The situation in the College was not a good one, and understandably so, since Colleges, magical or not, were usually not built with the capability of withstanding sieges in mind. Mood was generally low, the wounded were many, and the greatness of magic seemed all too incapable to deal with the physicality of the situation brought by isolation. Apprentice and master worked alike to salvage the situation, but nonetheless, it was grim. Winterhold was gone, the bridge was gone, and the College, now all alone, had definitely seen better days. 

In the battered Courtyard, amongst the bandaged and wretched looking mages, one figure stood out thanks to his more conventional attire, leaning against a broken pillar. This man, this melancholic man, nearing his middle age, and thinking of his past love far away, was Marcel Gawain, who, alongside a few others, had ended up stuck in the College while visiting, much to the chagrin of the more magically adept inhabitants of the school, thanks to the fellow’s rather odd relationship with magic. Somehow unscathed during the catastrophe, he was nonetheless attended to by an Altmer, who nearly puked her guts out after checking him for wounds and trying to apply Restoration magic. Had the College not been in such a situation, they would’ve probably taken Marcel for study – but, as things were, nobody cared enough about a dizzying magic sponge. That was something for later.

The Breton, seemingly bored by the fact that he wasn’t able to do much about the chaos around him, procured a Madeleine from a pouch on his belt and threw it in his mouth. Having last bought Madeleines from Solitude, and having been unable to find any more in other cities in Skyrim, they weren’t as fresh as Marcel would prefer them to be, but they would have to do. They were practically cut off from the rest of the world, and thus, no matter how stale, Madeleines were a comfort to be appreciated, and Marcel did so with the best of his ability. Had he been another Marcel in another time and another place, perhaps the taste of Madeleine could lead him to writing a literary masterpiece, but our Marcel was too bland, too wonderfully dull to achieve such a thing. Even if he actually had the skill to write a book, his masterpiece would be a six-volume encyclopedia of Breton fabrics, or a book on the volume of acid in the soils of the various provinces of Tamriel. Yet not all hope was lost for Marcel, given the fact that he could at least feel human emotions such as love, even if he was awfully quiet in his way of experiencing such things. At the very least, there was one person in Tamriel who could say that Marcel was actually a human being with emotions and not some sort of puppet trying to imitate a nice person, but she was far away, in Skingrad, and there was no reason for anyone to ask her about Marcel. 

It was hard to believe that he was a witch hunter by profession – then again, it was hard to believe that he was a hunter of any sort, given the innocent and melancholic look on his face, you’d figure he’d be better off locked in some sort of study or behind some vending shop, to be forgotten in life, and lamented in death. If not for a series of coincidences, this possibility would’ve most likely been the truth, and if Marcel had thought about it, it also would’ve probably been seen as a better option, for Marcel was not a man of violence by nature. But Marcel also wasn’t a thinker, and thus, having to go with the flow, he was stuck with his profession. 

As the man chewed on the stale piece of pastry in his mouth, he saw a young, thin lad approach. He had seen this fellow before the Catastrophe, in the Arcanaeum, talking to the old librarian about something. Of course, he was now thinner, courtesy of the food shortage, and had a bandage wrapped around his forehead, obscuring his right eye. ‘’Care to spare some?’’ The lad asked, and Marcel obliged, albeit it hurt him to do so, for Marcel had few things as precious in his life as his Madeleines. 

‘’These certainly taste better than what we’ve been eating for the last few days,’’ the young mage said – Marcel felt a tinge of spite in the lad’s voice, yet whether the mage had meant that or not, that was not certain. Marcel realized that it probably wasn’t nice of him to eat beautiful, beautiful pastries in the middle of such a situation. But the lemony taste of it was well worth it. For Marcel, the sadness brought on by an act of selfishness did not take away the pleasure caused by the act, but neither did the pleasure take away the sadness – they existed hand in hand, and Marcel, ever the optimist, preferred to focus on the cake. It was still spongy, though it was a bit tougher to chew on. 

Marcel felt like he had to continue the conversation somehow. ‘’Fine weather, isn’t it?’’ He asked to the mage, trying to skip the whole city-crumbling storms business. Right after he said that, Marcel realized he could’ve used a better way to open the conversation, but it seemed too late for that. The mage raised his good eye at Marcel. ‘’My brother was killed by lightning. My uncle probably died in the collapse. I lost an eye. Sure is nice weather.’’ Marcel was completely taken aback by how the lad made the best of the circumstances. ‘’It’s nice to see someone appreciate such things no matter what,’’ Marcel said cheerfully, for he did not want to seem out of mood compared to the mage. The lad’s eye lit up and he opened his mouth to say something, but then, he suddenly began choking and coughing. ‘’Are you okay?’’ Marcel asked in a concerned manner, and the lad flailed his arm at Marcel, as if trying to caress his jaw, though the hand was closed shut, so it wouldn’t be able to do any gentle touching. The closed hand missed Marcel, however, and sent the maneuver sent the choking lad falling to the ground. 

‘’Help! Someone help!’’ Marcel shouted, and managed to attract the attention of some mages sitting by the statue of Shalidor in the Courtyard, who rushed to the aid of their choking friend. Marcel himself dropped on his knees to help, but he did not know what to do in this situation. ‘’He’s choked on a piece of cake!’’ Marcel informed them as they started abdominal thrusts to clear the lad’s windpipe. Suddenly, the half-chewed piece of Madeleine burst from the young mage’s mouth, followed by an amount of vomit, which ended up spilling all over the young mage’s robes.

‘’Shem, you know rationing is in place, where’d you get a damn cake?’’ One of the more experienced mages asked to the exhausted young mage on the ground. Before he could reply, however, Shem coughed more, and thus was limited to lifting his hand in Marcel’s direction. 

‘’If not for this fellow here you could’ve died, you know,’’ another of the mages mentioned. Marcel smiled for doing something right as the bunch of mages carried Shem away, except one.

‘’I’d almost say it served him right, but it wouldn’t be right of me to say that,’’ the remaining mage said as she shook her head. ‘’He’ll need a reprimand, I think. It was good of you to inform us, we’ll have to restrict the rations further,’’ she said. ‘’ I’m Anne Duboisse. And you are?’’ 

‘’My name’s Marcel Gawain, Mme Duboisse,’’ Marcel said, and extended his hand for a shake. The lady complied and grasped the witch hunter’s hand, and suddenly twitched in place, as if struck by static shock. ‘’Ah, dear Mara,’’ Anne said, dizzied, and took her hand back. ‘’You will have to excuse me,’’ she said as she held her hand and ran away. Marcel smiled as the young woman hurriedly left. 

[i]‘’I think she likes me.’’[/i]