Chapter Text
Dannyl hurried down the corridor pressing his lips together to prevent a sob escaping. He ducked into an empty room in a fairly deserted part of the university, closing the door and sinking down into a corner, his eyes burning. He was going to get kicked out of the guild for sure. The administrator had looked so disappointed and... disgusted with him. His stomach squirmed uncomfortably and he twisted his hands in his novice robes – if he’d known what the consequences would have been for kissing… no, don’t think about it.
His father had sent him a letter this morning telling him that if he was kicked out the guild, not to bother returning home. His Father. That had hurt.
Fergun looked so smug about the whole thing laughing with a group of his cronies in the corner of the lunch hall after Dannyl had left the administrators office, his face burning red, head down.
He didn’t know how he would manage to go into lessons tomorrow – everyone would know. His breathing quickened and he bit his sleeve to muffled the sob that made its way out of his mouth. Tears dripped down onto the floor, cutting tracks on his cheeks.
He stared at the knotted wooden floor until the shadows lengthened and the room darkened and gradually his breathing quietened.
Better go back to his room, before anyone realised where he was, he mused. No way would he brave dinner with all the other novices.
Creeping to the door he peered out checking the corridor was empty before slinking out. He stole along the carpet trying not to be too loud.
Rounding a corner, he exclaimed in surprise as he crashed into a magician coming in the opposite direction. His chemistry teacher, Lord Rothen, jumped and gave a short laugh,
“Sorry, Dannyl, didn’t expect to see anyone else here!”
Dannyl muttered an apology and attempted to duck past but Lord Rothen caught the edge of his robe and peered down at Dannyl’s face and then around at the clearly deserted dead end of the corridor.
“Are you alright, Dannyl? What are you doing down here?”
Dannyl ducked his head trying to conceal his puffy red eyes, he felt ashamed that Lord Rothen was nice enough to be concerned about him – everyone knew that his wife was dying of a sickness that the healers couldn’t cure and he was exhausted trying to look after her and his 4-year-old son. Out of the two of them he was definitely the more deserving of concern than Dannyl.
“Nothing, I’m fine – just got a bit lost, that’s all,” he said praying that Lord Rothen would accept his excuse.
Lord Rothen’s blue eyes narrowed and then softened as he looked at him.
“Ok, then.” He released his sleeve and turned to walk back to the main part of the university falling into step beside Dannyl. They passed the food hall and the smell of today’s dinner wafted out. Dannyl felt his stomach complain slightly but he bit his lip and continued past.
“Aren’t you going to have dinner?” Lord Rothen inquired, pausing by the door.
“Err, I’m not hungry,” Dannyl lied and quickly hurried away.
Lord Rothen looked after the retreating figure of the miserable novice thoughtfully. He barely noticed when Lord Yaldin approached him and noted his gaze.
“Poor boy,” His friend murmured, next to him.
“Yes, he’s not going to find the next few weeks easy,” Rothen shook his head and turned to grab some food – hopefully the cooks wouldn’t mind preparing something plain and simple for him to bring to his wife Yilara who was now bed ridden. His heart clenched and he gritted his teeth. Don’t think about it.
Yaldin was looking at him with sympathetic eyes; god, this whole thing was harder than he ever imagined it was going to be.
“You know if you ever need anyone to watch Dorrien for you Ezrille and I would be happy to look after him,” Yaldin offered and Rothen nodded, too drained to protest and pretend he was doing ok.
Later back in his room he watched his wife, sleeping, at peace for now. She had barely touched the plain broth he’d brought up for her and he trying not to let panic overwhelm him. He couldn’t imagine life without her, he couldn’t. All the plans they had made, everything they were going to do. Dorrien. At the thought of his young son, barely able to comprehend the idea of his mother not being a permanent fixture in his life, he felt tears escape his eyes.
“Gods, I can’t do this without you Yilara” he whispered pressing her hand to his lips. She shifted but didn’t wake, her pale hair fanning out over her pillow. She was still beautiful but her beauty was fragile like that of a guttering flame or dying poet. Her skin was stretched over her thin frame and her blazing green eyes were hidden by the delicate curve of her eyelids. When he looked into her eyes they were so strong, so vibrantly alive that he could forget about her illness, but not when she was asleep, then she was vulnerable and he couldn’t tear himself away from her side. Each breath was so far apart – he had to watch just to make sure…
Don’t think about it!
Dorrien was asleep finally, after being restless all evening, sensing his father’s desperation he had become even more difficult and Rothen had felt like he was breaking in two he was in so much pain. Breathing hurt like his lungs couldn’t get enough air, like seeing the people he loved most in all the world in pain stole oxygen from the space around him.
Outside the window the moon was partly obscured by scudding dark wisps of cloud but its silver glow touched Yilara’s cheek turning it to cool stone. She was so cold. Her chest lifted and fell then lifted and very slowly lowered and she seemed to shrink like something precious had escaped her lips. Rothen sat frozen turned to stone in the silver light. The room was so still and the air hung there, tense and silent. Finally, he inhaled a shaky breath... but Yilara did not.
His heart stopped.
No, NO.
“Oh gods, Yilara” He fell on his knees by the bed and gathered her into his arms pressing his head to her neck, breathing in her smell like violets on a summers day – tinged with sickness now. She was so slack in his arms. His shoulders shook and he cried, great gasping sobs that were so hard he barely made a sound.
The moon looked on coolly as a man lost his wife and lost control at the same time, blind in his grief to the small boy in oversized pyjamas listening next door, eyes wide, to the muffled sounds of his father’s morning.
Slowly as the sky lightened and the sun started to rise Rothen lifted his head. His wife looked so peaceful – curled in his arms. He shut his eyes and managed a small mental call.
-Yaldin, I need you, now. He sensed his friend’s acceptance and was grateful that he didn’t have to explain.
Time drifted though Rothen was unaware of its passing and it seemed like only seconds had elapsed when he heard a faint tap at the door and he mentally nudged it open. He heard light footsteps and clutched her a little closer fighting of the thought that soon he must let her go. Soon but not quite yet.
He looked up as he heard a faint gasp in the door way. His back and neck were cramped from kneeling on the floor for hours. His friend met his eyes and both were filled with tears.
“I’m so sorry Rothen.”
And at that he broke again pressing his face to her sobbing tears that dampened her thin nightgown, exhaustion and darkness swirling around his head. Never again would she smile the sweet happy smile that was just for him or Dorrien. Never again would she hold him so tight that he couldn’t breathe. Never again.
“Oh Rothen.”
His friend came to the bed side and put his arms round his shoulders. Yaldin must have made some mental call because all to soon the room was flooded with people – Ezrille making tea and the healers gently prizing Yilara’s body from his arms straightening her limbs and pulled the covers over her. They softly nudged him out the room and he sank down onto one of the sofas, numb now. He focused on breathing as activity continued on around him. Then from a door they had all ignored until now came a small voice,
“Daddy?”
Everyone turned as Dorrien peered out his blond hair tousled and tear tracks on his cheeks. His lower lip wobbled as he looked at his father and then at the door to his mother’s room.
“Mummy!” He ran towards her room and Rothen wasn’t even aware of moving but suddenly his arms were around his struggling son who kicked and screamed at him and he swooped him up not wanting him to see his mother like that.
His warm body felt odd in arms so different to…
He buried his face in his son’s clean sweet hair and breathed.
The next week past in a blur. He wasn’t teaching, all he had to do was sit on the couch and accept condolences. Ezrille helped him with Dorrien who wasn’t speaking to anyone.
To soon he was standing in the cemetery in formal back robes with a crowd of other mourners, holding his son’s hand who – being too young for robes – was dressed in formal wear of the houses.
He stood by the grave as words were uttered and his wife was lowered into the ground forever. She had always hated the idea of being buried under cold stone and as soon as spring arrived Rothen planned to come back here with Dorrien and plant a tree above her grave.
God thinking about the future hurt but looking at Dorrien he knew he had to. He lowered his head and his dark hair fall into his eyes and he brushed it away impatiently – it was too long but with everything he hadn’t had time to get it cut. He felt bad, he should have been smart for her funeral. But he felt a smile pull at his cheeks, Yilara wouldn’t have cared. She would have laughed at the stuffy formality of it all. After all he could still hear her in the cry of the birds in the trees, in the light breeze that ruffled his hair and most of all in Dorrien.
And if people looked at him strangely as he walked back up to the guild with a spring in his step, swinging Dorrien’s hand, he didn’t care. He could do this, for her.
The news of Yilara’s death spread round the magician’s guild quickly and there was an air of sadness about the place. Even the novices were more subdued than normal, especially in Rothen’s covered lessons. But even that didn’t stop Fergun taunting Dannyl. He was less obvious about it though – he knew that he had won the battle that they had been fighting – there was nothing Dannyl could do to him that would affect him as deeply as his accusations has affected Dannyl. ‘Lad’ was scrawled on the insides of all his textbooks and he couldn’t help but feel a burning shame whenever he saw the word. He used healing magic, just a little, to keep the blood from rushing to his cheeks and showing how embarrassed he was each time.
It was impossible to ignore the whispers behind his back during lessons and he couldn’t concentrate on the lectures which in turn led to him making poorer notes than normal. Worst of all the teachers either didn’t care or some (including Lord Rothen’s replacement) actively showed their disdain for him. Using his bad work as an excuse he was moved to the back of the class by one of the healing teachers. Seeing Fergun’s smug face grin at that, made Dannyl want to punch him. Even the librarian wanted nothing to do with him when Dannyl tried to take out a book, she made some excuse and took it from him like he was going to damage it or something!
But letting Fergun see him angry would only add to his smugness so Dannyl drew on more healing magic to hide the effects of his anger.
Even so when he left the library (bookless) Fergun still cornered him with some of his friends.
Later that night in his room he healed away the results of their beating after they had overcome his magical shield. He curled up on his small bed and cried into his pillow. He couldn’t carry on going to lessons, he couldn’t. His marks had practically halved since ... the incident. He punched the stark white wall. Hard. And again. His knuckles split and blood trickled down his fingers. He let it hurt – didn’t try to magic the pain away. He fell asleep like that, with tears on his face and blood on his hands.
Two days after the funeral there was a guild meeting and drinks party and Lord Yaldin and Lady Ezrille insisted that Rothen attend. He sighed but secretly he was glad to have an excuse to get out of his rooms and stop moping. Some days were worse than others and only the need to look after Dorrien forced him to get out of bed then. Dorrien was so quiet. He was starting to get worried so he figured that the drinks party would be a good chance to have a chat with one of the healers, his friend Lady Vinara, to see if there was anything she would recommend.
This would be the first time in years that he would go out without Yilara on his arm and he caught his breath as his heart clenched. That hurt more than he expected it to. He belted his robe with alchemy purple and regarded his reflection in the mirror sadly. He used a little magic to heal away the bags under his eyes and sighed; his face looked like it had aged years in just a few months.
Dorrien was tucked up in bed and Rothen made sure not to disturb him as he left his suit of rooms.
He was a little late and the gathering was already well underway when he arrived. Magicians looked up in surprise when he entered. They probably were surprised to see him out, he had kept himself to himself for the last months of Yilara’s illness too emotionally drained to want to talk to anyone other than her.
Ezrille and Yaldin came up behind him and caught his arms. He managed a smile at the sight of them. As always they were eccentrically dressed, in their robes yes but Yaldin’s were patched in bright colours while Ezrille had purple feathers woven into her hair. A first they had attracted disapproval from the guild for never appearing to be smart but their dogged persistence of dressing in more and more crazy outfits had gradually gained most people’s grudging admiration. Yilara had liked their determination not to conform to societies standards too. Free spirits she had called them.
A glass of bubbling alcohol was pushed into his hand and Rothen regarded it with amusement.
“Whose, experiment is this?” He asked Yaldin, pointing to the bubbles. His friend grinned.
“Two novices who have just graduated, Lord Lorlen and Lord Akkarin.”
“Just graduated!? And everyone is drinking it! Are you mad – do you remember our first concoctions?” Rothen exclaimed in mock horror.
Ezrille laughed, “Just try it, they’re bright boys and no-one has complained yet.”
Yaldin pulled a hurt expression, “We were bright too.”
Her eyes gleamed with amusement, “not that smart! Do you remember the ‘extra potent’ stuff you made which knocked people out after half a glass?”
Rothen grimaced – that had been a head ache to remember, but ignored Yaldin’s weak protests in favour of taking a tentative sip of the light golden liquid. He laughed in surprise as bubbles ran up his nose.
A young man with a serious expression but light eyes appeared by his side,
“Do you like our creation Lord Rothen?” He inquired.
Rothen grinned, “very much Lord Lorlen, what are you calling it?” He watched with amusement as the younger man preened under his former teacher’s praise.
“I’m not sure,” Lord Lorlen said cheerfully,” perhaps Lokkarin.”
Yaldin snorted behind him and tried to cough to cover it up. “That reminds me, where is the other creator of this marvellous vintage? I heard he went traveling,” he questioned Lorlen who began to look uncomfortable.
“I don’t know exactly,” he said, “Akkarin hasn’t contacted me in weeks but he was near the border of Sachaka last time we spoke.”
Ezrille eyebrows rose in surprise but before she could comment Lady Vinara swept up to their group, elegant as always and the conversation turned back to greetings.
As soon as he decently could, Lord Rothen drew Lady Vinara aside and asked if he should be worried by Dorrien’s continued silence. Her lips pursed sympathetically as she listened to him.
“I wouldn’t be too worried, Lord Rothen,” she said, “he’s young and will probably start speaking more once he’s comfortable. You can’t force him too. Just try and get all his routines back to normal as quickly as you can.”
He nodded, relieved by her quiet confidence that it wasn’t to serious. Routines. He could do that.
The door to the hall opened and suddenly a hush spread over the crowd gathered there.
“Daddy?” A quiet little voice came from the doorway and Rothen froze. He hadn’t heard that in a while.
Heads started to turn his way as he pushed through the robed figures quickly.
His son stood, his back to the cold hallway, barefoot in oversized red stripy pyjamas, his blond hair stuck up in all directions comically on his head, looking around, wide eyed.
“I had a nightmare and I couldn’t find you!” Dorrien said accusingly and started to cry, scrunching his hands into fists, pressing them into his eyes to try and stop the tears leaking out. Rothen felt a surge of guilt and felt on his knees wrapping his arms around his son, feeling shivers run through his small body.
“I want mummy,” Dorrien sobbed louder and Rothen tried to block out the sorrowful, pitying stares he was receiving.
“I know, I’m sorry, I’m here,” he said, biting his lip trying to hold himself together for his child. Yilara had always been better at soothing away nightmares, he thought and buried his face in Dorrien’s shoulder. His son’s tears wet his neck and they grieved together for a moment. Rothen stood up, lifting Dorrien onto his hip and strode out of the hall into the darkness of the corridor to take his boy home, ignoring the sympathetic crowd of magicians behind him.
Dorrien fell asleep exhausted when they got back just as soon as he had extracted a promise from Rothen to stay beside him. Rothen bowed his head as he sat, perched on the side of his son’s small bed, his face hidden in shadow as he used one hand to smooth the hair back from Dorrien’s forehead.
Tomorrow, he decided, tomorrow, he would put his life back together, he would go back to teaching and he would ensure Dorrien got all his routines back. He yawned and curled up around his child, cradling him in his arms as he drifted off into sleep, a determined frown on his face.