39 Ash, 121
Rivin awoke to darkness, but it was not the darkness of a cell. It was simply dark, the storm was still rustling the casements of the windows, but it was quieter than it had been that morning; close to blowing itself out.
He was in his bedroom, in his bed. No light, lamp nor candle, was lit, and the fire, while lit, was burned down to barely glowing coals. He reached out with whatever it was he used to in Summoning, pulled a tiny bit of aether through the sigil at the base of his spine, and reached out towards the fire. Sure enough, there was a tiny sprite nestled into the coals, trying to keep itself safe from the howling wind and deadly. It was the most basic sort of pact, not even a pact, wordlessly he offered it sustaining magic and it agreed to glow brighter.
The level of light in the room grew, not enough to wake the guard, who slumbered in a chair by the door, but enough that Rivin could see clearly. Standing was a careful dance, not only so he would not wake the guard, but also to assess what damage had been done.
The first attempt to roll over did not hurt, and as he gingerly tested each of his limbs the lack of pain continued. Rivin was weary, wondering if this was a dream that he'd slipped into to forget what had surely happened to him. Even in his dreams, when he was hurt badly enough, he could usually feel it.
More memories came back to him. It was hard often, after the red took him, to remember exactly when he was. An odd sort of memory loss where he would remember things well up to a point, even if it was a point was years in the past, and what had come after would only seep in slowly. Sometimes it took a whole day before he was really sure of all events leading up to the rage ripping control from him.
Where was he, exactly? In a room that was his own, and his body was not hurting. He hadn't been beaten; not by the fists of angry guards, nor the more clinical swing of leather or wood. What had happened? Trying to remember was like trying to climb oiled glass, impossible and frustrating. He never had remembered anything of any of his rages, from the first on, those spaces in his recollection were blank, black like patches of rot on the tapestry of his memory.
Standing he pulled off his nightshirt, which he was, now, apparently wearing, and examined his body for new scars or wounds that might have been so grievous that the healer would have put him into a coma to heal. Finding none he grimaced, mouthing, 'How?'
You're Welcome.
Only years of training kept the leap Rivin made from causing him to knock into the bedside table loudly. His feet came back to ground quietly, but his heart was hammering hard enough to more than make up for it. The guard did not stir, only snoring on. The voice had not come from him, regardless, that much Rivin was perfectly sure of.
A presence shifted around the room, so much bigger, in a way that had nothing to do with physical space, than the tiny fire sprite still contentedly munching on the strand of aether Rivin had gifted it.
Speaking without using his vocal cords Rivin asked,
"Who are you?"
An echoing laughter answered him, coming not from everywhere, but from three distinct directions at once. It was all the Lysanrin could do not to jump again. He swore, under his breath, which was not the same as speaking inside his head.
You always forget. I forget that.
The amusement made the lie of the words. Whatever this was, it knew well he would forget and took enjoyment from his shock and fear. The knowledge settled Rivin down significantly. His tail twitched in annoyance, like a peevish cat and he pursed his lips.
Aww, don't be a brat about it. You're perfectly sound. More than. The good doctor is eagerly expecting you to show him the new configuration for the centrifuge you've been beating about in your head for weeks.
Rivin blinked. He had been playing with the idea of a new design for the piece of equipment for some time. But how..?
Don't you worry your pretty little head over it. I have to complete our first deal before we make another. You understand, or, you don't, actually. But you will.
The laughter came again, just from one direction this time and fading along with the presence.
Rivin stood for a moment, fists clenching and unclenching in impotent curiosity and frustration. He hated a mystery. Even in novels, he hated them.
Sitting on the edge of his bed with a sigh he plucked his nightshirt back up and slid into it. No point in the guard waking to find him in his skin. Biting the inside of one cheek he tried to come up with logical explanations for what had just occurred.
Could he have Summoned a strong spirit in his sleep? His eyes narrowed as he tried to go through the few lessons Ilex had allowed him to have in the magical discipline. The doctor did not want Rivin able to actually use the Rune that he'd had burned into his skin. Had only allowed the lessons as a way to give the boy enough control not to use what he'd been given.
A year after the rune had become a part of him he had stolen a book on the theory of Summoning. It had been the only time he'd willingly taken an action that he'd known would lead to the application of punishment. There had been no way Ilex would not notice that the book was missing and pointless to try and deny it was him who had taken it. He didn't even make a perfunctory attempt to defend himself. When the doctor had asked he had admitted it immediately, producing the book and laying it down on the desk between them. Ilex had looked at it and, for the first time ever, he had asked Rivin why he'd disobeyed.
The explanation, that he wanted to understand what was happening to him, that the book did not contain any practical use of his rune, but that not knowing had been unbearable, strangely, had seemed to ease the doctor's calm anger. The caning he'd received had been awful, but not unbearably so, as his other punishments had been. Ilex had called a halt long before Rivin was near to passing out, which, at first, had made the boy wonder if it was a trick.
It had not been, and the doctor had even allowed him to keep the book. Rivin did not admit that he'd already read it twice, in the day and night it had been in his possession. There were things the doctor needed to know for their relationship to run smoothly, and things he did not. Knowing the difference was what kept Rivin's skin whole more often than not.
Summoning in his sleep was highly unlikely. But the other explanations he came up with seemed equally plausible. Finally, as dawn's light began to creep through the final shakey gasps of the storm, Rivin accepted that he did not have enough information to put the mystery to an end. Crawling back under the covers for a few additional hours sleep, he decided that, whatever had happened, he had not been damaged by his rage, for the first time. In fact, if the voice was telling the truth, he had been aided by the loss of control.
It did not feel safe. But so little did. Wrapping his arms around his pillow he let himself drift.
~~~~
It had been months, long enough for his bones to heal, before Rivin had been allowed out of the cell for more than examinations. The date of his birth passed and his mother took the time to explain to him, in detail, the ways his body was going to change over the next several years. He took in clinically, and listened eagerly, as his mind, now trained to expect constant study, had nothing else to occupy it.
They also used the time to discuss strategies for what to do when the rage came again. He could not survive many more encounters like the one neither of them fully understood, but the results had been clear enough. His mother had learned enough in her recent study of the Dratori to know that meditation could be used to learn control of the anger as much as it could give the same over the encounters with the spirits. It didn't seem like much, but it was the only thing either of them could come up with.
The guards could enter at any time, and while their unannounced inspections were not common, it wasn't worth risking obviously breaking the rules to meditate. So Rivin learned to pretend to sleep. In his condition, spending the majority of his time appearing to be unconscious made sense and he took advantage of the expectation.
Over the hour Rivin began to understand how clearing his mind might help. It would do nothing once the rage took him, robbing him of his agency along with his memory. But it could be used to calm his emotions before it got to that point. He began to intentionally pull up memories that made him angry or scared, and then use the even breathing technique and mental acceptance of what he was feeling clear through the emotion.
He discussed it quietly with his mother when the guards were making their rounds of other cells. Making his progress by how bad of a memory he could fully recall while not causing an issue. He failed, sometimes, which was also helpful in a small way. His mother was able to tell him of the animal-like creature he became when the red filled his vision. Trapped there in the cell with her, he mostly just crouched into a corner and watched, eyes hard and lacking in the Rivin she knew. Once he had tried to find a way out of the cell, which had caused the guards to lock the slot that allowed their meals to enter for a whole day. The hunger was not so bad with little ability for physical activity, but he had guilt for what his mother endured for his sake.
She could suffer from his actions as much as she could gain from them. It was a lesson he would come to understand poignantly.
The weeks turned into months, and Rivin grew to dread waking into the darkness that had once been his home. The rarely broken quiet, filled with nothing to see, read, or do began to make him stir crazy even before his body had healed enough for his mother to begin working him through the physical movements that would allow his muscles and bones to return to their full strength.
When he wasn't meditating, stretching, or asking his mother an unending series of questions that grew more desperate and less intelligible in an effort to understand why he was the way he was, Rivin spent time with the sprites. There was no reason not to do it, no reason to follow the rules in a place where he could not be caught.
If he had known of Semblance, and other ways to detect what someone did with their magic, he might have been more fearful, but he did not. There weren't many sprites in the cells, but there were ever-present darkness spirits. Earth sprites moved through sometimes, even barely conscious reflections of misery, fear, and other emotions. He wasn't sure if he would even call them sprites, and, at times, he wasn't sure if they were even real. His mind had played two awful tricks on him in the last year and while his mother seemed content in the idea that it was the blood of his father causing the issues, Rivin, sat in the silence and the dark, good arm wrapped around his knees, wondered if he might not be mad.
Unexpectedly, the worry calmed him. If he was mad there was nothing he could do about it. The mage healer might be able to examine him and help, but he knew from his studies that mental maladies were the hardest to do anything about. If one was hit on the head and saw a healer quickly, something could be done, but beyond that, all treatments were experimental. He could set aside the knowledge that his mind might be broken and concentrate on what he could do something about.
When his body had healed enough for him to begin putting weight on his arm, the healer removed the cast. His mother would not allow him to climb or do anything that put pressure on the bone until she could take it between her hands and apply her own pressure without him wincing.
The assumption that their confinement in the cell would end when he was physically capable again ended the first time he was taken for an exam. He underwent the normality of the affair, spoke politely to the doctor. Ilex's reactions were indifferent, cold, sterile and painful, like the prick of the needle sliding under his skin. He was returned to the cell afterward with no indication of when, or if, his freedom would be returned
Rivin awoke to darkness, but it was not the darkness of a cell. It was simply dark, the storm was still rustling the casements of the windows, but it was quieter than it had been that morning; close to blowing itself out.
He was in his bedroom, in his bed. No light, lamp nor candle, was lit, and the fire, while lit, was burned down to barely glowing coals. He reached out with whatever it was he used to in Summoning, pulled a tiny bit of aether through the sigil at the base of his spine, and reached out towards the fire. Sure enough, there was a tiny sprite nestled into the coals, trying to keep itself safe from the howling wind and deadly. It was the most basic sort of pact, not even a pact, wordlessly he offered it sustaining magic and it agreed to glow brighter.
The level of light in the room grew, not enough to wake the guard, who slumbered in a chair by the door, but enough that Rivin could see clearly. Standing was a careful dance, not only so he would not wake the guard, but also to assess what damage had been done.
The first attempt to roll over did not hurt, and as he gingerly tested each of his limbs the lack of pain continued. Rivin was weary, wondering if this was a dream that he'd slipped into to forget what had surely happened to him. Even in his dreams, when he was hurt badly enough, he could usually feel it.
More memories came back to him. It was hard often, after the red took him, to remember exactly when he was. An odd sort of memory loss where he would remember things well up to a point, even if it was a point was years in the past, and what had come after would only seep in slowly. Sometimes it took a whole day before he was really sure of all events leading up to the rage ripping control from him.
Where was he, exactly? In a room that was his own, and his body was not hurting. He hadn't been beaten; not by the fists of angry guards, nor the more clinical swing of leather or wood. What had happened? Trying to remember was like trying to climb oiled glass, impossible and frustrating. He never had remembered anything of any of his rages, from the first on, those spaces in his recollection were blank, black like patches of rot on the tapestry of his memory.
Standing he pulled off his nightshirt, which he was, now, apparently wearing, and examined his body for new scars or wounds that might have been so grievous that the healer would have put him into a coma to heal. Finding none he grimaced, mouthing, 'How?'
You're Welcome.
Only years of training kept the leap Rivin made from causing him to knock into the bedside table loudly. His feet came back to ground quietly, but his heart was hammering hard enough to more than make up for it. The guard did not stir, only snoring on. The voice had not come from him, regardless, that much Rivin was perfectly sure of.
A presence shifted around the room, so much bigger, in a way that had nothing to do with physical space, than the tiny fire sprite still contentedly munching on the strand of aether Rivin had gifted it.
Speaking without using his vocal cords Rivin asked,
"Who are you?"
An echoing laughter answered him, coming not from everywhere, but from three distinct directions at once. It was all the Lysanrin could do not to jump again. He swore, under his breath, which was not the same as speaking inside his head.
You always forget. I forget that.
The amusement made the lie of the words. Whatever this was, it knew well he would forget and took enjoyment from his shock and fear. The knowledge settled Rivin down significantly. His tail twitched in annoyance, like a peevish cat and he pursed his lips.
Aww, don't be a brat about it. You're perfectly sound. More than. The good doctor is eagerly expecting you to show him the new configuration for the centrifuge you've been beating about in your head for weeks.
Rivin blinked. He had been playing with the idea of a new design for the piece of equipment for some time. But how..?
Don't you worry your pretty little head over it. I have to complete our first deal before we make another. You understand, or, you don't, actually. But you will.
The laughter came again, just from one direction this time and fading along with the presence.
Rivin stood for a moment, fists clenching and unclenching in impotent curiosity and frustration. He hated a mystery. Even in novels, he hated them.
Sitting on the edge of his bed with a sigh he plucked his nightshirt back up and slid into it. No point in the guard waking to find him in his skin. Biting the inside of one cheek he tried to come up with logical explanations for what had just occurred.
Could he have Summoned a strong spirit in his sleep? His eyes narrowed as he tried to go through the few lessons Ilex had allowed him to have in the magical discipline. The doctor did not want Rivin able to actually use the Rune that he'd had burned into his skin. Had only allowed the lessons as a way to give the boy enough control not to use what he'd been given.
A year after the rune had become a part of him he had stolen a book on the theory of Summoning. It had been the only time he'd willingly taken an action that he'd known would lead to the application of punishment. There had been no way Ilex would not notice that the book was missing and pointless to try and deny it was him who had taken it. He didn't even make a perfunctory attempt to defend himself. When the doctor had asked he had admitted it immediately, producing the book and laying it down on the desk between them. Ilex had looked at it and, for the first time ever, he had asked Rivin why he'd disobeyed.
The explanation, that he wanted to understand what was happening to him, that the book did not contain any practical use of his rune, but that not knowing had been unbearable, strangely, had seemed to ease the doctor's calm anger. The caning he'd received had been awful, but not unbearably so, as his other punishments had been. Ilex had called a halt long before Rivin was near to passing out, which, at first, had made the boy wonder if it was a trick.
It had not been, and the doctor had even allowed him to keep the book. Rivin did not admit that he'd already read it twice, in the day and night it had been in his possession. There were things the doctor needed to know for their relationship to run smoothly, and things he did not. Knowing the difference was what kept Rivin's skin whole more often than not.
Summoning in his sleep was highly unlikely. But the other explanations he came up with seemed equally plausible. Finally, as dawn's light began to creep through the final shakey gasps of the storm, Rivin accepted that he did not have enough information to put the mystery to an end. Crawling back under the covers for a few additional hours sleep, he decided that, whatever had happened, he had not been damaged by his rage, for the first time. In fact, if the voice was telling the truth, he had been aided by the loss of control.
It did not feel safe. But so little did. Wrapping his arms around his pillow he let himself drift.
~~~~
It had been months, long enough for his bones to heal, before Rivin had been allowed out of the cell for more than examinations. The date of his birth passed and his mother took the time to explain to him, in detail, the ways his body was going to change over the next several years. He took in clinically, and listened eagerly, as his mind, now trained to expect constant study, had nothing else to occupy it.
They also used the time to discuss strategies for what to do when the rage came again. He could not survive many more encounters like the one neither of them fully understood, but the results had been clear enough. His mother had learned enough in her recent study of the Dratori to know that meditation could be used to learn control of the anger as much as it could give the same over the encounters with the spirits. It didn't seem like much, but it was the only thing either of them could come up with.
The guards could enter at any time, and while their unannounced inspections were not common, it wasn't worth risking obviously breaking the rules to meditate. So Rivin learned to pretend to sleep. In his condition, spending the majority of his time appearing to be unconscious made sense and he took advantage of the expectation.
Over the hour Rivin began to understand how clearing his mind might help. It would do nothing once the rage took him, robbing him of his agency along with his memory. But it could be used to calm his emotions before it got to that point. He began to intentionally pull up memories that made him angry or scared, and then use the even breathing technique and mental acceptance of what he was feeling clear through the emotion.
He discussed it quietly with his mother when the guards were making their rounds of other cells. Making his progress by how bad of a memory he could fully recall while not causing an issue. He failed, sometimes, which was also helpful in a small way. His mother was able to tell him of the animal-like creature he became when the red filled his vision. Trapped there in the cell with her, he mostly just crouched into a corner and watched, eyes hard and lacking in the Rivin she knew. Once he had tried to find a way out of the cell, which had caused the guards to lock the slot that allowed their meals to enter for a whole day. The hunger was not so bad with little ability for physical activity, but he had guilt for what his mother endured for his sake.
She could suffer from his actions as much as she could gain from them. It was a lesson he would come to understand poignantly.
The weeks turned into months, and Rivin grew to dread waking into the darkness that had once been his home. The rarely broken quiet, filled with nothing to see, read, or do began to make him stir crazy even before his body had healed enough for his mother to begin working him through the physical movements that would allow his muscles and bones to return to their full strength.
When he wasn't meditating, stretching, or asking his mother an unending series of questions that grew more desperate and less intelligible in an effort to understand why he was the way he was, Rivin spent time with the sprites. There was no reason not to do it, no reason to follow the rules in a place where he could not be caught.
If he had known of Semblance, and other ways to detect what someone did with their magic, he might have been more fearful, but he did not. There weren't many sprites in the cells, but there were ever-present darkness spirits. Earth sprites moved through sometimes, even barely conscious reflections of misery, fear, and other emotions. He wasn't sure if he would even call them sprites, and, at times, he wasn't sure if they were even real. His mind had played two awful tricks on him in the last year and while his mother seemed content in the idea that it was the blood of his father causing the issues, Rivin, sat in the silence and the dark, good arm wrapped around his knees, wondered if he might not be mad.
Unexpectedly, the worry calmed him. If he was mad there was nothing he could do about it. The mage healer might be able to examine him and help, but he knew from his studies that mental maladies were the hardest to do anything about. If one was hit on the head and saw a healer quickly, something could be done, but beyond that, all treatments were experimental. He could set aside the knowledge that his mind might be broken and concentrate on what he could do something about.
When his body had healed enough for him to begin putting weight on his arm, the healer removed the cast. His mother would not allow him to climb or do anything that put pressure on the bone until she could take it between her hands and apply her own pressure without him wincing.
The assumption that their confinement in the cell would end when he was physically capable again ended the first time he was taken for an exam. He underwent the normality of the affair, spoke politely to the doctor. Ilex's reactions were indifferent, cold, sterile and painful, like the prick of the needle sliding under his skin. He was returned to the cell afterward with no indication of when, or if, his freedom would be returned
