Crossroads

"Well then... It's a wonderful speech, but are you convincing me or yourself, hm?" 
Málmr flinched.
It was too spot-on, as if the vibrant man saw straight through him and knew how conflicted he was about the entire ordeal. It was said so nonchalantly, which somehow struck harder, as if it was apparent to everyone else but him.

His expression settled back into a heavy frown as he continued, however. The rally seemed so long ago, but that odd sense of familiarity finally made sense. He’d been there, agreed on Málmr’s point that locking up innocent mages was wrong while openly defying Miriam, and she’d bitten back scornfully riled by his position. There was a mountain of things they could’ve agreed upon just based on that alone, but was the insult really necessary?

"Tell me, then, are all non-mages free of sin?"
No. They never had been. He still remembered the sacrificing mage’s hoarse defense, and the blood she demanded of those Witchhunters would’ve been justified if it’d been within the Stalhúð. But Fortune had sunk its claws in her, and she was so close to the edge of something far worse than animal sacrifice. Bringing her in had been for her own good.

He had to believe that.

By this point, his jaw was starting to hurt from how hard he was clenching it. The other man thought he was Miriam’s thoughtless hound, and he practically had to pry his jaw open to respond with, “You still make assumptions of me that are unfounded.”

“I have never, and will never, agree with the concept of apprehending mages who have done no harm.” He closed his eyes for one heavy moment. “You’re right in that magic is merely a tool and it’s the wielder to blame for their actions. I fully believe that the recent uprise in mage violence is out of fear for the Archon and her...stance, as we’ve managed to live side by side before this point.”

He opened his eyes, staring down at his untouched mug. “But whatever that necromancer’s reasons for what he did, I still bore witness to him murdering another and using his magic for an atrocity. Those are the mages I apprehend. Those who need the help and advice of seasoned mages, as I once did.” His jaw tightened again, and it ached horribly, and not even raising his broad hand to rub his beard helped. “I was lost and afraid once. I would wish that on no one.”

He was silent to the man’s persuasion to become an oath-breaker to the Order. It might’ve held more weight had it not been paired with the term ‘feeble-minded’ from earlier, which left a sour taste in his mouth. He shook his head to the offer of another drink, but frowned for a moment at the mention of ‘the two of you’. A quick peek over the rogue’s shoulder revealed a young lad with his head in his hands, practically shaking in his seat.

“Are you alright?” Málmr asked quietly.