It's the accent that catches his attention. There are enough Arabic speakers in Baedal that, while it's always a pleasant surprise, it's not jarring enough to pull Wolfgang out of wherever he's withdrawn to. Neither is the sound of a scuffle, because there have been plenty of those so far — guard against prisoner, gladiator against prisoner, prisoner against prisoner. The accent is jarring enough; of course he recognises a Palestinian accent. He ends up drifting in that direction, not sure if it's out of curiosity or instinct to be close to anything that reminds him so much of home. He barely has to tip upward — while not the tallest in the room, he's cutting it pretty close — to peer at the face associated with that voice.
His face goes dead white. He staggers backwards.
No. He's not real. It wouldn't be the first time he's imagined a face that wasn't there, projected it onto someone totally unrelated. There was a week — a long, horrible week — where every little girl with black curly hair was her. That he could hallucinate Hassan's face on a stranger...
Wolfgang is learning about checking. It's easy to do in theory: subtly or overtly taking cues from other people to see if they experience the same things he does, if they heard, saw, or felt what he did; sometimes he has to ask, sometimes he can just gauge by their reaction. It's important to establish what is real and what is imagined, although magic complicates things and it doesn't always work. But it helps.
All of that goes right out the window the second he sees that face and he blurts out, too loud, "Hassan?"
The things that are different — he's older, over a head taller, his hair is shorter and several shades lighter, there's a scar on his forehead that is new, and he's gaunt where he was only skinny before and so pale, like a ghost — are outweighed by the things that are the same. The same face — he even has the same moles, crooked teeth, lopsided eyebrows. The same unusual in-between of male and female, neither quite feminine nor exactly masculine. The same way he holds himself slightly back, uncertain, his arms wrapped around himself defensively. Doubting himself even though he'd know that face anywhere, he still expects rejection all the time. And his skin is nearly grey in colour, a deeply unhealthy shade like he's going to be sick or already has been.
No. He shouldn't have said anything. He can't tell if this is really happening or if it's all in his head, some horrible projection his subconscious has made because he's scared and hurt and wants so badly to go home. He can't tell and there's no one here he trusts enough to check for him, no one he could ask without fear. And he could be wrong; there are people here with identical faces but completely unrelated to each other, it happens all the time. He must be wrong.
no subject
His face goes dead white. He staggers backwards.
No. He's not real. It wouldn't be the first time he's imagined a face that wasn't there, projected it onto someone totally unrelated. There was a week — a long, horrible week — where every little girl with black curly hair was her. That he could hallucinate Hassan's face on a stranger...
Wolfgang is learning about checking. It's easy to do in theory: subtly or overtly taking cues from other people to see if they experience the same things he does, if they heard, saw, or felt what he did; sometimes he has to ask, sometimes he can just gauge by their reaction. It's important to establish what is real and what is imagined, although magic complicates things and it doesn't always work. But it helps.
All of that goes right out the window the second he sees that face and he blurts out, too loud, "Hassan?"
The things that are different — he's older, over a head taller, his hair is shorter and several shades lighter, there's a scar on his forehead that is new, and he's gaunt where he was only skinny before and so pale, like a ghost — are outweighed by the things that are the same. The same face — he even has the same moles, crooked teeth, lopsided eyebrows. The same unusual in-between of male and female, neither quite feminine nor exactly masculine. The same way he holds himself slightly back, uncertain, his arms wrapped around himself defensively. Doubting himself even though he'd know that face anywhere, he still expects rejection all the time. And his skin is nearly grey in colour, a deeply unhealthy shade like he's going to be sick or already has been.
No. He shouldn't have said anything. He can't tell if this is really happening or if it's all in his head, some horrible projection his subconscious has made because he's scared and hurt and wants so badly to go home. He can't tell and there's no one here he trusts enough to check for him, no one he could ask without fear. And he could be wrong; there are people here with identical faces but completely unrelated to each other, it happens all the time. He must be wrong.