A/n: Ok, people! Here it is! The big one! And with any luck I hit the
hundred-review mark on this! So anyone who reviews on this chapter gets
extra brownie points (which eventually result in a cyber brownie, the
ultimate in chocolaty goodness. Mmm. Oh, and about the Numair thing: I
know, I know. *blushes* I hoped no-one would notice. The thing is, I need
him for the plot. So deal. This is a fanfiction, after all. It doesn't have
to be ACCURATE.
Thom sat in his sparsely furnished, drab chambers, cradling his head in his hands. Unlike Alanna, whose hair was full of vibrant life, Thom's only seemed to reflect everything else about him-it never shone, but served merely as an anonymous and uninteresting cover for his head. His head, was, in fact, currently very frantic indeed; his thoughts were in turmoil. He had this nagging feeling that he should have been nicer to his sister, but he... It wasn't that he'd forgotten how to, that was impossible, but these days he knew only the theory and not the practice. He had lived with his guard up for too long, now it was innate in him. He kept trying to understand this, this terrible confusion in the hitherto sacrosanct privacy of his mind. The only place he could be himself, he thought bitterly, not knowing or not letting himself know how wrong he was.
He stood up abruptly, as though trying to throw the unruly, undisciplined thoughts out of his head. Trying to focus on the familiar, he strode over to the table-one of the only pieces of furniture in the room-where the volumes were stacked. Muttering an opening-spell under his breath, he unlocked a draw in the same creaking oak as the rest of the table. It drew out slowly, Thom cursing at it. Within were a collection of crystals, throbbing with light-Thom had to speak another spell to shield his sight. He relied on spells for everything now. Using his body was a painful reminder of its inadequacy, its weakness where there should have been strength. His sister's strength. Although he knew in his logical, ordered mind that he ought to hate Alanna, he could not quite bring himself to do so. Even thinking of her was painful. That was why he had to act quickly. He had read every ancient work there was, most of which made mentions of love, so he knew the definition better then anybody, and he was increasingly suspicious that somewhere he might still love Alanna, a little. He was agonisingly aware that not all his emotions were yet under his control, another sign of weakness and lack of discipline. He despised himself, sometimes, and he loved himself-which was a contradiction, and needed to be sorted out. He shook his head wildly, like a dog shaking off water, and mumbled to himself, "Mind is everything. Mind is everything." It was a litany repeated daily, because Thom knew, he KNEW, that his mind was not weak. It was powerful, and it was capable. He could do this. He WOULD do this. And then, perhaps, he could rest for a while.
He removed the crystals, one by one, and set them on the table. Taking the top one of the volumes, he leafed through it respectfully. This book was ancient, it had taken him months to assemble a spell to bypass his protections. He had been weak for months afterwards. Finding the page he needed, he traced down it, his finger reverently several inches from the page. He inhaled deeply as he found the spell, scripted in an ancient font. How long since other eyes had scanned this delicate page, other lips formed these sacred words before daring to speak them? And for sure the last man to try it would have been a Master. Ha! He would do it, though, and then they would have no choice but to train him! He felt the primal anger rise in him again, anger against his father, against his sister, even, and shoved it aside. He had no time for emotions today. Inhaling deeply, he began.
He sucked out the power from the first crystal quickly-it was weak. Thom was not worried. But then the second burnt up, and the third-soon he would have to use his own Gift, and become part of the pattern. That was fair enough, though he had devoutly hoped in the coward's part of his mind that he would not have to. He entered it swiftly, with the ease and delicacy borne of long practice. The words came easily to him, no longer from the book, but from somewhere inside of him-as if they had been there always, only awaiting the slightest wavering brush of a thought from him to rise. He felt elated, as though every part of him was filled up with a golden light, spilling over so that the very air seemed to shiver with the feathery, untouchable happiness of a racing heart. Never had he felt so alive before. This was what had been denied him for so many years! This was his destiny!
His power was running out. He knew it. It did not worry him. He did not know or care how to be worried, not in this golden state of joy. He called up more, from every link he knew-his sister had plenty, she would not miss it. He pulled her power, all of it, into the pattern after him, neither knowing, understanding nor caring what it meant. He would never care again. Still the word flowed out of his mouth, beautiful, perfect. They were part of him and he was part of them and everything, every beat of as butterfly wing or footfall of a silent wolf, everything was part of the pattern. He saw that now.
Then the words ended, and Thom's world ended with them. The Spell of his life was over. He turned, and danced after the Black God, frozen in perfect, meaningless happiness forever.
Thom sat in his sparsely furnished, drab chambers, cradling his head in his hands. Unlike Alanna, whose hair was full of vibrant life, Thom's only seemed to reflect everything else about him-it never shone, but served merely as an anonymous and uninteresting cover for his head. His head, was, in fact, currently very frantic indeed; his thoughts were in turmoil. He had this nagging feeling that he should have been nicer to his sister, but he... It wasn't that he'd forgotten how to, that was impossible, but these days he knew only the theory and not the practice. He had lived with his guard up for too long, now it was innate in him. He kept trying to understand this, this terrible confusion in the hitherto sacrosanct privacy of his mind. The only place he could be himself, he thought bitterly, not knowing or not letting himself know how wrong he was.
He stood up abruptly, as though trying to throw the unruly, undisciplined thoughts out of his head. Trying to focus on the familiar, he strode over to the table-one of the only pieces of furniture in the room-where the volumes were stacked. Muttering an opening-spell under his breath, he unlocked a draw in the same creaking oak as the rest of the table. It drew out slowly, Thom cursing at it. Within were a collection of crystals, throbbing with light-Thom had to speak another spell to shield his sight. He relied on spells for everything now. Using his body was a painful reminder of its inadequacy, its weakness where there should have been strength. His sister's strength. Although he knew in his logical, ordered mind that he ought to hate Alanna, he could not quite bring himself to do so. Even thinking of her was painful. That was why he had to act quickly. He had read every ancient work there was, most of which made mentions of love, so he knew the definition better then anybody, and he was increasingly suspicious that somewhere he might still love Alanna, a little. He was agonisingly aware that not all his emotions were yet under his control, another sign of weakness and lack of discipline. He despised himself, sometimes, and he loved himself-which was a contradiction, and needed to be sorted out. He shook his head wildly, like a dog shaking off water, and mumbled to himself, "Mind is everything. Mind is everything." It was a litany repeated daily, because Thom knew, he KNEW, that his mind was not weak. It was powerful, and it was capable. He could do this. He WOULD do this. And then, perhaps, he could rest for a while.
He removed the crystals, one by one, and set them on the table. Taking the top one of the volumes, he leafed through it respectfully. This book was ancient, it had taken him months to assemble a spell to bypass his protections. He had been weak for months afterwards. Finding the page he needed, he traced down it, his finger reverently several inches from the page. He inhaled deeply as he found the spell, scripted in an ancient font. How long since other eyes had scanned this delicate page, other lips formed these sacred words before daring to speak them? And for sure the last man to try it would have been a Master. Ha! He would do it, though, and then they would have no choice but to train him! He felt the primal anger rise in him again, anger against his father, against his sister, even, and shoved it aside. He had no time for emotions today. Inhaling deeply, he began.
He sucked out the power from the first crystal quickly-it was weak. Thom was not worried. But then the second burnt up, and the third-soon he would have to use his own Gift, and become part of the pattern. That was fair enough, though he had devoutly hoped in the coward's part of his mind that he would not have to. He entered it swiftly, with the ease and delicacy borne of long practice. The words came easily to him, no longer from the book, but from somewhere inside of him-as if they had been there always, only awaiting the slightest wavering brush of a thought from him to rise. He felt elated, as though every part of him was filled up with a golden light, spilling over so that the very air seemed to shiver with the feathery, untouchable happiness of a racing heart. Never had he felt so alive before. This was what had been denied him for so many years! This was his destiny!
His power was running out. He knew it. It did not worry him. He did not know or care how to be worried, not in this golden state of joy. He called up more, from every link he knew-his sister had plenty, she would not miss it. He pulled her power, all of it, into the pattern after him, neither knowing, understanding nor caring what it meant. He would never care again. Still the word flowed out of his mouth, beautiful, perfect. They were part of him and he was part of them and everything, every beat of as butterfly wing or footfall of a silent wolf, everything was part of the pattern. He saw that now.
Then the words ended, and Thom's world ended with them. The Spell of his life was over. He turned, and danced after the Black God, frozen in perfect, meaningless happiness forever.
