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‘Stupid, stupid, stupid.’ Duncan’s thoughts were almost loud enough to drown out the pain in his hand. Almost. But when the wound was submerged in a bowl of ice-cold water, it felt like it was on fire all over again, and he wasn’t quick enough to stop himself from flinching.
“I know. I know, my sweet,” Rosalind chimed, her years of practice as a healer giving her a steady hand, even when the patient was her own son. She held his hand in the water while magic flowed from her fingertips to dull the stinging. “The pain’s stopped now, hasn’t it?”
He didn’t trust his voice not to crack, so he just nodded, his expression as calm and collected as he could muster.
That got a weak smile from his mother, at least. “It hurts like a bastard at first, doesn’t it?” she whispered conspiratorially, smirking as she broke her own rule against cursing. “I can’t tell you how many times I used to burn myself.”
“When you were a child,” Duncan mumbled, “Not at my age.”
Rosalind let out a breath, still holding his hand in the water. “My magic came when I was much younger. When I was three. Please, be easier on yourself, sweet boy.” She raised her spare hand as if to run her fingers through his dark curls, as she so often loved to, but thought better of it, and just reached for a cloth. “And it’ll only leave a little mark. You controlled it so well this time. It could have been so much worse”.
It had been before. Duncan’s magic came in about six months ago, not long after his and Briana’s eleventh birthday. It was a blur now. One minute, he was in the library, helping Enya with her studies. The next minute, the words were hidden by smoke, and his younger sister was screaming. Enya pleaded with him to get away from the fire, the poor girl not realising he had caused it. Maker, he hadn’t even realised he had. If his parents hadn’t heard… he did not want to think of how much worse it could have been. Once his mother had put out the flames, she pulled him into the tightest hug he had felt in his life, while Father lifted Enya off the ground and joked until her tears dried.
When the smoke cleared, he realised that, in his panic, he had flung the book at a painting and set that ablaze too. The meaning was not lost on Duncan - he’d destroyed a portrait of King Calenhad the Great, one of his namesakes. ‘Prince Duncan Calenhad Theirin. A mage. A joke.’ The thought rang through his mind even as Father tried to dismiss it all - with more jokes.
Now, as Mother took his hand from the bowl and dried it, she gave him a look as if she could read his mind. “You’re thinking too much again,” she said with a faint smile. “There's nothing to be gained from keeping these thoughts to yourself. What’s wrong?”
Under his mother's gaze, Duncan saw little point in lying. “You were fighting with Father.”
“Oh, was I?” she didn’t even look up and just started wrapping the bandages around Duncan’s hand.
“Everyone was talking about it. Said you hadn’t shouted like that in years.”
She smiled at that, but it was a well-practised smile. “Well, if they’re saying it around court, it must be true.”
Duncan loathed it when his parents did this. Mother was better at it than Father - hiding uncomfortable truths - but he wouldn’t have her ignore this one.
“It was about me.”
She paused at that but still didn’t look up. “It was nothing, my sweet. We had a disagreement. It’s not our first.”
“You threw something at him.”
“No, I didn’t-,” she cut herself off with a huff. “It was… animated. Yes. Regretfully so. But we’re fine now.”
He paused before he spoke again, trying to mask his fear over what he had to ask.
“Am I going to the Circle?”
She dropped the bandages, letting them fall loosely from his hand. Finally, she looked him in the eyes. “Where did you get such an idea?” she asked, firmly. “There are no Circles. How would you ever be sent to one? Who told you such a thing?”
He swallowed before he spoke again. His mother’s words may have dismissed this, but her tone certainly didn’t. “Not... not the Circle like it was-” for you, went unsaid. “-but where it was. The tower on Lake Calenhad. That’s where father wanted to send me. To train.”
She shook her head, “No”. She spoke unwaveringly once again, but managed a motherly softness this time. One hand went to his wound, gracing her thumb over the bandages. The other cupped his face. “You aren’t going anywhere. You’ve a mother who can teach you. Your brother, or Morrigan even, if I lack the talent for it.”
‘Kieran having to teach me - Father would love that.’ Duncan thought. ‘ His perfect son who gets everything right. The one who makes him smile the most. The one who never gives him any trouble.’
He forced those feelings down, “Father wants me to go.”
Mother sighed that time. “No, my sweet, he doesn’t want you to go. He doesn’t want you to go anywhere.”
“Because you yelled at him.”
“Because he thought about what he was suggesting for more than two seconds,” she continued. “And even in that fleeting moment, he only had your best interests at heart. He sees how frustrated you get-”
“-when I burn a painting down, or a book, or myself,” Duncan felt angry tears fill his eyes. “Months later, and still not any better. He’s disappointed in me, isn’t he? He wants me to learn faster. To be like you. And like Kieran.”
Mother gave him a look, halfway between frustration and hurt. She had even less tolerance for any ill feelings towards his half-brother than Father did, something Duncan understood less and less the older he grew.
“He wants you to be happy and safe,” she reasoned, softly but firmly. “He thought the College might give you that. My reaction…,” she winced before speaking again “...well, you know I grew up there. In that tower. I wasn’t rational.”
A silence fell between them. Duncan had so much to say, and no idea how to say it. He hated this. He hated how powerless he felt, and how this brought out the worst in everyone. He hated knowing that mother and father - the ones he'd never seen raise their voice at one another - were now having to tolerate snickers behind their backs about how they'd fought. About him.
Mother was saying some more words of encouragement as she finished dressing his wound, but they faded into the background. When he spoke again, it was sudden and muted.
“When do they stop looking at you like that?” he was unsure how to even describe it himself. But Mother knew. Mother had suffered it even worse.
For a moment, it looked like she might speak earnestly, but then shook her head. “You’re a Theirin, first and foremost. They’ll have their daft comments, but nothing will take that from you. It won’t be like it was… like it can be for others.”
“Like it was for you?” he asked, already knowing the answer. He didn’t want her comfort anymore. He wanted the truth.
She gave him a look like he might be in trouble, but then something shifted. And suddenly, she stopped looking at him like he was a boy no taller than her knee. “Like it was for me,” she echoed. After a moment passed, she finally gave him an honest smile. “You’re too clever for your own good, you know? Maker knows where you get that from. Kieran’s influence, I’d argue.”
“I got it from you, Mum,” he smiled.
She only shook her head. “I’m foolish enough to argue with your father within earshot of people who hate-,” she stopped, sanitising her language. “- dislike me. I should have known better. I can’t stand the thought of you suffering the whispers around the palace.”
‘Their whispers have said worse. Far worse. About me. About you’. No good would come of telling her this. No good at all. Briana always ran to Mother with the insults she heard. Whoever uttered them would be in trouble, but it was not worth the hassle.
“So it doesn't stop? The looks,” he asked.
She let her hands fall to her lap, and she looked at him with sympathy. “The looks will be different now,” she finally admitted. “I’m… I'm sorry, sweet boy.”
Guilt. Mother had that look about her sometimes. The first time was when he asked if this would stop him from being king one day. Not that he particularly wanted it, but the thought of that alone being what gave the crown to his sister drove him to anger.
“Mum, it's not your fault-”
They were pulled from their dark cloud by a booming voice coming from the door, and the unmistakeable sound of armour clanging.
“How are you two getting on, then?” Father, back from sword practice with Briana, no doubt. He looked as if he had something clever to say, but changed his mind once he saw them huddled together. Instead, he leaned down to give Mother a kiss, then crouched down to be at their level, undeterred by Duncan’s pouting.
“Ros, Bri’s a bit enthusiastic after her lesson. Could you make sure she isn't using her sister as a training dummy?” he asked Mother, who gave him a smile and a nod in return. She rose to her feet and pressed a kiss to Father’s forehead, lingering a moment to whisper something in his ear. She then squeezed Duncan’s shoulder as she turned away, leaving the pair alone.
“Mother said it won't be too bad,” Duncan started. “I’ll put gloves on when the stinging has gone away, no one will notice.”
His father raised an eyebrow at that. “And why would you do that, pup?”
Duncan sounded even more confused. “So they don’t want me gone,” ‘like you do’. “So they don’t think I’ll set them on fire next”.
Face full of concern, Father brought a hand to his back. “No one wants you gone. And if they did, they would be gone. Out on their arse. And they’d wish they’d only been set on fire”. Not getting an answer, he leaned closer. “I don’t care what they think, but I get it. If anyone says anything-”
“-I’ll put up with it. Mum does.” he interrupted, slightly more bitter than he intended.
“You’ll tell us, and we’ll deal with it,” Father left no room for argument. “I won’t have my son feel unwelcome in his own home.”
His home. His home, that Father considered casting him out of. To the other side of the country, all on his own, while his parents and sisters stayed in Denerim with the ordinary people.
Father sighed, “Duncan…”
“It’s fine. ”
There was a pause between them as Father thought for a moment. When he spoke again, it was much softer. “The fight with Mum… I’m sorry you had to hear about that. Maker, if we thought for a moment that anyone would hear us…”
“-It’s not like you ever fight. Just about me. That’s what everyone was saying - that I made you have your first fight years .”
“No, you didn’t,” Father’s voice was firm again, before turning lighter. “You didn’t make us do anything. We are perfectly capable of making mistakes on our own. We always have been.”
Duncan glared at him, in no mood for it. “Just send me away if you want to. It’s fine.”
That put an end to any joke Father might have made.“Send you away?”
“Not to the tower, Mum would worry. To Morrigan, maybe. Or a tutor outside the city. Somewhere I don’t get in your way.”
Father was dumbfounded. “You think I want…” he trailed off, struggling to even say it. “You think that’s why I suggested the College? To be rid of you?” the word sounded ugly, and it pained him.
Duncan didn’t say anything, just looked up at his father from beneath the curls over his face, trying to look more stoic than sad.
“Maker’s breath- I would have gone with you!” father cried.
It took a moment for the words to register, like Duncan didn’t quite understand what he was being told. “Why… why didn't you say that to Mum, when you were fighting about it?”
“I did. But she wants you nowhere near that place, under any circumstances. She said as much before you were even born,” he grimaced, no doubt remembering the fight. “I shouldn't have even suggested it. But I just hated seeing you pile on the pressure. I thought…” he trailed off. “It’s near Redcliffe, we could have stayed there for a while. Just you and me, away from all this. ”
Duncan was shocked to silence. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words never came. Father pulled him into a hug, and before he knew it, tears were falling. His own, his father’s. For the past six months, he felt as if he was a different species from the man crouched in front of him. Now, it's like they understood each other perfectly.
When he looked up, Father had the same pained expression Mother sometimes has whenever she spoke of the Circle. He wondered why. He wondered how a king could have experiences remotely comparable to a mage who was locked up until adulthood. But he didn't want to push further. Father may not have been forthcoming with his words, but his hug told him freely that, to a certain degree, he understood.
“I’m sorry,” Father mumbled, his hands now in his son’s hair. “I’m sorry you ever felt that… that I didn’t want to be around you. Maker, it’s all I want. All I want is for us to be a family. Always. I don’t want you to ever feel like…” He never finished his thought, only squeezed the boy harder.
When he pulled back, Duncan saw his father’s brown eyes full of tears and made no effort to hide his own anymore. Father managed a slight smile before speaking again. “I might not be able to help you fling fireballs or shoot lightning bolts, but I will be here for you, always”. He cupped his face and smiled even stronger. “And your practice sword is still in the yard, right where you left it. I’ll give you some lessons on your own so you can catch up to Bri. It’ll be like nothing happened.”
Duncan couldn’t fight the urge to smile. “But… my hand…”
Father shook his head. “Maybe you can learn with the other one while you heal. Ambidextrous and a mage? You’ll be unstoppable.”
Finally, Duncan laughed. He looked at the bandages and smiled. “I don’t like gloves. They get in the way of everything.”
“Good. Good,” Father nodded in approval. “And they’re so easily lost. Better to leave them behind, saves your mother nagging us both.”
Duncan rolled his eyes with a grin and they both rose to their feet, ready to leave, “I’ll tell Mum you said that.”
Father laughed, putting an arm around him as they walked. “I suppose I should get used to this. A mage alliance against your dear old dad.”
“Kieran and Morrigan too,” Duncan said with a smile, surprising even himself. “You’ll be outnumbered when they’re here now.”
With a toothy grin, Father hugged him even closer. “Oh, the horror…”