![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lenticularstudy{In which we see Connor and Morgana's entries to the Tower. Mention of minor burns.}
He nervously finger-combs red hair like his mother's, looking around the corridor; as he takes a step, he trips on the oversized blue robes, reaching a hand out to catch himself, palm landing on the stone wall. He nearly drops Practical Healing, and hurries to save it.
It all just seems so... big - the ceiling is high above him, everything encased in the same grey stone. One of the templars sees him standing there, open-mouthed, and walks towards him - he almost laughs at the sound of a templar, like one of those one-man bands he saw in Denerim, all clanks and crashes; then he sees the eerie, almost eyeless helmet, and swallows, suddenly scared.
"Lost, son?" A deep voice echoes from within the helmet, and he jumps, looking up at the armoured man.
"Um... where do I sleep?" he asks tentatively, his voice suddenly small and scared.
"Hmmm... You'll be looking for the dorms, then." There's a silence. "How old are you?"
"I'm... I'm ten, ser," he tries, remembering his mother's words: be respectful at all times. Especially when they're bigger than you and in huge armour, he adds silently.
"Ah." The templar gives him gruff directions, waving gauntlets around and pointing at things, and he nods, trying to follow.
"Thank you, ser," he says finally, and the templar gives a nod, moving away in another symphony of clanks; still carrying the heavy book, Connor begins to puff and pant his way up the stone stairs he was pointed to.
The apprentices all look round at him when he arrives, pale, freckled faces betraying their curiosity; some are older than him, many are younger, and he looks round, not knowing what to say or do next.
"Empty bed's over there," one of them mutters, pointing to it, and he thanks the boy, making his way clumsily to sit on the mattress. He watches them warily, but none of them move, many talking or relaxing with books.
He sighs, placing the small bag of belongings onto the bed, then picks up the book he was given once again, the leather warm under his hands. Another glance round, and then he cautiously opens it, staring at the contents and frowning; it's all gibberish, all speaking about rejuvenation and mana stasis...
He's ready to close it when he notices the small number written in messy, loopy handwriting in the corner of the page: a date, he thinks. He frowns, confused, then recognises the numbers stamped into his brain since childhood: Satinalia.
She saw their gaze flicker to her face, then quickly away. She looked at the sleeves of her new robes - she couldn't see them, but she still knew the burns were there.
Swallowing, frightened, and turning away from them - her bed faced the wall - she pulled up her sleeve, eyes watering at the brush of the material on sore skin, her eyes turning to the burns on her arms - her awakening to her magic had not been an easy one, and the red, shiny skin proved it.
It had all gone so wrong, she hadn't known she could, and her mother cried... She was only four, and it wasn't her fault, and it all seemed so unfair. She still hated the memory. Bottom lip wobbling, tears finally escaping, she swallowed, knowing that the first, horrible, shuddering sob would soon follow.
She was surprised when the boy with the orange - for, no matter how much she told herself that his name was Jowan, he was still "the boy with the orange" in her head - came back from his bed and sat next to her once again; he followed her gaze with his own, giving her a small, sympathetic half-smile. "Did you... make those?" At her nod, he looked over his shoulder, her instinctively turning as well.
"See him?" he asked, gesturing to an elven apprentice sat on his bed, a small knife next to him, orange neatly split into slices. The boy was taking precisely one at a time, popping them distractedly into his mouth, his head in a book that appeared to be about trees, legs absently kicking.
Jowan laughed. "Flora." Then he stopped, looking slightly remorseful. "Well, actually... Florean. Need to remember that. But... he came in with them all down here." He looked at her sadly, trailing a finger down his cheek and neck. "We're used to it." He stared nervously at the templar standing in the doorway, then back at the boy's knife. "They... They don't like us using knives, won't let us without them. I don't understand, though... He's eight, he's big enough to use scissors on his own, and they won't let us near those either."
She frowned, chewing her lip, and caught Jowan staring at her arms. When he saw her expression, he looked sheepish. "Sorry." He cautiously poked one of the burns, saw her wince with a short hiss and the tears begin to fill her eyes, and asked cautiously, "Do they really hurt?" She nodded, and he frowned. "Why don't you get them healed?"
"Healed?" She'd heard the word before, but couldn't remember where.
"Come on," he said standing up, and holding out a hand, "I can show you."
She looked up (when you were four, even five-year-olds really were extraordinarily tall) and then took it, noticing that Jowan was trying to be careful of her burns.
She also noticed that he made sure not to look at any of the steel men (templars, she reminded herself) that they passed, though she openly stared. They were just so... big.
The woman that greeted them when they came to a small office, hustling them in, was red-robed and stern, checking the marks and muttering something that sounded like, "Foolish girl."
Morgana swiftly took away her hand at being chastised, tears threatening, quite ready to walk out of the office and put up with the pain, but the woman grabbed her hand, face stern under grey hair. "No. You must have these treated, or they will scar." She sighed. "Oh, child, what have you done to yourself?"
Morgana's voice was small, frightened, as she asked, "What's scar?"
The woman sat down in a chair, eyeing her, her face turning softer. "I will tell you when you're older." She frowned down at the skinny arm before her, still tanned for now, running a hand gently along it. Morgana winced in pain at the contact, but the marks appeared to fade until they were gone; she looked, wide-eyed, at the skin, then at the woman. "It will be tender for a while," the woman added.
Jowan spoke up from behind her. "Thank you, Enchanter."
The woman nodded briskly, standing. "Now, I'm sure you must return to your dormitories. Be off with you."
Morgana stood, eager to be away. She almost didn't see the woman stop Jowan in the doorway with a soft, "Look after her."
The boy nodded obediently, standing a little straighter. "Yes, Wynne." Then he joined Morgana in the corridor, pointing to a doorway and saying cheerfully, "I think your first lesson's here, after breakfast."
"With you?" she asked hopefully, peering up at him.
He shook his head. "Oh, I'm older," he replied, pride evident in his voice, pointing up a flight of stairs. "I'm up there."
There was a moment of silence before she let out a very small, "Oh," worried that she might cry again.
Dreams & Books
- II -
Practical Healing
They give him a day before his studies start - to settle in, they said.He nervously finger-combs red hair like his mother's, looking around the corridor; as he takes a step, he trips on the oversized blue robes, reaching a hand out to catch himself, palm landing on the stone wall. He nearly drops Practical Healing, and hurries to save it.
It all just seems so... big - the ceiling is high above him, everything encased in the same grey stone. One of the templars sees him standing there, open-mouthed, and walks towards him - he almost laughs at the sound of a templar, like one of those one-man bands he saw in Denerim, all clanks and crashes; then he sees the eerie, almost eyeless helmet, and swallows, suddenly scared.
"Lost, son?" A deep voice echoes from within the helmet, and he jumps, looking up at the armoured man.
"Um... where do I sleep?" he asks tentatively, his voice suddenly small and scared.
"Hmmm... You'll be looking for the dorms, then." There's a silence. "How old are you?"
"I'm... I'm ten, ser," he tries, remembering his mother's words: be respectful at all times. Especially when they're bigger than you and in huge armour, he adds silently.
"Ah." The templar gives him gruff directions, waving gauntlets around and pointing at things, and he nods, trying to follow.
"Thank you, ser," he says finally, and the templar gives a nod, moving away in another symphony of clanks; still carrying the heavy book, Connor begins to puff and pant his way up the stone stairs he was pointed to.
The apprentices all look round at him when he arrives, pale, freckled faces betraying their curiosity; some are older than him, many are younger, and he looks round, not knowing what to say or do next.
"Empty bed's over there," one of them mutters, pointing to it, and he thanks the boy, making his way clumsily to sit on the mattress. He watches them warily, but none of them move, many talking or relaxing with books.
He sighs, placing the small bag of belongings onto the bed, then picks up the book he was given once again, the leather warm under his hands. Another glance round, and then he cautiously opens it, staring at the contents and frowning; it's all gibberish, all speaking about rejuvenation and mana stasis...
He's ready to close it when he notices the small number written in messy, loopy handwriting in the corner of the page: a date, he thinks. He frowns, confused, then recognises the numbers stamped into his brain since childhood: Satinalia.
•
A past Satinalia
She saw their gaze flicker to her face, then quickly away. She looked at the sleeves of her new robes - she couldn't see them, but she still knew the burns were there.
Swallowing, frightened, and turning away from them - her bed faced the wall - she pulled up her sleeve, eyes watering at the brush of the material on sore skin, her eyes turning to the burns on her arms - her awakening to her magic had not been an easy one, and the red, shiny skin proved it.
It had all gone so wrong, she hadn't known she could, and her mother cried... She was only four, and it wasn't her fault, and it all seemed so unfair. She still hated the memory. Bottom lip wobbling, tears finally escaping, she swallowed, knowing that the first, horrible, shuddering sob would soon follow.
She was surprised when the boy with the orange - for, no matter how much she told herself that his name was Jowan, he was still "the boy with the orange" in her head - came back from his bed and sat next to her once again; he followed her gaze with his own, giving her a small, sympathetic half-smile. "Did you... make those?" At her nod, he looked over his shoulder, her instinctively turning as well.
"See him?" he asked, gesturing to an elven apprentice sat on his bed, a small knife next to him, orange neatly split into slices. The boy was taking precisely one at a time, popping them distractedly into his mouth, his head in a book that appeared to be about trees, legs absently kicking.
Jowan laughed. "Flora." Then he stopped, looking slightly remorseful. "Well, actually... Florean. Need to remember that. But... he came in with them all down here." He looked at her sadly, trailing a finger down his cheek and neck. "We're used to it." He stared nervously at the templar standing in the doorway, then back at the boy's knife. "They... They don't like us using knives, won't let us without them. I don't understand, though... He's eight, he's big enough to use scissors on his own, and they won't let us near those either."
She frowned, chewing her lip, and caught Jowan staring at her arms. When he saw her expression, he looked sheepish. "Sorry." He cautiously poked one of the burns, saw her wince with a short hiss and the tears begin to fill her eyes, and asked cautiously, "Do they really hurt?" She nodded, and he frowned. "Why don't you get them healed?"
"Healed?" She'd heard the word before, but couldn't remember where.
"Come on," he said standing up, and holding out a hand, "I can show you."
She looked up (when you were four, even five-year-olds really were extraordinarily tall) and then took it, noticing that Jowan was trying to be careful of her burns.
She also noticed that he made sure not to look at any of the steel men (templars, she reminded herself) that they passed, though she openly stared. They were just so... big.
The woman that greeted them when they came to a small office, hustling them in, was red-robed and stern, checking the marks and muttering something that sounded like, "Foolish girl."
Morgana swiftly took away her hand at being chastised, tears threatening, quite ready to walk out of the office and put up with the pain, but the woman grabbed her hand, face stern under grey hair. "No. You must have these treated, or they will scar." She sighed. "Oh, child, what have you done to yourself?"
Morgana's voice was small, frightened, as she asked, "What's scar?"
The woman sat down in a chair, eyeing her, her face turning softer. "I will tell you when you're older." She frowned down at the skinny arm before her, still tanned for now, running a hand gently along it. Morgana winced in pain at the contact, but the marks appeared to fade until they were gone; she looked, wide-eyed, at the skin, then at the woman. "It will be tender for a while," the woman added.
Jowan spoke up from behind her. "Thank you, Enchanter."
The woman nodded briskly, standing. "Now, I'm sure you must return to your dormitories. Be off with you."
Morgana stood, eager to be away. She almost didn't see the woman stop Jowan in the doorway with a soft, "Look after her."
The boy nodded obediently, standing a little straighter. "Yes, Wynne." Then he joined Morgana in the corridor, pointing to a doorway and saying cheerfully, "I think your first lesson's here, after breakfast."
"With you?" she asked hopefully, peering up at him.
He shook his head. "Oh, I'm older," he replied, pride evident in his voice, pointing up a flight of stairs. "I'm up there."
There was a moment of silence before she let out a very small, "Oh," worried that she might cry again.
