Who: Hissra, Unnamed Qunari Child When: 9:10 Where: The House of Learning, Par Vollen Summary: A routine spar with a classmate shatters the dreams of a young boy Rating: Fine for all
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The seasons were changing. Above him the trees were heavy with moisture, and the warm air often brought rain. Now there was a breeze fluttering the leaves, brushing across his skin. There were scents in the air, sounds around him, but the student of the House of Learning was focused only on the sword in his hands. It was still only a training sword, made of dulled steel with a blunted tip. But it was no longer the wooden training sword of a child. This sword was the first step into manhood, into the skin of a warrior. The handle was warm against his palm and he lifted the sword, blade shining in the late afternoon sun. It blinded his eyes and the boy blinked, staring into that white brightness. He felt that at this moment, he could see into his own soul, and see the heart of a warrior beating there. Joy flooded him.
Beneath the trees another approached, footsteps rustling among the damp earth and grass. This boy was taller, broader of shoulder, with a wide face and narrow eyes. He bowed to the other, loosely holding his own sword in his hand.
"Shall we spar, Brother?"
The student nodded simply and the boys stood facing one another, heads lowering once in a bow before they both dropped into defensive stance. They circled one another, their feet flowing over the grass, through the mud, their bodies moving seamlessly, like river water flowed past rocks. Then they were still, and the coiling of young muscles heralded the first attack. Steel rung against steel. They were well matched; while one boy had height and strength on the other, he was lacking precision and discipline. For a while they battled back and forth, neither able to get the upper hand.
Then the taller boy kicked outwards, a hard boot to the chest that sent the student sprawling on his back in the grass, breath knocked out in a rush. He scrambled to his feet, bringing up the sword to block the tall brother's next strike. The force of it reverberated through his bones, and he was beginning to wonder if his brother truly was sparring, or simply attempting to best him. Sometimes the need to fight sung so loudly in the veins of the boys that they would forget themselves.
The student dropped back defensively, blocking another blow. "Brother, perhaps we should take a break," he suggested, dodging a swipe that nearly nicked his skin. But the other boy seemed to have not heard. He was still barreling towards him, sword swinging. The student took another step back, throwing a hand up. "Brother, stop!"
Everything went still.
It was silent but for the fat plopping sound of water dripping from the curved leaves overhead. Swallowing, the student raised his head. His brother stood before him, face fixed in a grimace, sword raised. But his skin was not the warm golden color it should be, his eyes were not flashes of red against white. He was grey, stiff like a stone and lifeless as a statue, forever fixed in that position.
What had happened? Had he done this somehow? Put power into his words and made his brother stop, so literally that he was now made of stone.
He stood there, the sword held limply in his hand. Behind him there were shouts, and someone came rushing over. There were hands on his shoulders, soft, female hands, and the smells of flowers in the rain-drenched air. The Priest was speaking to him, saying something, ushering him into a building. He could not tear his eyes away from the statue. Not until they were inside, and he could no longer see, did the student look up at the woman with him. Her face was creased with concern, her eyes sheened with something close to fear. She led him into a room and had him sit.
It was small, with one table and a set of narrow cabinets against one wall. The student lowered himself to the bench at the table, and dropped his head. The priest stood across the room, and said nothing else to him. His grip tightened on the sword across his lap, and he stared at it, trying to see his warrior heart. Only cold steel stared back at him.
It seemed ages before murmuring voices reached his ears, and the door ushered open. There was one of his teachers, a tall Priest with hair that flowed to brush her shoulders. She stared at him, sorrow in her eyes before she looked away, moving aside to let others enter the room. Behind her followed three men, all serious and stern-faced. They wore armor, and upon it was a symbol he knew to mean "forbidden". One carried chains.
"Take the sword," one ordered and his teacher moved forward, kneeling before him. She held her hands out and the student looked down at the weapon once more, before slowly passing it to her. She took it, but did not stand. Instead she looked over her shoulder at the men.
"May I have a moment?" she asked. "To explain things. He's still just a child."
"He's not a child, he's a mage," one of them muttered, but the leader nodded in consent and led them from the room. The other priest followed, leaving him alone with his teacher. She sighed and set the sword aside.
The student kept his head down. The word kept ringing in his head. Mage. He could not be a mage, he was a warrior. A warrior.
He was a mage. He had turned that boy to stone. Magic. Cursed.
"You heard what they said," her voice was not questioning but he nodded anyway, his eyes fixed on the floor. "We could... not have seen this coming. There is no history of magic in your bloodline. I am sorry." Her hand was brief on his shoulder, warm and squeezing, but it brought no comfort. He was a warrior. "It is a loss for us here, to see you go from this path. But you are strong. You will take this curse and find your place in the world. You will bear it with honor. You will make something of yourself."
"But I am a mage! That is not something, that is nothing!" He raged, suddenly, horribly trapped by this and not wanting this place in the world for himself and it was selfish and it was wrong and it went against everything but he was still a boy with warrior dreams. He didn't want this magic flowing in his veins. He would give anything, anything to be someone else, to be himself again.
The priest said nothing, but he heard the whisper of her robes as she stood. The metal of his practice sword scraped the stone floor as she picked it up.
"In time," she said, "You will accept it."
And then she was gone, the door shutting behind her with a finality that made him want to cry, to howl in defeat and anger, his hands balled into fists on his lap. When the door opened again it was the men, and they gave him no words, only harsh, accusing glares. As if he had chosen magic, as if he had asked for this curse. They wrenched him to his feet, arms behind his back, bound with chains.
They marched him from the school, flanking him, hiding him from sight. He thought briefly of his lessons; ones that would never again be attended, of his brothers. He thought of his younger brother; with whom he had trained every day since their meeting. He must never know the shame of this. One day, he would find a brother worthy of teaching him, perhaps. This brother would be forgotten, a memory, an illusion.