Put the Past Away

There were many emotions coursing through the young lad from the moment he stepped foot into the city. The most prominent was panic. His knees shook. His head felt woozy. His heart felt as though it was one beat away from bursting from his chest and splatting directly onto the cobblestone in front of his feet. Tear marks stained his rosy skin, but he had long since stopped crying. It was a wonder he hadn’t passed out from dehydration alone, yet.

The people of the city paid him little mind, if not for hesitant glances as he paced the streets. Down an alleyway and then back up. Hovering before windows and doorways before stumbling back onto the cobblestone. He had tried to speak, but only choked on his words, the fear gripping his throat the moment another pair of eyes laid on him.

Did they know who he was? What he had done? What crimes against their very kind he had committed?

And then he was crying again, salty tears trickling down his cheeks as he did little to stop them. He wanted nothing more than for someone to throw him to the ground, tie his hands together, and drag him to whatever authority this city had to offer. Perhaps that would help ease some of the guilt. He would even put up a fight if that helped their case.

He found himself pushed into the streets again, hands in his pockets to keep himself from touching anyone - or any of the mages, for that matter. His clothing was loose and tattered, showing years of wear and tear from living among the wilds. His coat was too large, and he often stepped on its tails when he stumbled back or it got swept under his feet. He welcomed the jolt each time, as if it were shaking him back to reality.

The very reality he was trying so hard to get away from.

And just as he had started to give up hope on getting out of the maze that was Faline, he found himself backing into another. His heart leapt painfully into his chest, his breath catching and a jolt of fear coursing through his veins so quick he could have sworn he felt a spark.

In the mad dash to get as far away from the stranger as he possibly could, he tripped on the end of his coat again, but the man’s large hand caught his shoulder and pulled him around.

Isle shrunk back immediately, defensively pulling his hands up to protect… well, himself. And as he peered through his fingers at the figure looming over him, speaking in broken Ivran, he realized that the jolt he had felt before was not from fear alone. This man was a mage.

His knees gave way and he fell to the stone of the streets, catching himself with a gasping sob.

“No!” He managed to force from his throat, his fingers grasping the edges of the stone as he contemplated curling up right where he was and allowing the cart horses to trample him.

Instead, he pushed himself away from the stranger, stopping as his hands hit the gutter. He could feel cold water and sludge between his fingers, and perhaps it was that that brought him back enough to speak again. “Mage?” He asked, his own Ivran struggling as he turned his peachy gaze back to the beast of the man that he had run into. “Don't-” he mumbled softly in his own language, bringing his hand to his arm, as if mimicking grabbing it himself.

“Don’t touch.” He finally breathed before pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around his shins. “My magic… very harmful.” And then he waited with a shaky breath, nearly trembling if it weren't for how tight he held himself, only bringing a dirty palm to his face to wipe away what was left of his tears as his gaze trained on the man before him, as if begging him to leave.