Crossroads

Sylen tumbled out of the memory, mind reeling, stomach whirling. He could barely keep on his feet when he came back; and once he’d fully recognized where he was again, what had been happening, he was already being accused, screamed at.

 “–a terrible scene you picked to show us–”

 Bile rolled up Sylen’s throat. “I didn’t pick it–”

 “–such a threat to your lives you roughhoused him, took him away from his love–”

 “No,” Sylen gasped, “I didn’t touch him, I didn’t pull him away, I–”

 “–sentencing your own kind to a life of utter misery–”

 Sylen faltered. “I– I’m not like that. I’m not their kind, I’m not your kind, I– I’m not choosing to do this, to do any of this, and I didn’t want–”

 “–kissing the feet of a devil to save your own sorry hide.”

 The words struck Sylen’s heart like a mallet to a gong. It resonated, cold and dissonant, through his entire body. “I… It was– it was the only–”

 The mage shut Sylen up with a harsh scowl. Sylen stared, blank-faced, nearly losing his head again in the sheer chaos of what had happened, in the vitriolic combination of guilt and fear and belief fighting within him.

 “–she cannot fight us all if her lackeys change their minds.”

 Sylen felt his lip curl. His heart still pounded, frantic, like a trapped hare, small and terrified; but his faith in his cause cut through.

 “I’m not her lackey,” he hissed– with force, but only toward the end– “I joined her cause of my own volition. You don’t know what it’s fucking like to see someone you love get corrupted. You’ve only heard about it. You wouldn’t– couldn’t even–”

 The Witchfinder’s voice boomed through the tavern. Both Sylen and the mage fell silent.

 The Witchfinder approached Sylen, slowly. Sylen instinctively stepped back, the backs of his thighs bumping against a nearby table. “We are men just as you are.”

 Hot tears stung at the edges of Sylen’s eyes, swarming his head and making his temples ache; he blinked them away, desperate not to show them. His chest felt tight, and burned hot with self-pity and embarrassment; he glanced over his shoulder, desperate for a way out.

 “You didn’t mean to cast that, did you.”

 Reality blurred; Sylen’s head was swimming. Mouth clamped shut, his chest began to rise and fall, once again like that same trapped hare, panicked and helpless and begging for escape. He quickly brushed his fingertips across one eye, praying that no more tears would slip out.

 The Witchfinder was waiting. Gesturing to the table behind Sylen, palm upward in a supplicating manner. The mage stood behind, arms crossed, scowl softened. Sylen wet his lips and swallowed dryly; if he left now, it wouldn’t go well for him, no matter what he tried. He’d have to stay. There was no easy way out of this.

 The Witchfinder sat them all down, Sylen on one end with the mage at the other. Sylen kept his head low, desperate to avoid eye contact. Finally the men introduced themselves, as Malmr and Jericho; unfortunately, as Sylen came to understand, they already knew his name.

 Malmr began speaking, voice rumbling from his chest like a growling bear, though gentler, more comforting. He described a complicated situation, one with countless overlapping threads, of mages and finders accusing one another and harming one another and backstabbing and imprisoning–

 It was hard for Sylen to listen. Though he heard the sounds, he couldn’t process all of what was spoken; he was tired, and scared, and sick, and broken, and– if he could add one more– absolutely starving. He didn’t want to get caught up in this mess, he didn’t want to go out and fight. He didn’t want to do anything at all.

 Malmr gestured one massive hand in Sylen’s direction; Sylen looked up.

 “Your magic… I’m glad of it.”

 A twinge of pain twisted in Sylen’s gut. Though his reason told him the Witchfinder was earnest, it felt like a slap to the face, a backhanded compliment. Sylen almost wanted to laugh. He was anything but glad for it. Anything but glad. He was frustrated, and confused, and petrified. Of all things, any single thing in the world that could’ve happened to him, he had to be a mage, didn’t he? He could be corrupted. He could lose himself. And of all magics, his wasn’t fire breath or massive claws or summoning things– it was his life, his vulnerabilities, put on display for anyone unfortunate enough to be near him. Every time he got scared, every time he was in danger, there was a chance of it happening. Of his guilt, his shame, his life, just handed to everyone else, his secrets violated. He felt like a husk, as he had for near two days, now. He just wanted to give up.

 Sylen lowered his gaze again, but not his head. After a moment he spoke, faintly. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what happened, I’m sorry you had to witness that– but there’s nothing I can do. I can’t help you.” It was at this that he turned his head away, fingertips tugging at the hem of his shirt, nose pinching to keep back the tears. “I fucked up. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’m sorry about your situation. I just– I don’t think–” His voice cracked, his helplessness choking in his throat. “I can’t do anything. I can’t help you.”