The Wizard
The bruised stranger drank like a woman possessed. A small waterfall poured from the edge of the drinking glass and flowed out of her half-parted, swollen lips. Most of the water wasn't even making it into her mouth. Rasmodius drummed his fingertips across the tabletop.
As he watched the woman overflow with water as if she were a broken sink, the wizard was briefly reminded of a naiad he had known during his time at the Grand Academy. The embodiment of the freshwater spring that bubbled near the campus, the human-looking spirit would dunk her head underwater for longer periods of time than humanly possible in order to trick new students into thinking she had drowned. It was a macabre prank, though their water-related proclivity was where the similarities between the two women both began and ended. The naiad had a certain other-worldly elegance to her that made even her cruel deceptions look dance-like, while the woman Rasmodius found himself sitting opposite of seemed to be the antithesis of defined elegance, drenched in tap water and spittle as she was.
After a few seconds of solid gulping, the woman gracelessly slammed the now-empty glass down onto the wooden table and sighed contentedly. Marlon cleared his throat from his seat at the head of the small table, his fingers itching towards the nearby pitcher. "More?"
Blessedly, the woman shook her head.
Gil appeared near his former patient and pressed an embroidered cloth into her palm. The woman's lips tightened into a line before she began to dab her now-drenched shirt – a garment she was borrowing from Marlon while her farming attire line-dried outside. The dabbing process was slow, as only one hand was used to press the cloth to her clothing; the other hand stayed pressed onto the table, fingers twitching instinctively towards a glittering fae dagger whenever one of the men moved.
Why Gil and Marlon thought hiding artifacts of non-human make near the woman was a good idea, he figured he would never understand. Still, Rasmodius thought her predisposition towards physical weaponry was interesting, if not confusing and concerning. After all, she certainly didn't need the dagger. A wild magic mage could be a weapon in and of herself, if she so desired.
The stranger finished patting the shirt, sighed again, and brought her attention back to the other men at the table. Specifically, to him. Silence, strained and filled with awkward and half-formed anxieties, stretched on for a few seconds as all waited for another to talk.
"If you are quite done," Rasmodius begun, carefully. "We must discuss recent events."
"So you've said," the woman replied, the first time she had spoken directly to him since she woke. Her injured voice seemed to waver despite herself, but was nevertheless injected with equal parts caution and curiosity.
Rasmodius reminded himself to be careful with the woman. He knew nothing of her abilities, of her mindset. She could have wished to destroy the whole valley, for all he knew… Still, he struggled to imagine her as some evil, bestial being.
She still felt like spring to him, after all.
That, and because she did not appear terribly menacing. She was bruised and broken, yes, but also wearing a borrowed (and very damp) neon shirt – a shirt dress on her, considering Marlon's large frame – that boldly proclaimed that "It's Six O'Clock Somewhere!" alongside a poorly drawn beer bottle. Marlon had been considerably embarrassed when he pulled the monstrosity from his dresser. "An old gift from a friend," he had explained half-heartedly to Rasmodius's quirked eyebrows. "I've only worn it once or twice."
The wizard brought his attention back to the present conversation. "Perhaps giving us your name would be good place to start," he continued. "I would rather not address you as 'woman' for the duration of our acquaintance."
"You first."
"Pardon?"
"You first. Your name. You tell me yours; I'll tell you mine."
Rasmodius paused. What game was she playing at? If she was truly who he thought she was, then surely names would not hold power to her as they would to a fae... Was she simply being cautious? Stubborn? The purple-haired man stole a glance at Gil, who had begun busying himself by gently folding the now-damp embroidered cloth. Surely if she was suspected of being fae, Gil would have mentioned such.
The man's gaze met the woman's yet again. Her eyes were sunken and bloodshot but carried with them an intelligent intensity, as if she was not nearly seeing but truly observing those around her. She had obviously noticed him cutting his eyes and, in all likelihood, would continue being frustratingly perceptive for the remainder of their acquaintance.
The woman raised a blood-dried eyebrow. The wizard conceded. "My name is Rasmodius."
The woman's eyes widened considerably, and for a brief second her face was awash with an emotion the wizard couldn't quite place. "Rasmodius," the woman eventually repeated slowly and suspiciously, rolling the sounds around in her mouth. Even with the shot state of her throat, the word sounded lovely in her voice. Like a bubbling spring, like the rustle of leaves in a warm summer breeze. "Rasmodius. Raz – mow – dee – us. Hm."
"Is something the matter?"
"Do you have a last name?"
"That is my last name."
"A first name, then?"
"You asked for a name. I gave you one."
Marlon and Gil (who had since finished his neat folding of the cloth) sat near each other at the end of the table, silently watching the two go back and forth. The woman tilted her head slightly, revealing another soft bruise blooming on her neck. Rasmodius fought back an empathetic cringe whenever she shifted. He figured that if she felt even half as bad as she looked then she must have been in a notable amount of pain.
The nameless woman continued to stare. Rasmodius raised an eyebrow.
"Alright, Rasmodius." She sucked her teeth. "Have we met before?"
"In a fashion."
"That's vague."
"That should be no surprise to you, for you should know the answer to your question far better than I."
Her head tilted the other direction, eyebrows knitting together across her scabbed forehead. She seemed confused. Perhaps she did have a concussion?
As she spoke, her fingers crept ever-closer to the dagger. "Did you know a man named Connor?"
Ah. An unnamed feeling rolled around his stomach and Rasmodius admitted some small amount of satisfaction in properly identifying the existence of a connection between Connor and the yet nameless woman.
"I will answer your question… after you grace us with your name."
The woman's eyes looked him up and down appraisingly. After a few moments, she spoke. "Hazel. My name's Hazel."
"Ah," Rasmodius let slip through his lips. Of course her name was Hazel. The small bud of certainty regarding the nature of her connection to Connor grew, though he still needed to confirm. "What is your family name, Hazel?"
The woman released a short giggle, half-formed and dry. "You asked for a name," she repeated. "I gave you one."
"Touché."
Hazel did not wait long before repeating her question. "Did you know a man named Connor?"
"I have known a few individuals named Connor during my life. Connor is not so uncommon a name," the wizard answered, thumbing the edge of the tablecloth while dancing around her question. "Why do you ask?"
The woman stared challengingly at him. She never broke eye contact. "He told me to find you."
Rasmodius blanched, dropping the hem of the tablecloth. "He what?"
"So you do know which Connor I'm talking about?"
"He told you to what?"
The woman crossed her arms. "Why didn't you just tell me you knew him? I'm too tired for bullshitting, Rasmodius."
Ignoring her irritation, Rasmodius leaned over the table and towards her so closely that he could smell the last remnants of the sleep magic-infused lavender he had given Gil and Marlon to enchant their pillowcases with. "What did he say to you exactly?"
"I already told you what he said – to find you."
A pause.
"Are you aware that Connor passed away many years ago?"
Hazel set her bruised jaw. "I am," she spit. "I'm the one who scattered his ashes, for Yoba's sake! Or, what I thought was his ashes." She cut her eyes to Gil and Marlon, then sighed. "This is so seriously messed up." She ran her hands through her hair. "I talked to a dead man. And then, something was in the mine, and he… he said you were supposed to help, and..." She tapered off, clearly overwhelmed.
Ramodius blinked. "That is my job, yes. To help you, I mean. Just as I helped your…" He paused, then took a shot in the dark. "…grandfather before you," he finished.
"I never said he was my grandfather."
He was right again, then. "You resemble him," he explained. Though she was certainly prettier than the older and constantly dirt-stained wild mage had been. Rasmodius did not mention that part, however. "Though I'm certain our-" In his peripheral vision, Rasmodius saw Marlon straighten his eyepatch. The two had been so quiet, so attentive, that he nearly forgot they were there. The wizard chewed his tongue and considered his words carefully. "…predicament aided me in my assumption."
"'Our predicament'?!" She scoffed, then rubbed her fingertips nervously across the hilt of the stolen dagger. "You mean me getting lost in the mines and then kidnapped by a bunch of strange men?" She sneered him, then at Marlon and Gil. Gil busied himself by adjusting his hat. Marlon did not budge. Hazel cut her eyes towards Rasmodius once more. "What's your aim, Rasmodius? I don't know what you're selling, buddy, but I'm not buying."
Rasmodius scoffed in return. "We did not kidnap you," he snapped, his tone tense and incredulous. While usually even-tempered, Hazel was irritating him. He had risked himself to save her – to save this mystery woman who had seeped into his dreams and ignored the call of the dying Valley, yet insisted on acting as if she had not agreed to the contract that brought her here in the first place. "And I am not 'selling' anything. You needn't feign ignorance on the matter, Hazel."
"'Feigning ignorance'? Really?!" She clutched the dagger now, her knuckles pressing hard into the tabletop. Her eyes suddenly ablaze with emotion, the inferno of feelings swirling behind her irises unextinguished by the tears that had begun to pool around her lashes. "I have been living in this Yoba-forsaken town for weeks with absolutely no clue what was going on, with everything around me dying, with no way to leave… and you have the gall to accuse me of pretending to be confused?!"
The air prickled. The hairs on the back of wizard's neck stood on end as a feeling, sharp and bright and strong, coursed through him, permeating the air like thick ozone before a thunderstorm. Rasmodius knew this feeling. It was wild magic. But this was her wild magic, and it was fierce and uncontrolled and obviously untrained. Her magic pressed outward from within, straining violently against the boundary the was the flesh of her body.
Rasmodius knocked his knuckles gently against the table, never looking away from Hazel. "Eye," the wizard mouthed, hoping the soft knock had clued his companions into the urgency of the situation without alerting the woman. Out of the corner of his eye Rasmodius saw Marlon shift in his seat, reaching behind his head to untie the eyepatch.
Hazel waited. Her storm brewed.
Years had passed since Rasmodius last had to deal with wild magic spillage. He breathed in, then out, and hoped helpful words would come to him. "I… did not mean to upset you," he decided upon.
The pools by her eyes ran down her cheeks like glittering springs. Her magic rumbled like thunder. Rasmodius shivered. Marlon clicked his tongue. He had noticed, then.
Rasmodius still did not look away.
"Then help me."
Rasmodius smelled smoke a split second before her magic flared. It was like lightening touching ground: bright and unmissable. It gave him goosebumps.
Then, came the fire.
Wisps of hot white flames erupted from Hazel's hand, a violent burst of energy taken form. The woman shrieked, jumping from her seat and sending her chair clattering behind her. She shook her arm hand vigorously in an attempt to extinguish the flames but her mounting fear only caused it to grow and spread. The inferno snaked up her arm in ringlets of near-blinding blaze.
Rasmodius rushed over, careful to keep far enough away from her flailing limb. "Hazel, calm yourself. Hazel-"
Hazel did not listen. Her eyes, white with fear, stayed fixed on the creeping pyre that used to be her arm. She was so frightened, Rasmodius realized, so confused, it was as if…
As if she really didn't understand what was happening.
The flame jumped to her hip. If it reached her feet, she would set the house on fire. He had to act quickly, but he had yet to have time to prepare any magical feats. All he had was himself.
Rasmodius remembered the mines – remembered their shared state of binding. Perhaps, he thought to himself, it would be enough. Perhaps he would be enough.
"Hazel," he tried again, evening his voice and reaching a hand towards the woman of embers. "Look at me." She did.
For a moment, Rasmodius hesitated. If he was wrong, he would die. But if he did not try, they would all die.
Fast enough to prevent his better judgement from staying his hand, he grasped her arm. His hand slid through the flames effortlessly. He felt no pain, only the unusual, but not unpleasant, warmness of her flesh. He breathed a sigh of relief. Burning alive was very painful, or so he had been told, and he was thankful to have avoided such a terrible fate. "Wonderful," he focused on Hazel. "Do you see? The fire doesn't hurt."
Hazel blinked, her chest heaving. "Make it stop," was all she managed to sputter.
"Stars above, Connor," Rasmodius wanted to curse, "did you neglect to teach this poor woman anything?"
"This is your fire, Hazel," he said aloud. "You have to stop it."
"Wha- my?" She swallowed. He nodded. "I… I don't know how." The fire had stopped spreading, but the room was filling with smoke.
Rasmodius clicked his tongue. "Marlon?" The wizard turned his head. Marlon stood not far away, his viciously sharp sword in hand and the Fairy Eye vibrating visibly in his eye socket. His blade was trained on Hazel. Though Marlon was well past his prime, he was still an exceptional swordsman, and Rasmodius was no fool…
If Rasmodius failed to stop the flame, Hazel would die.
Rasmodius tried something different. "Gil?" Gil was, thankfully, not pointing a weapon in his direction. In fact, the man was remarkably calm – perhaps used to such events from his youth, perhaps confident in his husband's ability to stop the magic flow at the source should the need arise.
"Yes?"
"I require one ice cube and a spoonful of sea salt."
"Thank the spirits; we have both." Gil made his way to the small kitchen tucked in the corner of their home. He was slow and careful, a testament to his knowledgeability – high emotions could make the flare spread.
Rasmodius stepped closer to Hazel, trying his best to block her view of Marlon. She was quiet but shook violently, likely overwhelmed by the strong waves of magic that flowed from her uncontrollably. Not an unusual occurrence for the untrained wild mage. Exhausted, Hazel leaned absentmindedly on him for support. Her forehead pressed lightly against his arm. Rasmodius swallowed hard.
"See, casot," Gil called calmly to his husband while gathering the items. "I told you buying the refrigerator with the ice maker was a good idea."
"I still think we should have just bought an ice tray," Marlon grumbled. "'s cheaper."
"But not as quick." Gil made his way to Rasmodius, keeping a careful distance from the flame. A small bowl rested on his lap, holding the singular ice cube and small salt mound. "You seem a bit preoccupied, Rasmodius. Would you like me to place the items myself?"
Rasmodius thanked the Stars that Gil knew what he was doing. "If you would be so kind," he returned, before clearing his throat and saying the first part of the spell.
"Letole rete laira," Rasmodius began. Years ago his professor had lectured him about his breadth of ability with this very spell, and the irony of the apparent usefulness of the then-ignored advice was not lost on him. "Ici rete panedet." Rasmodius parted his lips and leaned sideways towards Gil, who helpfully – and carefully – popped the ice cube in his mouth before moving away. The ice was coated with a truly unpleasant amount of salt. "Ietole rete panedet," Rasmodius finished, trying his best not to choke on the ice cube.
Cold immediately enveloped the two of them. In reality, his comparatively weak cold spell would not stop fire magic as wild and untrained as Hazel's. Hazel, however, would likely have no way of knowing this.
Rasmodius hoped it would work. He was not a betting man, and was growing tired of these gambles.
Slowly but surely the cold settled and her fire died. Hazel was calming, the house was still standing, and all of them were still alive. "Wonderful," he said, mostly to himself. "Wonderful. Now," he spoke to an exhausted looking Hazel. "Let's start again from the beginning, shall we?"
Hazel nodded.
"Why are you here, Hazel? Why did you come to Pelican Town?"
"I came here," she began breathlessly, "because of a letter."