Author's note: If you'd like to stay more up-to-date on Elysian, please consider reading the fanfiction on Archive of Our Own (my current username there is upperplanespatron)! I don't use FF much, so have a tendency to forget to upload here until sometime after I've already uploaded on Archive of Our Own. Updates regarding my posting schedule are also on Ao3, and the chapters tend to be marginally better edited on Ao3 than on FF (as I find their interface easier as a writer, so I implement edits for issues I didn't catch during my original editing process more often).

Elysian on Ao3 is currently a bit ahead of Elysian here, but the way the chapters are split up are a bit different so you may have to backtrack a bit to find your spot. Regardless, thank you for all for your kind words and support! I hope you all continue to enjoy the story. :)


THE FARMER

The midday sun hung pale in the sky. Cold daylight, thin and sickly, tumbled awkwardly through the bare branches of the forest's skeletal trees before bathing the grove which harbored Hazel and her new-found companion. No warmth could be found in the feeble grey glow, but Hazel enjoyed the sensation of the unseasonably cool air against her heated flesh of her arms nonetheless.

Hazel was sitting on the dirt of the forest floor, her body positioned a safe distance away from Marlon and Gil's home. A nearby wooden sign, carved with the words "Adventurer's Guild", creaked slightly in a soft breeze. Hazel pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her bare arms around her legs, the singed remnants of her borrowed shirt's sleeves flopping sadly in the wind. Hazel's skin still tingled with an uncomfortable internal bubbling, like a burning invisible heat – a sensation not unlike standing too close to a large, open flame.

The woman bit her cheek. A question danced upon the tip of her tongue, though she hesitated. Her father used to tell her there were no stupid questions, but suddenly she didn't feel so sure. She mumbled the question into the breeze, anyways.

"Pardon?"

Hazel tilted her head towards the other voice, resting her chin on her kneecap. Rasmodius hovered about a yard away, arms folded and eyes hyper-focused on her. The day had already left Hazel feeling particularly vulnerable, and she couldn't help but squirm uncharacteristically under the intensity of his gaze.

"I asked," she began, louder, "if I need to be worried about setting myself on fire again."

Rasmodius blinked. "That is entirely dependent on you."

"And that," Hazel pointed weakly in his direction as if to emphasize her point, "is not a helpful answer."

"The flare," Rasmodius continued, his eyes never leaving her, "both magical and literal, was likely connected to your emotional state. A common occurrence, in the untrained. You were angry, frustrated... and then, on fire."

Hazel sighed. "I'm not usually that…" She gestured vaguely in the air, her tired mind struggling to remember the word.

"Emotionally volatile?" Rasmodius suggested.

"I was going to say 'passionate', but sure."

A pause. The sign creaked delicately; the trees swayed menacingly. Rasmodius kept his eyes upon her, undistracted by the world around him. He had lovely eyes, Hazel had to admit to herself. Intense considering the circumstance, yes, but intelligent, with beautifully long lashes that framed amethyst irises.

Wait. Hazel paused her internal monologue. Purple eyes. She'd seen people with purple hair before – dyed, but purple nonetheless – yet purple eyes were new to her. Did he wear fashion contacts? That seemed unlikely… Perhaps the color was a result of magic?

Hazel signed. Magic. A real thing, apparently. She had been quite the magic enthusiast as a girl, though she had relegated that particular preoccupation as being a relic of her childhood imagination. She probably would have never believed that magic was real as an adult, if not for the time she had spent in Pelican Town. Spontaneously setting oneself on fire was pretty hard to explain, if not by otherworldly means.

"So," Hazel began. "I want to make sure I understand this." She stretched her arms out in front of her, spreading her fingers as if placing her hands upon a tabletop. Rasmodius waited patiently. The light wind, cool and calming, wrapped tenderly around her fingertips. "Magic is a thing."

"Magic exists, yes."

"And you're a magician."

"I am a wizard," he corrected.

"You're a wizard."

"Indeed."

"And I'm a wizard."

"Not quite." Rasmodius paused, face momentarily stiffening in consideration of some unknown thought. The air stilled. Hazel hugged her legs once more. "You harbor magic within you," he spoke, choosing the words carefully. "Be that as it may be, you are not a wizard. 'Wizard' is… a title, not unlike that of professor or doctor."

"But my grandpa was a wizard?"

Rasmodius chuffed. "No." The confusion must have shown through her face, as he continued. "Connor – your grandfather – was not formally educated in magic. Thus, he was not a wizard."

"But he was important. Magically speaking."

"Very much so. Yet, his title differed; a reflection of his unique position." Rasmodius paused yet again, the same conflict playing across his face. "As did mine, in that regard."

"Yours?" Tired surprise laced her voice, thinly veiled by the woman's growing physical fatigue and mental confusion. "I thought you said that you're a wizard."

"I am, though I am also known by another epithet."

"That's vague." Hazel began to rub the tips of her fingers against her temples. The heat in her arms was decreasing, but her head was beginning to throb. "What was grandpa Connor, then?"

A small, breathy noise escaped from Rasmodius – half frustration, half an emotion Hazel could not identify. "Connor did not tell you that, either?"

"Was… was he supposed to?"

"Yes. Yes, he was."

Hazel parted her lips, on the verge of asking him to elaborate, but was interrupted by the muffled creaking of a door opening.

"'scuse me," came a voice. Hazel turned. By the entrance of the Guild was Gil. Hazel's work clothing, freshly cleaned and patched with colorful squares of fabric, was folded neatly on his lap. "I thought our guest might like a clean change of clothes." His eyes flicked to Rasmodius, obviously searching for some kind of confirmation that their guest would not accidentally burn his house down should she come back inside.

Rasmodius quickly picked up on the unspoken question. "The salt?"

"We have plenty."

The wizard brought his attention back to Hazel. "Shall we?"

Hazel nodded. Her nerves had settled and her arms were back to a comfortable temperature, and the woman was more than ready to wear something that did not smell like a campfire.

The farmer leaned forward onto her knees before placing her hands on the dirt, bracing herself. Then, she began to stand. As she rose her knees wobbled despite her, and Rasmodius was quick to her side. He grasped her elbow gently, steadying her.

Hazel yelped, recoiling slightly at the contact. The feeling was back, the feeling of him – surprisingly domestic, like comfortable blankets and warm meals, like long evenings with good books and early mornings with strong tea. Like contentment. Like home.

"Deep breaths," he instructed her, almost clinically.

Hazel swallowed hard. Was this some kind magic, then? Was this a spell of his, or another new power of hers? Whatever it was, she certainty found the experience more pleasant than the fire. Her face warmed, and she prayed she was not visibly blushing.

"I'm fine," she said.

"Of course," he confirmed, his grip nevertheless strengthening on her arm . They walked towards the building slower than she would have liked. Gil looked at the two of them knowingly, much to Hazel's confusion.

When the they reached the doorway, Hazel slipped away from Rasmodius. "I'm fine," she mumbled, before taking the clothing from Gil. "Thank you."

"You can change in our room, if you'd like."

"I will. Thank you."

Hazel began the trudge back to their bedroom. She opened the heavy wooden door. Before she could fully step through, she overheard a hushed conversation from the other side of the room.

"Why are you looking at me so, Gil?" Asked Rasmodius.

"Oh, nothing," he teased. "Come now, shut the front door. Marlon wanted to speak with you."

Rasmodius shut the front door. Hazel shut the door to the bedroom.

All was quiet once more. Hazel ran her hands over her hair, then went about stripping herself of the fire-scarred shirt.