The Archon's Witchfinders - Sylen

 Sylen woke with a groan.

 The back of his head and his tailbone both ached. Looking down at himself, the front of his clothes had a thin coating of mud and bits of gravel. He lifted a hand to his face, wiping off a bit of the wet dirt that had gotten stuck there, too. As he pulled his hand away, he froze.

 The center of his palm bore a black mark– pure black, like ink, and in the perfect shape of a fingerprint. As he stared, pieces of everything that had happened wove themselves together in his throbbing head.

 The mage. The tavern, the chase, the maze of alleyways, the looming threat of a fight. The memories. Blacking out. He rolled his wrist; no pain. There was nothing wrong with his hand, save for the mark. He ground his teeth, praying that things would stay that way.

 He heaved himself upright, pushing off the brick wall behind him, floundering just a little as he regained his balance. His heart pounded in his ears, slow and loud. He checked each end of the alley, just in case– all clear. The mage was gone.

 Sylen trotted out of the alleyway, trying to keep light on his feet despite his exhaustion– shuffling would make too much noise, and he wasn’t looking to draw any more attention toward himself. He rounded a corner, coming back out onto the main street. There were still a few active bodies this late at night– mostly drunken dockworkers or teenagers rebelling against curfew– but none of them paid him any mind. He was grateful; he knew he looked like shit.

 Finally he approached his destination: Allowance Inn, a dingy little place the Witchfinders had rented out for the week as their temporary place of residence. Even from out on the street, he could hear the clamoring voices, see the commotion inside. Someday Sylen would have his own place, a permanent place. One that wasn’t full of young, boisterous, self-righteous warriors; one that belonged just to him.

 He hopped up the crooked front steps and shoved his shoulder against the door, his gait never slowing. Witchfinders decorated the halls like wallpaper, chattering and drinking and reminiscing and bragging and lying. As Sylen swam his way through the sea of hunters, his stomach dropped; not out of fear, this time. It had felt like eons since he’d been at the tavern, but he’d missed his order of porridge. He cursed under his breath and ignored it, shoving his way upstairs and toward his designated room. On his way down the upper hall, a gangly fellow with a mess of curly hair swung a hand out, grabbing Sylen’s arm.

 “Hey, Sylen,” the Witchfinder grinned. His freckled cheeks radiated a drunken red. “Where’re you think you’re going?” He pushed Sylen back a bit, likely intending to be playful, but it nearly made Sylen stumble. “D–don’t be a buzzkill. Tell us about all– all that shit with the guys this morning.”

 “Fuck off, Rupert,” Sylen hissed, and yanked his forearm from Rupert’s grip. Rupert looked positively unaffected. Sylen rolled his eyes, jaw clenched and finally reached his room, slamming the door behind him.

 He was lucky to have his own room this time. It didn’t always happen; he’d had more than his fair share of unbearable roommates, Rupert included. But this time, he’d drawn the long straw.

 He strode toward the bed and tore off his boots and coat, tossing them onto the floor; one of the shoes rolled and clunked against the base of the mirror. He paused in front of it. He looked worse than he’d thought. He hadn’t gotten all the bits of dirt and gravel off his face, so tiny pieces of rock still dotted his brow and stubble. Slick, wet gray stained the front of his shirt. Dark bags hung under each eye, and his upper eyelids were dark, too, from exhaustion.

 His morning had begun with strength and adrenaline. An order from the Archon, two prepared allies and exact directions to the target of the hunt. In no time his allies were downed, the wild mage angered, the negotiation denied, and the other Witchfinders called in. Miriam had been disappointed. Sylen had filled out paperwork the rest of the day. And then he’d gone to get dinner, which he’d missed entirely, because instead of eating he’d wound up running from and then chasing a powerful shadow mage who had actually defected from the Order. The silver lining to it all was simply that Sylen was still alive.

 He glanced at the fingerprint in his palm, and sniffed. He rolled the hand over and wiped his nose.

 He dragged a large tin tub toward a faucet in the wall and began filling it. One upside to being in a mage-riddled city was the instant hot water. He doffed the rest of his clothes and stepped into the bath with a sigh– one of both relief and defeat. As he sat, he leaned forward, cupped hands dipping below the water, scoop after scoop being drawn up to wash off his face. He rubbed listlessly at the ink blot on his hand; it didn’t fade. He huffed and let his arm hang out the side of the tin.

 Though the bath was relatively relaxing, his hunger made it hard to think. He reached out, still keeping himself in the water, and pawed at his nearby satchel until he could pull a piece of jerky from it; then he leaned back, strip of dried meat between his teeth, and settled in. It took a good quarter of an hour before his brain became fully functional again; rest and food would do that. His tongue pried at the scraps in his teeth as he thought.

 Everything Miriam stood for, he believed in. Everything she’d said. The Order would keep mages safe, train them, protect them, and prevent them from reaching full corruption. Sending them to Namarast wasn’t a punishment– it was a necessity. It was a gift.

 His fingertips scratched the edge of his palm. If that was the case, why had this mage– not a child, mind you, but an adult, and a powerful one at that– chosen to defect from the Order? Why had they seemed to set on refusing the Order’s help?

 Sylen scrunched up his nostrils and brow, pinching the bridge of his nose in his fingertips, teeth just slightly bared in a grimace. Remembering the evening had been difficult earlier, and despite the time that had passed, it was just as difficult to recall now. Vague outlines of what occurred were easy to piece together, but the finer details he just couldn’t conjure. 

 His hand splashed into the water below him; he closed his eyes and tilted his head back until it rested on the rim of the tub. He stayed like that for a good while, thinking of nothing.

 When he was finished with his empty-headed soak, he dried himself off, dumping the lukewarm water down a drain beneath the faucet, and begrudgingly pulled on his undergarments. He flopped facedown into the bed; though it was better than straw, the thin and squeaky mattress was not particularly comfortable– at least, not usually. Right now, to Sylen, it felt softer than a cloud.

 He tried to fall asleep. Really, he did– but the others outside his door were still loud, still obnoxious. That was the way with most of the younger Witchfinders. Too many of them seemed to froth at the mouth at the opportunity to wield some sort of authority, which Sylen equated to handing a child a kitchen knife and telling them it was a sword. Witchfinding wasn’t easy, it wasn’t straightforward, and it wasn’t truly a ‘hunt’, as often as he called it that. It was always a bargain, a debate. A merchant would make a better Witchfinder than most of these men.

 Though his associates certainly kept him up, so did the memory.

 He was forcing himself to relive it, again and again, as his cheek pressed deeper into the pillow. This time, though, he couldn’t remember every detail– he couldn’t remember what Agnus had said, where the sun had been in the sky, what he’d done the day after. Despite his efforts, he couldn’t replicate how he’d remembered it mere hours ago.

 He laid still, eyes unfocused, gaze aimed out the window. The night had grown cold, and the fog rolling in reflected moonlight in the dark.

 Sylen’s brow furrowed.

 Fog. Fog… He sat up and blinked. That was a detail he hadn’t yet pulled back– the fog in the alley, before he’d relived his memory. The mage had seemed confused– it wasn’t them.

 Then there was steam, and the tea, with the wild mage at her cottage, weeks before. Sweet Asteria, and her gentle magic. He’d lived it then.

 The morning mist when he’d defended the fawn from Bross, taken her to be sent to Namarast.

 Dread, colder than the night air, filled Sylen’s chest and lungs, tightened his throat.

 “No.”

 His heart began to race. Freezing bile began to crawl its way up his throat. He swiftly glanced down toward his palm; the ink blot had faded. It was gone.

 His hands shook. His stomach flipped, over and again; he nearly felt as dizzy as he had before.

 “No, no no no,” he whispered. He rose from the bed, prowling aimlessly around the room, rough fingertips gripping the base of his dark curls. Tears stung behind his eyes, threatening to pour out; the skin on his face felt like it was burning.

 Fog curled upward in the street, looming outside his window. He stumbled backward, tripping over his own clothes, back bumping against the paint-chipped wall.

 The tears ran hot down his cheeks; his whole body shuddered. The fog crawled through the cracks in the window frame, its damp gravity bringing it down to the floor, moonlight still glinting off it. It crept around the edge of the bed, slowly rising, weaving back and forth like a snake toward Sylen’s face.

 He cupped his shaking hands over his nose and mouth and held his breath. The fog swarmed him, pressing against his bare skin. He waited.

 And then, thinking a bit harder, he pushed. Not with his hands, no– with his will. He steeled himself, briefly carving his fear into focus, if only for a moment, and pushed.

 The fog rolled back, lapping over itself like the tide, pressing up against the opposite wall. Sylen stepped forward it; it dissipated, slithering into the cracks it had entered, and vanished into the night air.

 Sylen rushed to the empty tin and retched, tears streaking down with the bile. He choked when he was done, trembling fingers gripping the tub til his knuckles went white.

 He relaxed. He felt empty, suddenly. Like a husk– paper-thin, and fragile, and useless.

 He didn’t want to go to Namarast. Not after what the mage had said, today– whatever it was. He couldn’t fucking remember.

 He also didn’t want to be corrupted.

 He slammed a fist into the wall, hissing and spitting and cursing himself. There was no point in anything, now. He grabbed at his hair, curling his knees into his chest, teeth gritted so tight it made his temples throb. There was no point in any of this, not if he was like this. There was no right path for him to take.

 He’d thought he was on it for so long. He still believed in Miriam, in what she stood for. What he stood for. But he couldn’t hand himself over, not to Namarast, not yet. He just didn’t know as much as he thought he did. He knew that now.