because it doesn't make sense for me to cry out in my own defense

[keenly]

WHO: Colin, Alexandrie, Anders, Loki, Kostos, Myrobalan
WHAT: Colin gives up.
WHEN: The evening after the news of the new Divine reaches Kirkwall.
WHERE: Alexandrie de la Fontaine's apartments.
NOTES: CW: Suicide attempt. Physical violence will ensue. Mentions of past sexual violence.

Hearing her name doesn't change anything. He doesn't think he even feels anything at that point--wouldn't know for sure, though, because he doesn't bother to ask himself. He just floats. Quietly closes the apothecary early for the day and posts a sign. Stares down the hallway. Stands still for so long that someone bumps into him on their way. The walls are narrow and cold, still with remnants of the old history in their stains and accents. You can see the marks where there were slave reliefs taken down. And in the old days, at the end of the hall, there would be a door locked and barred.

He drifts down the hallway, stopping to look closely at all the evidence of those who died here, slaves and mages alike. Flattens a palm against the stone as if, across the mirror of the Veil, someone from long ago is touching that same stone. It used to be too much to think about, but it doesn't hurt him now. Not as long as he makes it down the hallway before they lock the door.

The ferry skims over the water streaked pale gold by the late afternoon light. Smoke from the foundry district blows over it as Colin passes through like a ghost, looking back at the Gallows and wondering how many people are there whom he should speak to. He didn't pass any of them on the way to the ferry, so it must not be meant to be. If they can't catch him as he flits away like a moth, he isn't capable of turning around to give them another chance, or seek them out. This hallway is too narrow for him to travel in any direction but one.

The apartment is familiar and lovely, spotless and comfortable. It still feels like the last place he belongs, but he has never belonged anywhere except the place he was taken from too long ago to belong there again. He goes to the little trinket box on a side table and opens it, taking out the cool, smooth contents.

The flask is altogether unremarkable, but his spirit balks at the sight of it because of the color of saffron, the taste of smoke, the dappled pattern of the sun through trees, the gleam of laughter in a friend's eyes. He doesn't have to do this. He can toss it out a window. But his spirit balks at the thought of that, because he remembers climbing into a wall, and being flung against one. He remembers the shreds of an apprentice's robe hanging on the body of an abomination. He remembers frightened Templars shutting and barring the great doors. He remembers the taste of Ser Lutair's spit and seed both, and how to make sure to cover his knees from the cold stone as he got down on them. He remembers ghosting through hallways just like he did today, and for four years, no one stopping him to talk to him. No one asking if something was wrong, or looking closely enough to see it for themselves. No one coming to help, no rescue, only a threat that if he didn't shape up, he would end up Tranquil. Which didn't turn out to be such a bad suggestion. So since there was no escaping his torturer, and showing any signs of being tortured would have earned punishment, he turned himself Tranquil. He spent years as a corpse walking down that empty hallway, unseen and unloved.

He won't go back to it, and he won't shiver through a year or two of war knowing what's coming will be even worse for him. He has always been his only source of mercy, and this is his call. This will be the last time he dies.

Comments

[keenly]

"What's that?"

[exequy]

The short answer is, "Each other," so that's what Kostos says, and then he hears himself say it, and hears how stupid it sounds. Like he's going to keep fighting this war and probably die because of the power of friendship. He glares a little extra at the road ahead while he clarifies: "They made us into a nation."

So he's going to keep fighting this war and probably die because of nationalism. That's better.

[keenly]

Each other falls a bit flat, to Colin. The rest of it is colored by what he thinks of from Kostos' first answer, though he can't deny the man is right.

"We'll still be a nation when they shovel us back in," he acknowledges quietly. "Sort of."

He looks away, at the water. Tries to talk without thinking or feeling, because he's not feeling bad yet. But the more he talks about this, the easier it becomes.

"When I was an apprentice, there was this Templar. He used me, and because of him, everyone left me alone because they were afraid to draw his attention. I wasn't part of a nation then."

[exequy]

Whatever minimal interest Kostos might have had in arguing about the conclusion—whether Fereldans are any less a nation because sometimes they steal from or kill each other, for example—is firmly quashed by the rest of that.

“Everyone?”

Say yes. He hasn’t formed strong opinions about the other Kinloch Hold mages, and he’s perfectly fine with forming the strong opinion that they’re cowards, and maybe tripping them on the stairs.

[keenly]

Colin shrugs.

"Everyone who knew. The um, the enchanter I was apprenticed to, he didn't know. But I couldn't tell anyone or the Templar would have killed me, or said I was practicing blood magic. And he was a Templar, I was an apprentice, so people would have believed him over me."