The day had been surprisingly nice for a day spent in a dungeon cell. Sure, yes, they were stuck in there with nothing but each other for entertainment, but that was fine. Gantlos and Anagan had taken whole-heartedly to keeping Ogron's mind off of the trial, keeping up a steady stream of conversation that Ogron gladly fell into, keeping himself away from his worries and fears, just staying in the pleasant haze of conversation. They touched on Duman a few times, though Gantlos did tend to guide the conversation away after a minute or so, his eyes starting to fill with a soft pain that Ogron and Anagan didn't make him face up to just yet.
The day passed in much that fashion until they reached about…four? Maybe five? There was no clock in there, Ogron was flying pretty blind. But four felt about right. When four came, the clinking of armour stopped outside their cell rather than marching right past.
Ogron sat up straight, edging away nervously, afraid of wherever this might be going. He was fairly convinced that the guards were not actually going to hurt them, but by now, his body had almost entirely blocked his logical brain.
'…What?' Gantlos was first to speak, demanding an explanation of the sentinels outside their cell.
'We need you three to come with us,' one ordered, and Ogron backed away further. Anagan's hand found his, rubbing slow circles on his wrist in silent reassurance. He managed to force himself into some measure of composure, planting his feet before he could back up into the wall.
'…Why?' Anagan asked quietly, guiding Ogron closer.
'You need magic blocks put in place before the trial tomorrow.' Ogron's heart sank. His powers weren't working anyway, but he despised the idea of having a block put on his magic. He'd had it a few times before, and he hated it. It was like…like he was being suffocated. But he could still breathe. It was the best way he could describe the sensation. Of course, he doubted he'd feel anything right now, as the hum of energy under his skin had been replaced with a cold, painful emptiness, while…while his magical core…it…it didn't…he couldn't feel it. He didn't want to consider what that would mean…what it would mean if his core was…if it was…
'Our powers are dead right now anyway,' Gantlos snapped, refusing to make a move towards the guards. 'What's the point, other than reminding us we're your prisoners? We kinda clocked that, what with the cell.'
'No prisoner will come before the king with the capability to access their magic,' the guard said firmly.
'I literally just told you we don't have that capacity. That helmet block your ears or something?'
'It's not worth it, G…' Anagan sighed, walking towards the guards, guiding Ogron to follow him. 'Let's just get it over with.'
'But-'
'It's like you just said; we don't have access to our powers right now anyway. It won't make a difference, it's not worth starting a fight over. Just…just c'mon?' Anagan glanced to Gantlos pleadingly, and, with a deeply aggrieved sigh that said he couldn't believe he was just submitting himself to the will of armoured strangers once again, Gantlos followed, swatting the guards' hands away from him when they tried to take his arms.
'I can walk by my goddamn self, get off!'
Ironically, though Ogron and Anagan would not have fought back, or, more likely because of it, nobody attempted to take them in hand, and the group simply walked through the dungeons in silence, Ogron glancing around with mild curiosity. He supposed this was, if all went well tomorrow, his new home. He disliked calling it that…and perhaps it was foolish to call all that he saw now his new home, as he was unlikely to see any of it again, his future confined to four walls and a stone floor. But he couldn't help himself. A while ago, he'd have certainly been memorising exits and possible aids to his escape, but why should he now? He didn't seek escape. He just took in the sandy stone walls and flagstone floors, each hallway the same, the only difference in appearance the different people that sporadically inhabited each cell. Ogron didn't like to look at them. He feared what he might see, feared to see his future. Of course, they might be healthy enough people living decent enough lives, but he didn't want to risk it. Instead, he cast his gaze down to where the cat he'd seen yesterday was wrestling a rat almost as big as it was, and somehow winning. Wonderful. Cats could accomplish more than him. What a great day.
They walked up a few flights of stairs, emerging into what was presumably a back hallway reserved for servants and apparently, formerly-dangerous prisoners. It lacked the floor to ceiling windows that the rest of the palace sported, but it still had a few little windows dotted here and there, letting soft sunlight drift in, the warmth tickling Ogron's skin and reminding him how chilly it actually was in the dungeons.
One window a way through the walk was thrown open, perhaps to air out the passage, perhaps it had been left that way, perhaps the universe was simply reminding him that there were ways out of this he was simply too cowardly to take. But whatever the reason, he paused as he felt the change in the air. The air in the palace was hardly musty, but it wasn't fresh. He'd only been in the cell a day, but he hadn't had a decent breath of fresh air in a while, not one where he wasn't also choking on the dust of battle or his own panic. He drew a slow, steady breath, turning to glance out at the world he was being severed from. It was truly beautiful…the window overlooked the courtyard in front of the palace, dozens of people hurrying, standing, talking, just…doing whatever they chose, their freedom an honour they didn't even know had been afforded to them. Ogron wondered idly where they might each be going. What it might have been like to be one of them, to live a life of no real consequence, to never know the highs and lows of power, of the path to it. He supposed that now, he was of far less consequence than anyone that walked past below, unknown by the dimension. By this time tomorrow, he'd be sealed by iron or ice, his legacy reduced to a name in a history book, to become, at best, a story students of magic would force into their brains for a final exam, and then forget forever. …It hurt worse than he'd anticipated, to realise that everything he'd bled and broken for had come to naught, come to a cell, come to a life of languishing where nobody but his friends and the guards would hear him speak ever again.
'Ogron, c'mon…' Anagan gently tugged him forwards before the guards would see a need to move him themselves, and Ogron craned his neck back to stare after the sunlight and freedom, so close he could have touched it.
The windows vanished as they walked deeper into the heart of the castle, and Ogron wondered what this place would look like, to take their magic, their birthright, their life and strip it from them. He imagined something akin to a torture chamber, perhaps with fewer instruments of torture…
As they walked through the doors, his mental image was snuffed out, the dramatically terrifying atmosphere replaced with clean white walls, some equipment that didn't look at all set to expose them to mind-bending agony, and a few people wandering around in white coats. It…was much the same as visiting a doctor's office.
Ogron hated visiting doctor's offices.
A somewhat harried-looking woman with short blue hair and the air of someone who was waiting for the weekend and everything between then and now was of no interest unless it did her grievous bodily harm hurried over, glancing the wizards up and down.
'…The prisoners to be blocked?'
'Yes, ma'am,' the guards confirmed, and the woman sighed.
'Okay, let's get this done, my name's Dr Lucy Veigh, I'm going to run a few tests to determine what strength of dampener we need to implant, alright?'
'What do you mean by implant?' Gantlos asked suspiciously, his gaze flicking around the room apprehensively.
'I mean implant it into your skin so it can't be removed. It's a small chip inserted under anaesthetic, you won't feel it.'
The reassurance that he wouldn't feel it seemed to do nothing to remove Gantlos from the edge, the blonde backing away from Dr Veigh slightly. 'Yeah, I'm not letting you just stick metal in me.'
'Not a choice,' the doctor sighed tiredly, beckoning the three of them to follow her. Anagan did, though Ogron had to be encouraged along, his stomach sinking at the idea of having something stuck in his skin blocking him from ever calling on his magic again. Ugh, the prospect made him sick…but the prospect of being forced into it was even worse, so he argued his feet into moving after Anagan. Gantlos, meanwhile, did have to be rather manhandled forwards, being pushed into a chair and only ceasing to struggle when the guards pointedly looked to the restraints.
Ogron fidgeted awkwardly, wondering just what tests he was going to have to undergo. He prayed it wasn't too invasive, or if it was, at least that the guards would leave…he didn't need any further witnesses to his humiliation.
'Okay…' Dr Veigh announced, and Ogron's head snapped up. 'So, first off, I need to get a read of your surface magic, the energy just below your skin that you call on to cast spells.'
Gantlos scoffed, rolling his eyes. 'Do you seriously think you need to explain surface magic to us? We didn't almost rid Earth of magic by blundering our way through, y'know. We know what we're talking about.'
'Oh, well, you're not talking about this, I am, you're having blood taken and tested. Quietly, I'd hope.'
Gantlos looked set to bite back, and Anagan subtly had to kick his leg as gently as was possible while still cutting him off.
Ogron breathed an internal sigh of relief. Taking blood. As long as they didn't plan to drain him dry like vampires, then that wasn't so bad.
Dr Veigh walked over with a few large needles, and Ogron readied himself to have blood taken. Then his gaze caught on Gantlos. And something flashed in his memory. Oh dear…
There were not a lot of things that could scare Gantlos. Some of the few contenders were: losing his friends…burning to death…and…needles. It was arguably the most humiliating part of him. There was a sensible part of his brain that told him he'd broken probably every bone in his body at least once, this was a very tiny piece of metal going inside him for just a moment, he'd had far bigger pieces of metal inside his flesh, and he'd taken those stab wounds and slashes without screaming or freaking out. This part of his brain was being ignored completely.
He looked away as Dr Veigh prepared the needles, wondering just how bad the repercussions would be if he were to just get up and bolt. He was certainly fast enough to get out of here before the guards could run him through…but not enough to get out of the palace, and ugh, he couldn't leave Ogron and Anagan!
'…Why…um…why do you need to run the tests if you're just putting the blockers in us anyway?' he asked as casually as he could manage, the chair's plastic creaking slightly under his grip.
'Because they need to block as much magic as is in you right now. If your powers are blocked, they won't grow, so the blockers can stay the same strength. If we make them too strong, they could hurt you.'
'I'll survive.'
'And I'll be liable. It's a blood test and a scan, you'll be fine.' Yep, of course he would, except that mentally yelling that at his body didn't seem to quell the very widespread idea amongst his limbs that now would be a great time to make a break for it.
Dr Veigh turned to Anagan, and Gantlos couldn't tell if his eyes were glued to the needle, or desperately trying to look away from it. Actually, it was likely both.
'Expose your arm, please.'
Anagan did so without complaint, and Gantlos recoiled as the needle slid into his arm, guzzling Anagan's blood like a ferocious mosquito. Anagan winced, but didn't make a sound, letting Dr Veigh press cotton to the prick to stop the blood bubbling up, racing to follow its brethren into captivity. There was something deeply disturbing about the doctor now holding a vial of blood, still warm from Anagan's veins. Not only did it feel like theft of his very essence, but blood could be used in all kinds of spells. Who knew what was to be done with their blood after it had been tested? Why was this being allowed?! Of course, they were prisoners, their captors could do as they pleased with them. If they so desired, they could throw them in a pit with no food or water and wait until they decomposed to skeletons.
Dr Veigh turned to him, needle at the ready, and he suddenly wished they'd just throw him in that pit.
'I'll go next.' Ogron's voice was quiet, subdued, but clear enough to catch the doctor's attention. 'I'll go next,' he repeated, glancing at Gantlos with concern. Gantlos felt a wave of gratitude, though he'd never admit his heart was racing as though trying outrun his own demons, and Ogron's offer had him breathing a sigh of relief so deep there couldn't be any air left in his lungs.
'Alright.' Dr Veigh, presumably unconcerned by what order she stole their essences in, turned to Ogron. Wordlessly, Ogron pushed back his sleeve, ignoring the lingering bruises on his skin, just sitting like a doll with a child playing doctor. He didn't flinch, didn't make a sound as the needle went in, staring listlessly as the needle went in, snatched his blood, then went on its way, leaving blood to trickle down his arm.
'Press this against the prick to stop the blood.' The only time Ogron moved was to follow the instruction, steady, mechanical, like a dog trained to sit and stay when snapped at. If Gantlos wasn't very much focused on subtly trying to edge away, it would have hurt. Ogron had never been one to make a big deal out of pain (that had always been Duman), but he would have at least winced. Taking blood hurt. And yet…Neruman had beaten and broken his defiance, his expression out of him. Gantlos missed the man that would have refused his blood to anyone.
There were no other wizards left. Now the focus was solely on him, his veins. He wished he could turn his blood vessels to steel…though they'd likely just use a drill to get through. No rights prisoner, remember?
'Okay, sleeve up, please.'
Gantlos clenched his fists, holding his sleeves very much down over his arms. This was utterly, utterly humiliating…it was a little prick, just do it! Just do it! His mental coaxing had about the same effect as screaming into a hurricane, only without the release of screaming. He wished he could scream now…not through fear, he wasn't that pathetic, he outright refused to be, but to release the frustration and stress building in him. But he somehow felt that his captors might have objections to him screaming in their faces. Ugh…caring what his captors might think, what they might do. Had he been reduced to this?
'I need to take blood,' Dr Veigh insisted.
'No.' Gantlos shook his head, pressing himself back against the chair as though perhaps, any second now, it would reveal itself to be a mere mirage and let him slip through, through the walls, and away, perhaps to go wait somewhere until they'd decided they didn't need his blood, they'd be fine. In the typical fashion of the universe, it ignored him and his prayers entirely, opting instead to put the suggestion into one of the guards' minds that it would be a really good idea to grab Gantlos's arm and present it on his behalf, like a sacrificial offering.
'Don't touch me!' he snapped, trying to wrench his arm away.
'Gantlos, calm down…' Anagan tried gently, putting a hand on the arm that wasn't being manhandled. 'It's fine…'
'Of course it's fine!' Gantlos gritted out, not willing to admit his fears, even to his friends. They knew, of course they did, but that didn't mean he'd ever want to voice it aloud, or make a concession to the fact that he was shaken as hell by a tiny spear set to steal his blood. 'Other than the guard that thinks he can manhandle me like an animal…'
'Like a prisoner,' the guard muttered, rolling his eyes. 'Which I'd like to remind you you are, regardless of the princess's mercy.' That set his blood boiling. He hated his new status, and having it shoved in his face…he rather anticipated that the needle would melt when it entered his veins.
The guard pulled his sleeve back, and he squirmed as Dr Veigh tried to prick him.
'Gantlos, it's fine…' Anagan reassured him. 'It'll be over in a second.'
'No!'
Anagan sighed deeply, grimacing and turning to the doctor. '…I'm sorry, he's really-'
'Anagan!' Gantlos snarled, shaking his head. He didn't want these people knowing about his pathetic phobia!
'…Needle phobic.'
'Anagan!' Gantlos's cheeks darkened, both with embarrassment and fury. Who knew what they could use that knowledge for…torture, maybe.
'Ah…' Dr Veigh nodded. 'I was getting that sense. Just look somewhere else, I'll be as quick as I can.'
'I don't need to look somewhere else!' He didn't need any kid gloves to touch him, he was fine!
The needle went in. He looked somewhere else immediately. Get it out get it out get it out!
The needle sucked up blood, guzzling it down like he was some feast, ignoring his squirming and wriggling under its prick.
'All done.' A piece of cotton wool was pressed to the needle site, and blood bubbled up as the needle slid out. …That was it? He'd never say this aloud, but that hadn't been as bad as he'd been building up in his head.
'Hold that in place,' Dr Veigh instructed, already walking off to runs a few quick tests on the blood samples.
Gantlos didn't want to do anything his blood-napper ordered of him, but thankfully Anagan had no such issue, pressing down on the cotton so Gantlos wouldn't bleed all over his shirt. Not that Gantlos much cared; it was a prison uniform, not clothes he actually liked.
'I can't believe you told them,' he hissed under his breath, glowering down at the floor. That was private! He was a bastion of strength and stoicism, not a child trying to bolt from a flu shot…
'I think your behaviour kinda told them anyway…' Anagan replied calmly, unperturbed by the ire in Gantlos's voice. Well, perhaps that was a little true, but he could have played it off as not wanting his skin impaled by his captors! That was a very valid concern.
He shook off the guard with his hands still on his arm. 'You already took my blood, you can let go now.'
The guard let go, and Gantlos shuddered. He really didn't like being manhandled like that. He missed his powers…missed being able to blast an assailant halfway across the planet with a seismic wave, missed the freedom to lash out. Sitting still and taking orders…only Ogron got to give him orders. Lemmings in tacky armour…no. He'd rather just punch them in the face and get clapped in chains than sit and take orders like a show dog, and were it just him in custody, he'd likely already have been thrown in the deepest cell they had and chained to the wall, but he couldn't kick up a fuss, cause a kerfuffle, couldn't do anything to endanger or distress his friends. So apparently, he was just sitting here. And not punching the guard next to him in the solar plexus. No matter how easy it would be…so easy…so tempting…he wanted to do it so badly! And then he could throw that guard into the one next to him…bring them all down, like dominos…
'Are you daydreaming about violence right now?' Anagan asked quietly, and Gantlos glanced away awkwardly. Was he that obvious?
'…Maybe.'
Anagan rolled his eyes fondly, pulling the cotton away. 'There. You've stopped bleeding.'
'…Thank you.' Gantlos narrowed his eyes at the mark on his arm. It was tiny. So small you wouldn't notice it if you weren't looking, but he'd sat and let them inflict it. He felt disgust fester in his stomach. Disgust at them, and more profoundly, disgust at himself, for giving in to this. Yes, he was aware this had basically been his idea, but that did not mean he had to like it! He was gonna go crazy as a prisoner…
Ogron sat still, mutely rubbing the twinging prick on his arm. Gantlos looked livid about his own, but Ogron barely noticed the slight pain. It was nothing, really. After all…he'd had worse. He sat in silence, waiting as Dr Veigh ran tests on his blood. He probably knew all of them, but he couldn't be bothered to go inside his brain and dredge up the information. It didn't matter if he knew what was being done with him or not. They'd do it anyway.
'Right…'
He glanced back up, pulling his sleeve back down over the prick as Dr Veigh walked back over, deeply absorbed in a tablet that presumably displayed their results. He felt a tug of nervous curiosity, his hands twitching as he anticipated the figures she was about to quote. As delusional as it was, he hoped she'd tell them there was still a spark at the surface. Some trickle of power he'd missed somehow. Some sense of his old self.
Her grave expression said otherwise.
'I'm afraid your surface-level magic is completely drained; it's magically equivalent to a human.' That was like a punch in the gut, stealing Ogron's breath and sickening him to his very, dying core. Equivalent to a human…a fleeting, mortal life that died a slow death simply by existing. Was he truly so weak? He'd already known, of course he had, but he'd deluded himself, the way he'd had to, told himself there had to be a dribble of power left…
No. No, this was okay. He may have never drained his powers to such an extent, but…no surface powers didn't mean his magic was dead. His core could rekindle from embers, it had to be okay… He wasn't quite sure when he'd become this practised at lying to himself. Or if it was remotely helpful, or just emotionally exhausting.
'So, to clarify, you stole our blood to determine how strong some dampeners you now don't need would have to be?' Gantlos demanded. He was ignored.
'We'll perform some scans to determine the strength of your magical core.'
Ogron heard Gantlos mutter 'Oh, come on,' while he just got to his feet resignedly. No point in arguing…better to walk than be dragged.
'I take it you'll go first?'
Ogron shrugged. Didn't matter. He was on his feet, so may as well be used like a lab experiment first. He was guided across to what appeared similar to an mri scanner, getting up and in, laid down, like a doll with a child playing doctor.
A few instructions were issued: lie still, stay quiet, this won't hurt…he let them wash over him, closing his eyes against the bright lights that assaulted his vision. What were they doing? He didn't know, didn't care, didn't bother to ask. Besides, he'd been told to stay quiet. He doubted this place would issue harsh consequences for disobeying, but he couldn't dredge up the words anyway. He just wanted to go back to the cell and go back to sleep. Sleeping was nice. Anagan stroked his hair when he slept. He felt safe like that, he wanted to go back there. So he just lay, let the proceedings happen around him, until he was brought out, brought back to his feet, back to the chair.
No results were issued yet, so he sank back into silence. His only earlier reason to speak up had been to help Gantlos - who was delusional if he thought he'd been hiding his fear of needles in the slightest - and now that Gantlos was back to just plain angry rather than angry and distressed, there was really no reason for him to make a single sound. Or exist in general, really…but life didn't seem set to let him out of its poisonous claws just yet, so he supposed he just grit his teeth and bore it, let whoever wanted to do so toss him around as they pleased. In a sense, it was easier than choosing his own path…that was hard, and he couldn't make the right choices. Maybe other people really did know what was best for him…he'd gladly hand the hardships of his existence off to someone else to handle for him, let him float adrift in oblivion…
Anagan watched Ogron worriedly as Gantlos got his scans taken, conceding to do it with minimal resistance, evidently now aware that the guards would shove him in there if they had to. Thank god…Anagan didn't have the patience today for Gantlos starting a kerfuffle. Yes, he was very aware it would be far worse than a kerfuffle, but he didn't like to be frank about the prospective situation. It unnerved him.
Ogron seemed detached from the situation entirely, staring blankly down at the floor, his hands twisting in and out of each other in a nervous tick Anagan had watched since he was young. Ogron had always detached when he was too stressed, retreating into whatever safe void his mind created for him, the only remaining signs of his presence his shallow breathing and wringing hands, the movements changing from steady and measured to panicked and feverish. Right now, they were steady, a sort of comforting rhythm, likely intended to keep him grounded. There was nothing wrong with Ogron retreating in such a fashion, not in this case. Though, admittedly, the response to utterly detach and often freeze up when feeling threatened or unsafe had endangered his life a great many times, from being in the path of a train to almost being caught on raids against fairies. As such, Anagan had developed quite the skill for coaxing him back.
'Hey…' He carefully slipped his hand into the obsessive wringing, an action that didn't stop the movement, but drew Ogron's attention to it. Ogron's blue eyes watched his alabaster fingers trace Anagan's hand, becoming slightly less hazy as the movements grew more conscious. Anagan squeezed his hand gently, carefully easing Ogron's hands apart.
'You don't have to look so worried…this is over soon…' he murmured softly, aware the words were likely mere background noise to Ogron, but helpful nonetheless. He took Ogron's hands in his own, allowing himself to be turned into Ogron's stress ball, feeling the patterns traced on his skin as Ogron gradually slowed in his stress, now back in the room. There he was…
'Alright, Anagan?'
Anagan glanced up, startled by the sudden noise. For a moment, he'd almost forgotten his surroundings. Ironic, as he'd tried to connect Ogron to them…
'Anagan.' Dr Veigh gestured to the scanner. 'Please get in.' Oh…oh, great…a small, cramped scanner that he got to go lie in. Anagan didn't fear a lot. Well, that was a lie, he feared a great deal, but very little was debilitating. However, since he was about twelve, he had suffered from what most people called claustrophobia. They probably called it that because it was claustrophobia. When he went into small spaces, he started to feel as though the air thickened, almost to some kind of paste, choking him, blocking his lungs, stealing his breath, dragging him to his knees, like he was going to die…
It was fine. Very manageable. Mostly. Except…except right now, when it was screaming at him not to get in the long, sciency coffin. Manageably. Or not.
He had to do this. Gantlos had taken a needle, he was afraid of those, and Ogron would fall apart if his support system wasn't rock solid. So freaking out or backing away wasn't an option. He couldn't distress Ogron.
One foot. In front. Of the other. He crossed the room as calmly as possible, though his legs moved as slow as an arthritic puppet. He didn't want guards' hands on him, forcing him in, so he forced himself not to pause. Not that getting in willingly made this any less horrible…
The same instructions were given to him as had been given to Ogron and Gantlos. Thankfully, lying still was actually quite easy when it was one of only two options. Lie stiff as a board, or run in terror. And since running in terror was hardly an option in the slightest, he lay, stiff as a board, eyes squeezed shut to allow his mind to repeat the lie that he was in a wide open field, wide open field, with a breeze and a wide, open sky, stretching off into forever.
It really didn't help all that much.
Don't freak out, don't freak out, don't freak out… The mantra was repeated over and over in his mind, reminding him that he was all that was holding his friends together, he didn't have the luxury to just fall to pieces. Last time he'd done that, twenty minutes later they'd wound up losing Gregory. Were the two related? Well, he wasn't quite sure…but he didn't want to risk anything.
By the time it was over, he had to wipe his brow, his sleeve coming away sticky with sweat. Dr Veigh didn't bother to look to him or issue instructions, leaving him to be helped down by a guard, her attention solely on the screens displaying their results.
'…You okay?' Ogron asked quietly when Anagan sat next to him, subtly sucking in deep, calming breaths. 'You don't like enclosed spaces…'
'I'm fine…' Anagan replied, getting in the running for the most obvious lie ever. 'Totally fine.'
'Hm…'
Both wizards looked up at the sound, exchanging a glance at the way Dr Veigh was frowning at the screens. Even Gantlos was looking, though trying not to be obvious about it. The way she was staring…the furrow to her brow…something in those results was very obviously not sitting well with her.
She turned, and Anagan didn't bother to act as though he hadn't been watching her. '…What?' he asked, nervous. In all the chaos and concern, it hadn't really occurred to him that there could be life-changing results drawn from these tests. Just what were they about to hear?
Ogron's foot tapped nervously as Dr Veigh looked over the results displayed on her tablet. Frankly, he couldn't make heads nor tails of anything on her screens; damned technology. Whatever had happened to ancient scrolls? He missed those…
But this was not about ancient scrolls, or the tangent his mind was rapidly attempting to pull him on; no, this was about the emptiness within him, and the desperate hope that he was about to be reassured it would heal.
'We assessed your magical cores,' Dr Veigh began, clearing her throat awkwardly. 'And…the results showed that…well, they appear to be dead.'
Silence hung heavy, thick and choking for a few moments while Ogron scrambled to try and process the words that had just left her mouth. Dead? If a magical core was dead, then it…it could never regenerate. He'd heard tell of fairies and wizards that had exhausted their cores to death, to the point not even a drop of magic still existed within them. Nothing within them to rekindle the fire. For all intents and purposes, he was now…mortal. The word sounded grating in his head, rattling around his brain as though a puzzle piece that simply didn't fit.
'The hell do you mean, dead?' Gantlos demanded, bolting to his feet as though standing up would somehow change the grim truth of their situation.
'I mean dead,' Dr Veigh clarified. 'They no longer contain any magic of any kind. Magically, you are now human.'
Gantlos sat back down with a thud, staring blankly ahead, his fury stopped in its tracks by his utter, utter confusion and shock. 'Dead…?' he mumbled under his breath, his gaze going to his hands, hands that had commanded the powers of destruction, hands that now served no purpose beyond simple appendages.
Anagan was speaking, asking questions, but Ogron didn't hear them. He felt an odd sense of numbness about this whole situation. As though somehow, since he'd realistically known already, then it didn't really hurt all that much. It was hardly as though his magic had done anything whatsoever to defend him these past few months, anyhow. It hadn't even bothered to come to his defences when he'd been enslaved. Why should he cry for it? Or perhaps he was simply repressing these feelings again…
'…If that's the case…' one of the guards began. 'Do they still need to be fitted with dampeners?'
Dr Veigh shook her head. 'No; it will be just the same as bringing humans before the king.' Ogron felt a slight sting pierce the numbness at the words. Humans…he'd spoken so disparagingly of them a great many times on his conquest of terrestrial magic. Why shouldn't he, he'd reasoned at the time. Humans were weak, killed off by their own existence. They breathed, then faded away. Only a rare few managed enough in their mayfly existence to scratch a mark on history, a mark that would be deformed and adjusted by their descendants until it barely even resembled that which they'd wrought in the first place. Humans were weak and insignificant. And now, being marched back to a cell, to languish under a castle that would soon forget him in a few years, could he really refute that he displayed those very characteristics?
Even Gantlos didn't bother to resist as they were locked back in the cell, just sinking down the wall until he sat back against it, staring blankly out beyond the bars, seemingly beyond the walls, to a void filled with thoughts known only to him.
Ogron moved oddly naturally, sitting down on his bed, twisting a strand of hair around his finger, deep in thought. Human…the word still refused to fit. It wasn't precisely his first time as a mortal…he remembered 'surrendering' to Morgana. As he'd bowed before her, he'd announced he gave himself up to her as a mere mortal. It had almost been true…his powers had been sealed away in the Black Circle until only a few hours prior. He had been…close, to human. Not quite, though, his core had still sat idly within him, waiting for the spark to be blown upon by the breath of his magic, to let it blaze bright and strong once again… And what a great idea he'd used that power on…god, if he'd known he'd just wind up in a dungeon anyway, he'd have taken Morgana's trial.
But now…now his core was simply dead. Sitting, rotting within him, useless and worthless as him. Rendering him human. A mere mortal.
The connotations of the word mortal hit him like a slap in the face. It was a simple synonym for human most of the time, but…mortals died. Without magic burning away inside them, they dropped like mayflies. He would…he would die. He would age, and he would die, here, in this cell.
He felt something trickle down his cheek, slow, quiet, as though afraid to break his shocked silence. The tear plopped onto the floor, and another followed suit, until his tear ducts experienced a mass exodus.
'It's gone…' Gantlos whispered, breaking the silence. 'It's gone, and it's not coming back…' He sounded so quiet…so shocked and pained…
Ogron rose from his bed, tears still tumbling like Niagra Falls, walking over to the wall and kneeling next to Gantlos. He wasn't sure Gantlos saw him, still staring into the void, but he hugged him anyway. Held on as though their companionship could somehow rekindle their magic. He heard breathing hitch under him, but didn't acknowledge it. Gantlos would only break if he could kid himself he was hiding it. So Ogron didn't remark on the tears he felt falling on his arms, mingling with his own, just stayed, letting Anagan fold his arms around both of them. They'd broken a lot of times in the past few months…but for once, it was quiet. Nobody screamed, nobody sobbed, there was just a quiet, accepting grief, and three wizards holding each other as though their friends were all they had in this world.
And, really…they were.