templar is enjoying it. He flashes her a grin, and laughs. And the templar holding her won't let her break away.
Eventually, the lashes stop. She lost the count a long time ago. It might be less than thirty. It might be more. It doesn't matter. She twists and struggles out of the templar's grasp, without caring for the consequences. She sees nothing but Anders, limp and bleeding, left alone and barely conscious in the dirt as the templars untie him and let him fall.
The red stains her robes, but she doesn't notice. She knows her touch must hurt him, but he doesn't seem to care. He's too far gone even to pull away from the pain she must be causing. His breathing comes in sporadic shallow gasps. She can't help him – not really, not enough – not with the wards pressing down on her consciousness, carefully woven by the templars before the punishment even started to ensure that Anders felt every ounce of pain. It doesn't stop her from trying; maybe a little bit will be enough.
She barely notices the pain in her own arm anymore. It doesn't seem to matter. She bites her lip and wraps him carefully in what little flickers of healing magic she can manage. Anders stirs and moans, and his eyes flutter open. His hazy focus lingers on the raw gash across her shoulder, and Rhyanon can feel him tensing up. She squeezes his hand and shakes her head as her other hand brushes the tangles of sweaty hair out of his eyes.
"Go to sleep, Anders," she whispers. His eyelids drift closed again, his breathing relaxes. She can't tell if it's because of her minor talents at healing or his own. The flow of mana comes easier to her now, easier than it should. It feels like a heavy blanket has been lifted from her shoulders. She's aware that the antimagic field is gone – the templars have dropped their ward. She frowns, as suspicion and worry heighten her senses and claw at her stomach. The hair on the back of her neck stands on end. She tells herself to calm down, and she manages, a little. She replaces worry with anger as Anders stiffens, feeding off of her heightened emotions.
"Everything's fine," she lies, refusing to let go of him.
He whines a little, pulling away from her touch. "I know," he mumbles. His words are slurred and barely audible. "Love you," he whispers.
The confession hits her like an electric spark, through every nerve. It paralyzes her. It's enough to unleash the tears she's been struggling so hard to hold back. She wipes them away, reflexively, but it does nothing. "Don't say it unless you mean it," she warns him. But he's slipped out of consciousness again. The deep cuts of the whip still mark him. Rhyanon shivers and sits, still and desperate and crying uncontrollably on the hard-packed dirt. She runs her fingers through his hair. She lets her fingers press close to his skin, close enough to feel the warmth of his body and the thrum of his heartbeat.
A year in solitary. A yell nearly tears itself from her throat, but she doesn't let it.
Irving pulls her away gently. She fights him half-heartedly, but she cannot summon the energy to resist as he tuts over her blood-stained robes and tear-streaked face.
"I need to make sure he's okay."
"He's..." Irving stops. "You've done what you could," he reminds her. "He'll heal up on his own, now."
"It isn't fair!" Rhyanon cries, though she knows it's a useless protest. And she is aware, even as she says it, of the all-too-familiar sensation of someone watching her. She spins back around, to see the same young templar who had shielded her through the last of the punishment carefully studying her. Rage threatens to overwhelm her, but she is too exhausted to fight.
"You dropped the ward," she whispers. The templar just nods. He doesn't apologize or offer any sort of justification. He walks away without looking at her, and that fills Rhyanon with a bizarre sense of satisfaction. It's the way things should be. She needs someone to be angry at, she can't afford confusion when it comes to the templars. She doesn't want this one being nice to her, not even a little bit.
A year. Rhyanon curls her hand into a fist and pulls herself out of Irving's arms.
Some of the other templars haul Anders roughly to his feet, shoving him toward the dungeon cell that will be his home for the next countless eternity.
Irving holds Rhyanon back with a strength that is surprising for his age. "Go calm down," he insists. There is no room in his tone for argument.
She seethes, but pulls herself out of his arms and follows his orders.
She curls up on her bed, shoving herself into the tiny corner created where the bunk slams against the wall. Her arms wrap tight around her knees and she cries silent tears. The deep cut across her shoulder throbs in time with her heartbeat.
She glances up, only briefly, when she hears a shifting movement, someone sitting on the bunk across from hers. She can't help the old habit that makes her immediately think it must be Anders – that's his bed. But Anders hasn't slept in the apprentice dorms for years. Just because nobody's taken over his spot doesn't mean she can go back in time or anything. No matter how much she wants to.
"What happened?" Jowan whispers. Sitting on the bunk across from her, he leans over close enough that he can touch her. He gently rests her hand atop her kneecap.
Rhyanon looks up and sniffles. She bites her lip, trying – and failing - to stop crying. She shakes her head. "He promised," she whines.
Jowan says nothing. He simply moves over to her bed, wraps her up in his arms. "I know," he says softly. Rhyanon curls up against his body without thinking. She shivers and squirms as his thumb gently traces the raw cut of the whip. She hisses with pain, but she doesn't pull away. She feels safe with Jowan, she feels protected. And more than anything else, she doesn't want to be alone.
Her heartbeat speeds up as Jowan presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head. His fingers tangle into her long hair, it's a complete mess – she's a complete mess, covered in blood and sweat and dirt - but Jowan doesn't seem to care. They are surrounded by silence except for the sound of their ragged breathing.
Rhyanon starts crying again, and she hates it, but she can't stop herself. Deep heaving sobs that make her whole body shake. She grabs onto Jowan, so tightly that it must hurt. Her fingernails scratch against his arm, and he flinches, but he won't let go, so she doesn't either. She squirms in his arms, with a desperate, choking whimper, and he silences her with another kiss. He runs his thumb down her jawline, and gently brushes his lips over hers. She breathes, a long exhalation, and she rests still against his body, briefly.
She gasps as a wave of mana fills her, flickering tendrils of potential, but they do not come from her. She smiles weakly at Jowan. The energy surges through her body, like lightning, it charges her, it makes everything feel more real. Jowan's body, pressed against her, feels warm and comfortable, and safe, and she can barely breathe, and where his fingers touch her skin she doesn't hurt as badly anymore. It feels good, but it feels like a lie. It's easy to push back against the intrusion of magic, her mental shields are strong, trained for years. It's harder to push Jowan away, but she does it.
She bites her lip and holds her breath as she stares at him. He looks so scared – she can see the flickers of fear in his eyes, and something else too, something harder: anger, and determination. She's afraid he'll go away, leave her alone. But she's afraid to ask him to stay, too. Because when she asks for things, they only get taken away.
Jowan's dark hair falls into his eyes in a tangled heap; in this unguarded moment they are both vulnerable to the loss of control they have been warned against for years, decades. In this unguarded moment, neither of them care.
Jowan's breathing calms, it's deep and steady, and it makes Rhyanon feel a little better. He takes her hand, and she lets him. His skin feels warm and soft; her fingers still fit in his. He squeezes gently, and she squeezes back. She tilts her head back to look at him. She still doesn't know how to tell him what she's feeling; she's afraid to admit how desperately alone she is. "Jowan," she murmurs. She can't say anything else. She pulls away from him, retreats into herself again.
But he won't let her. He reaches out and traces his thumb across her cheek.
Her breathing grows louder; so does her heartbeat. He continues tracing his touch along the gentle curves of her body; cheek, neck, shoulder... she flinches when he hits that raw wound, and looks up. She's stopped crying, but it still feels like she's about to, like anything could push her over the edge again. Her shoulder still hurts.
Jowan wraps her up in a tight hug. "You're okay," he whispers. His fingers trail down her spine, and this time, when he heals her, she lets him. It's a simple, hesitant attempt that reminds her of the first time she'd tried to learn, years ago. But it unknots the tension inside her. He's trying to help, and she needs that. "It's not your fault," he reminds her. His breathing hiccups a little bit as he talks, repeating the same argument they've never stopped having since Anders' inability to follow the rules or keep his promises shoved a wedge into their friendship.
Rhyanon shoves Jowan away, hard, and screams out an overwhelming yelling cry, like a little kid. She punches him, over and over, and although it hurts and Jowan tries to grab her, she keeps fighting her way out of his grasp. "Fuck you!" she screams. Of course it isn't her fault. He shouldn't even feel the need to say it. She slams her fists into the soft flesh of his body, knowing she's better at fighting than he is, she's practiced more, they've made her practice more.
"Dammit, Rhyanon, this isn't fair!" Jowan snaps.
His voice sounds just slightly strained, and he doesn't cover his wince nearly as well as he might've thought. Rhyanon bites her lip and turns away, to scratch her fingernail at the rough, scratched wood of Anders' bed beneath her.
Rhyanon nods. No, it isn't. It never was.
She shivers, and tucks herself against Jowan's body as he wraps his arms around her. He doesn't even say anything about her violent outburst.
She can feel someone watching her, despite the fact that Jowan tries to shield her. The templars are always watching them. Rhyanon can shake it off most of the time. But it feels different now. She doesn't relax until the red-haired templar walks away, continuing his patrol.
She rests her head on Jowan's shoulder, and he strokes her back in gentle circles. She can tell he's waiting for her to pull away again – she can't blame him, it's all she ever does. But she doesn't. She clings to him instead, determined to fix this. To give him what he wants; what they both need.
Her fingers dig into the back of Jowan's neck; with her other hand, she tugs at his robes, pulling at where his tunic loosens. She begins peeling that clothing away, seeking heat and contact, skin to skin, seeking comfort, understanding, a way to forget... Jowan pulls her closer too. He hiccups, she can feel his heartbeat fluttering beneath her fingertips. He gulps down a massive swallow of air.
"I'm not the one you want," he protests, but she doesn't care. She's so broken and desperate and weak, and so is he. The Circle is crushing both of them, killing them. They can't save each other, but they can cling to each other on the way down. Can't they?
She pulls off her robes, and with the bloodstained cloth tossed away she feels better, capable of forgetting the worst things, at least enough to move forward. Jowan's fingers skip over her now-naked body, with uncertain movements. She squirms and shivers beneath his touch; the contrast of his warm body against the chill of the room.
"Rhyanon, I can.. stop," Jowan breathes. She shakes her head and reaches out, before she can stop herself. She cries softly, burrowing into his shoulder, as his thumb brushes over her hardened nipple. Rhyanon whines and takes his wrist and guides his hand between her legs. She moans and cries out as he pushes, in and out, faster and faster in response to her rapid breathing and desperate attempts to push back.
The room doesn't feel cold anymore. Rhyanon swears her skin right now is hotter than anything she's ever felt. Jowan slides into her and she cries again, sudden sound that makes them both flinch. He drives deeper and deeper, harder, faster, dumping pain, fear, frustration, and rage into the motion. Rhyanon's tears soak her skin, she buries her face into the crook of Jowan's neck. The spiking perfect line of pain she'd been fighting so hard to ignore has diffused now, into a dull ache of guilt and uncertainty and fear. Jowan gathers her in his arms again.
"Does it hurt?" he whispers softly, and who knows what he's talking about: the sex, the still-raw scar, everything else. She shrugs. 'I don't know' is as good an answer as any.
Jowan burrows his face in his hands and sighs, unable to voice the fear and frustration that is so much a part of their daily life. It's already starting to creep in again, she can't push it away. She traces her fingers along the inside of Jowan's wrist, rippling over the sensitive skin there. He trembles briefly, and holds her tighter. There are no more tears inside of her.
She shakes her head, feeling empty, entirely spent. "It doesn't hurt," she whispers.
Jowan nods, and holds her, and for a minute, for five seconds, it doesn't matter that both of them are lying.
