Phantoms of the Mind

 It had been a long, long last two days.

 Beginning with a wild goose chase in the alleyways, middled with the worst realization Sylen could possibly imagine, and topped off with an uncomfortable political argument of sorts in the nearby tavern. Not to mention, he’d missed dinner both days, which only made him feel significantly more terrible.

 Sylen had left the Beggar conflicted. He still felt that the Order was the right path for mages– knew it was the right path. But for some reason, the thought of turning himself in, preventing his own corruption– it made his stomach crawl, spiders skittering through it, crawling up his throat whenever the thought crossed his mind. Things felt a bit different when they were happening to him.

 He returned to the Allowance Inn feeling like a waterskin with no water– useless, drained to empty, and weirdly soggy. He tugged at the front of his shirt a bit, puffing it out in a futile attempt to dry himself off.

 He made it to his room and slammed the door shut, locking it in the same movement; he leaned against the doorframe and let his head thunk against the wall. His shoulders drooped, weighed down with both exhaustion and relief.

 The Witchfinder at the Beggar– Malmr, his name was– had offered Sylen help. Malmr was a mage, too, and one who’d joined the Order, successfully and happily, it seemed; Sylen felt the spiders in his stomach settle at the thought. Maybe that shadow mage in the alley had been wrong, confused, lost somehow– the Order must be good. It was there to help mages develop their powers. Mages like Sylen.

 Sylen reeled back from the doorway, bile slicking the back of his throat; he wanted to slip out of his skin, pull the magic out of his insides, burn it all and go back to who he used to be. He wanted to go back to being normal, being safe. Every time he recognized himself for what he was, sickening terror and self-disgust made his nerves flitter, memories of Agnus flashing through his head.

 He wiped a hand across the nape of his neck, pulling away an unfortunate amount of sweat, fingers shivering; he dipped both hands into a basin of water and splashed his face, wet his hair and neck. Whatever he could, anything he could, to wash the thoughts away.

 He hovered over the basin, knuckles clenched around its edges, his weight propped against both elbows; water dripped from his curls, ran down the bridge of his nose. He steadied his breathing, desperately trying to soothe his rampant heart. He swallowed, throat tight, and exhaled, head hung low.

 Malmr would be good for him. He didn’t want to acknowledge it– any of it– didn’t even want to call it by its name, didn’t want to call himself what he’d become. But there was someone who could help, someone he could relate to, even if by only a sliver; someone who hadn’t been corrupted, someone who believed in the same cause, in the Order. There was no way to get rid of it, much as he wanted there to be; the best he could hope for now was to turn out like this other Witchfinder. It was as close as he would ever get.

 He peeled off his sticky shirt and tossed it onto the floor, running a hand over his face, blinking repeatedly as he calmed himself. He shoved the stress down into his gut and packed it tightly, ensuring it would never get out, not unless he lost the strength to keep it there. He tightened his jaw; he knew he wouldn’t.

 Come the next morning, Sylen had packed his things and left the Allowance behind. He wasn’t tasked with a current job, not after he’d failed his previous mission, and he hated the Witchfinders staying there besides. He trotted toward the city gates, at which Malmr hovered, and gave the burly mage a curt wave hello.

 Sylen drew closer, dipped his head in greeting, avoiding eye contact. He didn’t speak up– just let his presence speak for itself. He needed to get away from Faline, from everything he’d realized there, and Malmr was his ticket out.