Magelight 3.3

Power testing was a lot more complex than the average person understood it to be, and that was assuming the person you'd ask would even know it was a thing at all. Many never consider that fact that some powers aren't merely instinctual, by accident or by design of those in charge.

A lot less scary to say the heroes knew how to responsibly fight crime with strange abilities, rather than explain that they undergo careful observation for a period of time. Some of those who didn't would end up like Tritium or the many hushed rumors of tinker tech gone wrong.

Powers as a whole were generally broken down into twelve sub-classifications for ease of identification: Blaster, Breaker, Brute, Changer, Master, Mover, Shaker, Stranger, Striker, Thinker, Tinker, and Trump. One could even reorganize the categories into a short rhyme, if there was trouble in memorizing it.

Dean had done that when going over lectures and classes with me, bungling the rhyme a few times in the process, and it was a sad reminder when Weld mentioned it offhandedly after our first few meetings.

If it was just those categories, testing powers would be far more manageable than reality permitted. Someone who just launched lasers from their eyes or lift heavy objects with their giant muscles only needed the bare minimum of equipment needed to test that. Variable targets made out of different material and different distances for Twinkle-Eyes and specially designed weight-lifting equipment for Brawnhilda.

But Powers were never that easy and neither were the cosmic beings that granted them. Twinkle-Eyes might scorch steel plates half a mile away, but what if those same lasers also caused rapid cell growth in living tissue? What if Brawnhilda only gained super-strength while surrounded by threats to her life?

Or in my case, super-strength and durability that could hold up under pressure, but falls apart and reforms when given a heavy enough blow? What counted as 'pressure' and what counted as 'heavy'? During my too brief stay as part of the Wards program, the PRT had given me a retrofitted hydraulic press and told me to go wild.

Thirty minutes of varying degrees of applied pressure and a few minutes trying to swing around old buses, and it was determined that I'd be able to lift around fourteen point six tons. Any more than that and I wouldn't budge, but the forcefield didn't pop either.

I was good under pressure, on that front.

Hitting things was harder to measure, but it was generally agreed that I hit harder than I could carry. Hitting too hard would cause it to pop though, and my stupid younger self would apply that as an excuse for having difficulty controlling my strength.

Lies. Blatant lies.

Theo might have been grateful for the damage I did to the Empire's members, but all I saw was a kid with too much power and not enough super in her to be worth it.

I've changed since then, in more ways than one, as did my power. My Fragile One. But those aspects of pressure and heaviness never truly left us.

In short, powers and power testing were complicated. That was without getting into the hybrid categories, where a power had a dual purpose, like how Dean's blaster power could master a sufficiently dazed individual. Or into sub-categories where a power could function as a dual purpose, like using my flight for a better view of a battlefield giving me that Thinker one rating.

Past a certain point, power testing became annoying and repetitive, offering little to no new insights.

And as I had once told Rain, powers didn't often like clean, safe, annoying or repetitive environments. The Theory of Conflict Narrative that had been bounced around before outright being confirmed thanks to Scion meant that powers would, in short, fuck you over if they weren't appeased. Ashley and Uncle Mike suffered from hair-trigger powers for not being proactive enough or not succeeding in the grand cape game.

Conversely, putting yourself in a situation that put you in-sync with your power, you could find new exploits or looser restrictions on abilities. The Sechen Ranges. Maybe even a lifting or manipulation of the Manton Limit.

Based on what I'd read, Skitter or Weaver from my hometown had grown in range as time passed, with some interviews and investigative journalists making measurements as to her possible range bumps. Nearly twice or thrice the range increase, if their math checked out.

I was similar to her, in way, but the broken system created by Scion's death meant that I had to brute force that change. An unintentional effect from being so close to Teacher's Door that led to the Dreamspace and manipulating my connection from within. Giving me a new invisible friend, who still needed me to give her a little shake every now and then to refine that control, but otherwise worked beautifully with me.

Hm. In the end, Skitter had brute forced her own change from without. As unfair as it had been, as ridiculously shortsighted as they acted... I could understand a bit as to why the Wardens had been wary of me.

I wasn't Skitter. Skitter wasn't Antares. But maybe, had things been different, our stories could have been switched. Would I have become the monster that broke in the end and she'd be the one trapped in a world of magic?

Or was that too simple? Too ignorant of how different in terms of people that we were and the situations we faced? I couldn't imagine condoning half the things she had to do to get to the point, and being as generous as I could to her, I didn't see her making the same decisions or connections I did now.

You've lost your train of thought Victoria.

I felt invisible hands pull the blanket around me tighter.

Powers. Powers were fucking complicated and almost seemed to refuse to fit inside easy to categorize boxes. As if it was all a game to them and they could change the rules if they felt we had it too easy. Lives ruined and lost across countless universes.

But you saved mine, I thought. I ran my hand over the ones clinching my blanket tight, feeling the dual feedback from power and person. You came to my aid in the Dreamspace. You give me hints of danger when its near. You defended me just a while ago, while I was unresponsive.

I'd told Gary that I would try to find common ground with an alien, if they had the same recognizable good that I saw in people. I just never expected it to actually happen, and so soon after.

When it came to powers, it was often best to go with the flow and find a rhythm you both shard. If you didn't, there was a solid chance of heartbreak and pain your future.

That was par for the course for most Parahumans though.

"I don't understand," Argneri said, voice not quite trembling. "I've never seen this before in all my years."

Welcome to my world, I thought, more than a bit aware of the irony.

Arngeir was nose deep into scrolls, pouring over papers that looked older than he was, occasionally mumbling to himself as he read certain passages. Sometimes he would speak louder, like he did before, an outburst of emotion he couldn't quite contain. In the small storage chamber, it echoed with a bit of power.

For my part, I took a sip of Mead, feeling the sweetness on my tongue and the warmth it left in my throat and stomach as it went down. It was almost too sweet, like syrup dipped in caramel, and somehow too bitter with the aftertaste of alcohol... but in that moment it was perfect for my throat.

There were no healing potions currently available, but it didn't matter. I'd stopped coughing up blood pretty soon after I'd collapsed onto the floor, and most of the pain had subsided into small fits of wheezing as I worked to control my breathing. It still hurt during that time, but the biggest issue had been handling the shock and surprise of what had happened.

Arngeir had given me a quick inspection after I was able to bring myself to my feet, careful about not upsetting whatever had done damage to me. No lacerations. No bruising that he could see.

Nothing.

I connected with it so well. I could feel that star of power want to be used. I did use magic.

What happened? What went wrong?

I had my theories. Nothing that could likely be proven one hundred percent, but at least they were something to consider.

I watched and waited for Arngeir, sipping more the Mead form my cup, unsure if the slight buzz was from nearly hyperventilating a half hour prior or if the Mead was stronger than I thought. Maybe both.

It was long moments before he sighed, rolling up the scroll he was currently reading with enough tension that I imagined it was the equivalent of slamming a book shut.

We were both quiet for a moment, Arngneir placing his scrolls back in place while I drank on, adjusting to the large blanket around me and trying to find comfort in it like I did with my oversized sweaters.

Not as effective, unfortunately.

Finally Arngeir turned, and he looked like his dog had just died, face forlorn and eyes dark.

"I'm sorry, Dragonborn." He took a deep breath, "I don't know how to proceed now. This is far beyond my expectations and training."

I rose up, feeling the blanket fall from my shoulders and into the Fragile One's waiting hands, folding it up behind me as neatly as she could. Another hand reached for the bottle of Mead beside me, bringing it up and depositing it to my flesh hand.

I flew to Argneir, bottle held out. "Drinking couldn't hurt now, could it?"

He took the bottle, staring for a moment. He shrugged, then reached atop one of the shelves containing old books and papers from times past. He somehow found a cup in all that mess, blew out the dust, and then poured himself a drink.

I finished my own cup while he downed his, so we finished at around the same time.

He sighed, looking at the bottle before setting it and the cup down. "Didn't help like I hoped."

"Didn't hurt either."

"No," he smiled a bit. "It didn't hurt."

Arngeir paused, giving me an odd look. "You don't seem to be taking this as hard I as I am, Dragonborn."

I shrugged, a small smile on my own face, "These past few days, nothing has gone right for me. I've been thrown into so many impossible situations, one after another, that I think I'd honestly not know what to do if I won for a change."

"Won?"

"Not literally winning, most of the time, but just..." I struggled to find the right words. I couldn't even blame the alcohol, because this was something I'd always struggled to articulate. "It's just another thing to add on to the list? It's not even in my top fifty for things I need to be concerned about, which isn't great, but it leaves me with a unique perspective on things."

Arngeir stroked his beard, "I'm curious as to how so."

"I think that requires a bit more background from me," I said. "But, to be clear, this has never happened before with any of you? Or any other Dragonborn?"

"Never," he said soundly. "It's a complete aberration of our rituals. We had planned on giving you one more Word of Power, Wurld, which means 'whirlwind'. A shout that would have granted you a short burst of speed, in times of emergency."

Not sure that would have been useful for me, I thought. Still would have loved to test out the option.

I said, "Which is an obvious problem with how it seemed to alter my mental state."

"It should be impossible," Arngeir huffed out. I didn't know him that well, but it still sounded uncharacteristic of him. "The mind should be open to understanding, yes, but for you to suffer from a nightmare by one of us? A dragon, I can understand, their souls are filled with Time. But a human?"

He shook his head, frustrated, "Worst yet, is that we cannot finish anointing you as Dragonborn."

I blinked, "Wait, what? I thought you already decided on that. And I think the various nightmares, which I only started to get after killing Mirmulnir, helped prove it?"

"It is another ritual of ours," he explained. "To collect the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, the one who founded the Way of the Voice, and earn your last Word of Power from us. Dah, or 'push'. From there we would follow customs to aid you in your growth and through the Path of Wisdom as best we could."

"So I've effectively been locked out of an entire way to gain magic, and you have no idea why?"

"Not magic, but yes." He looked almost heartbroken as he said it. "I'm so sorry, Dragonborn. I've failed you as a guide and I've failed Kyne's mandate. I don't know what to do."

I felt a pang of sympathy for him. He had done nothing but treat me with kindness since we'd met and seemed to at least try to understand how strange this was for me.

Now it was reversed, him unsure of how to proceed, and me with the possible answers.

"I think," I spoke slowly, "I can shed some light as to what's happening. I just need you believe everything I'm telling you is the truth. If you don't, fine, but just hear me out?"

"Please, Dragonborn." He gestured to himself, "I'm all ears."

So I told him. Everything. Starting from a brief explanation of my old universe, to waking up in the cart, and how I flew around trying to figure out what was going on.

I was careful to make myself as clear as possible, so that he didn't dismiss me as a rambling drunk with one hell of a fucked up imagination. I might have done too good of a job, because by the end of it, he was looking slightly pale.

"Kyne's mercy," he said, leaning against one of his podiums. "It's true? All of it?"

"It's true," I said. I felt really bad about how out of it he looked. "Are you okay Arngeir? Do you need to sit down for a bit?"

He shook his head, "No. No, I'm fine, just... a little breath-taken. A world without magic, truly? Not even your phantoms or levitation?"

The Fragile One reached out and grabbed the bottle of Mead, a little less than half empty. She gave it a toss, flipping end over end in the air, and caught it with another of her hands. She put it back where it belonged on the shelf.

"No magic," I said after the demonstration. "She's a part of me, ever since I was fourteen years old. Same with the flight and, um, the fear I made you all feel. I'm sorry about that. Again."

"I..." He stroked his beard, "I don't know what to think. This is truly astonishing news, but I'm not sure how it connects to the problems with your Thu'um."

I stood up straighter, feeling myself instinctively prepare for a small presentation, "On my Earth, that is, in my universe, powers are given to specific individuals with pre-set instructions. This way, it protects the user from their own power, like someone who can shoot flames without being burned."

"With no training or mastery involved?"

I shook my head, "Not usually, and if there is a learning curve, its sometimes due to the power itself rather than the user. Back in my hometown, we had a villain named Barker, who could do things similar to Shouting but with a few major differences. Too many times though, and he'd lose the ability to talk or have a sore throat."

According to his PHO Article at least.

"That... does sound quite accurate to the Thu'um, Dragonbron."

"It's superficial at best," I said. "No magic involved, but it does make me wonder. I'm not from this universe. Something happened to this world and the people here so long ago that I can't even begin to comprehend how, but Magic exists. It's as normal to you as the clouds are in the sky or water in lakes.

"What if... what if it's not calibrated to me though? I've never been able to use magic before. Not even for talent shows with slight of hand tricks. What if Shouting is so alien to me that my body can't handle it?"

Arngeir looked confused, "But you did Shout. You learned several Words of Power and shouted successfully. It was only after that you suffered the mysterious pain."

"Exactly," I said, "It's similar to some powers back home. It's just not quite right to make it work flawlessly and so I start to hack out blood after use. I'm not really in the mood to experiment with it right now, but I'm confident that I'd have the same general amount of pain for the same general amount of time."

"But the Thu'um isn't magic," Arngeir stressed. "I'm no mage, so I can't explain it quite as well, but to Shout is to impart the core of who you are and what you desire into the world. The manifestations it takes are simply how best the world interprets the Thu'um and how well it is spoken. Magic comes from a different part of yourself, one not as inherently tied to your being."

Sevitus had said something similar hadn't he? He didn't Shout, he didn't perform magic, but he could use something from his voice to effect others. He had called it a blessing.

He also couldn't explain it that well either.

"You say it's not magic," I said, still working through my theory. "But there is a biological aspect to it right? You mentioned that there would be a cooldown for novices or for the strongest of Shouts. So it could be similar enough to magic for my body to not properly use it?"

He frowned in thought, stroking that beard of his, one hand on his hip. "I never dove into the science of the Thu'um or of it's relationship to Magic to that extent, but... Yes. Yes, it's possible that you being of this different plane of existence could mean something within you wasn't reacting well to the essence of the Words."

Within me.

I was thinking of making an analogy, that the Words were like the Mead and instead of a cup I was pouring it my hand to drink from. But what if it wasn't my hand?

Had I been so focused on how the Fragile One protected me, that I really glossed over her messing with the Magic of this world?

No, I thought. My forcefield was down when I shouted. The pain came entirely from me.

Didn't it?

I didn't want it to be true. I didn't want to believe that I would have to find another way to force my friend to change again. Not when I already had so many things to worry about in regards to Powers.

Anything to say on that front?

She didn't respond.

Arngeir spoke up, "In that case, there may hope yet."

I arched an eyebrow.

"You say that you could feel the Words of Power within you, like a star, and that it was receptive to you pulling on it?"

I nodded, "It felt like it was reaching out a hand and I was too."

"I believe, then, that it may be your soul. Your dragon soul. Trying its best to voice itself in our reality. Paarthanax would know for sure, but he has isolated himself from us for the time being."

"Who?"

"Our leader, who has trained myself and everyone in this temple in the Voice. He keeps to himself, meditating on how to best use the Thu'um to guide himself and others."

I perked up at the thought of meeting a master who might answer some of my questions, "When can we meet him then?"

His face turned stern, "When you are ready, Dragonborn. You are not yet there though."

What? I thought.

"What?" I said, disbelieving. "Are... are you serious right now?"

"Incredibly. Paarthanax has used his mastering of the Thu'um to encase his mediation away from the outside world. We are not to attempt to pierce it nor disturb him lest he calls for us or you are deemed ready to meet him."

"Okay, I'm sorry, but... fucking why? If he might know the answers to our questions, then we should probably talk to him and get those answers. You know how much this means to me."

At that, Arngeir looked apologetic, "I truly am sorry, Dragonborn, but I cannot. I know you have gone through much, but there is good reason to respect his wishes, and... and I think I know how to help you regardless."

I stared at him, and it was so, so, so hard to not blast my aura and force him to tell me how to meet this Paarthanax. I wanted to blame the alcohol, but no, this anger was all mine.

It was only his genuine look of regret and the fact that I had made them suffer from my outburst earlier that stopped me. There would be time to consider the Paarthanax situations later.

Right now, I could and would take any answer at all, if only to get my mind off this bubbling anger.

"Okay," I said and my voice held a hard edge to it that made him flinch. I crossed my arms, still upset. "Let's assume I do believe in Souls. Or that they, or something like them, exists here in this universe but not my own. How did I get one, let alone a Dragon's? How could this have happened?"

Arngeir turned and began to rifle through his scrolls as he spoke, "I cannot rightly say, Dragonborn. Quite frankly, I'm still having trouble wrapping my head around a world without magic or souls, as you've said. I think, however, if I were to make a guess-"

He pulled out a scroll, unwrapping it with both care and speed, unfurling it across a nearby desk.

"-It would be that you were given a soul."

I swallowed. Given a soul?

Valkyrie came to mind, with my resurrected Aunt and old friends from the Brockton Bay Wards returning to the land of the living. Ashley and Chris, in a way, had been similar.

What did that mean for me though, if there were similarities? And if there weren't similarities... then the question still had merit.

"Is it possible?" I asked. "To give souls to living people?"

Arngeir grabbed a quill and began to open a small bottle of ink, "I'm unsure. Necromancy perhaps? I don't think that would apply to the living though. My magic knowledge is quite limited. That being said, there is also the fact we know you can devour the souls of a dragon-"

He paused.

I scowled.

He glanced back, looking embarrassed, "Apologies. That was a poor choice of words on my part, Dragonborn."

I rubbed the bridge of my nose, sighing. "I really don't know what to make this whole soul thing. It goes against pretty much everything I know."

"Perhaps," he ventured, "It should not be you and I to figure out. Come, let me show you what I've marked down here."

I flew forward and up slightly, looking over his shoulder. It was a map, larger than the one Sevitus and his father had given me, although it looked a bit less detailed.

I felt a bit of guilt at abandoning them so long ago, but I took comfort in knowing that at least they weren't in any danger when I left.

Argneir was continuing to mark spot on the map with his quill, "You mentioned the College of Winterhold last night, yes? Am I right to believe that it is your predominant goal, related to your attempts at returning home."

"Finding out how I got here, who did his to me, but yes, most definitely wanting to get home."

He smiled, "Then I think we may kill two birds with one stone. The College must have records of such strange events as these, maybe even ways of attuning your body to your dragon soul properly. I implore you, in your search for home, to please give this significant time to investigate."

"What if they don't know? If they really have nothing on this soul stuff?"

He glanced my way, "What would you do if they know nothing of getting you home?"

I ran a hand through my hair, "I'd keep searching. For as long as it takes."

"Then that shall be all that I ask for then."

He smiled, a bit unsure, but I returned it as well. "Deal, for now."

He nodded, "I've take the liberty of marking a location that contain the whispers of Words of Power. You may not be able to use them, but you can at least come to understand them. I've added some minor village areas in case of restocking supplies, and a few ruins if you need extra funds."

"Ruins of what?"

"Old temples, usually. I believe this one was Dwemer, so I would take care to watch yourself for any hidden traps. I hear they were excellent engineers before they vanished."

"...And Dwemer are?"

"Were," he answered. He made another mark on the map, "An ancient race of Mer, building contraptions I could never hope to understand, and it seemed the world agreed. They all vanished long ago."

"They went extinct?"

He shook his head, "Vanished. Other than that, I do not know."

Right. Okay, probably not important at the moment anyways.

I glanced at the map markers he'd made. Shearpoint, Raldbthar, Fort Kastav, and Mount Anthor to name a few and all given their own unique symbols.

Winterhold and it's College were given separate designations.

"If you desire something a bit more civilized than a Mill bed or your sleeping rusack, Windhelm is also a possible resting place. The City of Kings, as it used to be called, though I imagine it is a tempestuous title nowadays."

"Oh?" I asked, looking over the map. "Not so beloved anymore?"

Arngeir shook his head, "Not since Ulfric declared himself High King of Skyrim and killed his so-called predecessor. He took the city and fortified it for battle. Now we are in a Civil War, while the Dragons return as the natural cycle dictates, and a Dragonborn appears before us."

I nodded. I was trying to keep up as best I could, but this was a lot to take in. "Was Ulfric in the right? I can't imagine killing someone weaker than me with my power, not if I could help it, but maybe there's context I'm missing?"

"What Ulfric does with his Voice is his decision, though I do not support it. I follow the Path of Wisdom as best as my teachings can allow. It is wise of you to admit to not knowing or understanding the context. Sometimes, the best option is to take inaction and see how things play out."

I frowned, "That's not something I really believe in. Too many evils have been allowed because people froze instead of acting, even if it means running away. If you stand by while others suffer, you aren't innocent. Not completely, I think."

Arngeir hummed, "There is still much for you to learn, Dragonborn. Do not let your limited experiences bind your travels on the Path of Wisdom. Temper yourself and what you think you know, lest you stray from the path and weaken yourself, Dragonborn."

I think we might have different definitions of how to get that strength then. Especially with how you talked earlier about keeping secrets.

It was only for a moment, a few seconds at best, but in that small amount of time I felt a hot flash of anger at this old sage.

Images came to my mind in a flurry. The dead from broken triggers, the kids chopped up into pieces by Cradle, the lies Teacher spread to destroy the trust we paid pounds of flesh for.

Me, not noticing enough about how isolated Amy truly was, too absorbed in my own issues. Because she refused to speak out and admit she didn't have things handled. Because we grew up in a pretty fucking shitty family, when all was said and done.

All of these terrible fates that could have been prevented if someone, anyone, had taken the lead and done something.

I didn't think I was wrong for believing that to be true. Or wanting it to be true. But in a certain way, I could tie in what Argneir was trying to say with my last conversation with Sveta.

About how we both wanted to believe in the absolute good of humanity and in people, and when they failed to live up to those expectations, we tended to subconsciously judge them. That it was dangerous to not account for that bias we had, when so many people didn't have the privileges and power we did in living our lives.

Sveta was a better hero than I was and it was that discussion that played a part in inspiring me to simply trust in the good of people, rather than expect or judge what I got in return for asking their help.

I didn't think that highly of Arngeir in comparison. I felt shitty as fuck for thinking it, but I simply didn't know him as well as I did Sveta.

But I thought she would have asked me to give him a chance, if she were here.

I missed her. My sister in all but name. I missed her so much.

I focused, feeling the flash of anger and the ocean of mourning clash and weaken the other, working to find that guiding light in my head for the next direction.

I turned to Argneir, looking as earnest as I could manage. "Tell me everything you think I need to know. Please."

Extending that trust.

Let's just hope it's returned.