Rowan came back from his month long hiatus like he'd never even left. He came back with a dead expression and a clear mind, ready to work and ready to function as he had done before. He was told he was performing above average, churning out cases and deliberation at a determined rate.

He didn't feel determined.

He didn't feel as efficient as he was declared to be.

Of all the people to validate that stray thought, it had to be Aiden. They had gone on a case together, a medium scale dispute between a community of water dwelling creatures and a small town overfishing their territory, and he'd pulled Rowan aside. “Stay outside.”

“Why?”

“You're not all there, kid. You'll just piss them off.”

Rowan's brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

“If you can swear to me you won't look down your nose at the situation like you've been doing, then maybe I'll believe you when you say you can do your job.” Rowan stared up at the older, dumbfounded by how blunt he was being. “If the Moderator was looking for a violent end to this, he would've just sent me. But no, he sent his star.” The absolute disdain with which he spoke those words ate at him less like a nagging mosquito and more like an entire school of piranha. He was devoured in seconds.

And he realized Aiden was right. As a result of his lack of emotion he had been condescending.

There was a certain degree to which he had to be open in negotiation situations. If he wasn’t open, then he won’t be receptive to finding the appropriate solution. It’s one thing to find that solution on paper: paper was cut and dry, there were no living distractions, no one was there to contest his decisions save for the other members of the branch. But when he was face to face with the people in need of moderation . . . .

He took a deep breath. He cleared his mind to the best of his ability. He closed his eyes and . . ., “I swear.” Aiden looked him over, stern but . . . .

He nodded and allowed Rowan to come in with him. “Get it done so we can go.”

And Rowan did. It was a slow negotiation. He had to take several breathers, assuring the townsfolk that he was still listening and was only trying to take in all the details. After a long time he succeeded. There was no need for a violent intervention.

He got home and for a time he was fine. He was fine, and he felt functional and somewhat emotional. He went to report the outcome of the case to Don and suddenly . . . .

He was right back where he started again. One brush of Don’s fingers over his shoulder had him going still inside once more. It left him cold on the inside and it left his stare blank. Dead as before.

It wasn’t that he was uncomfortable. It wasn’t that he was upset, or even mistrusting since the season he had spent with Don. He had just been left feeling . . . emptier than before. Emptier and less . . . himself. He felt he’d changed and he couldn’t decide if he’d changed for the better. A numbness crept over him every time he thought of someone touching him even if briefly. He was grateful for the numbness, as it kept the pit in his stomach from rising into his throat and choking him. It kept anyone from asking him about the nature of his and Don’s partnership. He didn’t think he should be ashamed of his partner, but at the same time there was just something shameful about what they had done. What he had done. No . . . what they had both done. He had to shake his head to be rid of the thoughts often.

“I could use someone like you teaching the new recruits.”

He looked up at the Vanguard in disbelief. Rowan had a clipboard and a list arranged before him, getting ready for an international meeting with summoners and their mentors. A crisis relevant to their safety was at hand and the Red Cord was doing everything in its power to keep them informed and prepared. He was going to be taking down information and organizing it. He didn’t think that was what Grane was referring to though.“I’m not the teaching type,” was his only response.

“Rumor has it moderation comes naturally to you though. If you’re ever interested, I’ll send some urchins your way.” With that, they proceeded to the conference area.

He wasn’t the only one to comment. It seemed there had been many rumors flying around about his successes. And they were all successes, no matter how close he’d come to failing. He always succeeded. The Masters were adamant they would like to see him in action, even the newest Master Dalia Jaheem. The Doctor also thought it would be beneficial for her branch to learn better bedside manners from him. Rowan still wasn’t sure that he was the right person for that job.

All the Masters were friendly with him with the exception of the Chamberlain (who kept to themselves) and the Warden. It wasn’t that the Warden was rude, simply that he was . . . hovering. Rowan always remembered how the Warden had given him that figurine, but the man had done little to interact with him otherwise. Other than standing as close to him as possible without touching him when he got the opportunity. It was unnerving. Rowan could usually sense emotion in other people, but he sensed very little from the Warden.

And the Warden had a habit of smiling at him . . . he wondered why but was too wary to ask.

He met many people there at the meeting. He was under scrutiny by many who had summoned creatures like him. It was more stressful than he thought it would be, he thought he would have been used to such scrutiny by now. He managed to make one good connection however, the student of the founder of this art as a matter of fact. She was sweet, chasing away the others who erred on the side of invasiveness while questioning and observing him.

“You’re very quiet. Am I boring you?” she asked while they had been talking during his break.

“Not at all. I’m just thinking really.”

“Well think aloud! I wanna hear your thoughts.”

It was this communication which had led him to realize just how pensive he truly was. He remained guarded still, but speaking with her was easy. Easy as breathing. He wanted nothing more than to continue talking with her in spite of being called away by their respective partners.

Later that day he sat on the floor looking over the address Dolores Sombria had given him, the wolf figurine the Warden had given him rolling in his other hand. He squeezed it and ran his fingertips over it, feeling some form of connection to it. He did this with the throwing knives the Specialist had given him as well, trying to piece together the reasons behind these small gifts he had had since he was . . . not a skinwalker. He sometimes felt safer holding them, less alone. At the same time he felt hollow.

All the things the Masters ever said to him felt hollow.

He wondered if Lola would be any different in the long run.

“You’re letting them get to you,” Don murmured.

“What?” he asked. The emptiness that overtook him upon coming home was back now. It always found him, whether because he lay in bed thinking of what things he had done in it or (more often than not) because Don seemed to find every excuse to make physical contact with him. He was starting to think he didn’t like to be touched.

“I heard them telling you how well you were doing. Saw you talking to some of the summoners.” Don eyed him over the rims of his glasses. “You are doing well my boy.” Rowan had to choke down a bitter response to the old term of endearment. He didn’t like it. Not one bit. “But be wary of those who seek to use you.” But he dealt with it. Why?

Because no one else would want to deal with him. “I know.”

“You do?” Rowan nodded. He had been paying attention, both to Don and to the signs he had learned from him. “Tell me, how do you know?”

Rowan swallowed, eyes not quite meeting Don’s. He stared at the Moderator’s brow instead. “Because they invite me to use my talents.”

“It is never just a compliment, that is correct. You must remember they will always want something from you, Rowan.” Rowan listened. Especially when it was his name Don was saying. He listened and nodded. “You’re a thinker, son. Think each time they approach you. Think about what they’ll want from you and that’ll prepare you for the disappointment.”

“And be more suspicious of those who ask for nothing,” Rowan declared.

“Correct. Why is that correct?”

“Because they’ll ask eventually. They’re just waiting for the right time. To make you feel obligated.”

There was a pat to his arm. It left him unsteady and lightheaded. “You really have learned.” Don’s fingers slid further down Rowan’s arm, hooking under the hem of his shirt. Rowan didn’t react. He merely stared. “You have given consideration to our bond?”

“Yes.” He had turned eighteen a while ago now. He was ready.

“You know what to ask for?” Rowan nodded. Don’s hand then slid beneath his shirt and slid up his stomach and ribs, stopping where his fingertips had touched between his breasts when he was fifteen. “Then ask it.”

There was a burning sensation as the Scorch Marks were reignited, his raised skin rising once again to his partner’s touch. With this touch would be the completed exchange of power. With this touch, their fate would officially be intertwined. Rowan took a deep breath. This shouldn’t hurt. “I wish not to go feral.” His thoughts of the Witchery Way and what happened to people on it had given him many nightmares and malicious daydreams. Meeting the summoners had only sealed his desire to make this wish. Oblivion seemed much more welcoming than that level of loss of control.

It seemed Don had thought similarly . . . and yet differently. “I wish to be your only partner in this organization.”

Rowan did hurt, but he wasn’t sure why. The Scorch Marks hadn’t tightened but so much, there was no reason for his chest to feel so constricted even with the final transfer of power. Perhaps it was finally sealing the bond he had promised to seal years ago. Perhaps it was the touch itself.

Perhaps it was the intrusive thought that with this bond, he was conceding to never trusting anyone again.

After the disappointments of coming of age, after the multiple successes diluted by requests . . . perhaps this was the best thing for him. Don had yet to be wrong after all.