Myth and Magick

Lord Chang Wufei, Mythical Advisory to King Zechs Marquis

Magic is often referred to as magick, majic, majik, magicka. All have their different meanings and pronunciations, though most do not know the difference. Usually, the word Magic encompasses all the different meanings, but to be specific:

Magic is a known thing, a thing that is controlled for a use: spells, charms, wards. Magick, which is what is being discussed, is the unknown and uncontrollable force, that which we do not know, cannot control, and do not ever understand fully. While a magician uses magic, Magick uses the magician. Seers are infected with Magick. It uses them as its vessel.

Majic is the voodoo, the tribal use of magic in a primal form. Majik is the same, ununderstandable. Majic is when a tribe chief dances to bring rain. Majik is when a hyena steals the soul of a tribe member.

Magicka is another thing entirely. Magicka is the act of magic using magic - wherein a curse will fail to apply, no matter the skill of the magician, an army will suddenly stop in its tracks for no reason. Magicka is where the magic, for whatever reason, has decided that things must change. Usually this occurs in situations most dire - the fall of Andora, for example, occurred because Andora began to rely so heavily on magic that it strained the fabrics of the arcane. What little Seer's reports have been translated from that time speak of troubling premonitions, the end of the world, the death of all things. Andora, though we live on the land and are descendants of its people, was lost. All the buildings disappeared overnight, the culture, the lifestyle, the items. The people woke up one morning with no memory of Old Andora, and only the skin on their backs. It is believed that Andora's promiscuous use of magic had strained the arcane powers too much, and as a result, Magicka intervened and simply removed the problem. Andora is lost, and the only reasons we know it ever existed are from items, books, tales and records that were stored outside the province at the time of Andora's destruction.

Magic, in all its forms and spellings, is dying. Of this we are fairly certain. Of the old Andoran people, there was a magician for every three men. Now, we are limited to two Seers per King. Common theories are that the abuse of magic and the exertion required destroying Andora brought about the slow, gasping death of all magic.

All magicians have disappeared, as it is impossible to command magic. It is believed that magic is long dead. As for magick, the wild and uncontrollable type, it is still here, but only in the form of Seers, and there are fewer Seers than there were, though it is conceivable that this is explainable. Old Andora was composed of fiefdoms - a King lived in every city. As there are always two Seers per King, it is a theoretical possibility that there are less Seers purely because there are less Kings.

There are also the old Andoran tales of magicks - a whole range of people blessed with magick existed.

For every King, there were two Seers, one Torturer, two miscellaneous and unique powers, one Healer, two Invulnerables and two Destroyers. These powers were strange, unusual, and unpredictable, but in magick there is always a rule: Opposing force.

It is said that opposites attract, and in all Andoran tales, it is proven true in magick. For all dominance, there must be submission, for pain, pleasure, for love, hate. Every person with magick must have a Bind, their opposing force, different, but bound to them, like light and shadow.

The Seers would always find their Binds amongst the other powers, never another Seer, usually in the two with the unique powers. The Torturer would pair with the healer, the two Invulnerables with two Destroyers. Every one of them would find love in a Bind, and every one of them would find opposing hatred. This created some rather disturbing events, where love and loathing mixed into peculiar relationships.

Since Andora's fall, and the rise of the modern world, magick has decayed to the point where there are now only Seers. Since two Seers cannot Bind together (opposing force: they must be opposites for an acceptable Bind), and the results of such a Bind have proven disturbing on the rare occasion that it does occur, it is a theoretical possibility that due to the unavailability of a Bind with magick, the magick is simply trying to find someone compatible to push its Bind on.

It is possibly due to this incompatibility that Binds are so prone to manic disease. Their Seer is forced by magick to fall in love with them, but the Bind has no such inclination, and is not a vessel for magick. Furthermore, as there are less magick vessels, for the Seer's love, there must also be a hate. Perhaps one could assume that the Seer loves for both of them, while the Bind hates for them both. One might say that these relationships are better than what occurred with magick users and Binds before the fall of Andora. What texts have been unearthed state that although they loved one another, they also hated one another, and due to the rule of opposing force, they could never coordinate in order to love or hate at the same time. They always had to maintain opposites, though they would frequently switch places, the one who loved would hate, and the one who hated would love. One might argue that things are better the way they are now.

Magick seems to be attempting to survive, and the Seers have held out the longest. One must question this. Are Seers simply the last to disappear, or has the Seer's magick managed to survive? Andoran texts often imply that Seers are "Necessary for Cohesion" - a direct translation. If one assumes that this means that the Seers are the ones who, using their Sight, locate the rest of the magick users and bring them all together, then one can assume it would be logical for magic to reserve enough strength to maintain the Seers. One must now question whether magic will ever return in full force.

It could be argued that magic learned a lesson with Andora, and will not fall prey to that mistake again. Magicians, who may abuse magic, may never be seen again; however, if the magic is capable of regenerating, then perhaps we may see a few more magick users.

One cannot be certain which way the scales will tip. Our world may, in the next thousand years, lose all magic, forever, or, we may gain it back. One can only pray that whatever happens, whenever it happens, if it ever happens, is for the better.

Heero

After the doctor left, I ordered everyone out and bathed and dried him one limb at a time, letting him retain the comfort and modesty of the linens. He seemed to be in some sort of trance while I did, though I was certain that the warm water on his dirty skin must have been all sorts of comforting. He maintained his closed eyes, furrowed brow and set jaw.

Once done with everything I could reach without moving him, I slowly helped him to sit up, and held him upright while I washed his back and then front. During this he made a funny face, still not opening his eyes, but a sort of grimace. He turned his face away and curled his hands into fists while I washed his nether regions, whispering "It's ok," into his ear.

He had become so tense during this that I knew he would be stock still and upright, in no danger of falling, when I moved. I left him sitting there, and went to get the bathrobe the inn girls had given us.

As I picked it up, I saw that underneath it lay both a nightshirt and drawstring trunks. They were both going to engulf his tiny form but it filled me with happiness. 'The common people', they were called. Common indeed. I left the robe and took the nightshirt and trunks to him.

As I slowly started to lift his ankle to put his foot into the leg of the trunks, his expected resistance started in a most acceptable way.

"No," he said, a little bit loudly, very forcefully and clearly. His eyes were still shut. He yanked his ankle out from my hand, placing it beside his other one, his legs tightly together.

It was clear to me what he had thought I was going to do. His resistance to that actually pleased me - I didn't want my beautiful, wonderful Little One to be broken.

The set of his jaw and furrow of his brow told me, quite clearly, that he was far, far from it. From the look of him, his mind could have gone another thousand years down there, if only his pesky body hadn't failed from dehydration and scurvy.

"It's -"

"No," he said again, a little bit louder, the moment I started speaking. He shook his head.

When I took a breath to try and explain the clothing to him, he interrupted before I could speak. "I won't," he said, very forcefully.

This all pleased me. He clearly wasn't some old man's mindless toy. He would recover. He was clearly very strong.

This presented me with the problem of how to get him clothed. I couldn't tell him to open his eyes; he was interrupting me every time I spoke. I opted to put the article of clothing into his hands without a word.

His set brow furrowed in confusion, and he moved his head as if to look at what was in his hands, but stubbornly refused to open his eyes. He fumbled with them for a moment, running his hands over them as if it had been so long since he had felt anything like it. After a while, realization seemed to dawn on him, what they were, what I had given him. He touched his knee with one hand, as if to make sure it was still there, in the right spot, and the two things were related in their purpose.

He managed to slowly sort out the waist of the trunks from the leg holes. He even had the presence of mind to sort out the drawstring front from the back. Then he tried to stretch his body to get them on, without opening his legs too much. There he encountered a problem: he wasn't flexible enough.

Proof that he had been down there, huddled in the cold, with nothing to do and nowhere to go, was beginning to become insurmountable. It was undeniable he had been down there a long time. The only question now was how long.

More than days, clearly. He had lost flexibility. He could hardly touch his toes, no matter how he bent his knees. He was going to have to open his legs, or get my help, to get those trunks on.

I moved away from him, making certain he could hear my heavy footsteps. Only when I was at the other end of the room did he decide it would be okay to open his knees in order get into them one leg at a time. Splayed open, he could access his ankles better, but he still had to wrestle, and he stubbornly refused to open his eyes.

He did manage to get them on, however. He even pulled them up, one side at a time, and tied the drawstring firmly. He also knotted it, by feel, in what looked to me to be some sort of proper knot, not a simple bowtie.

He was clearly a fighter. He wasn't going to let me anywhere near his virtue, or what was left of it. I was happy with that.

When I moved back to him, he snapped his head in my direction, moving with me as though he could see me with ears alone. I got to his side and pulled the blankets back up over his legs. I sat next to him, and I learned that it is possible for a man to narrow their eyes at you with their eyes closed.

I put a hand on his shoulder, meaning to try to comfort him, but he immediately shrugged it off. The movement made him lose balance - he pushed himself off my hand rather than my hand off him. He staggered and nearly fell to the bed, but caught himself, and instead lowered himself onto it on his own terms. His eyes were still shut. Not even the surprise made him open them.

He arranged himself on the bad with his back to me, and grabbed for the covers. I pulled them up for him, tucking him in. He didn't thank me.

At the time, I didn't need him to. What he had given me was good enough.

After a time of me simply watching over him, it occurred to me that sooner or later I would have to sleep too, or at least try to. He had fallen asleep with the determined set of his jaw, and that worried me a bit. I wanted him to be more relaxed, at least while sleeping.

I gingerly lay down beside him, careful not to lie on any of his still unwashed, grungy hair, and tried to sleep.

I couldn't.

After about an hour, I decided he was in a deep enough sleep for me to reach out to him, even just to touch his back. I was glad I did, because he had a chill. So I scooted closer, to try to hold him, warm him, without waking him.

No such luck. He stirred as I wrapped my arms around him.

"No," he said, eyes still shut. "No. Geordi ..."

"He's gone," I said. "It's okay now. Geordi's dead."

There was a moment's silence, where he didn't even breathe. Then he spoke again.

"I knew it," he said vehemently, then turned his face into the pillow. "Bastard," he spat.

I tried to calm him. "It's okay," I said.

"Fuck if it's okay," he growled, eyes slammed shut. "Don't you dare. Don't you dare tell me it's okay. I hope you fuck off and die in a hole."

I didn't know quite what to say, until I remembered my little stunt of tricking him. Clearly he was now upset with me, even after he'd changed his mind about wanting to die.

"I'm -"

"Fuck off and die!" he spat, interrupting me. "I never want to hear your slimy voice again. Crawl into a hole so that the devil can take you to the depths of hell faster. You have no right to speak in my presence. You're a worthless toad of a man."

And though I knew, logically, that he was wrong, I was a good person, and the whole kingdom disagreed with him, that was exactly how I felt. Like a worthless, slimy frog, wanted by the devil for unspeakable crimes.

"Sorry," I whispered into his back, knowing he would interrupt me if I made a longer apology.

"Fuck off and die," he repeated. He shifted in my arms, as far away from me as he could. "I'm done with you now. Shut up and let me sleep. If you don't, I'll scream until I throw up."

Unsure of what to do with that threat, I stayed perfectly still and silent.

"Good choice, you dumb shit," he said, turning his face further into the pillow.

And that was my goodnight.

Primary mission failed.

Secondary mission failed.

New primary mission: Make him not hate me.