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“Who gave you permission to speak?”
Ellenor’s voice is cold and distant as Wignall grits his teeth to keep a whimper inside. He had no idea the collar she had put around his neck at the initiation was infused with magic, but the electric shock it just gave him with naught but a wave of Ellenor’s wand showed him its real function quite thoroughly.
Ah, he thinks wryly, so this is what she meant by ‘breaking him in’.
Wignall is about to apologize, the words on the tip of his tongue more of a reflex than anything conscious at this point, when he realizes she didn’t tell him he could speak yet. He clamps his mouth shut and looks down at the tablecloth, trying to ignore the hot wave of shame washing over him.
Sion is silent next to him, and Wignall supposes it’s better than him starting an argument with most of the Fairy faction.
(He almost wishes he would. That just once someone would–)
Gradually, the conversations around him pick back up, but all Wignall can focus on is the uneven stitch in one of the flowers decorating the cloth near his glass as residual little shocks keep making his muscles spasm. His chest feels tight, for whatever reason.
Then his ears catch the sound of Will’s name, and he’s pulled out of the haze that’s settled in his mind with a sharp jolt.
“…shouldn’t be allowed in the Tower. It’s simply preposterous!”
Wignall swivels towards the man with a sharp look. “Will has proven–” he doesn’t get to finish before the collar’s lighting up again, a painful shock running through his entire body and leaving him gasping for air.
He looks up at the end of the long table, only to see Ellenor’s mock disappointed expression.
“You can’t even follow such simple instructions? You truly are a disgrace,” she says, and Wignall is surprised by the pang he still feels at every word. He should be used to it after all these years.
(Somehow, the insults hurt more than the shock itself.)
There’s a round of chuckles and scoffs around him, and his eyes sting as he clenches his hands under the table, fingernails breaking skin and letting the fresh trickle of blood warm his palms.
When the food arrives at last, he almost lets out a sigh of relief, but fear of another punishment makes him swallow it down.
Sion’s and his plates are the last to be placed on the table, and Wignall can’t even find it in himself to be surprised. He can only hope Sion will forgive him for dragging him here.
He’s about to take his first bite of the day, what with the churning of his stomach keeping him from eating anything, when his fork falls from his fingers as he clutches at his throat in panic. He squints at Ellenor through the black clouding his vision, and surely enough, her wand is raised and the collar is a burning ring around his neck.
“I do not recall giving you permission to eat,” she sneers, and the adjutants sitting at her sides send him twin looks of disgust.
It’s no good, his brain whispers, no matter what I do, they’ll–
Lefiya looks at him down the bridge of her nose, taking the mantle from Ellenor. “You are allowed to eat in a manner befitting your status,” she says, and Wignall’s heart falls in realization, “that is, from the floor like the misbehaving dog you are.”
He doesn’t reply, not wanting to risk another shock. The ringing in his ears grows deafening as he sits with his food left untouched, and leaves him strangely numb, everything around him muted into white noise.
It’s why he nearly jumps out of his skin when a hand grabs his arm before starting to drag him away. As he follows the limb to the scowl on Sion’s face, he notes that most of the guests have started to file out, the empty plates and glasses in their wake making him realize that more time must have passed than he had thought.
“Come on,” Sion says, the usual irritation in his tone weighed down by something Wignall can’t put his finger on.
Either way, he feels too out of it to argue – is half-expecting the collar to activate the moment he speaks – so he lets himself be pulled away by the younger mage.
Before Wignall knows it, they’ve made it all the way to the Hen and the Beanstalk, and it says something about the state he's in that he doesn’t even manage a snide comment on the establishment’s hygiene when they walk inside.
The dwarves give him side glances as they walk over to a free table, but Wignall can’t find it in himself to care. Not after…
Without hesitation, Sion pushes him onto a bench, gives him a long look, then heads to the counter to, presumably, order something. He talks to Gina for a few minutes too long, and stays there leaning against the wood even as the owner turns to the stove after sending a quick glance in Wignall's direction.
Sion most likely doesn’t want to spend more time than he has to in Wignall’s proximity after his embarrassing displays at dinner.
The thought bothers him more than it should – in a strange way, Sion’s presence had been a comfort at his side, an armor that kept him from breaking down fully in fear of losing the maybe-friend he’s made through Lihanna and Will.
He doubts the other thinks of him as one, though.
(Not that Wignall blames him.)
Even as he tries to keep his mind from replaying the evening's events, the feeling of shame remains a heavy pressure in his chest. He should have known they’d use the opportunity to humiliate him, but he hadn’t expected the physical punishment for his inadequacy – and to think he’d first assumed the collar to be a gift…
He’s truly beyond pathetic.
“Here.”
The rough voice snaps Wignall out of his thoughts, and he jumps a little in his seat as a steaming bowl is placed in front of him. When he looks up at Sion, he seems seconds away from challenging him to a duel.
“What…” Wignall starts, then freezes, his hand flying to his throat on reflex and heart pounding wildly against his ribcage as he waits for the first stab of pain.
Sion’s expression shifts into something quieter, something Wignall doesn’t have the energy to ponder, and he sits down on the other side of the table. “You have to eat. They’re– she isn’t here.”
Wignall feels his face flush and averts his gaze, shame crawling down his spine in the most familiar of ways. To think he let Sion of all people see him like this… “I’m not hungry,” he says, but it comes out hollow and weak.
“Sure, and I’m an ice user,” Sion grumbles, giving him an unamused look. “It’s just soup. Eat.”
The words are at odds with the concerned furrow of Sion’s brows, and what little remains of Wignall’s composure begins to splinter. “Who are you to order me around?!” He throws the Ulster a glare through his bangs and pushes the plate away with a sneer. “I’m an elf, not yo–”
“Cut that out,” Sion talks right over him with a scowl, forcing a spoon into his hand, “and eat. You really think I’ll fall for that fake bullshit after today? You’re lucky I’m not going straight to Lihanna.”
Wignall doesn’t manage to bite back a desperate gasp. “You can’t tell her, please, I–” whatever he had been about to say is cut off by the collar activating again, and he can’t help but tug at it helplessly in an attempt to lessen the pain.
He cracks an eye open only to see Sion’s mouth moving rapidly, the fury in his eyes like a raging wildfire. “’m s’rry,” Wignall forces past his teeth, but for some reason Sion’s scowl only deepens in response to the apology, making Wignall’s breaths stutter around the sudden lump in his throat. “I–”
“…for fuck’s sake,” Sion’s voice finally breaks through the rush of blood in his ears, and Wignall can feel his shoulders hunch in as he tries to hide from the anger in Sion’s words and eyes. “Don’t– damn it, you have nothing to apologize for, you hear me?”
Wignall’s eyes snap up to meet Sion’s, biting back another whimper – he’s embarrassed himself enough as is. But just then, the last sentence registers in his mind, and he’s left staring at the redhead in confusion as his chest suffuses with an unfamiliar warmth. “What are you…”
“Don’t look at me like that,” Sion says, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Did you expect me to blame you for what those bastards did, or something?”
Wignall’s mouth opens before he realizes it. “Do not refer to them–”
“I’ll call them whatever the fuck I please,” Sion snarls, and Wignall shrinks back in fear of–
Of what, exactly? It’s not like Sion’s going to…
“Look at what they're doing to you! They’re– that collar, it’s… barbaric,” he bites out, his hands clenching and wrinkling the fabric of his uniform. “And yet, for some reason, you keep defending them.”
There’s an almost regretful lilt to Sion’s voice, and Wignall stays silent in response to it, unable to muster a reply.
A few moments pass before Sion speaks again. “Does anyone else know?”
“No, and I’d like for it to stay that way,” Wignall says, grasping after the remains of his facade. “It’s bad enough that–”
“Has it happened before?” Sion asks sharply, and Wignall can feel his ears flick with pique at the interruption.
His grip on the spoon tightens. He can’t have Sion sticking his nose somewhere it doesn’t belong and risking Mercedes-knows-what if he angers the elves in the process. “Thank you for accompanying me tonight. As per our agreement, I’ll owe you a favor of your choosing anytime you wish to–”
“If you don’t explain what the fuck that whole display had been about, I’m taking the matter to the Upper Institute,” Sion retorts, his eyes boring into Wignall’s with an intensity he usually reserves for Will.
Wignall’s heart jumps into his throat, the skin of his neck still stinging. “You wouldn’t dare…”
“Try me.”
As he meets Sion’s gaze, Wignall realizes that he has no way of winning this particular fight. “Fine,” he says, and lets out a sigh that’s mostly resignation, his eyebrow twitching at the triumphant smirk Sion throws him, “but I’m afraid you’ll be left disappointed.”
In lieu of a response, Sion rests his elbows on the table and leans forward expectantly. He shoots a pointed look at the bowl in front of him, and Wignall finds himself reaching for it, grateful for having something to do with his hands while he speaks.
“In short, I’m a failure of an elf – my weakness and overall incompetence has brought unprecedented shame on my people. That’s the reason behind their and Great Mage Ellenor’s behavior,” he says in one go, looking slightly off to the side instead of meeting Sion’s eyes, “and they are completely justified in it, so please, refrain from getting involved in any manner.”
Sion seems just about ready to set the whole tavern on fire. “What do you mean, justified? That’s just–”
“If I recall correctly, you also had no issue treating someone as lesser because they lack certain skills,” Wignall says, fed up with Sion’s hypocrisy and sudden need to care. “What makes this any different?”
The lack of an immediate rebuttal makes him look up from where his eyes have settled in his lap, only to see the awful expression he just put on Sion’s face – stricken and full of the same self-loathing Wignall has grown too familiar with over the years.
“You’re right,” Sion says before Wignall could so much as apologize, his voice hollow. “I did the same thing. But then you’re also saying that my and everyone else’s treatment of the laggard was justified.”
A cold fury rushes through his veins at the thought. “That’s–”
“Different?” Sion finishes for him, and the gentle furrow of his brows makes Wignall grit his teeth, pure frustration clawing at his insides as he tries to come up with a reply.
He must stay silent for too long because Sion lets out a sigh, heavy and uncharacteristically pensive, then says, “Look, I don’t want to argue with you, but you have to realize that it isn’t okay.” He looks like he wants to add more but doesn’t, meeting Wignall’s eyes head on. “I already failed to do the right thing once. Don’t make me into the asshole who can’t learn from his mistakes.”
Wignall feels all the fight he had left trickle out of him with those words, and he has to avert his eyes from Sion’s steady gaze lest he do something he won’t be able to come back from – something like throwing his arms around Sion’s neck and not letting go until the heaviness in his chest abates, at least a little.
He wonders if Sion would hug him back or push him away. Wonders when the last time someone hugged him back was.
(Wonders if there had been such a time at all.)
“I’m–”
“And don’t you dare apologize again,” Sion cuts him off, and the laugh that slips past Wignall’s teeth is entirely involuntary.
He doesn’t force the smile off his face, can’t even find it in himself to muster the usual fake ease of his voice. “Would you please stop cutting me off? It really isn’t as charming as you might think,” Wignall says, feeling lighter than he has in the past week.
“Ch– charming? I wasn’t trying to–” Sion’s cheeks are rusty in the warm light, his frown less serious, and Wignall just might have found his footing again. ”Oh, shut up, would you?” he says, but there’s no heat behind the words.
As Wignall swallows the first spoonful of the, by now lukewarm, soup, a thought flashes in his mind. “I didn’t know they served soup here,” he muses out loud, and watches Sion’s cheeks darken with a curious tilt of his head.
“They don’t,” Sion mutters without looking at him. “I asked the owner to make something light on the stomach,” – he crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his seat – “so complain to her if you end up sick.”
A wholly unfamiliar warmth curls up between Wignall’s lungs, and he’s left dumbstruck in the face of it. “Thank you,” he manages, too softly for the rowdy tavern, but Sion seems to hear it, anyway.
With a click of his tongue, Sion touches the back of his hand to the outside of the bowl before wincing. “Do you want me to heat it up for you?” he asks, not a trace of ire or contempt in his voice, and it’s as if something in Wignall unravels with it.
“If you would,” Wignall replies, and it feels like a beginning.