One thing at a time

The door to his office slammed open perhaps a little harder than he intended, dripping rain water trailing after him as he pulled his sopping coat from his shoulders and tossed it over the back of his chair. There is no mistaking the tension that rolls off of him, from his tight, shivering muscles to the way he waves his hand at the small bed tucked in the corner. Even his voice strains as he brushes damp hair from his brow.

“Put him over there.” He grumbled, reaching only then to help as the other mage handed over his equally as soaked cloak. It joined his own coat on the back of the chair before Kerelas crossed the room, rolling up his sleeves as he pulled a small knife from his pocket and motioned for Malmr to step back.

The blade tore effortlessly at Basileios’ pant leg, exposing torn skin and… old blood. His brow furrowed with curiosity to see, despite the damage, that the blood had been… impossibly stopped. But he kept his thoughts to himself, clearing his throat as he carefully adjusted Basileios’s leg on the bed before returning to his desk.

Kerelas sighed as he pushed aside papers (inevitably leaving red from his fingers to stain the pages)  and reached into his desk for another and a pen to take notes.

He sucked in a single steadying sigh, his weight in his hands at the edge of his desk as he squeezed his eyes shut and gathered himself for a single moment. And when he opened them again, he looked first to Basileios again, sleeping soundly on the white sheets, blood pooling with the rain water to drip onto the floor.

Turning his gaze to Malmr with a weary, conflicted expression, some of the anger from earlier admittedly bleeding away for silent defeat, he nodded to prompt him to speak. It didn’t matter what he believed, the relationships he had formed, how much he thought he had trusted his fellow mages… they were always going to disappoint him. They were always going to kneel to a higher power.

His hand shook as he jotted down every word Malmr said. Alleyway in Mead. Shadow magic. Killed an innocent bystander. Almost killed another nobleman and his sister, too. All of it, Kerelas didn’t believe. Basileios had always been a pest, but he had never been out to hurt anyone, let alone kill them…

It wasn’t long before the bloodstains mixed with the ink, and he set his pen down with a haunting sense of calm as Malmr finished recounting all that had happened. And Kerelas offered not even another word as he reached for the man’s cloak and offered it to him, looking to the door and waiting for him to leave. When he did, he let out a breath that he didn't know he was holding, a shiver running through his skin as he slumped into his chair and buried his face into his cold hands.

His racing mind settled, though, as he looked to the floor between his fingers and spotted something laying on the floor. A bundle of papers? Almost. Letters, he discovered, as he leaned down to pick them up. A single ribbon held them all together, their envelopes worn and frayed as if they had been opened and closed many times over, each one addressed to Malmr.

Would it be wrong for him to open them? To pry? He figured it would be, but it certainly wouldn’t be the first wrong thing he had done. Perhaps the most innocent, maybe, but wrong nonetheless, he mused, as he carefully pried open the first letter.

The first several were hardly of any interest, and he quickly tossed them to the side. They spoke of village girls and cows and beast attacks… and he sighed as he flicked open the third one… and this one spoke of his magic. Kerelas leaned back in his chair, skimming the words quickly…

Don’t push yourself, seemed to be a theme. His family, his friends, they cared so much for him and it was clear in their writings. Each one was gentle and soft, looking out only for his well being, both mentally and physically. They wished for him to stay strong, offered their support.

He didn’t notice how his grip had tightened around one of the letters, the paper crinkling between his fingers as he felt his own eyes start to burn.

Family, oh how nice it would be to have a family again. But Kerelas’ family… the one he had built here… was crumbling right before his eyes.

He almost let the letters go, then, wishing not to read more fluff pieces about Grace’s plans for him and his magic, but… there was a word that caught his attention just as he folded one of the last ones of the pile. Corruption. His brow furrowed as he opened it back up, skimming the words carefully to make sure he had read them correctly.

"....you're not going to corrupt, Malmr. Out of anyone I know, it's not gonna be you. Sure, you suddenly got tusks out of nowhere, but you'll be fine, I promise. Just trust that Grace has a plan for you...."

Kerelas laid the letter down on the desk, looking to the ceiling and pressing his thumb into his temple as it throbbed. How had he not noticed the tusks? They had been clear as day on the man’s face, and yet, he had been too lost in the scene to notice?

“Fuck.” He muttered to himself, his chair squeaking as he leaned back to his desk and quickly skimmed the rest of the letters. It was clear that Malmr was worried about corruption- that he feared it- and Kerelas knew that fear all too well. When the news had been broken to him… oh, he could remember how he had locked himself in his apartment for a week. He didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, didn’t work. He shook at every knock on the door and every voice that called for him with worry.

He was going to be a monster some day. It was inevitable, wasn’t it? They barely knew what corruption was so many years ago, and while times had certainly changed, there was still so much left to the unknown…

Kerelas had never feared death before that day, and he could only imagine how Malmr was feeling now, especially with Miriam now holding the reins. Mages were doomed for a horrifying death, for reasons unknown, that could happen at any time… and Miriam was using that fear to control them...

With a sigh, he gathered the letters back up, tying the ribbon around them again and carefully tucking them into his desk drawer. One thing at a time, he reminded himself, as he pushed himself from his desk and crossed back to the sleeping man on his cot to clean his wounds. One thing at a time.