(Three or Four Years Prior to Now)


Suite 5

It was a luxurious and opulent cage that he was kept within. It enhanced his beauty, emphasized his grace. It was a dream of comfort even more beautiful than the palace of his home. The airy and elegant suite opened to a small garden, a perfect jewel of nature in miniature.

It was still a cage.

Mist couldn't escape it, though he tried. Each time he found a weak point to exploit, it was promptly shored up. Endlessly and restlessly, he pressed and found nothing. Even as powerful as he was.

He wished, sometimes, that it wasn't so pleasant. It was a seductive thing, that comfort.

It was so comfortable in that cage, and when he was free, his life was a struggle. Even when he believed that he had found peace and acceptance, it wasn't that at all. Then it was gone, and it took all that was left of a fragile sanity with it.

He couldn't look after himself. He had been set up to fail his entire life. And fail he had. He hadn't even managed to destroy himself in a spectacular manner. His life crumbled around him and he couldn't understand why or how.

Rock bottom had never been so beautiful.



http://i.imgur.com/FfryuOU.jpg

(Four or Five Years Prior to Now)


Kitty Helston, Angel of Darkness

It was a long time ago. He remembered some of it vividly, those pieces stamped into his mind in the fresh blood of sheer terror. Some was vague and strange, spatters of decayed ink thrown from a broken pen.

He would awaken from nightmares of it, drenched in sweat, shuddering and struggling to scream against the bizarre paralysis that sleep cast over the mind and body. It sometimes took hours for him to realize it was in the past. That he was safe.

It just never made sense. It was a joke. A prank. A harmless little lark. Except that it featured his ass, distinctive with a rune cut into one cheek, his room number at the Red Dragon Inn, and an invitation to all comers displayed all throughout the city.

He did not think it was very funny. It was less funny when strange men began to show up at the inn, marching to his room and banging on the door. It was terrifying when one managed to grab him and dragged him several feet down the hallway before Mist was able to cast a spell to drive the man away.

He remember laying on his side for hours in the hallway, curled into a ball in shadows. Cold with shock and fear, his hands trembling so badly, he wasn't sure how he'd been able to cast at all. Even as he cowered there, a few more men tramped up the stairs and knocked on his door. One tried to break it down, but the ward Mist cast over it held.

There was no safety anywhere. It was only a matter of time. He was marked. He tried to take the signs down, only to find they not only returned, but multiplied. He pleaded with the one responsible for them, and found only a nasty smirk and assurances that it wasn't a cruel or dangerous thing at all. It was a cute and fun little joke.

Heartbreaking, when he had considered that one a friend. He couldn't understand why it had been done. What he'd done to deserve such a thing. He had trusted, and that trust had been betrayed in the worst possible way.

It couldn't have been jealousy or thwarted lust, he had never hid the fact that he was celibate. He had been celibate back then. It was part of his culture. It was part of what he was. It was no artificial vow taken at the whim of an inscrutable deity. It wasn't the bitterness of a lost romance.

It was not a challenge to be bested.

Now he knew better, but nothing could change the past.

Mist's options were boiling down quickly to moving on and praying that no one who'd found the fliers and signs would recognize him on the road and locking himself forever in his room.

It happened again as he left his room the next morning. A woman this time, impossibly powerful, insisting on having the pretty little elf boy, and Mist snapped entirely, struggling like a crazed animal to escape. Her derision, her mocking sneers, pushed him past coherency. He lashed out blindly, violently, desperate to escape.

She was gone when he returned to his senses. He groaned misery and agony as he slowly got his feet under him. He had to escape. He staggered down the stairs, only to fall into Kitty's arms. He scarcely knew the woman, yet she smiled. She smoothed his hair and assessed his wounds. She asked him what had happened.

Mist clung to the woman and told her everything. Kitty pressed her lips together, anger licking at her eyes, though she spoke soothingly to him. She would take care of everything. He needn't worry another moment. No one would bother him again.

And that was that. The signs and fliers vanished and never returned. The photographs taken of him nude without his knowledge or consent, negatives and all, ceased to exist. Even his room, the door would vanish when someone sought for it who wasn't invited.

Kitty made sure he was all right. That he was safe, and guaranteed that he would always be safe, under her protection. She saw his hurts healed, made sure he had eaten, and sent him back to bed where he finally could sleep.

She didn't do it because he was beautiful, because she wanted to take him to bed. She did it because he was a terrified boy who needed help badly. She did it because despite everything else she was, she was a decent person at heart.

It was nothing to Kitty, it was everything to Mist. He cherished that memory of her. A person who reached out to him not because he was sexy or valuable or virginal, but because he was a person who needed help. He had nothing to return to her but his thanks, and that was enough for her.

That had never happened to him before. For the first time in his life, he was not a commodity. He was just Mist, a nice young man. She wanted nothing from him at all but his friendship, and that only if he wanted to give it.

How he wished he had been wise enough to understand the true gift that Kitty had given him then.

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Little Wanderer

(Three or Four Years Prior to Now)


"Tell me of your parents," Hraefn demanded lazily, flipping through a clipboard as he sprawled upon his throne like chair. He made notes now and again, though watched Mist keenly. Rather than to be draped in silks, the young elf was warmly clad in soft linen, sitting in a quiet curl beside the fireplace playing a spare and simple melody on a lute.

"My parents," Mist replied softly with a flex of fingertips against the fret board. A harmonic sounded, modulating into a chord, "Shall I sing you the five hour long song of their ascent?"

"Please don't."

Shrugging faintly, Mist simply returned his gaze to his fingers. Continued to play, soft and wispy.

"My father had been a rather sheltered prince. Likely the first to be so sheltered, it was more important for him to learn statecraft than war. The social issues of that time were complicated, unexpected. As it turned out, being smashingly gorgeous in armor and brilliant and bold on the battlefield really did nothing at all towards ruling the common elf. And the common elf was not particularly pleased to be seen as such."

"There was singing and chivalry in that too, as I recall," Hraefn pointed out, droll. Mist snorted once, soft and ironic.

"My grandfather was tone deaf and could not string three words together for a song. Something that no one ever spoke of, but always made certain he had someone writing beautiful songs and poems for him," he admitted, "And as for chivalry, well. He was a good bit of the reason that there was a divide in the people. He liked smoking hot red head chambermaids."

"Ah. One can hardly blame him, but I presume he was married."

"Yes. Of course to the sister of once his greatest enemy and well, no one could just meet a girl at a dance or party. It was always an epic adventure," Mist replied, dryly, "But. That was where my father came from. He saw the damage his father was doing. It all but destroyed his mother, not to mention the kingdom."

"I understand," Hraefn nodded, glancing again to Mist. He seemed quiet, focused on the lute, but the older man could see the amount of thought in golden eyes.

"Things were becoming precarious for my grandfather, particularly after my grandmother left him to cross the sea. It was the only honorable thing she could do. Both my father and his brother were of age, so..."

"Why didn't you do this?" Hraefn demanded, his brows knitting. Mist shook his head.

"I am not welcome there."

"Very well. Continue."

"Grandfather refused to leave the throne as my father had not proven to be a strong, adventuring man. So, mother's brother sent a man, Gul, to take Father on an epic adventure to shut the old man up and to prevent the kingdom from collapse. They named me for him, but I've never met him," Mist went on, shrugging slightly. "After that, Father took over. He was able to re-structure the kingdom and it finally became a stable place."

Hraefn's brows knit slightly, but he nodded.

"Mother, he met at a party, but in the songs, it was a charming little encounter involving monsters and riddles and a spinning wheel," Mist scoffed softly, "They married. They promptly had three sons, one after the other, and doted over them."

"Was she of royal blood?" Hraefn inquired, head tilting as he wrote on the clipboard. Mist snorted once.

"Is there particularly a blonde haired elf that is not? She was, actually. A duchess or something. Though the minstrels liked to say she was a modest spinner helping to support her poor farming family. True, but not accurate. The farm covered acres, and she spins because she enjoys it."

"They sound like a decent pair of parents," Hraefn pointed out. Mist nodded agreement after a moment, his hands stilling on the lute.

"I was born when my brothers were nearly grown. My mother kept a suite within the castle that was home for us. Where we did our own cooking and cleaning, and were a family. By the time I was born, my brothers were off at their schooling, learning to be knights. I don't remember much of that time. I remember Mother singing and playing with me. She would call me 'little wanderer' because I loved to run off and play in the gardens, and she wouldn't know where I was and suddenly, I would be rescued from the dirt or a pond by a squad of palace guards."

Hraefn laughed faintly despite himself. It wasn't difficult to see a cubby and giggling boy in the sad eyed youth sitting at the hearth.

"Father would read to me, take me for rides on his horse, build with blocks. He liked to work with wood. I remember, he built a little rocking horse for me. All sorts of toys," Mist added slowly, his brows knitting as he pressed at his memories.

"That doesn't sound like you were always unloved, Mist. It sounds as if you were very well loved," Hraefn pointed out, "Did you have any friends?"

Mist started to push away Hraefn's observation but was distracted by the question. He exhaled slowly, perplexed, but finally nodded.

"Other children my age, I think. Probably the children of the courtiers. The court was huge, it was always a problem, there was always drama. Father and Mother were often exhausted dealing with it."

"Did they love each other?"

Mist glanced to Hraefn, perplexed, then laughed faintly, nodding.

"They did. Very much. I walked in on them once. They told me that they were just playing horsie."

Hraefn turned his head, then choked and started laughing. Mist grinned, a little crookedly, but finally laughed as well, soft and fading.

"That was the only time I had a nanny, after that. She would sit outside my bedroom after they put me to bed, and catch me before I could go barreling into my parent's room until after dawn."

"You know how unusual that is, Mist. That a royal couple would tend that closely to their children and each other."

Mist nodded, lowering his head.

"One thing I am curious about. You have three older brothers. Why were you named for Gul?" Hraefn mused, considering with a light tap of his pen to the clipboard. Mist glanced to him, a sharp tick of gaze and frown.

"...I don't know. He was my father's greatest friend. A friend of my mothers."

"Were your brothers named for family or friends?" Hraefn wondered. Mist shook his head slowly.

"Interesting. Play for me, Kitten. Sing," Hraefn murmured, lowering his gaze back to the clipboard. Mist watched him for a long moment, perplexed. He started to ask several times why it was so interesting, but finally, exhaling softly, returned to the lute. He tested his voice softly against the strum of string, singing along quietly a few moments later.

It was interesting, now that he thought about it. If his parents were going to name one of their children for their friend, it would have been the eldest. Not the youngest. Unless there was a reason.

Mist just couldn't think what that reason might be.



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Study

(Three or Four Years Prior to Now)


"I don't want to study this anymore," Mist noted quietly, lifting his troubled gaze from the ancient scroll stretched out before him. He was stunningly beautiful, draped in sheer white veils, a gift from Madam. Hraefn admired the youth for several moments before he tilted a brow, moving to sit across the finely made library table from Mist.

"Have you always been able to say what you do and don't like?" Hraefn asked unexpectedly. Mist drew back slightly, his brows knitting. After a moment, he shook his head.

"...No. I did, when I was young. While I was apprentice to Master Grygor, I must not speak so, or I would be beaten. Even if I was right."

"But now you do."

"There was a girl that I knew. She would scold me to say what I truly felt. I liked her very much, but she always turned away before anyone could say anything like that to her. She was... very wise and very foolish. I still liked her quite a lot," Mist responded with a slight shrug.

"I see. You must have, if you listened to her."

"I saw how dangerous it would be if I did not," Mist admitted slowly. "But it was a hard lesson to learn. It was very frightening. I don't like to be hurt, and saying as much would earn a beating."

Hraefn nodded, thoughtful, setting the small orrery he studied to the desk top.

"Yet there are things that we must do. Even though we do not like them," Mist exhaled softly a moment later, golden eyes tilting back to the scroll, "I would be fascinated to learn of the runes cut into my body if it didn't make me remember..."

"Your memories tend to cripple you, Kitten. You have not learned to take the lessons they taught you and leave the rest to burn," Hraefn informed him quietly. Mist sighed faintly. He couldn't deny that.

"You speak as if you do know to leave the pain behind, but it is only that you fear to be beaten. So you talk with vague generalities, place yourself as a handy point of blame, name no names and offer little emotion," Hraefn pointed out pleasantly. Mist could only dip a faint nod of agreement.

"So when you tell me that you don't wish to study these runes, but you will anyhow, it is nearly worthless to your soul. They tortured you. Systematically. They performed atrocities upon you which would bring the ire of every good hearted being that knew of it," Hraefn prodded. Mist's eyes closed.

"No one cared, Master Hraefn. Why would they? All I was to my people was the arrogant and spoiled little cats-paw of my uncle who stupidly marched into my father's throne room and planted a destructive spell which would have killed nearly all of the court," Mist responded quietly, shaking his head, "That I suddenly realized that I was doing this and turned myself and the spell into the captain of the guard only granted me the mildest of clemencies."

"I question this. You were a little boy. Not a skilled and trained courtier," Hraefn noted, raising a dark brow.

"They hated me since I was born, and I've never known why," Mist exhaled, shifting his position, hands covering his face, elbows propped on the table, "Oh, I remember little moments with my mother and father. I remember her holding me and smiling, and him reading some book of valor and courage to me. But those memories are few and faded. They give me no comfort."

"That doesn't sound like hate, Kitten."

"Maybe they didn't, not at first. But. My brothers... I have three older brothers, they're quite a lot older than I. They were nearly adult when I was born. They resented me. They didn't want me. I remember Mother would dress me as a little page and send me to them. I must be good for them. I must show them how much I love and admire them. Little Mist. Little Page. They would sneer at me, tease me cruelly, and abandon me the moment they had a chance."

"Ah," Hraefn nodded, encouraging Mist to continue.

"I remember Mother and Father scolding them. They are knights, and a true knight would give no harm to an innocent. They responded that they were knights, and were entirely fed up that Mother and Father would rather hover over a little brat soiling his nappies than to admire the heroes that they had become," Mist added with a wry smile. Hraefn laughed once.

"Your brothers sound every bit as spoiled as any high elf knight I have met."

"All I can think was that to finally bring peace to the family, they began to distance me. When I was... I don't remember. Well. My uncle demanded that they give me to him. I didn't know why he wanted me then. I don't even know how it was that he remained in the court, he made no secret of it that he wanted my father's throne, that he hated my mother, that there were several incidents that looked very like he had tried to kill them with orchestrated accidents," Mist murmured, slow and listless.

"I told you, Kitten. The intrigues of court are ridiculous, power corrupts and power blinds," Hraefn replied dryly.

"So. I became ward to Uncle Hylar. He told me I was wonderful, lovely, I should show the world how beautiful I was. He taught me to be vain and preening and thought it was great fun. He taught me to be a smart mouthed little brat and applauded every nasty thing that came out of my mouth. He taught me mean little cantrips and spells and insinuated that I was tremendously powerful," Mist shrugged, shaking his head, "As it turned out, he was correct, but I can't say he had the ability to recognize that. He is a moron."

"Ah, I understand now. He made sure, that just in case his plan with the bomb didn't go off, no one would ever trust you again, and thus, embitter you. Giving him a second chance to use you," Hraefn pointed out. Mist pressed his lips together, nodding.

"He was also friends with Master Grygor. He had his own agenda."

"Which brings us back to the runes. I know you don't want to study them, Kitten, but you must. You must understand the depths of the wrong done to you, even though the runes enhance your powers and are very beautiful. And, Mist... I want you to be angry. I want you to be hurt. I want you to be furious at what was done and how. I don't want you to meekly accept. You will not be beaten. Do you understand me?"

Mist's head tilted upwards as Hraefn reached over to lift his chin, intently studying golden eyes with a dark power, his eyes sheening silvers before fading back to a glistening blue. Mist nodded once.

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Snap

(Three or Four Years Prior to Now)


"This was a very poorly thought out idea, Master Moron Hraefn," Madam snapped, "I told you to focus on building trust and hope, not to ripping open parts of his psyche that are better left to someone with discretion!"

"Ow, damn it! Would you mind saving the recriminations for after we've gotten his goddamn teeth out of my shoulder?!" Hraefn barked, wrestling what had been his gentle and sweet and submissive thrall from the ruins of a marble and brass table.

The parlor was a disaster. Set for tea and a proper meeting between Madam and Mist, nothing seemed amiss. Until just before the older couple entered the room. Mist snapped like a twig, and finding himself unable to cast any spells, he turned violently upon the furniture.

It had been an awesome sight, truly. Mist lifted and pitched the heavy table as if it weighed nothing. He screamed, howled, in broken and agonized Sindari, smashing everything he could. It was when his fevered gaze honed in on a shard of broken glass that Hraefn acted, rushing in to tackle the youth.

Mist heaved Hraefn back, hysteria lending him a horrific strength, his mouth red and wet with the man's blood. He promptly turned the glass on himself, a keening whine screeched, trying to shave the runes from his chest.

"Seize his mind or you will lose him, Hraefn!" Madam yelled, gathering her skirts and trying to get through the wreckage to Mist. Hraefn's teeth set. He did not want to teach Mist to become dependent upon him, but he couldn't let the elf destroy himself.

Hraefn focused heavily upon Mist, instantly taking up the trammeling of his mind. He quickly punched through the cloistering the elf had managed and enforced a quiet calm over Mist's mind. Mist stopped, confused, staring at the glass thrust through his skin. He wasn't able to recognize the pain.

An instant later, he twisted control from Hraefn, a vicious snarl on his face, slashing violently at himself. Madam froze, stunned, and clipped her gaze to Hraefn. He exhaled, holding up a palm to her, nodding once.

He would do what he had to do in order to protect Mist. The parlor flooded with silvered light, everything that Hraefn was altering while remaining essentially the same. Madam's eyes widened, her mouth falling open. She fell to her knees, staring at Hraefn in wonder. Mist stood like a forgotten marionette, hanging on slack strings. His head lolled downwards in a shrouding of blond hair, his arms hung at his sides. He stood awkwardly and swayed.

"I am very pleased you found your anger and pain at what was done to you, Mist," Hraefn murmured, his voice carrying a vast and loving power, "Release that anger, release that pain."

"No," Mist replied dully. Hraefn quirked a brow. The young elf was powerful, indeed.

"Why not?"

"I don't want anyone to do this to me again."

"You don't need the anger and pain to do that, Mist. Only the knowledge that it is wrong and that you are allowed to defend yourself from it," Hraefn soothed gently, carefully caressing over the youth's mind and brain alike to restore calm to his being.

"Why? Why did they do this to me? What did I do to deserve this?" Mist whispered in a disturbingly childish voice.

"They were evil. They saw the power in you and wanted to use it, to control it, and to debase you simply because you were son of the king," Hraefn explained, moving closer to Mist.

"I would have done anything for them if they just ? just... didn't hurt me," Mist whispered, "I wanted to be loved so much."

"You can't do anything for the pretense of love, Mist," Madam told him gently, slowly clambering to her feet once more, "You must learn who you can trust."

"I can't love anymore. It doesn't matter," Mist responded with little more than a soft sigh, his voice returning to its normal tenor.

"It does, sweetling. You can have friends. Friends that you trust. That trust you. That only want you, Mist, and not your body or your power," Madam smiled, reaching out gently to work the glass shard from his fingers. She winced at the blood dripping from the glass, his skin, and still caressed his hand. His fingers twitched slightly, gripping at hers.

"...Okay," Mist replied, cautious, but with a slight sliver of hope touching at his tone. He slowly lifted his head, his golden eyes a dull yellow, the rune's blue illumination overcome with the ugly red tone of scar tissue.

Release the anger. Release the pain. He had held it so long, he didn't know what it was. He drew in a breath and held it for a moment. Now that he understood, though it was at a very basic and childish level, Mist did as he was told: he let the anger and pain flow out of him.

It was strange. It was as if there was more room within him. More space. More light. He gazed upon that in his inner sight, touching to the spectral blue in wonder. Slowly, that energy leached back to the undamaged runes, lit the gold of his eyes back to a gentle glow.

"...What happened?" he asked, confused. Hraefn exhaled and smiled. The silvered light filling the room faded. He reached out and carefully gathered Mist into his arms.

"We decided that now knowing what most of the runes mean, we will alter them to become truly yours, remove what is wrong about them, and we will do this without pain or fear."

"I don't want to be hurt," Mist whimpered.

"I promise you, Kitten. You will not be hurt," Hraefn vowed, kissing Mist's sweat damp brow.




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Elder Brother

(Several Decades Prior to Now)

There was tangible disappointment along with the excitement when Prince Isillan arrived at the Great Lyceum of the Golden Hand. Only one of the fabled Heroes Three, yet still, one of the fabled Heroes Three.

The deeds and feats of the three elven brothers were thrilling legend and verse in the bard's hands, telling the stories of maidens rescued, kingdoms saved, horrible beasts slain, entire armies of darkness scattered to the winds. The younger apprentices crowded around the courtyard as the prince rode in, the small number of female students gathered in a balcony overlooking the yard, all in their finest gowns, giggling and huddled together as they watched.

Far less enchanted, Master Grygor stood watching from his office window, a ponderous frown on his features. Even one of the noble Heroes Three was one too many. He glanced over his shoulder to Mist as the boy industriously scribed spellwork for the old man.

Older now than when Grygor began to cut the Engravings into his skin, Mist was a lanky and slender teenager who didn't have the decency to be anywhere near as awkward as a human lad at the same stage of development. That alone irritated Grygor, though he realized it was ridiculous. Mist was an elf, not a human.

It further irritated him that Mist was an elf. Had he been human, Grygor would have cherished the boy. Just as well, the times that he had such human lads, he allowed them far too much leeway, and all had failed to become more than country mages in small holdings with hackneyed powers and unfinished Engravings.

"Why would Prince Isillan come here, Mist?" he demanded. Mist hesitated, then glanced back at his Master. The runes on his face were brightly obvious.

"I do not know, Master. I have had no correspondence from him, ever."

"Hm. Nor have I. Someone had to have summoned him. If it was Melchion, I will have his balls for the potion it takes to kill him," Grygor hissed, his eyes narrowed, "If he asks for you, you are to refuse to be alone with him. You must have your Master with you. You will follow my lead in all things. Do you understand me, Mist?"

"Yes, Master," Mist replied softly.

"Pull your cowl over your head and leave it there. You will say nothing of the Engravings, and if he does see them, then you will assure him that they are frivolous tattoos, nothing more than vanity."

"Yes, Master," Mist agreed, reaching back to draw the hood over his head.

"They would not have sent only one of the Heroes Three if they believed there were any troubles to avert. They only send one if they bear important messages or that daft queen wants to throw another 'I Am So Very Beautiful' party. Stay here and continue your work. I will summon you if you are needed," Grygor muttered, irritably stroking his chin.

"Yes, Master," Mist nodded, picking the quill up once more.

"And for the sake of the Saints, would you please put some style into your transcriptions? They're deadly dull. Ink is not in short supply. Every other apprentice in this university is capable of at least copying over the original illustrations and illuminations if they have no imagination of their own," Grygor snapped irritably as he took stock of himself in a mirror. He snarled faintly and turned to his dressing chamber, changing into robes befitting the meeting.

"I am sorry, Master, I did not want to risk improperly transcribing the work," Mist replied, carefully raising his voice as Grygor moved. The man was far more deaf than he would admit.

"You know the price of improper work, Mist," Grygor reminded him flatly, smoothing out the fine white linen, draping a golden sash finished with small golden hands over his shoulders, symbol of the lyceum's purpose and creed.

"Yes, Master," Mist replied with a shuddering. Grygor smirked to see that before he drew a surcoat of gold over his robes and walked from the chamber just as the steward was sent to fetch him.

Prince Isillan was perfection. Over seven foot in height, muscular yet lithe, his hair a breathtaking fall of purest silver. His eyes were a gleaming green, his face sculpted to the apex of masculine beauty. His armor was crafted of mithril, shimmering silks of the royal colors green and gold making up his surcoat and the barding on his elegant white horse.

Clearly aware of the awestruck attention upon him, Isillan dismounted with an air of ceremony, refusing to hand the reins of his horse to the waiting stable boy, waiting until the stable master himself stepped up. He gave curt orders for the care of the animal before he strode purposefully to the main building.

The welcoming hall of the lyceum was a grand and gothic place, each gracious archway carven with figures of masters past, mythic figures, animals and floral displays. Gilding winked from each panel, the hand motif repeated throughout the d?cor. Isillan was clearly unimpressed as he marched to stand before the lectern of the master. Grygor inclined his head to the elf, a mild smile on his lips.

"Prince Isillan, to what do we owe the honor? My younger students are all quite thrilled. I am curious," he noted evenly. Issilan removed his helm, then his gloves, looking around with an insulting snarl of distaste before responding.

"I bring greetings from my revered parents, the King and Queen of Malathais, which extends protection and patronage to this college," he announced, his voice powerful, fluid, and bored, "This despite the fact that persons among the faculty of this establishment were known to give succor and assistance to certain known enemies of the crown."

Grygor smiled, though annoyance burned through him. Arrogant ass.

"We gratefully accept the greetings, as we do their patronage. As for the unfortunate incident that you refer, I remind you that we were unaware of the circumstances, and only knew that heinous criminal of whom you refer as a researcher of our archives. He was immediately banned from our libraries and lands once the truth was known."

"Indeed. And accepted the fruits of his evil in attempt to turn that back towards a proper path," Isillan agreed, annoyance pulling at his tone. It wasn't easy to intimidate Grygor.

"It was I, myself, who presented this solution. The boy is extremely powerful. Training him in the goodly arts away from the wickedness he had been exposed to would offer a path of redemption. It also gives us the opportunity to assure the king and queen and the people of this land that he may never turn again from a righteous course, as we maintain control of his abilities," Grygor explained with a pious smile, his hands folding over his chest as he bowed slightly.

"And has this come to pass?" Isillan demanded. Grygor paused faintly, studying the man through a mask of gentle good humor. King Alwine was a clever man. It would occur to him to ferret out any plots and plans against him under the guise of checking upon his little black sheep.

"From the moment he was brought within our doors, Prince Isillan. For our protection and his."

"Bring him," Isillan snapped. Grygor smiled and nodded once more, gesturing to one of the stewards. He waited in calm silence, making no effort to offer any further hospitality to the prince.

Mist stepped silently into the hall, walking to the central aisle and stopping short some ten feet from the prince, his head lowered, his cowl pulled low. He bowed deeply, then slipped to kneel before Isillan.

Isillan regarded him in disgust, abruptly stalking forward, a hand on his sword. Grygor stared, shocked.

"Prince Isillan, you may not harm my student," he barked. Isillan snarled at the old man, yanking Mist's cowl back.

"I would not risk a kin-slayer curse even upon this miserable dog. Calm yourself. I must assure myself of his identity."

"Then have the courtesy to remove your hand from your weapon, or you may place it into the care of our steward if you find it difficult to refrain from such threatening gestures," Grygor replied with a terse politeness. Isillan smirked, his hand moving from the hilt of the blade.

"Sunpoint may only ever be within my care, Master Grygor, therefore I shall attend your request. Lift your head, boy, look at me."

Mist exhaled slowly and raised his face, looking upon Isillan with as impassive a demeanor as he could manage. His eyes were filled with misery.

"Lovely. You've taken to drawing upon your face again as you did when you were a child," Isillan snorted, reaching down to jerk Mist's head to the side, inspecting the runes. "What is this supposed to be?"

"Only a tattoo," Mist replied in a soft, meek voice.

"It is a fad of the youngsters. They fancy arcane designs upon their faces, so that it would be known they are studying the craft. It is harmless," Grygor shrugged slightly.

"I would think that you would have informed the king before you allowed this creature to further mar himself," Isillan snapped coldly, releasing Mist's chin with a sharp push. Mist rocked back slightly, his eyes lowering.

"He is outcast. His appearance matters not."

Isillan considered that, finally nodding.

"True. I need to speak with him."

"Speak," Grygor encouraged, "I cannot allow you to speak alone with him, Prince, he is frightened, as you can see, and you have done nothing to allay his fear. It would be far more remiss for me to allow a man with good reason to hate him to be alone with him than to allow him to have a silly tattoo placed upon him."

Isillan glared at Grygor, his lips pressed together tightly. He was a hero. He was a force of good. Yet, he could not argue with Grygor's words. Finally, his eyes narrowed and cold, he nodded.

"Very well. You will not forget that this is a personal conversation, and not to be repeated to anyone."

"Of course. You have my word of silence."

Isillan sneered faintly, his opinion of a human's vow of silence almost as low as his opinion of Mist. He lowered his gaze to the boy, shifting his weight slightly. Looming over him ominously.

"You will write the queen. As soon as we are done speaking."

"...I... didn't think she would want..." Mist faltered, lifting his gaze slowly. His eyes filled with tears, a desperate yearning painted over his features. Isillan eyed him coldly.

"I doubt that she does. Yet you will write her. You will write that you are happy and fulfilled here. That you have no grudge against your brothers, that you know the right of the king's decrees. You will tell her that you belong here and scarce deserve the kindly treatment you receive from the lyceum staff and students. Do you understand?"

Mist's brows knit, but he slowly nodded.

"You will not write her of any sentimental foolery, I refuse to allow you to try and play upon the gentle heart of my beloved mother. I will be reading this missive, and I will be displeased if it is not exactly as I have demanded," Isillan barked sharply. Mist swallowed hard and nodded.

"...What... what if... she wants me to write again...?" he asked in a trembling voice. Isillan laughed derisively.

"Why would she want that? Why would she want correspondence from the brute who attempted to take her life? Even so, she has three good and true sons whom send her weekly missives of their heroic and goodly deeds, she has no need of your pathetic scribblings about turning stones to frogs or whatever ridiculous so called work it is you do here. It never did occur to you to write her in the first place, proving your inferiority."

"I was told I was not to write anyone," Mist replied, his shoulders drooping, struggling to keep the tears in his eyes from falling.

"The fact that you did not anyhow only emphasizes your low nature. A strong and good willed man would not allow anything to keep him from doing what was right. Now if you are done sniveling at me, then let us proceed. I can only stand to be in your presence for so long, though it can only improve you."

It was the most difficult hour of Mist's life. Writing a cool and non committal letter to his mother, who he missed intensely, without letting tears fall to the paper. Sitting under the acid supervision of his older brother, terrified that the man would randomly slap him across the room. Realizing that his only protection was from his Master, who openly despised him.

Mist finally exhaled and signed the letter before carefully blotting the ink. Isillan snatched it up and read through it, nodding once. He folded it and picked up a candle to seal it quickly with a press of his finger.

"Have him punished if this is in violation of his rules, I have no wish of him trying to use this to try and get to the queen," he noted aside to Grygor, "I will have words with Guardmaster Hawksman before I go."

"Guardmaster Hawksman will be overseeing the guards in the courtyard, once he was seen the apprentices off to their duties rather than to gawk at the prince," Grygor nodded once. He sneered as Isillan marched away.

"I almost pity you, Mist. Your family despises you more than the man that created this entire farce, and seems to have always hated you. It makes me wonder about those filthy little rumors that spread about when you were born. You don't look a thing like your brothers," Grygor purred nastily, eying Mist. Mist froze, his face running dead white.

"I... I take after my mother..." Mist faltered.

"Clearly. Something that would be praised and admired, were you a girl. And sadly, despite the fact that your beloved brother forced you to write that letter, you were told not to write your family at all. Report to Clevis immediately. I'm sure Prince Isillan will enjoy seeing your punishment," Grygor smiled sweetly.

Mist exhaled, sagging heavily. Yet he didn't dare protest. He simply nodded and got to his feet, walking slowly from the room. Grygor snorted dry amusement. The boy had been so perfectly conditioned to do as he was told. He was utterly submissive. Perfect for his intentions.

The sharp slap of split reeds to flesh caught Isillan's attention as he spoke to Hawksman. He turned his head sharply and stared into a small courtyard. Empty and walled off from the main space, he could see Mist kneeling in the dirt, his back bare. A heavy man lashed the bundled reeds against the boy's back a second time, leaving welts and broken skin.

"Punishment area," Hawksman shrugged slightly, "Most of these brats can't even spell discipline, let alone live it."

By the fifth stroke, Mist collapsed unconscious. Clevis set the reeds down and took a drink from a tankard before checking the boy's condition.

"...Isn't five strokes much for a youngster?" Isillan asked in a low voice, staring at his little brother.

"That's Mist, he gets twice what the others get. Learned pretty quick that if he yelps or cries or pleas, he gets it thrice over. It can take a few days for him to take all he's earned. If he passes out, they just wait for the next day to continue," Hawksman shrugged, idly watching Clevis pick the boy up, "Usually takes five to knock him unconscious. He's pretty strong. Most kids, they're out by the second or third. I think it annoys Master Grygor that Mist's learned to obey without question, it's rare he's earned any beatings anymore."

"I see," Isillan replied, sharp against his rising gorge. Nausea roared through him as he watched Clevis carry Mist away, staring flatly at the boy's bruised and bloody back. He abruptly excused himself, and walked swiftly for an outhouse.

Isillan gasped, leaning to the small chamber's wall, then vomited again. He shuddered, sliding to half sit. His little baby brother. Little Mist. Little Page. His mother's Little Wanderer. He knew what had brought an innocent child to this place, and he wasn't strong enough to stop any of it.

He wasn't brave enough. To demand accounting would expose him as a heartless beast. All three of the older brothers would be shown as being brutes who would turn away an innocent. They would become the spoiled brats. Their reputations would be ruined. None of the good they had done would make up for how they had treated a child.

They were all far too far in now. Up to the letter he had forced Mist to write. He removed it from his hip bag and stared at it. He should throw it into the loo with the half digested remains of his lunch. But he couldn't. He had to continue the farce or face his own sins. He jammed the letter back into the bag.

Exhaling, Isillan pushed to his feet and marched from the outhouse, calling for his horse.

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Denial

(Three or Four Years Prior to Now)



"Leave me alone, please," Mist noted, more quietly than with any edge or anger to his tone, though his gaze flickered, keen, to the handsome features of a young man smiling intently at him. The other laughed as if Mist was adorable and reached a hand to touch his cheek. Mist drew back, slipping to his feet. One of the pet dogs that wandered the large keep happened to be underfoot. Mist leaned down and picked it up, holding it defensively as he turned away.

"Mist, come on, don't be rude, I just need a ?" the young man exhaled, struggling to keep annoyance out of his voice. He smiled once more, sweetly terrifying, pacing after Mist, reaching again towards him, but to pet the confused dog's ears. Mist drew away once more, holding his head high, visibly trembling, his lips pressed tightly together.

"...Whoa, whoa, whoa, take it easy, Mist, I just wanted you to tell me a few of your spells, it's not a big deal..." the young man tried to soothe before steeling his tone, "Now come on. I've only got a few days to study and I need to step up my game if I'm going to qualify for the master's classes."

"No," Mist replied, faint and frightened. The other stared at him, aggravated. He closed his eyes and exhaled harshly. Mist was a bean bag. He was pretty, he was gentle, he was a walking textbook, and most times, he would simply relate the spells when asked. But not this time. This time, he refused.

"Okay. I get it. All of us students have been pestering you for spells all last month, and I'm sure you're fed up with it. And even if you're not, you've never said no, so, okay, yay, you said no. Very good. You're just working yourself up over nothing. Just tell me what I want to know and I'll leave you alone, okay? I'll tell the other students to let you be."

Mist shook his head slowly, his heart pounding in his ears. The dog sensed his distress and whined, stretching upwards to lick Mist's chin. Mist curled the dog closer, lifting it a bit more and once more started to walk away.

"Damn it, just--" the young man snapped, starting to go after Mist, anger burning through his gaze. Mist turned swiftly, clutching the dog close, his pupil pinpoints. To the young man's astonishment, the sweet little doggie Mist held abruptly snarled at him. Worse, there was a similar expression on Mist's face. It was brief, but there.

"Brett. You are done," Aimee announced flatly, walking up behind the young man, her face brick red, and it had nothing to do with embarrassment.

"What? I'm just asking ?" Brett blurted out, turning on the girl. She barged into his personal space and forced him back several paces.

"What? What are you doing? What did he say?" she snapped.

"...Well, he said no, but..."

"He said no," Aimee echoed. Brett's face swept over white as a sheet.

"I... I... He's let other students pick his brain, I thought he was just ?" Brett stammered.

"Just what? Fed up with you lazy little fuckers? Trying to prove to himself he was strong enough to say no? Not worth having his own goddamn feelings?" Aimee demanded, her eyes narrow and harsh. Brett gulped a few times.

"I think it's time you learn what consent means on a baseline life and death level," she smirked, acid and cold. Brett shook his head swiftly.

"No. No. I'm sorry. I knew it was wrong. I should have backed off."

"Oh, come, come, Brett. I thought you loved to learn," Aimee sneered with a warped grin on her lips. Brett gaped at her.

"Now what the hell were you going to do when he kept refusing? That's what I want to know. Were you going to force him? Were you going to keep badgering one of the thralls whom we have been extensively warned about until he gave in? Push on someone that mentally fragile and rape them?" Aimee went on, vicious and cold. Brett kept shaking his head, yelping in horrified denial.

"I wasn't going to hurt him, I just needed to be able to prove to Master Hraefn I can make it as a journeyman," Brett faltered.

"And you're going to do that by tormenting one of Master Hraefn's thralls."

"No! I mean. I. I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry," he exhaled, wincing, a hand over his face.

"Your special little self isn't more important than his. He said no, that should have been the end of it. There is no way Master Hraefn is going to let you advance. I told you punks when you got here, every single thing you do and don't do is a test, and Hraefn will know. You just proved that you are not prepared to go any further than you are now, and frankly, Brett, I'm not even sure Master Hraefn will keep you here after this," Aimee informed him coldly.

"But it was just asking and I know I should have stopped, but I really want to advance, and I didn't think it would be such a big deal!" Brett blurted out, appalled.

"That feeling of the world dropping out from under you and fear for your future that you're feeling right now is what Mist was feeling while you were nagging him," Aimee pointed out. Brett stared at her, struggling to catch his breath.

"It is a big deal. Just because Mist wasn't able to tell you to bugger off in a firm and loud manner means nothing. In fact, when someone frightened and weak tells you to bugger off, you should be buggering off that much faster," she continued, glancing past Brett to Mist. The pup was comforting the elf with licks and wags. He smiled to the animal padding at him.

"That's not even the worst part. He can snap and be outside of Master Hraefn's ability to control him. Because he can't get to his powers, he'd just tear you apart, and I've seen the brass bars that he's twisted in his bare hands. You remember that, how close you came to literally having your stupid ass handed to you, if you can't remember to be a decent person," Aimee hissed.

"...What is he doing here with us if he's so dangerous?" Brett flustered.

"Because you're supposed to be a decent person who wouldn't lean on someone else."

Brett stared at Aimee, finally lowering his head shamefully.

"I'll tell Master Hraefn," he whispered, "And apologize to Mist."

"You'll leave Mist be unless Master Hraefn says different," Aimee replied, "The next time I see you, you'd damn well better be up to your elbows in proving you understand that you're not the center of the universe, Brett."

"I will," he exhaled, rubbing at his brow, "I guess this is why he wouldn't tell me."

Aimee nodded once.

"Thank you," Brett grimaced lamely, tilting a miserable glance to Aimee before slinking away. Aimee glared after him, her arms folded over her chest. Once he'd left the courtyard of the huge keep, she rolled her eyes and exhaled.

"I hate apprentices sometimes," she muttered, walking to Mist. He glanced to her uneasily, but smiled when Aimee put her arms around him.

"You did good, Mist," Aimee assured him, petting his hair gently, "Remember, you're allowed to say no."

"I know."

"You won't get into trouble for saying no," she reminded him, smiling when he laughed softly, nodding in response.

"Why did you say no, anyhow? I thought you didn't mind the apprentices humping your leg every time you came out into the courtyard," Aimee wondered, running an arm around him and petting the dog in his lap cheerfully.

"He asked for a spell to make him look more advanced than he was. Most of the others ask for spells they're too lazy to look up, or need for their own use, or as pranks. He's not ready to be a journeyman, and nothing he does will change that."

Aimee nodded, smiling before her brows knit. She eyed Mist sidelong.

"...Are you the reason every other brat here is wandering around with purple hair?"

Mist glanced at her, brows lifted, his golden eyes wide open and innocent.


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Patient

(Three or Four Years Prior to Now)

"What is your name?" Mist asked, quiet and shy, as he poured a cup of tea for Madam. She chuckled as she watched him so carefully spoon a bit of apricot jam into the cup after the tea, then added a few butter cookies spread with apple and boysenberry preserves to the saucer before handing it over to her.

"I am more interested in how you learned to serve Russian tea, but in fact, in my order, the oracle's name is a matter between she and the divine which whispers its words to her ear," Madam responded, taking the saucer and cup. She leaned over the table and confided a moment later.

"But good friends and family may call me Sonya, as that was the name I was given as a babe. You may call me that in private."

"Oh. Thank you," Mist replied with a dip of his head and slow flare of smile. She watched it, charmed, while knowing it wouldn't last. Whether he had lost the ability to allow his features to echo his feelings, or if there was some other reason, she didn't know.

"We're very pleased with your progress, Mist," she murmured, picking up a folder and setting it onto the table, "We weren't certain you would come so far, honestly. You were in poor condition when Master Hraefn found you."

"...Progress...?" he echoed, perplexed.

"Yes, darling."

"I... I don't understand. I thought I was ? I thought I was a captive. A slave...?"

Madam closed her eyes for a moment before choking on a laugh. She reached over to squeeze his hand.

"Oh, my poor darling boy. And you just tamely soldiered on because you feared to be beaten, didn't you? You're not a captive, you're a thrall. You're only a thrall because you have enough power to escape before you're healed. You're in a mental health institution, dearest. You're a patient."

"...Oh," Mist replied, his face washing over scarlet, golden eyes wide.

"This wasn't to make sure you'd make a nice serving boy in some fine house. It was to assure ourselves you could survive on your own," Madam explained with a languid gesture of her hand. Mist's brows knit for a moment.

"...That I would look after myself before others."

"Yes, exactly. And you have been. We have been watching you as you wander about the gardens and courtyard, interacting with the other patients, staff, and Master Hraefn's students. You have spoken up when you are uncomfortable, you've requested things to make yourself happy, you have taken over managing your own suite here," she went on, indicating the room.

It was beautiful, but Mist had slowly made it more of his own. A simple samovar and small cupboard for it was set near the door leading to his little garden. Books were neatly stacked near his bed, most in Elvish, a few in English, mostly primers. A large and stupidly fluffy cat had taken up residence, though he belonged to the facility, dishes for his food and a few toys had been installed.

"We are discussing, we being the facility and team overseeing your recovery, what you still need before you are released. First will be to prove that you can manage here without being in thrall. You won't notice when that is released, Master Hraefn is very good with that, but we will need to see that you can be trusted not to promptly rush off and start this over again," Madam explained with a gentle smile, lifting her tea to drink.

"I don't want that again," Mist whispered softly, "I want. ...I want to know who I am. I've always been who I was told to be."

"Very good," Madam smiled, "That's what we want."

"...It was intended that I become a master mage," Mist added, exhaling softly, "But that's not what I want to be. I want to help others. Not because it proves I'm not bad, but because it makes me happy to help."

"A mage can be quite helpful, as Master Hraefn has shown."

"But he's a doctor, too, isn't he? A healer?"

"True, he has a few PHDs, in fact. He's annoyingly well educated and don't you dare tell him I said so," Madam chuckled, winking to him, "But I am merely human and don't have the sort of time you sorts have to learn."

"We always remember you," Mist pointed out, and she smiled with a warm chuckle.

"That's always good to know, dear child. I know Master Hraefn is intending to test you with the rest of his journeymen, so that when you leave here, you will be a master. But if you also wish to learn healing, we do have records for your attaining a permit in midwifery. You'll need to study upon that once more to have that renewed, of course."

"I think... Like. The country nurses...?" Mist faltered, picking up a cookie and frowning at it.

"Those are nurse practitioners, dear. That will require quite a bit more work on your part, but there are several small communities that are dearly wanting that. Usually they are shamans, so your knowledge of healing and faith will be called to question, as well," Madam mused, picking up another folder to flip through. Mist watched her curiously, eating the cookie before speaking.

"I want that. Someplace I could help. Have a garden. My own home. Visit people as a nurse or a friend. Where I can have friends."

"You're a very sweet person, I am certain you will find a good many friends," Madam assured him as she flipped through a page of listings, "But, you also need to show that you know what trust is, and levels of that. You can't just promptly give everything to someone. You must learn to know who they are."

"I know," Mist nodded, lowering his eyes.

"But you will not simply be tossed to the wolves. You will be watched and guided closely as you begin this new phase of your life. That will withdraw as your needs change."

"...Will there ever be a time that I would be able to return to my homeland and people?" Mist asked, surprising Madam. Her brows arched high on her brow.

"I don't know, darling. I have asked the divine of that a few times, but I receive nothing concrete. I do know you should not return until you are healthy and strong. When you have ceased to care what others think, and instead are merely curious about the circumstances."

"And I am willing to defend myself," Mist added slowly. Madam nodded, but smiled widely as she did, once more taking his hand to squeeze.

"Are you willing to defend yourself, Mist?" she asked quietly.

"...I don't want to be hurt," Mist whispered, taking in a deep breath, "And I don't want to hurt others. There must be a way in between those things."

"Very good. You must find that. You cannot allow others to hurt you. You must protect yourself."

"...What if it's ? a relationship...?" he frowned. Madam snorted lightly.

"You haven't given yourself permission to love."

"I can't."

"There, you see? So you learn to trust. If someone breaks your trust, then you walk away. You don't let them continue to hurt you. You don't let them back in. Does that make sense?" she prompted. Mist nodded after a moment.

"Where are these places seeking a nurse practitioner? ...I want that." he decided with a flicker of smile.

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