backscene: small comfort Who: Lee Wyland, Constans Ledaal. Where: Kinloch Hold. When: 9:33, Nubulis. Summary: Lee meets an angry, miserable young man freshly arrived at the tower and attempts to give him some solace. Rating: G, unless Constans decides to be a pottymouth. In Progress.
Constans had no idea what time it actually was, but the other boys all left without him what felt like ages ago. When the little kids called up to him that he should come with them to lessons, he just lay on his stomach under the covers and said nothing until their uncertainty drove them away, the little six and seven and eight year old boys who slept in the bunks all around his. They’d been consigned to the worst of the lot available in the dormitory, the rickety beds in the corner right by the lavatory, where the new boys seemed to sleep until they could establish themselves in the pecking-order and claim a better spot. He’d jadedly taken note of this and then promptly ousted a younger boy from a top bunk already claimed, not to be bothered with concepts like fairness or solidarity at a time when he was feeling so miserable.
Now Constans lay sprawled on his back and stared vacantly at the ceiling, his body aching with bruises left by the two Templars from Denerim who brought him here. He’d tried to run for it on the way, not once but three times, never relenting in his insolence until the pair became so angry with him they’d tied his hands to the yoke of the mule that pulled a cart of supplies they brought along for the tower. He rode bareback for two days, legs rubbed raw, rope burns all around his wrists from trying every trick he knew to slip the knot, and now his body hurt so badly but still he was glad that he’d made them so angry. He didn’t regret a moment of what he’d done, not even after the punishment, the wounds of which he wore with stubborn pride. He only regretted that he hadn’t actually gotten away.
Soreness wasn’t his only discomfort. He could smell himself too, rank and sweaty from the road, his clothes itching and his hair plastered to his head, but despite the additional discomfort of this he was also proud. He’d thrown a fit at the harried young mage whose unfortunate feet he had been dumped at the night before by his Templar jailors, refusing to be fitted for robes or to give up his old clothing, once quite fine but now tattered by his escape-artist escapades and the dust and wear of the road. Bathing he had rejected also, mostly from hardheadedness, but with everyone gone he had begun, reluctantly, to consider the idea. He was really itchy. This morning he’d heard some of the younger boys complaining about how frigid the water was until you learned how to heat it with magic though, which appalled him- that’s what servants were for wasn’t it?- but come to think of it, he was pretty sure that if he tried he could pull that off. Yet even with the comfort of a hot bath in mind he didn’t move an inch, still staring upward with his jaw set sullenly.
He hadn’t even been in this place a whole day he was pretty sure (there had only been two meals as far as he knew, which he had refused to go to, and now come to think of it he was getting so hungry he could eat a Mabari), but he knew with a sick pang in his gut that he missed his family too much to be able to bear it much longer. He missed Desi and Father and Mathieu, missed even horrible, smelly, violent Denerim itself, and the garden behind the estate where he and Desi played. He missed Luka and his real home, with fields he could run in and everyone from the village and the farms with a friendly hello and maybe even a sweet for the Bann’s youngest sons. He missed… his missed Mother, and how before she died everything seemed right and perfect and he’d never had to lie and hide things even from his own family, because Mother would have protected him from this. He missed it all so badly that he felt like he would be torn in two by his hatred of this place in comparison. He hated the Chantry and the Templars and the tower. He hated magic.
Constans sniffed, not realizing until that moment that he’d started crying, tears streaking silently through the dust caked over his face. He blinked, sniffled again quietly and angrily wiped them away on the once-green sleeve of his ruined tunic, only smearing his cheeks with more dirt. Choking with the effort of holding back a dam of tears threatening to burst, he rolled over onto his side with his back to the door and pressed his face into his pillow, trembling with rage and frustration.