They came to him on a dark peaceful night. The candles flickering and dancing as he breathes in the cold night air. He reaches for another piece of firewood, gently tossing it into the kindling fire before he turns to his visitors lingering just at the mouth of his cave. He rarely gets visitors. In fact, he prefers to never have visitors. He hates visitors you see.
"What do you want?" he asks, green eyes narrowing as the two large wolves remain silent, ruby red and olive green shining with intelligence and caution.
"I won't ask again. What do you two mongrels want?" his voice is sharp and harsh like a whip. He does not have time for dallying. His candles are running out and he has a very nice book on herbs and poisons to finish.
No answer. He is about to ignore them, only to realize something very important. He forgot to keep the barrier down. The two idiots lingering at his doorway probably cannot even see him and are too wary of his tricks to even dare entering his domain.
Good.
He makes a mental note to give his brother Alastair more wild mushrooms as a form of thanks for the charm on his next visit to replenish its energy stores. He was quite skeptical when his brother told him that the thing can function without the need of constant magic being applied.
"Now, listen here. Ye may be better at incantations –"
"That's because I actually take effort in enunciating it properly."
Smack!
"Ow! My head!"
"Ungrateful runt! I take it back. Get mauled by beasts in your sleep for all I care."
"Oh, calm down. Yes. Yes. I admit. You're the best charms maker. Now, are you giving it to me or not?"
He can practically see Alastair's chest puff up while his mouth quirks up a sharp grin of 'I told you so'. Arthur shakes his head, pushing the haughty image away as he grabs and turns the amber lion perching on his table towards him instead of the entrance before pocketing it within his robes. A few moments tick before the barrier drops revealing himself to the two wolves. Two large wolves with furs of dark brown, and silver that seem to immediately notice his scent before anything else.
"It's been a long time, Arthur. How are you?" Antonio greets, crassly morphing into his human form. Bones cracking and shrinking into place. The telltale snaps and clicks of joints and teeth. He averts his gaze. No longer covered with dark brown fur, he doesn't need to see the man is his naked glory.
"How I am is none of your concern. What do you want?" he asks, eyes still on the flickering candlelight. He hears shuffling, ears picking up on rough glide of cotton and breeches.
Well, at least they were smart enough to bring clothing.
"We need help," the second was gruffer, irritatingly loud and grating despite its unusual lack of arrogance.
"No," he answers quickly with no hint of hesitation. He is in no mood for favors tonight.
"At least hear us out!" Antonio protests.
"Why should I?" he questions, turning to meet their gaze. He has long severed his ties with these creatures. He thought he has made his demands explicitly clear to both their packs when he gave them the last of his mother's clarity charms to be replicated and mass produced allowing their kind to stay sane even in the fullest and brightest of moons. In turn, they will vow never to harm, nor bother him or his family ever again. The wolves will continue to protect them yes, but they must only remain within the shadows unless something dire is truly needed.
The Kirkland family is off limits. And for these two to come, asking for aid of all things tells one thing, and one thing alone.
They must be truly desperate to seek my aid.
The infamous Kirklands has been known throughout the land as a family of magic and wealth. Well, it used to be. Wealth and magic are never a good mix after all. It breeds jealousy, conflict and betrayal. It was in that moment, his ancestors had to choose.
They chose wealth. They relinquished their ties with magic along with its creatures. Their wealth grew and grew only to dwindle into nothing due to a rather irresponsible heir.
William Kirkland. Formally known to be Arthur's great grandfather the man who forced his kin to be nothing but lowly servants and commoners because wealth is a nasty thing to lose when you are famous. However, that was a long time ago and Arthur doesn't really desire to linger on such trivialities. He and his brothers never grew to know wealth or fame. They only had their mother and no one else.
Their life was simple. That is until they saw her performing magic and making deals with werewolves of all things.
"They offer protection, love. It will be fine," she assures them, three sons with different fathers sired out of wedlock and passion.
The eldest was named Alastair. He is big-boned and will grow to be a big gruff red-headed brute with large meaty hands that could practically crush skulls. Alastair is built like a brawler and makes it no secret that he's as sturdy and strong as one. He also makes it no secret that despite such clumsy looking appendages, he still carries the finesse and touch of a skilled artisan and charms maker.
He particularly likes it when he shows people his best works – delicate pretty flowers and painted gold leaves coiling up like straight from a fairytale. It is hard to believe that such pretty things come from the multiple scraps of metal he keeps collecting.
"The older the better I always say. Remember, lad. It's not always the quality of the material but the memories it holds that makes a good charm."
Two years later, Alwyn comes into the family. He's probably the most soft-spoken of them and the odd one in the lot. Dark chestnut wavy soft hair paired with such kind features that can place any person at ease. He speaks with a rather musical lit in his tone mostly due to spending too much time listening to bards sing as they cast wonderful tales of magic and love.
However, for all the softness and calm smiles, there hides a sharp tongue and a rather vindictive ire that both brothers do not dare to rile up. He can hold quite a deep grudge and his curses are as powerful as his healing.
And then there's he. Arthur. The scrawny runt of the family with wild unruly dirty blond hair that can rival the curiosity of cat which has the tendency to land him in the most awkward and unfortunate of circumstances.
"I didn't know that it was going to give me bunny ears! Why would you even make a charm like that, Alastair? Why?!"
"To teach ye a lesson on touchin' stuff that don't belong to ye."
He is also the most studious of the three, preferring to find a nice warm corner with nothing but the company of thick tomes and parchment until the candles burn down into useless stubs of wax. Yet, for all his scholarly ways, he still has a glint of mischief and rebellion that likes to challenge the set norms of the world.
Three brothers. Very different yet very similar. Especially since all three didn't manage to escape the most prominent of their clan's features which are thick defined brows and sharp green eyes. They never dared to ask deeper of their origins. There are some things they did not desire to know. They did not need a father anyways, they had her and that is all that mattered.
"What are they protecting us from mother?" Alastair asks all serious, thick brows a furrow and perhaps pride slightly bruised for, whom else is a better protector than he.
"Sit lads, this is going to be a long one." their mother sighs, a weary look shadows her aged features.
If one looks past the graying hairs and wrinkles, one can still see she was quite a beauty in her prime. Long thick golden tresses tied up in a simple braid. Sharp green eyes framed by defined brows and thick curling lashes. Lips, full yet a bit chapped, that curl into the brightest and softest of smiles.
As they gathered around her, she told them of their history. How their family once had great magic but abandoned it for wealth. She told them how the magic they've abandoned opened a chasm of chaos and misfortune to befall on their family.
"There is always a price, lads. Remember that."
Yes, the price of wealth needed to be balanced as is with poverty. It is because their mother grew to be poor that she reawakened the desire for magic. Magic which she carried in the things she mends, in the things she cooks, and in the things she loves.
"They protect us from the misfortune our family attracts. It is not as strong as it was during my father's time but one can never be too sure…"
She explained to them that the misfortune is usually in the form of illness or death. They are the last of their kin and are more vulnerable to the mischief of the Fey and wild creatures that lurk within the forest's green depths.
"That's not right! The Fey are kind!"
He could never forget how his mother immediately paled at his words. Asking him with shaking hands if he can actually see them which he replied with a haughty yes because how in the world can they be not seen.
"You mean you don't see them?" he asks wide eyes as his mother shakes her head.
No, she cannot see them. She, unlike her sons, can only feel their presence. It is in that discovery did she continue on explaining to them that each of them is capable of magic so long as they are willing to learn.
"I still have the books. Not all of them, but I'm sure they are enough."
"But mother, your magic –"
Arthur remembers Alwyn protesting, how her magic is not meant for such things. Arthur was too young to understand, barely pushing ten and still too easily distracted by anything pretty and cute, he only thought his brother's concern to be ill-placed and unneeded. For, in all his innocence, found their mother to be ever strong and undefeatable. Brilliant in her ways as she teaches her unruly sons the basics of spells and charms – their interest in magic never faltering. In fact, he could even say that she is eternal and never fading as magic itself.
It is a foolish and naïve thought. A thought that will forever haunt him as the image of their mother lying lifeless on the ground clutching a set of charmed rocks with a note saying, for the wolves. That day, at the tender age of twelve, he came to realize what Alwyn meant. Elizabeth Kirkland's magic was not meant for such things because her magic was not meant exist at all.
The Kirkland Family made a vow to abstain from all things magical and with that vow came the slow decay of their capacity to do magic. She used too much. Her body was not built for it. Her mind too untrained for it.
Growing better herbs and vegetables at a faster rate unhindered by weather and pests. Healing cuts and bruises. Keeping children healthy through the winter and sickly seasons. Such things are fine. Her magic was meant for little things and never for charms and potions that alter and override what was originally intended.
Like the werewolf curse for example.
"Arthur please, we have no one else to turn!" Antonio begs, snapping Arthur out of his memories.
"I do not see how that is my problem," he scoffs, crossing his arms, unwilling to budge for a lot of reasons. One would be that he distrusts them simply because he has long lost faith in any magical creature. Second, he can practically foresee the incoming horrors they will bring because this is Antonio and Gilbert and he will be a fool to expect otherwise. And thirdly, his brothers would be very very angry with him simply because they have never really liked the idea of Arthur for giving up the charms.
"Are you mad! Why on earth should surrender her charms? She died making those things!"
"Exactly, Alastair! It's only right. And besides, we're not giving them all of them."
"I have to agree on Alastair on this one Arthur. The wolves…"
"The wolves will only keep coming and they are more dangerous without the charms, Alwyn. If we give it to them, they'll have to protect us."
"You honestly think you can trust those beasts?"
"Mother trusted them to keep their word. And I am willing to take the risk."
"Fine. But I'm coming with you. Alwyn, stay behind in case something happens. If we're not back by sundown you know what to do."
"Aye."
"Arthur? Arthur! Are you even listening?" He jolts up meeting the sight of burning rubies and snarling teeth.
"No, actually," he admits riling up the man even more. Antonio has the sense to stop his friend from doing anything rash to their host.
"At least hear us out! Your services never come for free, we know that," Gilbert spits, harsh and angry, never the type to calm down unlike his brother who seems far too composed to be a werewolf.
"Oh? You didn't come empty handed then. Okay, I'll bite. Sit," he says gesturing to towards a rather worn down bench made of wood and weakened by moisture. He rarely has company so he never really found the need to maintain his things that often.
"You have five minutes," he pours himself a cup of water but just before turning over an hourglass, he takes a moment to admire the fine white sand within the container, "You're wasting time with your silence you know," he mentions, turning his gaze on the two werewolves.
"We need to you help us rescue someone."
Arthur frowns at Antonio's statement. His talents are for crafts, repair and growing rare herbs. Yes, he can still fight and shoot arrows like any man but these are werewolves and they are more than strong enough.
How does staging a rescue require my services?
"Who is this someone?" he asks, eyes narrowing as the pair looked at each other with mirrored hesitation.
"A good friend. Listen, Arthur. He was sacrificed for the dragon," Antonio answers, quickly explaining the situation at hand before Arthur could inquire any further.
But he was having none of that.
"You two idiots have many friends." It used to include him, but those days are long distant and gone. "And last time I checked the dragon is not interested in wolves or mortals... it prefers... those of the Fey. Pretty creatures but with strong magic. Like elves…" he pauses and things just click into place. "You want me to help you rescue an elf?"
Perhaps it was his tone or visible disgust that made both creatures wince. They should know better than to come to him with such an offer.
"No. I do not care how dear this friend of yours is. I WILL HELP NO ELF. After what they've done to me, you actually expect me to help?" he rises from his chair and bellows with finger pointing towards the entrance, "No! No amount of gold or silver will convince me. You have your answer now lea –"
"Magic."
He freezes.
"What?"
"Magic. We will give you magic," Gilbert repeats, visibly pleased in garnering his attention.
"Are you offering what I think you're offering?" he ventures, eyes narrowing in suspicion, neither men dares to answer, allowing him to make his own conclusions.
"And the Elders are allowing this?" he asks, wondering if his years of seclusion has earned their forgiveness. Not that he had done anything to require forgiveness. Not that he needed to earn anything, he did nothing wrong.
No, those old fools would rather rot than retract a punishment. But maybe out of necessity?
He was never a fan of the elves' high council of elders. He finds them far too restricting and close-minded. Far too old to understand the need of change and the desire for improvement, it is a true wonder how they manage to maintain a steady influence amongst the Fey.
But then again, this is the Fey we are talking about. They are governed by a different set of rules.
"No… the Elders are not aware of this arrangement," Antonio shuffles under his glare which is quite laughable considering how strong the man actually is compared to his own lithe frame.
"Last time I checked they're the only one who has jurisdiction over these kinds of things," his eyes narrow and his mouth set into a firm line. He does not like the direction of this conversation.
"They are."
For a moment, there is silence – nothing but the crackling of firewood and the whistling of the night breeze. The three men sitting still as stone while their shadows dance to the flickering flames.
Arthur takes a deep calming breath and speaks.
"Let me get this straight. You are offering to return my magic if I help rescue this friend of yours. BUT, the persons who are involved in bestowing my magic back are unaware and possibly against it. Did I get that right?"
Both nod.
"I don't believe it," he declares, keeping the venom locked in his tone.
"Why don't you see for yourself then?" Gilbert grins, brandishing a crystal globe upon his palm.
"A crystal ball," he deadpans, irritation rising in his chest when Gilbert's grin widens and opens into a short cackle.
"It's not an ordinary crystal ball, Arthur," Antonio informs, taking the ball from Gilbert as he stands to move closer to him. Arthur hesitates, there is nothing really notable in the thing, dull pearly white that reflects some of the fire's yellow glow. Up close, the surface looks dented and pocked. Unpolished with scratches on the surface, its unappealing appearance makes Arthur's hackles rise even more.
"It's okay to touch it, Arthur," Antonio assures, catching his hesitance.
Arthur ignores his assurances and chooses to bid his time, watching the shadows and light dance across the globe's uneven surface. Was it just him, or is the thing looking more and more unappealing as time goes on. It is as if something is pushing him away from the thing.
He pushes the ill foreboding in his stomach and dares to touch. It's warm. Strangely smoother than expected. His fingers run across the surface, green eyes entranced as the orb begins to emit a soft glow. And then, he feels it. A steady thrum. A familiar beat that seem to immediately sync with his very soul. Warmth, soft comforting warmth.
Magic. My magic.
"How?" he asks, breathy with eyes still wide and disbelieving.
"As you've probably noticed, we're quite desperate," Gilbert admits, face hard and stern while everything becomes blaringly clear as reality comes crashing down on him.
"Blood hell!" he exclaims, forcefully tearing his fingers away from the now glowing globe. He can see it now, tendrils of energy leaking through the container beaconing him to come closer, telling him to take it back to the place where it truly belongs. "You stole this didn't you!" he turns his gaze away, towards the darkness of the night, away from the coiling lights and warmth. "You idiots." His voice shakes, falters into a whisper, the light is still there when he turns, luring him back. "Do you have any idea how stupid this –"
"Do you want your magic back or not?" Antonio's eyes narrow, long tapered fingers clenching around the orb taking it further away from his grasp. Arthur's fingers clench, tight and unyielding, pushing away the memory, the sensation from his fingertips.
How long has it been, since you've held magic in your hands?
Too long, far too long.
"Who's the elf?" he asks, hands and shoulders suddenly lax. He wants this. He wants him magic back.
The two look at each other once more, making Arthur's stomach drop (he's not going to like this), as they answer in unison.
"Francis."
"Francis," he hisses. Snarls. Eyes flashing with indignation as his chest fills with fire and spite.
How dare they!
"You want me. To rescue HIM?!"
"We didn't say your magic came cheap," Gilbert intercedes, eyes sharp for any possible outburst. "We know you two do not go well with each other's company," he says and Arthur briefly considers chucking a stone to his thick head. "But we need you to help us save him," he finishes, head held high and back straight as if doing the right thing is enough of a justification. Arthur forgets how little wolves care for other people's personal affairs but their own.
"Why should I?" he challenges, chest puffing out as he dares go toe to toe with them. There are a lot of things in the world Arthur Kirkland is not willing to do and this is one of them. Maybe in the past, when everything was less complicated and straightforward, he would have said yes. But now?
No. Never. He can rot in the beast's horde for all I care.
"Can you two not do it yourselves? You were foolish enough to rob from the Elders... might as well include dragon slaying and rescue missions into your list," he mocks brandishing his arms into a wide arc.
"You don't think we tried that?" Antonio asserts himself into the argument. "You think we didn't try helping him before going to you? We only got as far the edge of the forest before we almost got killed by the barrier. We asked for help from others but they were too weak or frightened to help. Francis is our friend. We don't know what happened between you two but –"
"Exactly! You don't know. You don't understand. That's the whole point of this argument. You. don't. know."
"Then tell us, dammit!" Gilbert's eyes flash dangerously as their tempers flare. "We were friends before all this shit. Tell us what happened. Tell us why you hate him so much. Tell us why, Arthur," he demands, his words grates as they echo through the cave.
Tell us. Tell us. TEEEELLLL UUUSSSS.
"HE STOLE MY MAGIC! HE RIPPED IT OUT OF ME. TORE A PIECE OF MY SOUL AND LEFT A GAPING HOLE IN MY HEART WHILE MY SO-CALLED PROTECTORS WERE CARELESS ENOUGH TO LET HIM! There, you have your answer! Happy now?" His chest heaves, tired and worn as the familiar flashes of memories comes to haunt him. He ignores the guilt-ridden faces as he takes a deep harrowing breath.
It is wrong of him. He knows it. The wolves protect them from the mischief of the Fey. They protect him from ill-wills. But they can never protect him from their verdicts and laws.
"Arthur."
"Don't. I know that look Antonio. Don't even try. Don't apologize. Don't try to make it better. It's done. My answer is no."
"Arthur, please. Don't you want your magic? Your Sight?" Antonio pleads while Arthur remembers the painful hollowness that followed after the extraction. The conscious knowledge that something is missing nagging at the back of your mind, it was only when he tried to conjure a spell did he understand. He cannot see nor hear nor feel anything. No presence. No aura. Nothing. Just a bland flatness that used to be so full of life and color in its place.
And how he tried getting that color back. That spark.
Just the Sight. Just that and nothing more. Keep the magic but please don't take It away from me.
"I survived for years without them. I'm sure I can last a few more," he replies, flat and cold as a heavy sense of resignation settles in his chest.
"I see…" Gilbert's eyes narrow and without warning grabs the globe from Antonio. "Well then, I guess we don't need this anymore do we?" he declares as he starts to hurl the ball into the cave's stone wall. Arthur's body moves before we could even fully speak.
"No!" He protests, hands clutching onto the werewolf's steady grip.
"Not as indifferent as we appear to be aren't we Arthur." His bright ruby red eyes soften as he lowers his throwing arm. "I've known you for years. You love magic. You thrive in magic. Without magic –"
"Without magic, I what?" Arthur snaps. "Go ahead, Gilbert. Tell me. Tell me how weak I've become. Tell me how I've been reduced into nothing but a hermit that mixes herbs and sews clothes for a living. Tell me how I've lost my friends. Tell me how I am nothing but a shadow of what I was." His words taper into a whisper. A sob escapes and that is all. He will not let them see his tears or his pain.
He takes another breath. And another once more. His shoulders shakes as his arms tighten around his waist. He speaks.
"Leave."
Things did not go as Gilbert had planned. He expected a fight. An argument. A bitter confrontation of why Arthur severed his ties with them – they are not Fey after all, their human attributes enables them to be seen by ordinary humans. A bit of barbed words on their inability to follow through their promises because that is how Arthur can be at times. However, he most certainly didn't expect the man to refuse their offer.
This is getting complicated. He concludes as he watches the shaking man before him suddenly realizing how much the years changed him.
What do we do now? We can't do this without him.
Antonio and he share a glance as they begin drafting alternatives through their mental link. One of the many perks of being a werewolf, mental links enables packs to communicate with each other in distances. The only disadvantage here is the extreme need for focus. The greater the distance, the harder it is to maintain the link.
I don't know.
"I mean it. Leave. Now," Arthur declares no longer shaking with his back ramrod straight as his bright green eyes meet his gaze head on. But for all his bravado, his hands still tremble – tiny tremors just at the fingertips before they ball up tightly refusing to show weakness.
Always a stubborn brat.
"Fine, then," he sighs, giving the ball a toss, cackling as he watches the former wizard scramble to catch it. "We'll leave. We will never bother you ever again," he states feeling Antonio boring holes at him. "But before that, I want you to smash that against the floor. Severe your ties with magic completely," he demands, watching how Arthur's fingers involuntarily clench protectively around orb while his face grows pale from shock.
"W-What?"
Gilbert, what are you –
Hush, Tonio. I'm trying a different approach.
"You heard me. It's better this way. That thing has been holding you back. You are chained to the past, Arthur. You no longer need magic. You've survived without it just like any common human being. So perhaps, it's time to let it go, for good this time," he explains, while both men stare at him in horror.
Gilbert, that's too harsh!
Sometimes, you need to be harsh.
"I – No! W-What are you saying?! I-I can't." He backs away, the orb now clutch tightly against his chest.
"Yes. Yes you can," he presses. "If you truly want to move on, you need to do this. Break it, Arthur. You want us to leave, right? Then break it. Break the ball and we will leave in peace. Well?" he challenges, Arthur bites his lip and gulps. With a loud cry he raises his arm, the orb glinting against the firelight, and swings it against the wall only to stop mere inches from it.
"You are cruel," Arthur whispers, eyes still gleaming as his grip falters when Gilbert graces him with a smile.
"No, I am kind. We can find other ways to save Francis," he replies, shocking both men once more.
What are you talking about, Gilbert?
"It will take time. Maybe we'd end up dead in the end. But, we won't force you, Arthur." His tone was calming and low enough for Arthur to relax and listen.
"The reason why you've relegated yourself into this darkness is because you still harbor hope for your magic to return to you. For your Sight to return. You still meditate to strengthen your mind. You still read those old tomes of spells and potions," he pauses, taking in the bewilderment in the other's features.
"How I know is not important, right now. Right now, you need to make a choice. Will you take this chance? The hope you've been secretly craving or will you allow yourself this freedom. Freedom from your hopes and dreams as you truly face reality. Freedom to move on."
The former wizard looks at him. Eyes suddenly sharp and observant as he begins searching Gilbert for a motive. A chink. He backs away from the wall and approaches them, slow and cautious. Deliberate and soundless steps like a curious cat. Within moments, they stand face to face, with Gilbert dwarfing the mortal by a full head.
"A day," Arthur asserts, shoving the ball back towards his chest making Gilbert wince a bit as solid stone digs into his sternum. "Give me a day to think about it. I'm sure the fool can keep himself alive for a day more, right?" Arthur says as he turns and walks away, returning back to his little nook of dust and books.
"Okay, we'll you give that," he nods, gesturing for Antonio to follow as they make their exit running through the dark night.
You can't be serious. Arthur is our only hope of saving Francis.
No, Arthur is our easiest way to saving Francis. His assistance will ensure a better success rate than the other methods involved. But –
But what?
He deserves a choice.
Why do you think Arthur didn't tell us it was Francis who took his magic away?
The question breaks through the fog of sleepiness, eliciting a grunt from the silver wolf.
Of course, expect Tonio to ask such questions now of all times. He grumbles briefly recalling their little meeting with the green-eyed wizard.
Knowing him, he must have thought that it would damage our friendship with Francis. He snatches a peek, his companion is currently staring at him. Far too alert and bright for his tastes.
He's such a softie. But he's right you know. I think I would be very angry at Francis if I knew it was him. Antonio's eyes grow distant, perhaps going back in time, five years prior when everything was just a bit more peaceful. Gilbert keeps silent, watching as even older memories filter through the link.
A pair of brothers. Locks of red and gold. Demanding an audience with their leader of all things. Foolish but brave boys that offers up hope in exchange of protection.
Unruly blond strands burnt by magic as melodious laughter rings in the air.
"Shut up, Frog!"
It's hard to believe such a runt would grow to be a great wizard. How old was he again? He asks, never the type to really remember such details. After all, once you go past your first century, you tend to stop counting.
Hm… he started learning at a very young age. But I distinctly remember him being skilled enough to summon creatures when he was 16 or was it 18? Antonio hums, tilting his head a bit trying to recall the milestone.
No, it was 15. That was when he first summoned that annoying fox and couldn't summon anything else. He notes, a growl rumbles in his throat at the memory of the trickster. False smiles and lies. The sight of those empty violet eyes makes his blood boil. He scoffs, shakes out the bristle in his fur and the curl of his lips.
Are you still bitter about Vanya's pranks? Antonio ventures, earning a well-aimed glare that makes him place his paws out in a pacifying gesture. Okay. Okay. I won't mention him. So… he started playing with dark magic by then…five years without magic is a long time… The topic shifts much to Gilbert's relief. He has no desire to linger on the memories of humiliation and regret.
"Gilbert… he is adorable, yes?" Stupid fox.
I forget how fast time is for humans. How do you still manage to keep track of the years is beyond me. He comments while Antonio gives him one of those light seemingly harmless smiles that look more predatory in his lycan form.
I find the concept of humans and time interesting. It reminds me of the time before I was cursed. Antonio informs, opening up a glimpse of a past Gilbert dared not venture. Everyone of their kind had their fair share of madness. Quick tempers and uncontrollable strength is a dangerous mix. Add in a bit of animalistic savagery and chaos will emerge.
You still miss being human? The words 'until now' remains unspoken. Gilbert was born a werewolf so he does not really share any sentiments for it unlike Antonio who was turned against his will.
Of course, but what's done is done. The dead will never rise nor can we undo the past. It's best to just go forward. Olive eyes soften, shoulders grow lax as his lids droop.
How do you think Francis even managed to extract his magic? Gilbert asks as the softness in Antonio's features dissolves into narrowed eyes and discontented frowns.
Arthur trusted him. In his own strange way, he trusted Francis. And the Elders used it to their advantage.
It was technically a given but somehow, the fact being spoken between them makes it even more real and tangible. How long do you think will it take them to figure out that we stole this? Antonio ponders, glancing at the leather bag nestling between his paws.
Probably a day or two. It's not as guarded as it was back then. But we need to sleep somewhere else for a while. Gilbert estimates, raising his eyes towards the starry night. Werewolf packs are more complicated than it appears. It can be quite a complex structure of politics and pack relations that seem to appear as one congealed entity to the outside world.
There is the ruling pack and the packs that choose to be guided by it. Basically, the strongest and most stable. There are no elder packs because most wolves back then barely live to see a whole century. They just multiply and infect in a faster and more uncontrolled rate causing a lot of bad blood between the humans and the Fey.
However, perhaps it is because there are no such things as purity amongst them that the generations following them begin to become less volatile and the older ones like him seem calmer as the years pass. There are also the Kirkland charms which basically saved most of their sanity during the full moons. It was a curious thing, simple stones no larger than one's fist with runes deeply etched upon its surface. But its most defining feature was a circle in the middle with a carved wolf under it.
Arthur's mother charmed three stones (Arthur gave up two more years later), each for the wolf territories scattered all over the kingdom. Charmed stones that not only able to retain its magical properties despite the many years but are able to endow its qualities to other stones as well. He remembers the skepticism that met the brothers as they explained the charm.
"Just place about ten stones beside it for a month. It's won't be as strong as the mother but it is enough."
Yes, he remembers the memory well – a boy no older than 12 talking to a bunch of werewolves whiles his beanstalk of a brother pushing 16 glares at them straight on. In fact, he distinctly remembers their amazement the following full moon. They gathered by the stones, feeling the transformations set in as their minds are invaded by savage beasts, savage beasts that were apparently held at bay because for the first time in a long time, the full moon did not bring the familiar cloud of red.
Hm… What if they find out early? Arthur is a sitting duck if that happens.
Antonio's brows furrow with concern making Gilbert scoff at the sheer ridiculousness of the statement.
Please, even if they do confront Arthur. What makes you think that guy will take anything lying down. He's weakened Tonio but he can still fight. In fact, he's a lot more dangerous now than ever.
Oh? What makes you say that?
Do you honestly believe that sewing and gardening are the only things he does these days? Gilbert challenges as a low whine escapes from Antonio's throat.
You know how bad I am with these types of things Gil.
Well, to start, his hands looks more like an archer's than a tailor… no longer as smooth or soft looking. Probably from chopping his own wood and making his own furniture.
Antonio throws him a look.
What? You honestly think he'd drag all those chairs and tables into the forest? Gilbert remarks with an upturned snort.
Besides, he smells like a hunter. And his frame, he's always been a runt so I don't really expect him to buff up but it's a lot more steady and balanced. He pauses in his observation while Antonio supplies his own. They exchange thoughts, musings and comparisons.
He made good use of those five years, Tonio. He may have moped around in the dark but that didn't mean he allowed himself to be defenseless for long. Especially not after what happened. No, the last thing Arthur Kirkland would do is to let his guard down. That barrier in the cave proved it. He had long lost his trust in their protection and has sought for his own means.
You have a point. Antonio nods, adding a bit more details to Gilbert observations. The cave was loaded with charged runes… they are set to repel and weaken magic. Easily activated, even without magic. If anyone tries to trespass, they fall into a trap. The thought makes Antonio smile and adds, Arthur was never much a fair player. Too sneaky.
Exactly. So, rest your worries. He'll be fine. Gilbert assures, resuming a more comfortable position, ready to let the conversation drop.
After a few minutes, Antonio asks again and Gilbert doesn't bother opening his eyes this time.
Do you think he'll say yes?
I don't know. He's a stubborn brat.
I sort of forgotten just how stubborn but hey, we're not exactly the most obedient of creatures. Gilbert thinks as his lips curl into a tiny smile. As memories of childhood begin to ebb and starts to dream of green fields and wooden swords.
Goodnight, Gil.
Night, Tonio.
Arthur throws another block of wood into the fire and watches the hungry flames consume it. His books lay untouched as his thoughts are troubled.
Magic.
The word thrums through him like a lost friend. Gilbert had a point, he begrudgingly admits to himself as he heaves a heavy sigh, burrowing further into his chair. He loves magic. He, in a greater part of his life, involved nothing but seeing sparks and lights dance upon his fingertips. He could never deny that. Yet at the same time, there is a part of him – a tiny almost infinitesimal part that can truly say that he does not need magic.
Are you sure? Arthur bites his bottom lip in frustration, raking his hands through the unruly locks. No, he is not sure. But at the same time, he does consider the freedom it can give him. The burden of waiting and hoping, finally over. A sweet but cruel mercy, if there ever was one.
His brows furrow in thought as he deliberates the choices before him. If he helps them, he gets his magic back. If he doesn't, he'll have to destroy it with his very hands. Neither option seems pleasing enough for him to even consider. He has lived for five years without magic, sure it wasn't an immediate good start with his brothers dragging him out of the pubs and tying him to a tree until he 'comes to his senses'. It was an extreme yet strangely productive exercise that Arthur for the life of will never admit.
It made him realize how helpless and blind he was without his magic but at the same time make him see how dependent he had become with it. It was in that tiny piece of clarity did he see that life does not depend in magic but goes on with or without it.
So he stops drowning himself in mead and ale and starts thinking of ways to make do with the things he already have in his arsenal which wasn't really much if he were to be honest. The first thing he did was to talk to his brothers who welcomed him with such open relief that it momentarily worried him if they were possessed or something.
But no, they weren't. The Kirkland brothers are never known for their emotional maturity or for their ability to express it. They believe in actions more than words and he was beyond touched to see his old room still made up and ready for him.
They shouldn't have but they did. And that was enough to give him the most peaceful of sleeps he ever had in a long time. The next morning he woke up sober and thinking a bit clearer now that the haze of restlessness has left him.
They were at the kitchen. Preparing breakfast and with a rare warm treat of black tea for him. He whispered a thank you while the other two nod in acknowledgment. They waited for him but he could feel the impatience riling up silently telling him to talk already. He waited for them to snap and they didn't. They waited until he was truly ready to talk.
He remembers giving a deep great sigh before telling his tale. How he lost his magic. His Sight. How he feels betrayed and wounded. How hurt he was. How desperate he became searching for solutions to no avail.
"Please tell us you didn't try selling your soul to some demon," Alwyn exasperates, forehead wrinkling in worry at his growing silence.
"Lad, tell me you didn't," Alastair hisses, glares in disappointment.
"I was desperate. But it's not like I succeeded or anything."
He was so drained of his magic that he cannot even attract a soul hungry demon. They asked if he tried stealing it back which he did. But, he was no longer welcome in the Fey world and even if he were, he cannot see it let alone enter it.
They offered help and yet for some reason Arthur didn't want to involve them. The Fey can be cruel and vindictive things but Arthur knows they would not harm unless wronged. And perhaps it was a bit of overprotection on his part. They are strong magic users but Arthur is only one truly made for combat. So instead he asked for help in other things and after what seemed like months of stagnation, things started moving once more.
Or so he thought.
He had changed overtime, learned new skills to replace and compensate for what was lost. He took up archery once more, remembering how his fingers bled and thickened upon the repeated practices and errors. Magical arrows are very different from normal ones. His hands once soft now have grown rough and hard through woodwork and chores. He read different books and tried seeing the world in a different light.
He failed in that aspect, just like when he gives a beaconing wave expecting an object to land upon his palm, he cannot truly forget magic. Which makes him shift back to the situation at hand.
In all honesty, he found no purpose in saving the elf especially with the risks involved.
I don't even like him. He concludes recall the all-too-flamboyant elf that made magic flowers bloom and wrap around one's head.
"Stop it! I do not want your stupid flower crowns!"
"But lilies look so nice on you. They cover up those nasty thick brows of yours."
He first met Francis by accident when he was but twelve, with his mother's death still fresh upon his memory and heart. And by accident he means accidentally trapping the elf in a magic circle destined for a unicorn. So imagine his surprise where instead of a beautiful glorious stead of white, he has a panicked elf pounding at the circle's green translucent walls like a madman muttering and screaming in a strange language which he assumed to be Elvish.
The elf looked to be in his mid-twenties but he is obviously older than he looks. His long golden hair looked like silk threads tied in a braid that was beginning to unravel with his furious attempt of freedom. His eyes were a strange mix of blue and violet, reminding him of indigo dye.
Their eyes met and for a moment, the world was silent.
"Well, don't just stand there cretin! Let me out!"
Such eloquence.
"What's an elf doing in my magic circle?" he asks instead because he wanted a unicorn, not an elf.
Elves are strange snobbish creatures that like to hold their noses up in the air like they owned the lands. He prefers the brownies and pixies. They are friendlier and are more willing to play with him. The brothers took her death differently. There were tears yes but after that night, there seemed to be a silent agreement that no tears were to be shed anymore because she won't like to see her boys crying. They needed to be strong.
So Alastair goes out and hunts. Looks for a job to provide for them. Alwyn took to the gardens and chores. Insisting that none of the two even dare touch one pan in his kitchen unless he allowed it. Arthur never understands that one rule, he and Alastair were fine cooks. Their house was a good house, small but enough room for them to grow into.
They left him with gathering firewood and herbs which his friends already offered to provide so he didn't really do much except play and study magic.
"This is yours?! How dare you try and capture me!"
"I wasn't. I was looking for a unicorn. But obviously they're too smart for my trap unlike somebody," he quips and the elf twitches in irritation.
"This is not the circle for unicorns. This is – why do I even bother educating a child like you. Your magic is so vulgar and gruff. It truly shows off your inexperience, you can't even get it right. I bet you can't even undo your own spell."
"Of course, I can."
"Prove it."
It was a challenge. A catalyst of things to come. A spark of something more. It was that tiny little thing, which made him unconsciously try to impress the elf and prove him wrong.
"See, I told you. There is nothing wrong with my magic."
"Of course, such a great wizard you'll be."
Okay, perhaps he did have a bit of infatuation for the elf. But he was young. Naïve and so foolish on the matters of the heart. And besides, such feelings were trampled on by constant denial and the very fact that Francis cannot possibly love or find Arthur attractive.
"Who's that?" he asks bluntly gesturing at the portrait.
"Joan. She is a very important person to me."
For Arthur knows, he is nothing like the girl on the portrait. His hair does not curl softly, nor does he smile kindly. He is all sharps and angles hardly anything akin to the woman whom the elf calls Joan. He remembers seeing Francis looking so silent and morose. It didn't fit him. Arthur didn't like that look on him at all.
"You caught me at a bad time, little rabbit."
He will never fully forgive his brothers for telling the elf how he accidentally gave himself bunny ears for a month. Normally, Arthur would have decked him or called him Frog for such a term but refrained.
"I always catch you at a bad time."
It was true in a sense. There was never a good time between them. Francis was busy so Arthur decides to annoy him with pranks. Arthur was reading when Francis decides to bait him away from his studies with treats.
"So… where is she now?" he asks, because the Frog said it in the present tense therefore it must mean what Arthur thinks it means. The elf girl was his sweetheart and probably broke up with the idiot or something.
His barely developed his skills of subtly at the naïve age of 15 and it will take him time to develop his sense of conversational etiquette.
"Gone."
He left it at that. It will take time for him to understand what Francis meant. It will take him a year later when he stumbles on a drunken elf moaning about a dragon found in the Northern Borders and a girl who will forever be gone from him.
It took a bit of reading to put two and two together. But it made him realize that there is such a great dragon, immune to all Fey magic. It was said that such tolerance came from the many fey creatures it had consumed. It doesn't eat them per se but it keeps them in its hoard and slowly saps their magic away leaving nothing but dust.
So every few centuries or so, the Elves will sacrifice one of their own to appease the beast and prevent it from taking more than it should. It has been said that they select the poor soul though lots and to keep it fair no one is immune. Even the Elders.
A cruel destiny indeed.
This Joan was their last sacrifice, and despite the many years, the weight of her absence is still very fresh upon Francis' heart. It was then he saw that Francis no longer had any room in his heart but for her. It hurt, more than a mere twinge. Perhaps, he placed his hopes higher than he thought.
But what's done is done. He will not pine for another's affection like a lovesick maid. It was a phase and now it has reached its conclusion. With his frail infatuation firmly uprooted, he began to devote himself further into the study of Magic. He expanded beyond the limits of mortality as his definition of black and white blurs.
After all, magic is magic.
And then one night… everything changed.
"Francis?"
"Hello, little rabbit," he greets with a familiar smile, reminding Arthur just how long it has been since they have properly interacted.
"Why are you here?"
He remembers Francis' face. His usually smiling lips thin with displeasure and seriousness. He remembers the large heaving sigh as if he was bracing himself from something.
"To bring you a warning. The Elders are not pleased with you. You're treading on dangerous ground."
"Pardon?"
"Magic. You're playing with black magic. And it's corrupting you. You reek of it."
He remembers the wrinkle of disgust, as if the elf could smell it on him. His voice, deep and tinge with disappointment, as he chastised the wizard like a foolish wayward child. He remembers the familiar twinge of pain in his chest which he hid with a sharp scoff of dismissal.
"Corruption? Please, those old men are just scared of mortals knowing more than they do. Besides, I do not see how mortal affairs are any of their business. Magic is magic."
Yes. Magic is magic. Learning more of it is not a crime. There is nothing wrong with being knowledgeable in how demons extract and bottle souls. There is nothing wrong with learning how to reanimate the dead. He's not stupid. He won't actually dare perform the dark art of necromancy. Even he has his limits.
But those old fools don't know that, do they?
And apparently, neither did Francis.
"Arthur I'm serious. They're starting to see you as a threat."
"To what? I'm not doing anything." Arthur is beginning to understand now. He was a wild card. A possible threat.
"You're making this very difficult little rabbit," he whispers.
Before Arthur knew what was happening, he was suddenly immobile and Francis was mere inches from him. He remembers the warmth before the pain – the feeling of his chest beating against Francis' hand, hammering in panic.
He remembers screaming. Clawing and raking his fingers down the ground on which he had fallen. He begged, pleaded for the pain to stop.
End me. Just end me right now.
"I'm sorry."
Darkness was a welcomed respite.
A/N: Comments are always lovely.