After a rather long time lost in his own thoughts, fears, and worries, Thallian at last began to look through all of his things in order to decide what to take with him when he left his chambers for the final time. It was while he was in the midst of this when there was a knock on his door.

"Yes?" he called, knowing whoever the visitor was it was certainly not his father, as he hadn't bothered to knock before. Whoever it was, even one of his brothers or their wives, the conversation could simply not be as terrible as the one he had already had.

The person who entered was indeed someone Thallian much preferred to speak to over his father. It was his mother, Amalia, dressed as usual in a fine dress of layered blues. Her hair was worn tied in a neat scarf of coordinating colors. Thallian had been told the style was more practical among working women to keep their hair clean and out of their faces, but wives of wealthy men continued to wear it in such a way to show respect to the poorer women in their family lines, however far back in the line they might be. 

The only unusual thing Thallian noticed about his mother was the fact that she wore no cosmetics. She usually took great care to match the colors she used, especially on her eyes and lips, to the color of dress she wore each day. Today it appeared she had either never done so, or had since wiped it away. Without the cosmetics she appeared tired, and there was a slight swelling about her reddened eyes that were normally so bright.

Thallian was unsure if the cosmetics could have hidden her pain.

Amalia closed the door behind her and stepped close to Thallian, sweeping him into a fierce embrace. "I'm so terribly sorry about your father," she whispered. "I tried to help you as best I could. I'm not certain it was enough."

Thallian embraced her, and would have cried if he'd had any tears left to shed. "He didn't beat me or attempt to kill me. I believe you helped prevent that."

"He would have been too afraid," she told him. "He's not certain what you might be capable of doing to him were he to attempt to harm you."

Thallian shook his head. "I don't know, either, but I didn't harm Dracole when he attempted to force himself on me. I simply kept him away from me, prevented him from touching me."

She nodded and finally stepped back from the embrace, though she placed her hands on his shoulders to hold him for a moment. "You remind me more and more of my mother."

There it was once more, the mention of his grandmother. "You never told me about her having magic before," he said quietly.

Amalia guided him to the seat beneath the window. They sat together, the cushion on the bench warmed by the afternoon sun.

"Your father and many of the people in this region of Berk are deeply afraid of magic," she explained. "I can't explain why. We are so close to the Pass that we should be much more used to seeing people with magic. But they are made to feel so unwelcome in this region that they move on from here. Perhaps some terrible event occurred during the magical construction of the Pass that somehow is remembered, though the details have been forgotten. Where my mother was from, near Khona, magic was not too terribly feared. It wasn't until she moved to this region with my father that she learned the hatred of some people for the magic she was born with. She hid it as often as she could, though the family was not afraid of it."

"Why did they move here?" Thallian asked. He had never known much about his family, only that his father's family had owned their great farm for many generations.

"My father wanted to take part in the growth of the sheep farms," she explained, smiling. "He loved the wool they produce, because it is so much softer than any other fiber. So he purchased a share in a large farm, which included one hundred sheep. My parents were quite successful, but as my brother had no interest in sheep farming, after their unexpected deaths before you were born, the farm was not kept in the family. Of course, my marriage to your father was seen as a great decision to them and was everything they both wanted for me." 

She took a deep breath and added, "Though it will never be proven, I always thought they were both killed because of my mother's magic. It was a gift that never caused any harm. She was able to help heal the injured and sick. She and my father died when they house burned to the ground one night. It was claimed they never left their beds, but I believe they were either killed before the fire, or were trapped in the house. I will never be able to prove it, of course. My mother had often told me of how she had learned to use her magic by spending a year in Algoma City when she was a teenager. She told me, if I ever had a child who could use magic, that is where they should be sent. When you were young and I saw how blue your eyes were, the color hers had always been, I began to inquire about the ability for people with magic to receive training in Algoma City. I was thankful to know the system is still in place to apprentice foreign sorcerers so they may learn their magic safely. That knowledge from your grandmother is what has kept your father from abusing you, I believe."

Thallian nodded slowly, his gaze on the dust motes dancing in the sunlight from the window. His heart ached to hear about what had happened to his grandparents, and he knew such a thing could happen to him if he remained in Flocksfield. Even if he could somehow protect himself with the magic, the fears held by those around him would forever put him in danger if he did not leave the only home he had ever known and make a new life somewhere else in the world.

"Thank you," he finally told her, quietly. "I will go to Algoma City and hopefully find a new life. A safer one."

She gently took his hand and squeezed it. "You will go with my love, and that of the grandmother you were never able to meet."

Thallian nodded once more. "I hope you will both be proud of me, wherever I go."

"I will be. And I will forever love you."

Once again she wrapped him in her arms, and this time he did have a few more tears left to shed.