Second Time a Broken Heart
Duncan can't face going outside anymore. Outside is where everyone lies in an attempt to mar his heart. He won't stand for it, nor them. Even if it starves him, he'll remain here, safe and sound with what he knows to be true.
It's only been a day and a half, he is at least aware of. His snacks are dwindling quickly as his hunger grows. He missed seeing Ceren last morning and getting a sweet treat for his troubles. And he misses him today, too. He wonders how he's doing. If he's heard at all. He probably has.
That Malistaire Drake is dead.
But how can he be? The greatest Necromancer anyone has ever known, dead. At the hands of someone barely younger than he is, no less! Impossible.
All anyone has been waiting on is an excuse to openly mock and ridicule a great man. The fruits of jealousy emerging from former students of his class finally ripening, having never reaches the same heights as their teacher.
He stares at the picture hanging down from the bookcase by a thin string listlessly. Malistaire's hand on his shoulder. Malorn beneath a proud Sylvia. Those lively grins feel worlds away from the nightmare that is today. So alive. So carefree. Thinking it would all last forever. The private studies. The warm meals. The laughter. The bickering.
He can't be dead. He simply can't be dead.
Knock, knock, knock!
“Duncan?” comes a call from outside, just beyond his curtained window. “Duncan, I know you're in there!”
Of course Malorn is here. Why wouldn't he be?
Duncan takes his time unwrapping himself from his pretzel-like state on the couch, a weave of scrunched limbs and the thin blanket he sleeps under. Malorn will remain at the door until he emerges, he knows. That's just how he is. Has been. Always will be.
He's grateful for him. More than he expresses. Though he feels like he wastes his time trying to bring others up to his level over improving himself even further.
He opens the door. Malorn promptly pushes his way inside, causing Duncan to take a few steps back down the dark hallway. His face is a concerned as it is somewhat annoyed.
“Where have you been, Dunc?” Malorn asks, his brow furrowed. “You know class is–”
Duncan just shakes his head, a wellspring of emotion stirring in his chest. “I can't, Mal. I just... I can't hear them talk about Malistaire like that. He can't be dead! Why are they all saying that?”
Whatever it is Malorn is feeling melts in the face of his distress. He shifts his staff from up at his side to across his chest, holding it in both his hands. His jester hat appears to deflate somewhat as his head bows ever so slightly.
A pit begins to form in Duncan's gut as he watches his friend's demeanor change. He doesn't like where this is going.
“Look, Dunc,” he begins to speak in a calm and even tone.
Duncan feels the need to interrupt him before he continues his thought. His heart throbs over seeing the need to ask him, “You... You don't believe them, Mal, do you?”
Malorn's shoulders tense, his chest and arms and staff rising as he takes a deep breath. Duncan doesn't like his face. There is no anger to it. There is no defiance. Nothing to indicate that he has been combating against the rumors like him, suffering in silence as everyone around him beats him down with their assertions.
But then Malorn exhales, and his softness steels. He lifts his chin to face Duncan with as much courage as he can muster.
“It's not rumor; it's fact,” he asserts. “Malistaire is dead.”
A heavy silence passes between the two of them.
Duncan's first reaction is to cry. His tired eyes sting with tears and his heart stabs against his chest. Something inside him withers and dies, barbed thorns stabbing at wounds he's been barely holding together. So small and vulnerable. Needing somewhere to run off to and hide for a little while, where he can rock himself to sleep from exhaustion and heartache.
But it quickly turns to anger, his gut boiling as a sneer paints his tearful face. How dare Malorn come all the way here, into his house, to tell him to give up his hope. His last remaining fragment of a normal life. Of something he loved and cherished.
Has he been lying to his face this entire time?
His body acts before he can think. His hands shoot out, landing square on Malorn's chest as he gives him a hefty shove. He pushes the Acting Professor out of the house and down to the ground. Then he grabs the front door and slams it shut in his face.
Locks it.
Steps away.
Takes a breath.
Staggers back into the living room.
Fumbles with the books holding the strung picture in place.
Grabs it on either side.
Rips it right down the middle.
And throws himself back onto the couch.
He's breathing heavily. His heart races. His head spins. Tears roll down the sides of his face in thick waterfalls. His nose clogs. And held loosely in his hands are the two halves of his beloved photograph, the thought of having done so making him sick. He desecrated the last thing he has of his Professor.
He holds up the one with him and Malistaire. The last time he saw his face, he was so distraught. Hardly even regarded the concerned Duncan at his doorstep, wondering where he had been the last few days, missing him greatly.
He can't be dead. How can he be? Why does he have to be the last one to find out? To be told the news through sneers and backhanded comments. Even Malorn is with them. How long has he known for? How long did he keep it a secret? Why didn't he just say something?
And Duncan is alone again in a dark and empty house. Cold. Starving. And angry.
