[PM to Join] Tristaanian Greymoore was Here

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

6th of Hamis, 2719
BRUNNHOLD | WELL PAST THE LAST HOUSE

Only a few days had passed and Tristaan had already been here too long. Hours had stretched into a houses which had crawled into a day which had somehow become another and then another. There was so much that was terrible and strange but so much more that was horrible and familiar about laying in some narrow, uncomfortable bed in a room full of other bodies after a long shift of work and a lackluster meal. He'd traded away a handful of Old Rose cigars he'd smuggled in his clothes and two silver earrings for very specific information, ignoring his meal in favor of attempting to make friends. It was a mix of wariness and welcome and, honestly, Tristaan felt the same about it all, struggling to keep Tek from his Estuan and careful to ignore the stares.

He'd asked about various professors. He'd asked about their offices. He'd asked too many questions, perhaps, but no one had begrudged him. Not too much.

But he'd run out of time.

Now? Now, he couldn't sleep—how could he? alone without the warmth of his witch and her glamour, without the soft breaths of Linora's tiny body tucked close to his? when was the last time he'd slept alone for so long, anyway?

The darkness of the room was heavy on his scarred chest as he counted cracks in the ceiling, as he counted every spring in his spine. The sleeping sounds of his roommates might as well have been the distant whir of textile machines and the way air filled his lungs scratched and burned like so much soot. There in the last ember glow of the small hearth, memories crawled from the flickering shadows cast in dull black shapes on the walls.

Tristaan had spent years trying to forget them all:

The frightening loneliness of the streets. The confusion of waking up far from home. The offers of food and shelter to a starving, lonely boy who no longer knew what he was meant to be in the world. The exhaustion of long hours without breaks. The beatings for even the smallest of infractions and the beatings he took for others he knew wouldn't have survived another. The fierce rebelliousness of those friendships, of family made in desperation.

He had been nothing then, too. No one. Nobody's son, magicless and abandoned. Just a scrap. Unwanted junk to be used until it broke, only he'd already been broken. He'd been born broken, right? Had he ever really escaped any of it? Or had the Red Crow been a lie?

He'd run from them, too. He'd fled too quickly from that first soothing taste of family to a tongue parched by abuse and suffering, leaving Guaril and the tribe behind in favor of finally finding an outlet for all that unspoken pain—all that rage. If he was broken, he had nothing to lose breaking the bodies of others, after all. It wasn't as though he mattered to anyone, it wasn't as though he had a name to keep or a family to make proud, no matter who those loving Red Crow had wanted him to be. He might have called Guaril Da, but the old wick didn't have to bear the shame of the passive's birth.

Then again, neither had his parents. They'd not allowed him the life of a gated passive, clearly terrified to have the truth of their son so close, too close, to their perfect lives.

Gods, what had they told Navinia?

What had they told anyone?

That he'd run away?

That he was dead?

The fire sputtered, logs crackling, sparks dancing in the hearth and in the narrow cavity of Tristaan's chest while he sputtered a tearful breath in response.

No. It didn't matter. It didn't have to matter.

Closing his eyes, he tried to quiet the thoughts that writhed within, the flames that seared against his heart so bright and hot. He thought of his daughter, of the child he shouldn't have had with a witch he wasn't allowed to love. Her round cheeks and bright eyes. Her tiny hands wanting his worn, calloused ones. No matter the wrongs that had brought her to life, no matter the guilt and shame he'd bear for daring to love at all, for sharing his curse with someone who didn't deserve it, she was everything right with the world—light and hope.

Fami.

Hama.

Now that he had these treasures, he could never—how could anyone ever—

The dark-haired passive's eyes fluttered open and he felt his body moving almost of its own accord, mind made up before his heart could even catch up with the decision. Slipping from stiff sheets and crossing the room on quiet, bare feet, he tugged on his coat and shoes in silence. It was with well-practiced stealth that he opened the door, and with uncanny skill that he stepped out into the hall of the gated population's male dormitories, having already memorized every staircase and every exit he'd laid an eye on since his arrival and quite confident there were more he'd not yet seen.

Something fierce and needy roared in his chest; something long held quiet, awakened and clawing past his heart.

Here on Brunnhold's campus, Tristaan had already realized it was not about moving unseen—no one saw his blue uniform, no one saw him as a person, no one saw him at all—but it was about appearing to have a purpose, about appearing to be doing the work. Any work, apparently. Look busy seemed to be the galdorkind's motto for those passives they deemed worthy of living among them. As if doing the work somehow redeemed them, as if service saved their cursed souls from destruction. It didn't. He'd already lived that life—the dangerous, dingy textile factory on the Arova hadn't saved him from anything, barely even death.

What happened to the rest? What happened to the unwanted?

He knew. He knew. And he had a purpose, all right.

He was just enough a stranger to be unfamiliar. He was just familiar enough to be assumed a part of something. He'd learned how to be unassuming and he'd learned how to use his own magicless existence to his advantage, but that was out in the world like some wild animal. Tristaan was hardly tamed. It took him several panic-filled moments to pick a direction, to make his way through the kitchens, to insert himself into the duty of carting away garbage like he belonged there without even saying a word.

Took trash to know more trash, after all, and as the dark-haired passive shoved kitchen waste down some quiet hallway with only a few eyes lingering in his direction, he chose not to search for metaphors for his whole wasted life in the refuse that soured in his nostrils and turned his empty stomach.

It wasn't as if it even mattered if he got caught breaking rules he didn't care about—would they beat him here? Would it matter? Brunnhold rules were surely more gentle than some Soot District factory and were surely gentle compared to fighting in the Rose Arena. There was hardly anything he could imagine fearing about discipline in this place—save being trapped here forever, anyway. He'd already been beaten, broken, crushed, and violated as a magicless son of a galdor among textile machines and indentured workers long ago, after all.

He just needed to make it outside. He just needed to get his bearings. He knew where he was going, roughly, barely. He'd guessed it on a map, anyway, but his time with the layout of campus on paper had been too brief to completely store away all the information he needed to find his mother's office in the Static—well, maybe it had been Quantitative?—or perhaps Physical—Conversation Wing of a sprawling educational institution he wasn't even supposed to set foot onto.

It was more chance than skill that got Tristaan outside the dormitory building of the passive wing, out into the phosphor-lit campus and to the furnaces without even a second glance in his direction. Once he'd actually done the job of handing over so much garbage for burning, he took off in a different direction, sticking to shadows, aware of the late house. If Brunnhold's campus was beautiful, he couldn't see it. If the prestigious university was a sight to behold, he didn't have the breath to waste on it.

Instead, he sifted through memories as he slipped from one hiding place to the next in the pouring rain—his childhood in Muffey, his sister who'd been a student here, and their promises of joining the Seventen together. Had she kept that promise? Or had she forgotten him, too? He might have gotten lost—in his mind and on the sprawling stretch of sidewalk and manicured lawns—but eventually, finally, the dripping passive found some dark, unlocked side door for servants (the sign said so) just as the bells of the Church of the Moon struck a new pre-dawn hour.

He'd never heard them before, not ever in his life, and he couldn't help but stand there, door open, dripping, to listen. Abandoned by galdorkind, cursed by the gods, betrayed by criminals he'd turned around and stabbed in the back for his own freedom, there was no comfort in the sounds. Stubbornly, he offered the Circle his prayers anyway lest someone was wrong and they wanted to hear from him anyway, just in case, and then he stepped into a narrow stairwell, shutting the door behind him.

It only took him half an hour to realize he had no idea where he was going. He knew the risk he was taking, wandering aimlessly, but he took it anyway, resisting the urge to smash every door he passed that was wrong, attempting to maintain a composure that made it look like he knew what he was doing, like he was on some late-house errand for a professor.

Tristaan only knew half a name, anyway—his family name—the name of his mother forgotten to trauma and time, but surely it was enough. He wasn't about to give up looking.

Had he been in this hall already? Or that one? Where in Alioe's name was he going? Why'd he even come this far in the first place? Tek dribbled—unbidden and angry—from his lips as he carefully glanced down a row of doors,

"Havakda."

"Sometimes we are born with the keys
to doors we were not meant to open."
— Passive Proverb

[Madeleine Gosselin]

Very Late, 6 Hamis, 2719
Static Wing

It wasn’t Madeleine’s fault, not really.

She wasn’t supposed to have the key to the practice room, but she had gone to give it back to Professor Haverdord and Professor Haverford hadn’t been in and her assistant had looked very busy and Madeleine hadn’t wanted to disturb her. She had waited in the doorway for a long time but the woman hadn’t even looked up, and so Madeleine had taken the key back to her room, and set it on the corner of her desk so she wouldn’t forget about it. And then she had forgotten, but Professor Haverford must have forgotten too because she hadn’t asked Madeleine about it or anything.

And Madeleine should have been sleeping. Everyone should have been sleeping. She had a big test coming up too, the day after tomorrow, in organic chemistry, her let one before the break. So Madeleine had studied in the common room all through dinner and then she had been so tired she had fallen asleep with her head on her book, and she had only woken up when Emmeline had come in, and she had sat up with a piece of paper clinging to her cheek. That had been very embarrassing, and so Madeleine had washed her face, brushed her teeth, changed into her nightgown, braided her hair and gone to bed.

And she had slept.

For a while.

But Desdemona who slept next door was snoring a little - allergies, she had said, the last time Madeline had asked, and she had said it very rudely, as if Madeleine was wrong for wanting to sleep peacefully. And it was really loud tonight; Madeleine had tossed and turned, for a little while, and then she had gotten up.

And the key had been right there.

So Madeleine had gotten up, and changed into her dance tights and the long-sleeved leotard, and put on her knee length skirt. She wore soft soles shoes, and she brought her pointe shoes in their special case. And she took the key with her when she went.

Anyway, it wasn’t really wrong. She was a sixth form now, so she was allowed to be out late, and she wasn’t doing anything wrong or forbidden. She was just doing extra practice for one of her classes. There was nothing wrong about it at all, Madeleine told herself, virtuously, because it wasn’t her fault, really, that she had the key. Really she should be praised for being such a diligent student.

Madeleine walked quickly through the darkness of campus, gravel paths crunching underfoot. And she unlocked the door to the practice room, and she laced her pointe shoes up, tying the ribbons around her legs.

And Madeleine began to dance.

She danced, and all the rest of the world melted away. There was no music, but Madeleine didn’t need music. She spun, and she leapt; she stretched out long and lean, and let herself imagine what it would be like when she could ask the mona to lift her. She spun again, arms overhead, all the lines of her body straight; she lifted one leg, checking her posture in the sparkling clean mirrors. She held on her toes, and jumped and landed and jumped again.

There was no one to tell her she was doing it wrong, not dancing - and anyway Madeleine knew she wasn’t doing it wrong. She could feel the rightness of it all through her, in every inch held straight and back and upright. It was wonderful; she could have danced forever.

Until, of course, Madeleine began to yawn.

She made one last spin; she kicked her leg out and in and out again, closing her eyes until she couldn’t stay upright anymore. She landed, and she bowed to an imaginary audience, and imagined all their applause. If she tried, she could see familiar faces in the audience; she could see her mother and father clapping, or imagine it anyway. She had never seen them in an audience; it was a little hard to imagine how they would look. She wondered if her father would bring papers with him, to read between sets; she imagined looking out to see the top of his head, his glasses glinting in the dim light, and her mother glancing at someone in the audience as all the rest applauded.

Madeleine took a deep breath; she drew her shoulders back and up, and squared them, and fixed her gaze on herself in the mirror. She bowed again, and this time she didn’t imagine anything.

Madeleine took her pointe shoes off, rubbing at her sore toes. She tucked them away in their bag, and put her slippers back on, and locked the door behind herself once more, tucking the key away. It was cold and quiet and dark; it was frightening in a way it hadn’t been when she had the dancing to look forward to, now that there was only the walk back and then Desdemona’s snoring once she was tucked in bed.

Madeleine had started to go outside, but the wind was breaking through the branches, and she hesitated, her hand on the door. She shut it, then; there was a back way through the static wing that Madeleine knew; she used it in the winter sometimes when it was very cold outside. She turned, and she went that way instead, soft-soled slippers quiet against the floor.

It was very dark, though; it was darker than usual. Once, Madeleine bumped her shin against a table and had to stifle a shriek with her hand over her mouth. She kept walking, but it was hard to tell the corridors apart in the hallway. Madeleine’s pulse pounded in her ears, and she glanced around. Had she gone up the right staircase? It had looked so different with cool pale night light coming in through the window; she hadn’t been sure.

Madeleine walked faster. If only she could find a familiar room - a professor’s office or another staircase she might recognize. Then, Madeleine thought, she would be able to tell where she was. There was a creak from somewhere behind her, loud and ominous in the dark.

Madeleine went faster, half-running, staring at the darkness behind her. She rounded a corner - and a voice erupted from just before her, gruff and strange, a man’s voice in a harsh curse.

Madeleine skidded to a stop, eyes wide, just a few feet from the man, and shrieked, wide-eyed; this one she didn’t manage to stifle.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

6th of Hamis, 2719
BRUNNHOLD | WELL PAST THE LAST HOUSE

He stood in the unfamiliar hall on the unfamiliar campus of the unfamiliar school, pulse in his ears while he tried to remember the directions he'd been given, vague as they'd been.

His 18-hour days often started in the dark like this, someone forcing him and his bunkmates awake, shoving them some stale bread and water once they were dressed, and herding them all into the textile room floor for their shift.

If he stood there too long, someone would find him. If someone found him, they'd ask what he was doing. If they asked what he was doing, he'd hardly have an—

Footsteps filtered through his thoughts, causing his breath to catch in his chest. The brush of a field would have been a much more faint, insignificant sensation to any galdor used to students swarming around them all the time, but to the dark-haired passive used to wicks and humans and but a handful of jents, it was glaring and obvious, sudden and heavy. Everything felt oppressive here, to be fair, but that single flutter of some stranger's monic signature was like a match lit in the dark.

Ox the overseer'd been a wick. Tall and broad-shouldered. He'd had a field but the young Greymoore couldn't remember ever seeing the ersehole cast a spell. What the older boy never caught onto was how much that same field gave him away, how Tristaan'd learned to feel for it, stalking down the textile rows, calling his name—

Tristaan's reflexes were honed for combat, edges sharpened by memories dredged up from the past he'd tried so hard to bury beneath tekaa flair and so many scars. He turned, coiled and ready—for what? he was helpless here? what did he think he was going to do?—only to find himself staring down into the wide, terrified eyes of a young girl. A slight little thing, gaze like two plates on an innocent, shocked face, she was totally ignorant of how his whole body was ready to break bones. Or was she?

She shrieked and the passive's grey-eyed gaze hardened like fresh-forged steel plunged into the cold waters of a blacksmith's barrel. He acted out of fear and reflex, no less terrified than she was. Ox the overseer's voice still growling in the back of his mind, ordering the little factory boys back to work lest he make them scrub their blood off the floor. A calloused hand shot out, tempered by the flush on soft cheeks, tempered by a newly awakened fatherly instinct that wrestled with the indomitable creature Tristaan had otherwise become, and snatched for the galdori student's arm.

Rougher than he should have been, he tugged them both toward the wall, 'round the corner, out of sight of the hall she'd been in but not the one he'd stood so lost in just moments before. There was a moment of panicked hesitation, the passive's other hand curled into a fist so tight his palm ached. Instead of bringing it up to cup over her mouth, to keep her quiet, he instead realized just what he was doing once he felt the full weight of her field, he brought a finger to his lips and finally exhaled the breath he'd been holding,

"Sssshhhh—epa—sorry. I'm sorry—" He loosened his grip, uncurling from her bicep and quickly taking a step back, "—you scared me. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—I wasn't—"

To leave bruises on the arm of a better? To frighten a child?

"—snuck up 'n me there. I weren't—I wasn't expecting ... anyone." He strained to listen, worried she wasn't alone, afraid that there were more students behind her somewhere or, worse, a professor or two. His mind was racing, hands shaking now while his heart tried to crawl out behind his ribs. He was normally decent at thinking on his feet, but here in this uncomfortable blue uniform, in these uncomfortable shoes, he didn't feel like he was even standing.

Did gollies this young have classes this early?

What was she doing awake? He knew what time he'd snuck from the passive ward and could guess at the hour—

"Isn't it a bit late for you t' be up, young miss?"

"Sometimes we are born with the keys
to doors we were not meant to open."
— Passive Proverb

[Madeleine Gosselin]

Very Late, 6 Hamis, 2719
Static Wing

He stared down at her; Madeleine stared back. Her heart was pounding in her chest; she didn’t think she’d ever felt so scared in her whole entire life.

In the split second after Madeleine screamed, sort of as it was happening, she realized what he was. It was obvious, of course; he didn’t have a field at all and in the dim light of the hallway she could make out enough details of his uniform. It was very, very late for him to be cleaning, Madeleine supposed, but she –

He grabbed her arm in his hand.

Madeleine half-shrieked again, swallowing it involuntarily when he jerked on her arm and she stumbled forward. It hurt – it really hurt – his fingers were like a vice, locked around her. She tried to pull away, but he was much too strong for that and he jerked her around the wall. Madeleine let out a stifled, involuntary sob; she pressed back against the wall, whimpering and staring up at him.

He put his finger to his lips. Madeleine’s lips trembled in response, and tears spilled over from her eyes, terror written across every inch of her face. She sobbed; he was still right in front of her, a few inches away. She flinched a little when he moved; his hands kept twitching and she didn’t know what he might do with them.

He said sorry, but he said it in the way that people said it when they didn’t really mean it, Madeleine was fairly sure. Like someone saying sorry but what they really meant was that they were angry, that you’d done something wrong. She couldn’t even begin to describe what she felt; colors spiraled through the field, but yellow-tinged fear was the brightest among them, seeping out from her and filling the dark air.

There was something wrong with his voice, Madeleine realized, shaking. He didn’t talk like a proper – like a proper passive. He sounded like the awful ruffians she heard in Vienda, sometimes, with their strange rough accents. Of course passives weren’t very smart, mostly – it wasn’t their fault, really – but she’d never ever heard any of them talk so strangely and she didn’t know what to make of it. It was even more frightening than he already was.

He’d grabbed her. The awful injustice of it was still sinking in. Madeleine couldn’t remember anybody ever grabbing her like that before; it wasn’t like a confisalto lift, where she leaned into a partner and knew to trust them, where she might have followed someone else’s lead. It was – she couldn’t describe it. She didn’t know how. Her arm still hurt, rather awfully; his hands were still jerking and Madeleine felt absolutely certain that he would grab her again, and this time –

This time –

Her imagination failed her; she couldn’t even begin to think about all the awful things he might do. Madeleine stifled another terrified sob.

He started to speak again.

Madeleine made a break for it; she scrabbled off the wall and lunged, desperately, diagonally, as if she might be able to get past him and out into the hallway, away from this horrible, strange man. Tears were streaming down her cheeks; if he grabbed her again, Madeleine thought, fiercely, she’d scream.

Someone would come, wouldn’t they?

… wouldn’t they?

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

6th of Hamis, 2719
BRUNNHOLD | WELL PAST THE LAST HOUSE

By Alioe, his own hands had welcomed his first child, his darling daughter, into the world just a few months ago and yet he'd not been terrified and panicked then, he'd not been afraid for his life. He'd been eager to hold the boch he didn't know he'd ever wanted, didn't knoe he'd ever be ready for, and he'd fallen more in love with the fami he knew he didn't deserve every day since those early hours on the first of Intas. Those same hands had broken bones and stopped hearts, twisted knives for survival, and fired firearms with uncanny accuracy into flesh with every intention of causing harm. He knew what he was capable of and if he loathed anything about himself other than the obvious brokenness of his magical existence, it was how he'd been shaped into a man who knew more about murder than love.

Or so he'd fooled himself into believing, anyway, or so he proved here, now, in this hall in this school with someone else's young daughter, fingers curled too tight in a small arm, heart gripped too tight by a terror that knew no proper name for a passive such as himself.

"I'm so sorry—don't—" The tide of fear was dark, heavy. It swelled with the weight of her young field, stealing his breath, cutting off his words. Her face scrunched up, tears welling in her eyes, absolute horror flooding from her entire being.

He'd be here forever. Diaxio'd promised she wouldn't dare intercede. His consequences would be his own.

Did he not deserve it?

"I didn't mean to hurt you, miss. I'm ne—I'm not used to—"

Sarinah'd know he'd failed her. She'd know the truth—that he was nothing more than a failure from birth. Linora'd be better off, really, without some galdor's rejected son, some broken piece of trash not even his own mother'd wanted all those years ago. How a mother couldn't—after eight years of raising her son—

"—wait, please. I'm a little new here—"

Tristaan didn't move to stop the young student, hands raising upward, calloused palms open for a moment before they moved to curl into dark hair cropped too short, the passive hardly recognized himself in the mirror, what with all of those sharp features clean shaven. It just made the faint scar that split his face a little more visible, and it made the memories of his father that much more clear, staring back at him in the silvered glass.

The terrified galdor scrambled away as soon as he gave her space—as she should, of course, as any child should from something as scary as he must've seemed. He'd have been scared of someone like himself, too, had things been different, wouldn't he? The girl was a nimble thing, wresting her small self away from him, and he willingly stepped out of her way without snatching for her fleeing form, aware now of just how strong, just how damaged his fight-or-flight reflex had become.

He didn't repeat himself, didn't offer more excuses when they didn't matter. As a young passive, still new to being unwanted riff raff without a home or family in the Dives, in the Soot District, he'd made too many mistakes admitting he was lost. Eventually, those mistakes got him caught, after all. Clearly, here in Brunnhold, he'd forgotten those hard-earned lessons.

Tristaan didn't move to flee in the opposite direction, either. He didn't hide; he didn't run away. He had nowhere to go, after all, and while he could eventually find an exit, surely, if he wandered this strange part of this godsbedamned school long enough, he could also eventually just run into more just like her. Remembering all those unwelcoming alleys and unfamiliar side streets, he pressed against the wall, backing up until he couldn't—trapped here, definitely forever, especially once this one young galdor found some professor or some faculty or even some other passives (they knew, didn't they?).

He sat, slowly, as if some well-honed instinct from factory life reminded him in this moment, of all moments, what to do when he found himself (inevitably) in trouble.

"I got lost, that's all."

"Sometimes we are born with the keys
to doors we were not meant to open."
— Passive Proverb

[Madeleine Gosselin]

Very Late, 6 Hamis, 2719
Static Wing

Madeleine kept expecting at any moment to feel a large strong hand closing over her arm once more. Her heart was pounding in her chest, fluttering in her throat, and she thought maybe she would be sick; it was like being about to dance and being tired from performing at the same time, but worse and stranger and not like either of those things at all, not really.

She shot past the passive and scrambled around the corner and kept running, soft shoes slapping against the hallway. Her feet hurt, awfully; she turned down another corridor and crouched behind it, staring wide-eyed into the hallway, her heart still thumping in her ears.

Madeleine waited, trembling. All the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck prickled; at any moment she thought, she would see him coming for her - or feel his hand on the back of her neck - Madeleine jerked around behind herself.

I got lost, that’s all.

Madeleine heard it drift quietly down the hallway, the strange syllables of his accent more like a human or a wick than a passive; even if they weren’t galdori, they at least weren’t lower races. She tried to think, wiping her face on her sleeve. She thought he had said other things - some of them strange and hard to understand because of his accent. She wasn’t sure.

She ought to go and find someone. Madeleine glanced around. She didn’t know where she was either; even if she found her way out, how would she tell anyone where to go?

Madeleine crept forward again. She was shaking all the more, but, quietly, she went down the hall and peeked just the slightest bit around the hallway. He was still there - she almost thought she had imagined him except for that her arm hurt - and he was sitting against the wall, his head in his hands.

He looked, Madeleine thought, frowning, upset. She wasn’t very good at telling how people looked; it was awfully hard. But she was pretty sure he was sad.

He had grabbed her though! He had grabbed her and yanked her around the wall and it had really hurt; her arm still hurt. It smarted and throbbed. Madeleine didn’t know what else someone who could do that might be capable of; he was much bigger than her, bigger than most of the passives she had met, and he had - she had noticed - all sorts of strange scars.

Madeleine didn’t want to get too close, that she was sure around. She lingered at the corner where the hallway turned into the broader hallway, opposite him and out if range. Of course he didn’t have a field, but if he did, she wouldn’t have been able to feel it.

Madeleine’s stomach twisted. He looked confused and upset and, yes, she was pretty sure, sad. She ought to go get someone; she would be able to tell them where he was, wouldn’t she? At least mostly where he was, although he might leave, and then they wouldn’t be able to find him.

And what if they did find it? Madeleine hasn’t thought about that yet; she did, now.

She had tried very hard not to think of Fionn’s back since seeing it almost a month ago. She had never wanted to see it - it was terribly inappropriate to have seen it - but that embarrassment was wholly driven out by the horrifying state of it, the awful scars. She couldn’t not see it; she knew she would know forever how it looked.

“What were you looking for?” Madeleine asked, very quietly.

They had a duty of care, didn’t they? All galdori? It wasn’t his fault he had been born the way he was; it wasn’t any of their faults, the poor incomplete things. And just because other people neglected their responsibilities and did awful things didn’t mean she had to. If he came close enough to touch her again - if he tried to grab her even for a second - she would run and scream and it would be his fault. But if he didn’t -

But he looked sad, Madeleine thought, even though her arm hurt. She wiped her eyes quickly on her sleeve and looked back up at him, watching intently through the dark corridor, still curled around the corner opposite.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

6th of Hamis, 2719
BRUNNHOLD | WELL PAST THE LAST HOUSE

He'd not meant to be a parent, he'd not ever considered himself someone capable of taking care of a life that he'd made. Perhaps those that'd known him, like the children he'd made his pretend family in the factory or the wicks who'd taken him in would've said differently, maybe those who were on the outside, looking in, could see all the things the dark-haired passive couldn't about himself, but he'd left all of those things behind. Ran away. Dusted. Put as much distance between himself and that kind of closeness out of fear—It'd been a beautiful mistake, really, and one he couldn't bring himself to regret now that he and Sarinah had brought Linora into the world, no matter how harsh and how cruel and how unforgiving Tristaan knew the Kingdom of Anaxas, if not all the six kingdoms, to be for a young witch, let alone for the daughter of a passive.

This was a mistake, oes, but nothing about Brunnhold was beautiful. Not its manicured lawns. Not its uniformed students. Not its broken gated passives. Not its history of education. Nothing here was as beautiful as the selfish little something he'd carved out of the world to call his own, one bloodied fist at a time. He'd come here with hope, and yet he couldn't help but think of all he'd been forced to leave behind.

What was he hoping to do here, anyway? Wandering the halls, looking for someone who'd once called him son and being frightened by children—ne, frightening them—all this ... for what?

So, he sat. She'd get help, that girl.

She'd find someone, and that would be it.

That would be it forever this time.

Head in his hands, face in his calloused palms, Tristaan waited, only to hear a quiet question. It was just audible over that heightened thrum of his terrified pulse. Glancing up, fingers dragging over a face that hadn't been this clean shaven in years, he blinked,

"I—" It doesn't matter, he wanted to say. The dark-haired passive hesitated, staring at the glistening of tears on the girl's face. He shouldn't have grabbed her—she didn't understand—she'd never understand. Instinct and trauma were far more powerful in this strange place when he had no familiar anchor to keep him better tamed.

"—an office. A professor's office. Professor Greymoore." He finally murmured, hardly any louder than the galdori student. His voice broke over the words, face contorting a little as if he didn't want to say the name. Even though it was his name, too. He'd kept it, after all, in defiance of everything. Clearing his throat, he dug his heels hard into his eyes for a few vigorous rubs, looking away, looking to the floor, gathering himself into better, more believable Estuan with a sharp, shaky inhale,

"I don't want any trouble. I just haven't been here—to this particular section of campus, 'course—before an' forgot ... I uh ... I have something I forgot to do. Today. Earlier today."

What was he supposed to say? How was he even going to explain that the only thing that had been forgotten was him and that he wanted to leave a reminder that he still lived on the desk of the woman who'd abandoned his worthless life? Ne, this girl wouldn't understand and didn't need to know, and as if he hadn't hurt her enough already, he couldn't even be honest.

What a scrap.

He took another deep breath, "Listen, I'm sorry. I'll jus'. I'll go back to the-the-" What was it? Passive Ward? Barracks? Gated prison? "—my room. An' jus' worry about it. Another time."

Never. Never was better.

Tristaan began to stand, giving the young galdor girl her moment to make sure she found some figure of authority.

"Sometimes we are born with the keys
to doors we were not meant to open."
— Passive Proverb

[Madeleine Gosselin]

Very Late, 6 Hamis, 2719
Static Wing

There was a very long pause where he looked at her and she looked at him and Madeleine waited. She thought maybe he hadn’t heard the question, and then she thought maybe he hadn’t understood the question, even though she had tried to say it very simply so that it would be easy for him. But before she could work out whether she ought to repeat it, he did answer.

A professor’s office? Madeleine glanced all around. They were in the wing where the static professors had their offices, Madeleine supposed, somewhat doubtfully. Professor Greymoore; he repeated the name with a funny look on his face, as if he wasn’t sure or he might be in trouble. Madeleine didn’t know him; she wasn’t sure if she had seen the name before or not. Maybe - she wasn’t sure.

He looked, Madeleine noticed, really upset. She knew what upset looked like and he looked it.

He explained that he’d forgotten to do something, and Madeleine nodded, slowly. She didn’t come out from behind the corner yet - he had grabbed her, after all, and her arm still hurt quite a lot - but she supposed it made sense. Maybe no one had told him he wasn’t supposed to be out at night.

Maybe, Madeleine thought, he would get in trouble if he didn’t have it done by tomorrow - whatever it was. She swallowed, hard, looking at him, and tried very hard not to think of Fionn’s back again. Perhaps he was supposed to deliver a letter, or clean something, or even pick up a package or something; perhaps the look on his face was because if he didn’t do it by the next morning, they’d - but Madeleine had decided not to think about that.

They had, Madeleine knew, a duty of care. She, as a galdor, had a duty of care. Just because others had forsaken it wasn’t any excuse. That was why she had asked, and since she had asked, she thought she had better try to help. Otherwise it was only the talking sort of care and not the doing sort, and Madeleine knew the talking sort wasn’t as important.

He was looking at her with a very sort of brave and worried look. That was how Madeleine could know he wasn’t a galdor even from this far, she thought. Galdori who were his age - quite old, she was pretty sure - didn’t look like that, so lost and hopeless. Galdori who were his age knew what to do.

He began to stand; Madeleine squeaked and drew back around the corner. She hadn’t meant to, only she couldn’t seem to help it. She stood there, her heart racing; she took a very big deep breath.

Madeleine came around the corner a little more, looking at him now. She shifted; she took a deep breath. She drew herself up to all the inches of height she had; she squared her shoulders and let her spine be long and straight, to make a line from her head all the way down. She forgot that she wasn’t in her uniform, and that it was very late, and that she wasn’t meant to be alone with a man - although surely he didn’t really count. All she could think was that she didn’t want his back to end up like Fionn’s.

“I could try to help you find it,” Madeleine offered, somewhat shyly. She came a little more into the corridor; her heart was pounding in her chest, and she felt it like a flapping in her throat. She swallowed very hard. “So you don’t have to worry?” Her voice trailed up a little at the end of the question that wasn’t a question, and she watched him from across the hallway.

“I’m Madeleine Gosselin,” Madeleine said after a moment, thinking that she ought to have good manners even if he was only a passive and clearly didn’t. “What’s your name?”

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

6th of Hamis, 2719
BRUNNHOLD | WELL PAST THE LAST HOUSE

Tristaan couldn't remember the last time he'd let any place crawl under his skin the way just a handful of days in Brunnhold had. He'd hardly ever been afraid in the Harbor, well aware that he often took his life in his own hands every day, stepping out of the door to do Hawke's bidding or stepping onto the sandy floor of the Rose Arena. He'd become numb to fear at all in the Soot District, long hours and plenty of beatings knocking his ability to feel horror at his living situation from his narrow, scrawny, magic-less son of a galdor chest all those years ago. With the Red Crow, he'd never needed to feel afraid at all; they'd been a generous and loving people—too generous and too loving, honestly. The kind of ridiculous acceptance he'd felt among wicks had tempered his scarred, indomitable spirit into hardened steel, and yet here, of all places, all that he'd been able to stand up against (to stand up in spite of) for so long felt like too much.

The dark-haired passive didn't like the taste of fear. He didn't like how it cloyed to his nostrils like the stench of a corpse washed ashore in the Harbor. He didn't like the way a galdori child suddenly felt like a threat when he could walk through the Dog Yard without his firearm and still not worry for his personal safety.

It was, of course, because bodily harm wasn't the clocking threat here. He could take a beating. He'd been so close to death more than once in his life and still got up every time. No, here in this uncomfortable blue uniform under the ignorant watch of erseholes convinced they were better than he'd possibly ever hope to be, the threat was worse than death—a permanent removal of the freedom he'd sweat and bled for, an eternal separation from the family he'd never knew he wanted until he held it all in his calloused hands. That truth was far more terrifying than any knife in the ribs or broken bones.

The girl was staring. Her wide eyes, cheeks moist with tears, weren't looking at him like he was a person with feelings, and he doubted she could comprehend that he could think for himself at all. She looked at him like one looked at a feral bander on the streets with a kind of unsure pity—the bander could bite you, after all, as he'd done already. Just an animal. Maybe even lower still.

When he stood, she flinched, and his jaw clenched at the reaction. Squaring his shoulders as if remembering that he was, in fact, a man and not a beast, Tristaan attempted to rediscover his composure, to dust off his bravado. He wiped his face, rough hands grinding across the tender edges of his grey eyes, before he shoved those same hands into his trouser pockets, fingers on the left side curling around the beat up old pocket watch hidden against his thigh.

It took him longer than it should have to find his voice, then, something about the girl's sincere form of patronizing, about her soft shyness, reminding him again of how she saw him, no matter how she tried to posture herself up proper-like,

"I'd be grateful." Tristaan managed, somehow aware that those words were half a lie. Fully knowledgeable that his gratitude didn't even hold meaning for someone like her, he gave it warily. It wasn't any trouble for her, after all, because she had to know she was already out when she shouldn't be. He would be an easy scapegoat if they got discovered, so what was the risk for her, anyway?

"I en—I'm not familiar with this part of Campus."

He refused to talk about worry. What did she know?

He also resisted the urge to smirk at her careful introduction, arching a slim, galdor-bred eyebrow when she asked for his name, too,

"Bur—"

The dark-haired passive started, tsking instead. It wouldn't matter what name he gave this little Madeleine because she wouldn't remember it anyway, "Tristaan, Miss Gosselein. My name is Tristaan." He said simply, refusing to say the last name he'd already given, considering he shared it with the Professor whose office he was looking for in the first place.

His mother's office.

"She's a Quantitative Professor, and I'm no' even sure I'm in the right Wing." He finally added, quieter, looking away from the young galdor now that she knew his real name and still looked at him in that sort of way. He'd lost all of his bearings here, all of his charm. It'd been stripped away and painted over by the oppressive power of powder blue.

"Sometimes we are born with the keys
to doors we were not meant to open."
— Passive Proverb

[Madeleine Gosselin]

Very Late, 6 Hamis, 2719
Static Wing

Tristaan, the passive said, and he’d told her a little more about the office he was looking for.

He was just sort of staring at her, with a funny look on his face. Madeleine supposed it was difficult for him, making conversation like this? She wasn’t very sure. Fionn, at least, could have a conversation; he liked to talk. Maybe it was different for each of them. Madeleine didn’t really know how it worked, not enough to say. There were some that never talked at all, even when you said something to them in the cafeteria. Even if you asked a question, there were some that wouldn’t answer.

But nobody else’s bad manners were a good excuse for hers.

Madeleine came a little bit more out from behind the wall. It was very frightening – he was quite large, and she knew he was very strong because of how he’d squeezed her, and her arm really did still hurt. She bowed, a small neat motion, even though it meant there was a moment when she wasn’t looking at him. She didn’t rush through it; she wanted to, she wanted to bow with her gaze up or pull it up the moment it went away, or hurry through the end of the bow so she’d be upright and facing him once more.

She didn’t.

He didn’t lunge at her, or grab her again, or do anything else awful right before her eyes. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Tristaan,” Madeleine said, very solemnly. She felt it was important to show him how someone ought to behave, because maybe no one ever had. And that wasn’t his fault, of course.

Madeleine shook her head. “This is the static wing,” she said. “That’s a different…” she trailed off, frowning. He’d said quantitative, of course, so maybe he knew about the conversations? Madeleine could never remember when she’d learned about stuff like that. After, she thought, after. Wasn’t it?

“A different wing,” Madeleine said, finally, a little uncertainly. Should she have explained? He did look confused, looking at her, but maybe that was just how he looked. Anyway, she wasn’t sure how much he would understand, if she did explain.

“There are a lot of quantitative professors,” Madeleine added, scrupulously. “I know some of the static professors, but I don’t know hardly any of the quantitative. My brother studies quantitative conversation though, or he will – I mean, he does already, but he isn’t sixth form yet, so it’s not, you know, official. Well, it probably will be when he’s in fifth form.” Madeleine swallowed. Thinking about Vespasian always hurt a little. He was such a little snot; that was the problem. He thought he was better than everyone just because he was so smart. That wouldn’t have been so bad, maybe, except Madeleine thought her parents probably agreed with him.

Madeleine blinked, a few times, and looked back at Tristaan. “But I don’t think we should go wake him up,” she said, quietly. “I don’t… I don’t know if he’d…” she tried to imagine it. She didn’t think she’d ever gone to Vespasian’s dorm room, not this year. Maybe not last year, either. She had it written down, somewhere, in her room; she must have it written down somewhere, Madeleine thought, uncertainly.

“We’ll go to the quantitative wing,” Madeleine said. She straightened up, and that made her feel a little better. An idea struck her, and she brightened. “There are – you know – boards, anyway, with names and room numbers. We’ll find that, and then we’ll find the office,” she smiled across the hallway at Tristaan, a bit shy, but feeling more confident now that she had a proper idea of how to proceed.

“This way,” Madeleine turned and set off down the hallway, walking evenly. Her bag with her pointe shoes was hanging over her shoulder, still. It was a bit heavy, really, and her feet still hurt from practice, but this was the right thing to do, and surely that was more important than just being a little more comfortable.