Crossroads

Sylen froze. He knew the question was aimed at him. He hadn’t lifted his head as the mage had continued, nor at the Witchfinder’s reply. His food was getting cold, but he didn’t want to make a move, didn’t want anyone to notice him.

 Too late.

 He swallowed, his fear dry and cold as it crawled down his throat. He wet his lips and lowered his hands from his head, turning ever so slightly toward the others.

 “I’m fine,” he lied. His voice was hoarse. The last day had been hard on him emotionally, and his body suffered for it.

 He glanced upward, toward the mage and Witchfinder. The Witchfinder seemed gentle, concerned, with that lingering hurt from before. The mage, meanwhile, seemed more curious than anything, as if the conversation was amusing, intriguing; but Sylen caught a flicker of fear in his eye. Sylen felt his brow furrow. Was it of him?

 Sylen opened his mouth, ready to respond, but faltered, nothing more than a brief stammer leaving his lips. His heart still pounded in his chest; he already felt out of breath.

 “I don’t drink,” he said to the mage, words clipped but quiet. He regretted how curt he was instantly and waved a hand in front of his lowered head. “But– but thank you, for. For offering.” He swallowed again, and sniffed, wiping his nose as if to hide his injured expression.

 He could feel their attention burning into him. He knew in his head they weren’t aggressive, weren’t trying to seem intimidating, but gods, did it feel that way.

 “I just, ah– overheard your conversation,” he said, his voice the only noise in the room. He chewed his lip. “Obviously.”

 Sylen lowered a hand to lift his fork and began to sift through the now lukewarm meal atop his plate. He kept his head turned away, the mere thought of making eye contact too much for him to bear in this moment. “It’s just– it’s pertinent, you know,” he said, “to– to everything.” He cleared his throat, eyes still trained on his buttered carrots. “I just, uh– it’s been a lot. To, I don’t know. A lot to take in.”

 Shame rose up from his chest and pressed behind his cheeks, the unsettling heat swarming his face and making his eyes sting.

 That’s when he sensed it. He knew it was here. He lifted his head, swift and panicked as a rabbit, and glanced over his shoulder; what appeared as steam from the kitchen had wafted into the room, clouding the bar– but he knew what it was. One of his memories. “Fuck.”

 He jerked upright, the bar stool below him squeaking loudly against the floorboards, and grabbed his coat off the seat, desperately trying to put it on and failing.

 “Sorry,” he stammered, as he pulled his left arm from the right sleeve. “I– it– I’m– nice talking to you.” The steam grew closer, carrying scents from his past with it. He scrambled awkwardly to toss coin onto the bar and pay for his meal; tens of coins scattered onto the floor. “Oh, gods– I really have to go– sorry, just– I’ll be gone soon, promise–”