[The usual. Don't own any of these characters, this story is actually going somewhere now, please review.]
Time passed. Jaina remained in Darkholm, fearful, shivering. She worked as Lord Sirus told her to. The shadows under her eyes deepened, as her nights were spent by the glow of spell globes, studying ancient books and drawing complex, frightening patterns in odd inks. Mistakes through ignorance were met with a patient explanation, and an order to repeat whatever she had been doing to get it right. Mistakes through carelessness, misunderstanding, or any other situation were greeted with a heavy slap across the face. As the cold winter faded into spring, Jaina barely noticed that the bruise marks on her cheeks were more infrequent, that, once in a while, she even enjoyed the long fight; a few sparks of pure magic, pure knowledge would grace her fear and hatred of the cold place where she lived. She did not at all consciously notice a slight shadow of kindness upon her master.
He was rubbing burn salve onto her hand, where a nasty fire spell had backlashed. Jaina seemed unable to master fire. He did not hit her for the mistake, but she was in more than enough pain; the burn salve felt like salt and lemon juice against her palm. There was no order to try the spell again; she was clearly drained, her skin pale, her eyes dull. Instead, after the wounded hand had been wrapped in bandages, he taught her spell patterns. It was an unusual lesson, and a rewarding one. After two hours, Jaina could tell the difference between earth, air, fire and water. After another, she could spot the difference between water and ice, air and win, earth and stone. Fire was the most complicated. It's patterns were almost unreadable, and it's chaos was hard to break down into the smaller patterns that could be used to identify and destroy.
Lord Sirus gave her several fire patterns to memorize, with little instruction.
"Some people master fire instantly. When they do so, they will never learn it. If you learn the patterns, you will be able not just to control fire, but to know it." Jaina held the pattern scrolls up to the light, watching the twisting flames, incarnated as thin lines of ink.
"Keep them with you. Study them when you think you can," he added enigmatically. "Get some sleep. We will go down to the town tommorow."
It was the first time he had ever, to her knowledge, considered her wellbeing.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was a long ride. The town in the foothills of the Darkholm mountains, might have been nothing, but it sat on a trade route, and it was a pleasant place, and cheerfully celebrating spring.
The mountain peaks where Lord Sirus' palace was were always cold, but Jaina could feel a change in the air as they traveled downward. It was the dawn of spring, although Jaina would have enjoyed the warmth and flowers more if she had not been riding double with Lord Sirus. She sat in front of him, on that huge horse of his, stiff; his arms were holding the reins on either side of her, a somewhat familiar position to be in, given that after 4 months, she was still terrified of him.
Sirus' mood seemed to have lightened, enough that he tumbled a handful of silver coins into Jaina's surprised hand, and told her to be off. Jaina, mute, scurried off like a mouse, leaving Sirus to deal in whatever trade he had come for. She had some food; decent, warm food (her diet in Darkholm was usually cold, stale or both, and there wasn't a whole of it). She bought clothes; undergarments, a new jacket, and a new pair of boots; she had outgrown a lot of things.
Relaxing at an eating house, Jaina saw Sirus in the company of several women, chatting; they were smiling, he was not. He turned his head towards one, and raised an eyebrow. He stroked her hair with long, thin fingers. Jaina could barely believe what she was seeing. Was he flirting? He was. And after a few minutes, he and the favored woman walked casually into the inn, the other ladies sighing dramatically, as they walked away, with many wistful looks over their shoulders. Jaina pushed an unfinished plate of stew away from her and swallowed hard, and forced herself to think of nothing but fire patterns.
Time passed. Jaina remained in Darkholm, fearful, shivering. She worked as Lord Sirus told her to. The shadows under her eyes deepened, as her nights were spent by the glow of spell globes, studying ancient books and drawing complex, frightening patterns in odd inks. Mistakes through ignorance were met with a patient explanation, and an order to repeat whatever she had been doing to get it right. Mistakes through carelessness, misunderstanding, or any other situation were greeted with a heavy slap across the face. As the cold winter faded into spring, Jaina barely noticed that the bruise marks on her cheeks were more infrequent, that, once in a while, she even enjoyed the long fight; a few sparks of pure magic, pure knowledge would grace her fear and hatred of the cold place where she lived. She did not at all consciously notice a slight shadow of kindness upon her master.
He was rubbing burn salve onto her hand, where a nasty fire spell had backlashed. Jaina seemed unable to master fire. He did not hit her for the mistake, but she was in more than enough pain; the burn salve felt like salt and lemon juice against her palm. There was no order to try the spell again; she was clearly drained, her skin pale, her eyes dull. Instead, after the wounded hand had been wrapped in bandages, he taught her spell patterns. It was an unusual lesson, and a rewarding one. After two hours, Jaina could tell the difference between earth, air, fire and water. After another, she could spot the difference between water and ice, air and win, earth and stone. Fire was the most complicated. It's patterns were almost unreadable, and it's chaos was hard to break down into the smaller patterns that could be used to identify and destroy.
Lord Sirus gave her several fire patterns to memorize, with little instruction.
"Some people master fire instantly. When they do so, they will never learn it. If you learn the patterns, you will be able not just to control fire, but to know it." Jaina held the pattern scrolls up to the light, watching the twisting flames, incarnated as thin lines of ink.
"Keep them with you. Study them when you think you can," he added enigmatically. "Get some sleep. We will go down to the town tommorow."
It was the first time he had ever, to her knowledge, considered her wellbeing.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was a long ride. The town in the foothills of the Darkholm mountains, might have been nothing, but it sat on a trade route, and it was a pleasant place, and cheerfully celebrating spring.
The mountain peaks where Lord Sirus' palace was were always cold, but Jaina could feel a change in the air as they traveled downward. It was the dawn of spring, although Jaina would have enjoyed the warmth and flowers more if she had not been riding double with Lord Sirus. She sat in front of him, on that huge horse of his, stiff; his arms were holding the reins on either side of her, a somewhat familiar position to be in, given that after 4 months, she was still terrified of him.
Sirus' mood seemed to have lightened, enough that he tumbled a handful of silver coins into Jaina's surprised hand, and told her to be off. Jaina, mute, scurried off like a mouse, leaving Sirus to deal in whatever trade he had come for. She had some food; decent, warm food (her diet in Darkholm was usually cold, stale or both, and there wasn't a whole of it). She bought clothes; undergarments, a new jacket, and a new pair of boots; she had outgrown a lot of things.
Relaxing at an eating house, Jaina saw Sirus in the company of several women, chatting; they were smiling, he was not. He turned his head towards one, and raised an eyebrow. He stroked her hair with long, thin fingers. Jaina could barely believe what she was seeing. Was he flirting? He was. And after a few minutes, he and the favored woman walked casually into the inn, the other ladies sighing dramatically, as they walked away, with many wistful looks over their shoulders. Jaina pushed an unfinished plate of stew away from her and swallowed hard, and forced herself to think of nothing but fire patterns.