Well hey again ya'll. And Singular Poisonous Ashes, you're back! Yay! Sadistic pleasure from Arya's misery? I sympathize. -.- I blush to admit it, but sometimes the only thing that keeps me interested in this fic is torturing Arya. And she said his food wasn't bad in order to A) Not get in another shouting match (she failed epically) and B) to spare his poor widdle feelings. I mean, everybody talks smack about Britain's food, right? And, um…which Hellsing story were you reading? I've written so many… *sheepishly trails off* And to the rest of youse guys! Um…hi, I guess. I guess I should probably warn you, all the magical theory and practice in this fic is going to be either completely bullsh*t, stolen/borrowed from other fandoms, and my own maniacal theories. So boys and girls, don't try this at home (obviously). I'd feel so guilty if one of my fans accidentally summoned Cthulhu or something because they were trying to emulate the fic…and the rest of the world probably wouldn't thank you, either.
August 27, 2015
Arya's POV:
After another brief shouting match with Britain over the (in)edibility of his food, he finally dragged me down the hall and to a rather imposing wooden door about two sizes larger than any of the others I had seen in his house.
Britain spun around to face me, a peeved look on his face. "Alright Miss Thompson, I am, regretfully, going to start your lessons now. What do you think this door is for?" he asked briskly, jabbing a thumb at it as I raised an eyebrow.
"It leads to your magic basement of magic-ness, right?" I asked blandly, shrugging, as he blinked once.
"Ah. I forgot…you have seen this cartoon…Hetalia, wasn't it?" he said, his lip visibly curling at the word "Hetalia". Probably because he didn't like the idea of being a cartoon or something like that.
"How much did it show about me and my magic?" Britain suddenly asked after a slightly long pause, looking visibly curious, and I frowned, trying to remember. It had been such a long time since I had seen the show from the outside and not the inside.
"Um, one time when you shrank France because of this weird April Fools joke, and summoned some kind of scary elf thing to scare America for a Halloween contest, and another time when America pissed you off and you tried to summon a demon or curse him or something, but you ended up with Russia instead." I said slowly, then rubbed my arm and added "I haven't seen the fourth season though, so it might have more on your magic there."
Britain turned a bright red, seemingly disregarding the rest of my sentence. "T-that was bollocks! It's not my fault he showed up!" he spluttered, abandoning all gentlemanly rhetoric for humiliated denial. "I mean, I was looking for something, and he was the scariest there was! I m-meant to summon Russia!" he tried to cover, still beet-red, and I shrugged.
"Whatever dude. I just hope you don't pull the same mistake with me." I told him calmly, and he tugged on the edges of his suit, regaining his equilibrium.
"Yes, well, I'm a bit more prepared nowadays. Come along now." he ordered, pushing the door open and grabbing a…candelabra?! Yes! The old-fashioned bastard actually grabbed a candlestick from a niche by the door!
And it was already lit, too. Eerie.
I followed Britain down some extremely dark, damp steps. From the way his boots and my shoes clicked against them, I assumed they were stone, and after a while –longer than I expected, it must have been about two or three floors– we came to another set of doors. Britain pushed them open, then walked confidently into a surprisingly-spacious room, lighting candles that sat atop a large red cabinet, then lighting a smaller pair fixed just above the handles. With the cellar now better lit, I looked around curiously.
There were some very large vases and jars against the wall opposite the cabinet, as well as a golden statue of some kind of knight, some old spears all carelessly leaned against said knight, and all of the stone walls had some very long, thin, intricate –and medieval-looking– tapestries covering them. In a nook by the staircase door were three or four very large bookshelves, packed to the brim with books both old and new. Wooden crates and boxes were littered all around the margin of one of the other walls, and there was a large standing mirror in one corner, framed with what looked like gold.
I kept my eyes on it as Britain opened the doors to the cabinet with a flourish. "Um, Britain, sir? Are you sure it's a good idea to have a mirror down here?" I asked as he began rummaging through the contents, and he leaned backwards, looking around the door to the aforementioned mirror.
"What, that old thing? It's a mirror I enchanted specifically for myself, I'd know if that blasted git double of mine were to mess around with it. And besides, they're all banished to that foul dimension they call home. We're fine." he said dismissively, leaning back into the cabinet. While his back was turned, I gave the mirror another deeply suspicious glance.
"Can I just turn it to face the other way or something?"
"Most certainly not." came the muffled reply from inside the cabinet. "I worked hard to make that thing clairvoyant: I don't need you mucking around with it or, worse still, breaking it."
He leaned back out of the cabinet, proudly brandishing –what appeared to be– a large mass of black fabric.
I stared at him for a moment as he approached me. "Um…Britain, not to disrespect, but what the hell is that for?" I asked, pointing to his burden, and he raised one of his truly impressive eyebrows at me.
"A magician needs a cloak." the older blond said flatly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and chucked the fabric at me. I caught it easily –the cape was heavier than it looked though, I wondered what it was made of– and gave Britain another suspicious glance.
"This isn't some ploy to make me look stupid or something?" I asked him warily, even though he had already thrown his own cloak around his shoulders with the ease of apparent practice. He gave me a particularly poisonous glare. "Yes, its bloody necessary. Just put it on, and I'll explain the basic theories of magic." he said stiffly, and I quickly swung the black mass of fabric over my shoulders.
It was harder than it looked.
I fussed with the fabric for several seconds, my face getting redder and redder with embarrassment, trying to find the button(s) and get the damned thing to wear right, when Britain suddenly stepped forward and, with a few tugs, got the cloak settled in place, a distant look on his face as he avoided my eyes, as if he was remembering something else.
He stepped back again before I could ask, coughed into his fist, and was once more all formality. "Right, well, I'd best start. The reason that you, as my apprentice, are required to wear a cloak is quite simple." he began, obviously quite familiar with what he was explaining. "The creatures a magician tends to summon are not of this world: as such their knowledge of it can sometimes be dated, or jaundiced towards a certain culture or fashion. Wearing a cloak serves to identify oneself as the summoner to the summonee, as magicians have been wearing them time out of mind. It serves as a stamp, or a badge of office, if you will. Understand?" he asked sharply, opening his emerald green eyes as I nodded quickly. So far, it was pretty simple.
Britain's mouth twitched slightly, as if he had almost smiled, despite his best efforts. "Well then. Let's get started, shall we? Come come."
He turned around sharply, his cloak flaring dramatically as he did, and I followed behind.
"Um, can I ask you something?" I said hesitantly as he went over to the cabinet again, pulling out what looked like an artist's drawing kit.
"Yes?" he asked briskly but absently as he began to lay out calligraphy brushes, chalk, and what looked like small vials of ink.
"Your double had magic sigils all over his house. Did he need to use magic to activate them, or what? Cause I sure as hell never saw him in a cloak." I said petulantly, and Britain pursed his lips.
"Well, in all technicality, to actually, physically, perform magic doesn't require anything more than a sigil and the user's will. However, proper magicians find themselves summoning and interacting with magical creatures quite often –I wear the cloak whenever I perform magic, in case of just such an event. For instance, if you summoned a demon or another dangerous magical entity by accident, and needed it to recognize your authority as a magician, would you feel comfortable leaving your area of safety to go fetch your cloak?" he pointed out shrewdly, and I blinked twice, then gulped.
"Ah…I gotcha. We're not gonna be summoning any demons, are we?" I asked nervously, and he chuckled and shook his head.
"No, no. I won't inflict that on you quite yet."
"Good."
Britain stood up, motioning me to stay where I was as he quickly walked around me with one of the calligraphy brushes, drawing out what I quickly recognized as a pentacle in the middle of the basement floor. "Right, you recognize this?" he asked as he straightened up again, and I shrugged.
"Yeah, 's a pentacle. Like they have in all those supernatural movies." I said shortly, and Britain frowned.
"I make it a point not to watch that rubbish." he said with a superior sniff, and I tried desperately hard not to roll my eyes.
"So, pentacle. It's a magic symbol." I tried again, and he shrugged and made a "so-so" motion with one hand.
"Yes and no. A pentacle is simply a focus –a magnifying glass, if you will. This is the most basic of magical symbols, and one you're going to have to practice drawing perfectly, by hand." Here I gave a small whine, and he glared at me sharply. "Focus, Miss Thompson. Using a pentacle, you can draw power out of and focus upon just about anything. For instance, if I were to shoot you in the leg –which I am sorely tempted to do right now– you could draw a pentacle on the floor beneath yourself, refocus the energy flow around your leg, and heal the wound. Savvy?" Britain rattled off, tapping one foot impatiently, and I gulped.
"Sir yes sir."
He sighed impatiently. "Right. Well, after drawing a pentacle, a truly skilled magician can do just about anything by filling it with certain runes and/or magic spells. You won't be on that level for quite some time." he added as if by afterthought, and I glowered at him for a second as he continued, lost in his lecture. "Think of the pentacle on its own as a magnet –it attracts and manipulates any unattached power within a certain radius, the range of which is decided by the magician's skill level, power, and intent. For instance, you are untutored, inexperienced, and, from what I can tell, not particularly powerful. If you drew a pentacle and attempted to draw in magic, you could only do so from a limited radius, and you would leave leftover evidence for any magicians in the area, which, as you know from dealing with my double, is not a good thing."
Fuck no, it's not. "Yes, sir."
"I, however, can draw in power from quite a large radius, and I can erase any traces left behind. Now, even though you won't progress this far for a while-" Here he actually opened his eyes and received the glare I was giving him, returning it full force. "I suppose I should explain the rest of the theory to you, otherwise you'll continually pester me with trivial questions." he ground out, then took a deep breath through his nose as I realized something interesting, raising my eyebrows.
He's actually enjoying this. Not just calling me a brat and talking down to me, but teaching me magic. He's enjoying explaining his art to the fullest. I thought as Britain opened his mouth again, hurriedly paying attention.
"While a plain, unaltered pentacle is nothing more than a focus, with the proper sigils, it can become a weapon, a shield, anything you want. There are many magical alphabets, but they are all, at the core, basically identical. Each symbol has a specific meaning, and, combined, they can become a specific spell."
He gestured to the books on the shelves behind me. "However, some –most– spells need verbal incantations to be properly activated. Think of it as a process and not a thing: creating a pentacle, filling it with the appropriate runes, and then chanting the appropriate incantation will result in a spell. Failure to properly etch out the pentacle, draw out the runes, or speak the incantation will result in one of three things; a misfire, nothing, or death."
I swallowed hard, and his emerald green eyes glinted at me in the light of the candles. "Playing around with the Dark Art isn't all pentacles and pixie dust, Miss Thompson. If you only attempt small rituals, small spells, you will receive small consequences, small problems. However, attempting any large rites will result in large consequences, large problems. If you muff up an attempt to dismiss a woodland pixie, she either won't go, be driven someplace other than what you intended, or be bound instead of dismissed. If you do the same with a member of the Wild Hunt, the results will be extremely messier. Am I understood?"
"Y-yes, sir."
"Good. Now we can truly begin."
8.56 PM, USA Central Time
