The Face

His face looked different.

Well, not just his face - everything. Everything and beyond, from the clothes people wore to the bus stop ads. A decade would do that; a lot of things could change in a single moment, let alone a billion. It'd take - a while. A while to become accustomed to life. Reality, at least. - The urn, or wherever the magic stuck you, wasn't exactly part of il mondo. Odd, thinking he'd spent half of his life trapped inside some alternate dimension.

It'd take a while to become accustomed to real life. Now, surrounded by darkness and Manhatten's glaring lights, the only thing catching his attention was his reflection, ghostly-transparent in the car's passenger window.

"Dave?" Balthazar sounded worried; Dave knew the tone well enough. "Are you alright?"

- not that he needed an answer. After spending a decade together, you couldn't help getting to know one another. Sort of - it wasn't, exactly, like being trapped in a little prison cell. The urn was infinite but absolute, the darkness suffocating. You - if you even existed any more - were reduced to a bunch of semi-conscious atoms; most of the time it was impossible to tell where your mind ended and another person's began. Dave wasn't entirely sure how Balthazar managed to pull things together - a body, or the illusion of one, and a series of room-like barriers. Even then ...

"I'm OK," he said. His voice had likewise changed: Deeper, a bit hoarse from years of silence. The rest of him was unnaturally heavy; sore from the atomic reassembly. No, that was a lie: Being ripped apart molecule-by-molecule wasn't exactly the most pleasant process; being torn together again wasn't fun. Magic couldn't protect you from six zillion angry neurons.

He was greatful, at least a little, to find out that his body had changed - he hadn't felt like a ten-year-old for a long, long time, and being trapped inside a child's form would have been both hilarious and infuriating. Was he twenty? - Didn't really feel like that either, what with his head stuffed full of Balthazar's dark humour and hundreds of years of world history, philosophy, literature, science, and magical theory. The urn was a strict no-magic, no-TV zone; there wasn't much to do other than learn.

A decade ago, looking in the mirror, he was going to grow up to be big and strong, with a perpetual five o'clock shadow and rugged Indiana Jones-esque looks. He was tall - that much had happened, though his legs were horribly unsteady. He wasn't sure if he'd ever get used to them. The rest? Skinny, in the I'm-an-Academic (vs. I-Run-Marathons) sort of way. The fact that his clothes were far too small - made for a five-foot-nothing kid, not a six-something adult - probably wasn't helping.

"Can you fix my pants?" A relatively simple request; he felt them change immediately. "Thanks."

"Are you hungry?"

"Yeah - a bit." Famished, though he'd grown used to the sensation years ago.

"Burgers, and then we need to find some place for the night," he grinned sadly. "The Arcana's lease expired five years ago."

"Are burgers OK?" Dave, faintly, remembered hearing stories of American prisoners of war being liberated in 1945. As a "welcome back" gift, the men - who had been fed only rice and water - were given burgers and shakes and fries and cakes. Each one became violently ill - too much food, too fast.

"They should be fine."

Finding food wouldn't be that big of a challenge - it was New York, after all. A place to stay could be more difficult: Dave was pretty certain they'd both be - legally, at least - dead - and that meant no bank accounts, no apartment, and no connections. Not that he had many resources in the first place - $25.00 was a lot of money then.

He wanted to go home - never thought the opprotunity would present itself, and that Balthazar's rumblings about ten-year sentences was a bunch of lies to inspire hope and sanity. That said, he wasn't really certain where home was: This world, of lights and other people, was overwhelming. Noisy. He wanted nothing more than to creep across the northern border to his grandparent's cottage, surrounded by nothing but nothing. He'd hated going there when he was younger - away from his friends, and only freaks had dual citizenship.

When he realized what was going on - that the urn was as magical as Balthazar said - the first thought to cross his mind was his mother - how she'd be utterly furious at him when he finally got out. When the panic had faded, and his mind matured a bit, the terror turned turned to sorrow-filled quiet contemplation. She probably thought he was dead; gone, sucked into the bowels of New York just like his dad nine years prior. He didn't know if she'd be able to stand another loss like that - a son and a husband? To the same city? Had she moved? Was she still looking?

"We have the Grimhold," Balthazar said quietly. "We get Horvath back into it. Start your training - you can go find your family when it's safe."

"Then what?" The future was creeping forwards far too quickly, and he had nohing to show for it. No high school degree - no work experience - no friends - no apartment. He should be attending - should be almost finished - university by now. Should be able to work magic, but - other than that first incident with the dragon - had never had the opprotunity to practice it. The world was huge, and he was just a speck.

October 18th, 2010