Crossroads

 Sylen stood at the riverbank, condensation flickering off the dark moss lining its edge. The sun was high up in the sky, the cool aura of the river the only thing keeping him from melting; and upon the dock sat an old man, surrounded by Witchfinders.

 “What did he do?” Sylen asked.

 Though he’d technically been an adult when this happened, he was really barely more than a child, and his voice had sounded that way, too. It wasn’t a man’s voice. It wasn’t worn, didn’t carry the same weight. It was recognizably his, but higher-pitched, and brighter, more hopeful. 

 “Sounds like he’s been wreaking havoc,” one of the Witchfinders answered, “on the town nearby. Can’t control his powers so well in his old age.” A light scoff. “Has no idea where he is half the time.”

 “Havoc?” Sylen echoed. He looked to the man sitting peacefully by the water. “How?”

 “He’s a mage, Sylen,” the Witchfinder said. “It doesn’t matter.”

 The taller of the Witchfinders on the dock stepped away, leaving the old man with two others. He came off the dock and onto the grass beside Sylen and– gods, Sylen couldn’t remember– whatever-his-name-was.

 “Take him in,” the taller Witchfinder called out, not bothering to look over his shoulder at the dock.

Floren, his name was. That, Sylen remembered.

 Floren peeled his gloves off, delicately pocketing them into his Witchfinder’s cloak. Sylen remembered that Floren would only ever put them on around mages. The pair on the dock obeyed Floren’s order and lifted the elder, binding his wrists; the old man cried out in pain.

 Sylen felt hot pinpricks of shock and shame pellet his face and throat. He looked cautiously toward Floren, who was busy dusting himself off.

 “Is– is that necessary?” Sylen mumbled.

 Floren paused, fingertips hovering over his dark green cloak. “Excuse me?”

 Nausea rolled upward in Sylen’s chest. “Is– do we really have to–”

 “Say that again,” Floren said, his tone freezing cold, his eyes sharp behind pale lashes. “Louder.”

 “I was wondering if it was necessary,” Sylen obeyed. Though his voice was raised, it was fragile.

 Floren’s words were like a jab to the gut. “If what was necessary?”

 Sylen took in a shuddering breath through his nose, his tongue already gone dry. “I was wondering if it was necessary to use physical force,” he said. “To tie his hands.”

 Floren’s gaze burned like hot coals into Sylen’s flesh. It took all of Sylen’s will not to crumple beneath it. Behind them, the pair of Witchfinders dragged the old man toward their cart, their captive a bumbling, sobbing mess, pleading not to go, not when he had grandchildren, not when his wife’s grave was still here.

 “Would you not swat a fly?”

 Sylen’s throat had nearly closed up with fear; it had become difficult to swallow. Saliva pooled beneath his tongue in nauseating anticipation. He didn’t respond.

 “Would you not swat a fly,” Floren repeated, “were it crawling in your food? Buzzing in your ear?” He wiped the last of his cloak off and readjusted it with force. “And even if it wasn’t– even if it was simply on the wall, sitting still– would you not swat it, knowing that, inevitably, it would crawl its way into your pantry, spreading its writhing maggots through your stores?”

 Floren stepped forward, arching his neck to look down just slightly toward Sylen.

 “Or would you yield to an insect?”

 Sylen maintained eye contact, if only to save himself from more trouble. The pair of Witchfinders behind them slammed the carriage doors shut on the wailing mage’s pleas. Floren turned his head at the noise, and without giving Sylen so much as a second glance, turned away toward the others.

 Sylen’s heart raged in his chest, thumping against his sternum, threatening with every beat to crack his ribs, to push the bile out of his throat. He could feel his hands shaking beneath his cloak. He dug his nails into his palms, desperate to stop it.

 The Witchfinder who’d stood near him crossed in front, giving him a brief look of disdain.

 “Better not do that again,” the Witchfinder muttered. He shook his head and took off behind Floren. “Moronic question anyways.”

 Sylen waited a moment– but not too long. He didn’t want to hold up the others. He didn’t know what might happen if he did. Instead he lowered his head, turning in to step behind the others. He’d learned his lesson, and he wouldn’t ask stupid questions again.