"Magic is a curse, you know – as much a curse as it is a blessing."
It was a night that could fill anyone with wonder. The Lycian fields that surrounded them were murky green, the air filled with fireflies, owls hooted in the distance, and the moonlight was milky white and seemed to make the dewdrops on the grass sparkle. A cool breeze played with their hair and their clothes, and if you sat next to the two mages in the grass underneath the great cypress, you would swear you could hear a goddess's tired sigh abreast in the wind.
"If you ask me," Canas said, looking straight into Priscilla's tear-filled eyes, "sometimes the curse is worse."
He was bundled up in thick robes, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. A thick, heavy spellbook rested on his lap, the skull on the front all too darkly fitting.
Priscilla thrust her gaze away, latching onto a star twinkling brightly in the sky. In the moonlight, the tears on her cheek twinkled the same way.
"Is it my fault? That's what you're saying, isn't it, master druid?"
"Madame Priscilla, you know as well as I do that there's no such thing as fault, no such thing as blame. There is only magic, and magic does what magic wills."
Priscilla picked up the staff that lay by her side. "Magic? If this is magic, I don't want magic." Her voice was a bitter girl, a betrayed girl, a broken girl who was hiding the scars on her heart with hate. "I will not need this staff. Master druid, perhaps you can make better use of it than I."
She tossed the staff at Canas, the glowing orb hitting his chest and falling into his lap. He said nothing.
"Your magic was impressive, master druid. Thank you for trying." She closed her eyes and tried to stand up; her knees quivered the first time and she fell back down, but the second time she stood up, and from where Canas was, the moon just barely peeked over her hair and made the red glow.
Red was the color of love, but red was the color of anger, as well.
Perhaps love and anger were apart only by the breadth of a sword's edge?
"Madame, leaving your staff is far from leaving magic behind." Canas spoke softly. "It is inside you, beating rhythmically just the same as your heart."
"Like my heart?" Priscilla laughed bitterly. "My magic or my heart – I'll rip one of them out of myself. I swear it, master druid."
Canas could bring no more words to his mouth as a shattered girl walked through the grass, away from him, away from her staff that could heal any wound but the ones that were on the heart.
Many fireflies, many ants, many many little creatures all approached Canas, alighted on him however briefly, and then left again, before he opened his tome.
It had precisely 736 pages, he knew. What druid would own the Book of the Omen and not know that much? Furthermore, the lore and the chants that had failed to save a person were covered on pages three-thirty-three to three-thirty-nine – The Seven Witches.
Of course, Dark Magic was nothing but magic arising from knowledge – the real power of man himself, Canas liked to think. A tome of Light was filled with faith, but a tome of Dark was filled with truth and knowledge. It wasn't dry science or technology, but pure thought. The Book of the Omen bore knowledge on why one must die when they must, why things end when they do, and why it hurts.
It brought power, but when the Book of the Omen said that one must die, Canas's power reached its end. Magic had decided the man's fate. Canas – and Priscilla – were but witness.
Aphiria, who was a great shaman who had given herself to her doom long ago when it was her fated time, was the one who had made the ritual fail. Witch the Fifth, of the great cycle, whose arms were twisting trees and whose fingers were flowers, said the following in the Book of the Omen.
Nature takes all things; nature takes your joy, nature takes your woe, nature takes your triumph, nature takes your loss. Nature takes those you love. Nature takes your tragedy. Nature takes your pain. And finally, nature takes you.
And I have been told that for everything nature takes away, a day will come when nature gives it back.
Canas's hand had trembled during the ritual as he drew the flower of Aphiria. When he had failed, had the words of Aphiria disturbed him to break his concentration?
Or had Aphiria convinced him to make the ritual fail?
Canas didn't want to think about it, but to be a shaman was to think, to understand. The moment he stopped trying to know was the moment he renounced what he was.
He closed the tome, stood, and brushed at his robes.
He made sure he had both his tome and her staff, and then he started back towards the caravan.
vvv
Canas slept fitfully on the bedroll. He shared the room with Erk and Matthew, neither of whom seemed to be woken or at all disturbed when Canas woke and would toss and turn trying to sleep once more.
The image of a man drawing his last breaths haunted him. So many times he had seen it, but an ally – one people were relying on him to save – it was different. It was worse.
That question kept circling in his head, as well. It had been because of Aphiria's words that he had failed, of that there was no doubt, but was it her who disrupted the ritual, or Canas himself knowing that she was right?
After what must have been the sixth or seventh time waking up with a start, he surrendered and slipped out of the bedroll. The cracks around the door and between the shutters said that it was still nighttime, but the night held no rest for Canas, that much he knew.
In the morning would be the burial. He had to straighten his thoughts before then. Before the morning, he had to think, and he had to understand. Before the morning, he had to know.
The moon wasn't so dreamily milky when Canas stepped outside again, unaware of one eye on him. It was dim, weak – limp. It was shining with a broken will. The cold made him shiver, far from the refreshing cool of the evening, and the dew-drenched grass soaked his ankles.
Still, it was a good thing. Good to step out. He felt his thoughts shifting, becoming more clear with every second that passed in the cold night air.
Caravan wagons were all stationed in a circle, one wagon in the center, protected by the others. That was lord Hector's wagon. They were parked on a plateau, the great cypress not too far to one side. Canas didn't return to it, though – he went instead to the edge of the plateau, to a spot where bushes grew and made a pocket in the earth for him to sit in.
Before him, Lycian fields stretched out for miles, swaying softly in the breeze. Light shined far away in the distance, one of the castle cities, Canas couldn't think of which one. It didn't matter. He pulled the same thick robes he had been wearing when he had seen the man die tight around him, and relaxed, and he began to think.
He realized he had fallen asleep when he was woken up probably an hour later.
"I know the bedrolls aren't comfy, but I think they're nicer than the rocks."
Canas blinked his dreary eyes a hundred times, trying to gather scattered thoughts and feelings. He looked at the one who had sat down next to him with a smirk on his face.
"I felt I needed some air."
Matthew looked up to the sky. There wasn't a cloud to be seen, nothing but a sky filled with stars.
"You're awfully sympathetic for a dark mage. You guys usually don't get this frazzled when an ally dies."
Canas toyed with the hem of one robe, trying to put his thoughts into words. "Well, how to say… dark magic is rather a burden on the mind. It can drive many people to some nihilistic viewpoints, or total solipsism."
"Not you, though, huh?"
"That sort of thing usually comes from hubris." Canas felt like a weight was lifted from his chest – he was so at home talking about his magic, not fighting, not killing, not watching friends die. "You see, the strength of dark magic comes from knowing, from understanding. The whys of the world, like why we live and why we die.
"A shaman will understand many things in very different ways from an ordinary person – typically speaking, of course. When you are this person of abstract, transcendent thought, it is a great temptation to believe you understand the world itself in a way better than other people and try to take control."
Canas watched the grass sway to and fro with rhythm in the wind, like it always did, no matter how many people crossed it, how many civilizations built on it, how many fell, and how many left it once again.
And I have been told, Aphiria had said, that for everything nature takes away, a day will come when nature gives it back. Aphiria, of the great cycle.
"But the great minds of old teach us humility above all else," Canas said, with his mind elsewhere. "Shamans have thought for thousands of years, and still we understand virtually nothing of the world. A true master of dark magic understands how much he has yet to learn no matter how great he becomes."
To Canas's surprise, Matthew laughed.
"You're a booky type, aren't you? You're not made for the battlefield – I mean, no offense, but jeez."
The druid smiled. "Oh, certainly. I'm a scholar first and foremost. But to understand more, a man must experience more – that's why these battles are more for me than just protecting what I think is right. War is a terrible thing, but is another chance to learn."
Matthew kicked out his legs into the grass, crossing one over the other. After a second of silence, he pointed into the sky.
"Hey, druid guy, shooting star."
Canas looked up – a gleaming trail swept through the night of stars, neither quickly nor slowly but full of majesty, like a great king passing through a crowd.
"Do dark mages make wishes on these sorts of things?"
He smiled. "Of course. The only difference is that we tell people our wishes. It helps them to come true, because then other people can feel the weight of the wish as well."
"Nice. You guys are better than I gave you credit for. So, what're you wishing for?"
Peace and rest for the one who had died – well, that didn't mean much to Canas. Perhaps to a mage of light. Healing for the wounded Priscilla?
Her suffering was unbearable to Canas.
"Me, I know what I'm wishing for. Same thing every time," Matthew said, interrupting Canas's thoughts. "I wish that a certain lady is happy where she is."
Nobody said anything for a while. The wind blew, again playing with Canas's hair, again shifting the fields of murky green below. In the sky, the shooting star continued on its majestic trail.
It was a long time before Canas spoke again.
"You'll see her once again," he said. "Such is the nature of the great cycle. Maybe you won't see her face, but you will feel winds that she felt, you will see things that she wrought. The world was changed, just a little bit, by her fingerprint – and your finger traces its outlines even as we speak."
Matthew was quiet.
"In the great cycle, death is only a small thing – a short breath, a small misstep." Canas closed his eyes. "So I have been told."
Still, Matthew kept his eyes on the sky, silent. His smirk was gone, his eyes filled with something deep, unreadable.
Canas gathered his robes about him and stood, feeling the wind press into his face as he did. "By the way, my wish – I also wish for the same thing every time, incidentally. I wish to understand. I think my wish has already been granted, though."
Matthew stayed where he was as Canas returned to the caravan, back to the wagon.
He was only inside for a minute, though, long enough to find something – something Priscilla needed. Something she couldn't wait another second for. She needed magic.
Yes, next to his bedroll, right where he had carefully placed it before he had tried to go to sleep.
Aphiria, Canas thought to a woman long dead but whose thoughts were still as alive as they ever were, as he stepped out through the door, I understand now.
The ritual didn't fail at all. From the very start, somewhere in Canas's heart, he had already known that the man's time had come. Every motion he had performed led to the ritual of Aphiria, where the man had died.
In the beginning, Canas had started the ritual only to bear the teachings of Aphiria.
Golden rays of light broke free over the horizon, the first traces of morning. Slowly, slowly, slowly, bright, warm, and glorious light started to fill the world as Canas approached the wagon Priscilla was alone in, and of course, still awake in.
Morning rose while Canas knocked, his other hand holding the Book of the Omen open to page three-thirty-seven.
A/N: Merry Christmas to all!
Guess this is my first fic on this site, huh? Well, anyway - Secret Santa gift for Dark Glass01, who loves Canas - and through having me write this fic has made me love Canas too xD
Hope you enjoyed the piece cx