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The Magus

HE was there.

The sin and evil reborn.

The prince of darkness.

The Magus.

Aurora halted. Her heart did so as well, if only for a moment. In the span of that missing heartbeat, it returned with savage force. A new wind exhaled and inhaled in her garments, that of hunting leathers. Mere moments ago, the ranger-healer explored the distant reaches of her residence, eager to know where the evergreen forest lead to. Like the wind, she whispered over the grassy carpet, seeing everything and disturbing nothing.

But then she saw him.

Streaming a leather-gloved hand through her flame-emulating hair, Aurora kept the Magus in her line of sight. Thus, did she kept him in arrow-distance. He could not have known it, but the ranger-healer trained a three-bolt crossbow at his head. With a single release of her index finger and the Magus would be no more. In fact, Aurora wondered why she hadn't fired already.

Standing on a peak where tall brown grass writhed in mockery of life, his form cloaked in dark lavender, the prince of darkness raised two hands to his face. They rubbed his eyes, as if exhausted then lowered to grip a chipped wood fence. Soft breezes played over his figure offering him an ungodly, and godly, appearance. It seemed to be native to him, the wind, as if it were a long time friend–or foe.

He must be overseeing the pillage of the nearby settlement, Aurora realized. Her heart melted to black. Here was the man that had ordered the execution of hundreds. Here was the man who'd tortured uncountable at mere caprice. Here was the man who symbolized all that was evil and malignant. That heart also froze to ice. If the Magus knew of her presence, he wouldn't hesitate to slay her in an instant. Rumor had it that he'd exterminated whole armies with a breath. Gazing at his powerful stance, his liquid power evident with every movement, she believed it.

Trees spread their leaved hands over her head, concealing some threads of light while permitting entrance of others. This, in turn, produced various patterns that lit her form where it found a landing. He, too, enshrouded with light, that of the sun that bore down on his figure as if the truth of humanity sought his damnation. He was a stark violet patch of midnight against the crystalline blue of the sky.

A backdrop of noise rioted in her ears. Murdering, raping, thieving, all of the mystics in their hideous glory. They loved nothing better than a good raid, especially if they moved without hindrance of opposition. Her palms sweated as she murmured for some god or another to have mercy on the souls of the dead. She couldn't see the slaughter but Aurora sensed it here. No birds sang. Or, if they did, they sang of death. Death designed by the Magus.

Kill him already, Aurora, screamed her good sense. But another side, more compassionate and more....pleaded with her not to do so. Fingers itching from her indecision, the ranger-healer sighed, impatient. Anyone else with half her skill would have fired long before this, seeing his foul blood spilling over the lands he tormented and dancing in glee. It was the prefect opportunity; she'd get no better. Two digits tightened in pre-firing stage...

Suddenly, the Magus clenched up his fists until they bled and covered his face with them, a portrait of despair. Bowing his head (in grief?) the prince of darkness slowly sank to the earth. His form fluttered more violently as if in response to the wind that abruptly intensified. If Aurora was not mistaken, the ranger-healer swore she'd heard weeping.

The Magus–weeping?! she shrieked, stunned. A feather could have knocked her over. How could a man with such a black soul feel any remorse? He'd murdered, raped, thieved; a million sins over and over again! It was insane!

Still, it gave her pause.

A snap of fire rushed her ears. Aurora glanced about, swallowing down fear. Beyond the hill flames exploded in wicked display. Now she could hear more screaming, sobbing, succumbing. Being both warrior and healer, Aurora knew her duty bound her to aid the village against the assault. But she remained paralyzed.

What's going on? silently she asked herself. Yet her fingers hovered over her weapon, ready to deal death or mercy. But, seeing his naked anguish, Aurora could not bring herself to do it. Thrice the ranger-healer cursed herself for being so sentimental. It was unlikely the Magus would have any doubts about her murder...

In sudden movement, the prince of darkness rose. As if burdened beyond mortal comprehension, he lifted his head, weary, his eyes gleaming melancholy. A fist gripped one silver-and-gold pendant where azure hair, like a vibrant waterfall fanned over it, the outline of Aurora reflecting. When his eyes, an odd mergence of fire-and-lilac as far as Aurora could note, trailed to the metallic surface he paused.

Now his eyes turned in her direction.

He's found me! Aurora cried, panicked. In reflective action, the result of years of training, her fingers tightened once. Then they released the center bolt. More alarm skittered her body like a spicy wine, for now she feared for him–not herself. Too late, she realized her mistake. Too late, the ranger-healer saw that her arrow would hit the dead center, the heart, of the Magus.

Light rippled from the medallion. It collided with her deadly bolt, slowing its projection. Even the feather she'd attached to the edge had singed. Yet, it continued its fatal flight. The Magus' expression was still too obscure to detect his thoughts of imminent extinction but she sensed no fear, only insane delight. Delight of death.

But he did not die.

Miraculously, the bolt struck the pendant instead of above his sternum. It rebounded, snared some of the Magus' lovely blue hair, and fell to the ground. He stiffened. After a sigh, of relief or disgust Aurora could not tell, he picked up the bolt with his thumb and index finger. His face filled with wonder.

Aurora was not going to permit him the chance to discover his assailant. Sense finally returned and screamed for her to run and run as fast as she could. She heeded.

Her green-booted feet tore the ranger-healer's sight from the Magus. Over rubble and vegetation she ran, not caring if she disturbed anything now. Her fine hair, the color of flame light, streamed in her wake. Two hands locked over the crossbow. Duo emerald eyes glittered feverishly. At last, she was safe. He was far away.

But in her mind's eye, the Magus was never far away.

"What?"

It's SO hard to get good fat-ass generals these days...Oh, how I miss the good old days!

Of course, Magus' good old days date back to around 12 000 B.C. while the current age was 600 A.D.–small wonder, then, that the generals he was looking for weren't available anymore.

The wizard streamed a hand through his azure strands and sighed. Ozzie's interest in his fairly unusual assassination attempt irked the sorcerer. You'd think he'd take the hint that I'm not up to his cat-and-mouse game today. The game of which Magus described had been a staple for a long time, pivotal foundation of their

'friendship'. Neither trusted each other. Neither would each openly object one another. Instead, both extracted immense pleasure and annoyance from deciphering the other mystic's moves. But Magus had begun to tire of the mind games and today he'd had enough all together.

Unfortunately, the green lump at his side blinked almost stupidly. If he were aware of Magus' annoyance, he in no way indicated it. Pudgy fingers probed the ruffles of a massively-sized white robe. Two equally-stout eyes squinted at Magus in a manner that all but made him want to slap the green thing that served as the beast's face. He had never liked Ozzie, hated him in fact, but the mystic proved useful so Magus kept him around.

"Yes, Ozzie," he replied as patiently as he could, which wasn't very. His tone, while cultivated as benefitting his dead stature as Prince of Zeal, nevertheless tinted with 'a parent to a dim-witted child' sound. "I was fired at. With this thing." Magus indicated the offending arrow. "Some woman with red hairtried to kill me."

"Oh," was all general said. Magus observed carefully for any signs that Ozzie might be the culprit that coordinated such an endeavor. But the green slob merely loitered around the shadowy chamber with raised eyebrows. It did not absolve him of guilt but now was not the time for accusations.

Instead, the sorcerer dismissed the matter. Shoving the arrow in one of his many pouches, his fingers drifted to stroke the center gold candle stand. He breathed in the incense, dark scents and dark magic. Duo blood-violet eyes shut dreamily.

Soon...Janus...soon...

Too many 'soons'! He knew that. The dark prince had permitted external forces to consume his precious years. Why hadn't he done this already?

Because I wasn't powerful enough yet.

Because I had more pressing matters.

Because I should be ready before first.

In the black lake of his mind, Magus waved his hand disgustedly at such excuses. That's all they were, too. His eyes half-opened. Yes, now was the time. Or, rather, soon.

After all, he was the Magus and he commanded life and death.

"Shall I send mystics to find her?"

That jolted the wizard out of his trance; like a knife to silk it shredded his thoughts, leaving only deadly purpose behind. He did not answer immediately. Eyes encompassed the dwelling in which the sorcerer would make his stand. It was as familiar to him as that of his past lovers' faces–correction, more familiar.

Shadows draped over the far areas like an immaculate ebony curtain. More shadows, these less firm, skittered the length of walls and birthed and vanished at the chamber flames' whim. Those fires, the color of Magus' hair, conducted no smoke, merely incense. Candle stands also produced light, more natural, of gold and flickered with inconsistency. Both lit the massive statue in the farthest reach of the chamber.

A demonic lair. But, what did one expect with a man named the Magus?

"No," he drawled. Fingers spawned the arrow again and drew it past his lips. A fascinating taste, of forest and lakes, tantalized his tongue. This instrument of death amused him. "No, I'll find her. Once I learn of her 'grievance' the situation will be appropriately tended to."

Ozzie snorted. It was a near-direct order not to interfere. His portly form rumbled as the general stepped around the floor's pentagram. A hauntingly beautiful tapestry of navy and crimson had been weaved to demonstrate the fundamentals of magic. Ozzie didn't really understand the more complex aspects but Magus did.

Suddenly, the general looked up with a shrewd and perverse expression, "Why do you suppose she shot at you? A scorned lover, perhaps?"

Casting him a scalding glance, Magus' eyes returned to the bolt that had almost ended his existence. It wouldn't have been such a terrible thing: what did his horrid life amount to? An endless, fruitless search for the one person who'd ever loved him; a search that would undoubtably lead to his demise? Acrimonious and heart-sick, the sorcerer gazed at his gold-and-platinum pendant hanging from a chain on his neck. And it was then that he noticed the mark.

Arrow to locket; ranger to sorcerer. A connection existed

Laughter extended the length of the chamber.

"Oh, she would only be too lucky...but the dead make poor lovers."

Ozzie chuckled.

Magus continued, "Because when I find her, I'm going to kill her."