Author's note: (this will probably be quite a long one but it is important. Please read!)
Dear reader,
I would be a terrible liar if I said that I was not disappointed in the response to the last chapter. If you are a writer yourself (as most people that take time to read this thing are) you might understand why. I don't know if it's the same for you, but for me, when I write I put my soul and heart into the story. This is especially true for Fire and Ice. You cannot imagine how much this particular work of fiction means to me. In fact, at some particularly low points in my rather mundane existence this has been the only thing that has allowed me to keep my sanity.
I am not saying this in order to be theatrical, although admittedly I have been told that sometimes I have a perchance for the dramatic. I just wanted to let you truly know how much it means to me that you continue reading it. I know I have hardly been faithful to my word of updating at a steady place. But this is not without reason… the past few months have been trying, to say the least. I will not go into the particulars, but real life has taken its toll on me and more often than not I have found myself unable at the end of the day to do more than just go to sleep. You cannot imagine how much it pains me that I do not have the time to write more. Trust me that if the day had 30 hours instead of 24 I would use the extra 6 to write. Alas, it does not. And please believe me when I say that this pains me more than you can imagine.
Fire and Ice has afforded me the opportunity to immerse myself into a world which is so distinctly different from my own that, had I the chance, I would switch them in a heartbeat. For the past few months the comfort of escaping reality has been suffocated by the necessity to face reality. For you, the fact that you have to wait for updates is a mere inconvenience. For me the fact that I don't have the time to write is maddening.
You might say, as most of you are writers in your own right, that I could take an hour each day to write, thus updating further. That might be true but Fire and Ice is, in my estimation, such a complicated story that it cannot be written on the spot. We have reached chapter 14, more than 100k words and it has barely scratched the surface of the plot. I cannot write for an hour each day for it would be disjointed. When I write I have to focus my attention only on what I am writing and nothing else. Maybe some of you out there are different, and if you are then I am happy for you and bow to your skill. Yet, I cannot produce something remotely worthwhile if I am not truly focused on it. That being said, I would never upload something that reflects less than my best. It would be a mockery of all the work that has gone into Fire and Ice up to now to do so. More importantly, it would be an insult to you to do so.
Going back to my disappointment to the response to the last chapter, I mentioned before that I do not write for reviews. More often than not, I write so I can escape the essentially tedious, repetitive and busy existence that I'm leading. This does not mean that I am not interested in what you have to say. The number of reviews that this story, or any other that I write for that matter, has means nothing to me. What you say, good or bad, does matter. The fact that you took a little bit of your time to express an opinion matters.
Why does it matter? Mostly because I abhor doing things in vain. I would not be writing this if I knew that no one would like reading it and would try to satisfy my need to immerse myself into a different reality by using different means. To me, Fire and Ice is a draining story. I do not see it as a chore but as a pleasurable pursuit that leaves you with an immense headache at the end. I enjoy writing it and I persist, despite certain misgivings, because of the promise that I made to you that the story would be completed. That is not to say that I could not try to satisfy my artistic needs by writing light, meaningless stories that require no planning ahead, hundreds of pages of research, horribly entangled plotlines and come with an added bonus of a headache at the end.
Please do not take this as a reproach. I am not mad at you. How could I be? The fact that you are reading this is a testament to your faithfulness to this story. I am mad at myself for two things: 1. Becoming so attached to Fire and Ice and 2. Not being able to live up to my promises to finish this sooner.
That being said the past month I have been pondering rather seriously if I should simply take it down. After all, how many of you are still reading this? For the last chapter only three people took the time to express their opinion (for which I am extremely grateful) and I cannot help but feel that most of you have become bored with this story.
Please do not take it as a threat or as a means to coerce you. I have no intention of doing either. I just feel that I am somehow wasting my time producing something that no one is interested in. After all, I am a practical person and if no one is interested in reading this anymore I should stop investing my limited time in order to cut back on losses.
That being said, as I did promise to finish the first volume of Fire and Ice, I did some restructuring within the story and made it as such that this chapter will be the second to last. The last chapter, Chapter 15, will be updated as soon as possible. It will not tie all loose end because that would be virtually impossible in two chapters. But it will give a moderate amount of closure. It is up to you if I write the second and third books as well.
As I said, I don't want to waste my time writing something no one wants to let me know if you want to know how the story progresses. Sometimes as far as Fire and Ice is concerned, I write for you as much as I write for myself.
Thank you for your understanding and taking the time to read this.
Yours faithfully,
Lemondrop
This chapter is dedicated to the wonderful NCD. I hope it gives at least a momentary respite from the problems of real life.
FIRE AND ICE
BOOK I: THE WIELDER, THE GIVER AND THE HEIR
Chapter 14: Unbeing dead isn't being alive (E. E. Cummings)
"Can you please do yer thing immediately after I've taken the last puff? I want to still be able to taste it…" he looked at her with the same youthful glint and the woman nodded, a chuckle escaping her lips.
For a moment she seemed to disappear into nothingness but he could soon feel her cold hand pressed against his forehead. He took another drag, his lungs filling with smoke, and his mouth tasting the rich tobacco, one last time. With a satisfied smile he allowed his eyelids to close and his arms drop at his sides, outside the confines of the wheelchair. For the first time in sixty years he was no longer in pain. With careful moves, Hope took the cigarette bud from his cold fingers and put it in the ashtray. She watched it burn for a second before, like its owner, it was extinguished forever.
She considered leaving the house almost immediately. After all she had nothing left to do here. Yet, something, maybe it was the man's bravery in the face of death, compelled her to stay longer. She sat on the armchair opposite the man and took another cigarette from the package. With a wave of her hand she lit up the burning stick of tobacco and could feel its rich taste ensnare her taste buds.
(Fire and Ice the Wielder the Giver and the Heir: Chapter 2)
Hope woke up, her breathing hitched, beads of fine sweat quickly forming on her pale forehead. The face of the old, fearless man was burned into her mind, the smell of the cigarette he had been smoking seemed to cling to her skin. She lifted her hand and automatically wiped the beads of sweat away, her eyes blinking rapidly, trying to get accustomed to the influx of light that entered the somewhat familiar surroundings. She herself needed a cigarette right about now. She took a moment to look at the sumptuously decorated room trying to process exactly where she was and, at the same time, trying to rid her mind of the image of the old man slumped in his chair that had been plaguing her dreams.
She tried to lift herself up but something seemed to stop her. Strong arms were encircled around her waist and she automatically turned towards the possessor of those arms. Next to her Evan Mallard, the fearsome lord of Water and Air was sleeping soundly, his chest rising up and down with his somewhat uneven breaths, his eyes closed to the outside world and its miseries. Hope took a moment to look at his pallid face and could not suppress a wave of… something, from building up in her chest and threatening to explode. In sleep he seemed so peaceful, his features often set in a much too very sharp and cold mask were softer, gentler perhaps. His blonde hair, tousled from sleep and messier than usual, seemed to make him appear younger, more innocent. His arms almost squished her to his chest, promising in their unyielding hold to never let her go, much in the same way a toddler keeps a hold of his plush toy in his sleep. Had she been another person, Hope would have laughed at how childish he seemed to look.
But she was not another person and instead of laughing, Hope despaired. Now that her consciousness returned and the last of remains of her dream faded away, she could not help the feeling of panic that seemed to bubble in her chest and overtake her senses. What had happened between them the other night, as misguided as it might had been, served the purpose to drag her from the path of her life and place her unceremoniously at a cross-roads. For a second, she cursed the moment she had decided to visit Evan. The day before it had seemed like a good, if not somewhat impulsive, idea. She did, after all, want to assess the state in which her… nemesis found himself in. Was that not a good strategy during war? Wasn't knowledge of one's enemy, of his weaknesses and strengths, essential to win a battle? Yes, her rationalizations had offered her a good enough reason to go and face him for the first time in ten years. But she had not expected what had happened.
Hope had expected him to be cold, unyielding, hateful towards her. After all, only days before he had tried to actively destroy her. Yet, Evan, the villain whose soul she had believed to be tarnished beyond repair seemed willing to forget. He seemed willing to let bygones be bygones and allow himself to love her. That was disconcerting to say the least. Last night, Evan had given himself to her in more ways than one. He, for once, had actively put his heart on his sleeve and allowed her a glimpse of his emotions. Plan and simple, he loved her. But what about herself? Did she love him? Was she willing to change her path in life, the path that she had worked so very hard to establish, in order to chase an errant dream of potential happiness?
Sometimes, in the short spans of our lives, there a moments where the entire world seems to revolve around us. It seems, to our feeble, befuddled brains that in those particular moments, each and every individual on earth is looking towards us, waiting with baited breath, for us to take action. For Hope, as she tried to disentangle herself from the decadent Egyptian cotton sheets and Evan's limbs, this was such a moment. Her decision would quite literarily change the world and although she did not have an audience she did feel the pressure that was placed on her shoulders. Power is indeed a deceiving mistress, for with it comes the kind of responsibility that transcends one's selfish needs and desires.
Few people are born to specifically fulfill a role. She had been one of those few people. Evan, for that matter, was another. It was an unfortunate thing that their purposes were at odds with one another. For the moment she had been born her path in life had been set: live, stay alive in order to carry out your purpose, procreate and subsequently die. It was deceivingly simple. She owed the world nothing more. And yet, it seemed that the world, humanity, wanted more. It not only wanted her blood, her life, but it wanted her heart as well. Would she give it? Would she truly give her remote chance at leading a normal life for the potential welfare of the world? It seemed she would, and she was not without a selfish reason when she took that particular decision.
Take their future child for example. He would be born as master of the Four Elements. He would quite literarily be the tool through which the world continued to function. He would be the pinnacle of their secret aspirations and would bring a fitting end to the curse that had plagued both their families for centuries. He would also be born both motherless and fatherless. He would be born an orphan, all alone in the world. That in itself would be condemning an innocent soul to a rather bleak life. While she herself had been motherless, she had always had her father. Whether he had managed to do his job as a parent properly, that was another story altogether. But at least he had been there. That child would not have such a luxury. Could she entrust the safety of life to such a being? Probably not. But, that wasn't all. She didn't want her child to be the heir of the Four Elements. She didn't want him to own them. Why? Simply because she wanted to do it herself. Yes, it was terribly selfish, but Hope had never claimed to be a particularly selfless person. On the contrary.
Ten years beforehand she had chosen a path. It wasn't the noblest path she could have chosen. Maybe it wasn't the best decision she could have made. But the goal she had set ten years before was her goal. She had given everything to fulfil it. She had sacrificed everything she possessed for the realisation of that goal. She had put her life, Noah's happiness, his life, Constance Hardbroom's life and so much more on the line. Why would her happiness be any different? Had she been a less stubborn person maybe she would have chosen to remain with Evan and willingly, once again, give her heart to him, forgoing all that she had worked so hard to achieve. But she was not.
With deft movements, Hope extracted herself from the iron embrace and proceeded, as quietly as she could, to dress herself. She dearly hoped that Evan would not wake. If the world had any kindness left for her, it would not allow her to see his eyes. It seemed it did not. The world seemed to decidedly be against her.
Deprived of her warmth, the man had indeed woken up, his hair a spiky mess which she had to fight the urge to smooth. Evan looked at her, his eyes filled with something she could not really place. Maybe it was disappointment or maybe it was simply resignation.
"Is this your choice?" he asked calmly, his voice barely above that of a whisper.
Hope didn't reply. She didn't need to. Instead she took a long look at the man whose existence was so inexplicably tied with her own. She could see the life she was leaving behind flash in front of her. Tears stung in her eyes. She turned and left before they materialized on her pale cheeks.
Looking at the door Hope had just closed Evan took a deep breath and closed his eyes in defeat.
Constance didn't know exactly for sure when that particular moment had turned into… whatever this was. One moment Doctor Elwood had been checking her blood pressure and commenting on how much better she was. The next, he was going down to get tea and they were drinking the said tea, she sitting on her bed, he sitting on the one and only chair in the room, opposite her. It was an unusual situation to say the least. Their previous encounters had been of only two kinds: either strictly professional, he as a doctor and she as his patient, or exceedingly romantic, for lack of a better word, both of them giving way to their more primal need for physical contact. Merely having tea with the man seemed unusually mundane and yet not altogether unpleasant. Of course the entire experience would have certainly been better if not for the awkward silence between the two.
Miss Hardbroom, Cackle's most feared witch (not that it was a title hard to achieve, considering the competition) was rarely at a loss for words. Regardless of the situation she had something to say, even if it was merely a sharp remark or reprimand. That skill had been honed over the years by having to deal with emotional teenage girls, irrational older staff members and stubborn younger teachers. To a certain extent, Constance was proud of this particular ability she had. It allowed her to have the last word and, as such, it afforded her a certain sense of superiority. Yet, in the situation she currently found herself in, her skill seemed to utterly fail her.
On his part, Doctor Elwood did not seem to be faring much better when faced with the task of finding a suitable conversation topic.
"For how long have you been teaching at Cackle's? I have read…" Noah stopped abruptly and wondered for a second if it was worth pursuing that particular line of questioning.
There had been many things that he had wanted to ask Constance, but one thing was foremost on his mind. As her doctor he obviously had access to her medical file and in that file he had found something which had captured his attention. Quite frankly, he had wanted for a long time to ask about that particular thing, but had never really found the proper moment to do so. The uncertainty of their relationship did not help in that regard either. After all, what were they? Were they lovers? Were they friends? Were they simply patient and doctor? What right did he have to ask about the one thing which irrefutably proved that Constance Hardbroom, straight-laced deputy of Cackle's academy, had indeed been in an intimate relationship at some point? That is if he did not take into account the possibility or rape, but he certainly did not wish to go down that path…
"Doctor Elwood, I know you have seen my medical file…" Constance inherently knew what the doctor wished to talk about. She didn't really know how she knew, but she did. It was after all, a subject which, as her limited experience of romantic relationships told her, was bound to come up. Surprisingly she found that she did not mind such an intrusion in her privacy as long as it came from the doctor.
"Yes…" he answered softly, his eyes slightly downcast "I was wondering if you could tell me about that…"
Constance sighed and closed her eyes for a second.
"When I went to… no, maybe I should start earlier… My mother died when I was eight, and after that my father wasn't quite… right. I believe that my mother had been the only thing that had kept him together all those years and without her he started to slowly, but surely loose grip of himself and of reality. My father was ever the idealist. He was the type of person that believed he could and would change the world. He was never satisfied with merely living… he wanted to do great things, wonderful thing…" she paused for a bit, her eyes fixed on her hands a slight smile appearing at the corner of her lips in reminiscence for her lost parent
"Living with him had become trying to say the least. My mother had known how to temper his ambition for greatness and ground him into day to day reality. For her and because of her, he learned how to be a husband and father and I do believe that he enjoyed that… But after she was gone, he had no one to temper him anymore… It was as if that part of him was buried the same day my mother was. Oh, he loved me… I know he did! He just didn't know what to do with me…"
She once again paused and cleared her throat, her eyes becoming suddenly glassy. Noah moved his chair closer to her and extended his hands towards her. He knew how much the death of a parent stung, he knew how it left an imprint on one's soul, especially when the other parent was unable to function after the death of their partner. After a moment's hesitation she placed her smaller hands into his palms and he gently, reassuringly took them.
"Even as a child I knew that my father needed help… and I wanted to help him so much. So I started to do as little as I could to ease his burden. I stated to take care of the house as much as I could and even take care of him on occasion when he was unable to… I knew that he would not be able to live without me… The family business, the house and educating a child would have been too much for him, had I not taken part of those duties upon myself. I believe he knew that. He knew what I had been doing for him and he was well aware that although those activities were unsuitable for a child, they did allow him to continue to function… they allowed him to continue to focus on his business and to follow his pursuits of trying to foolishly invent something that would change the world… "
She once again paused and raised her eyes from their entangled hands to the expectant green stare of the doctor. In certain respects, it seemed incredulous that she would tell such personal things to this man who she had barely got to know. But the eagerness and genuine concern in his eyes gave Constance the impulse to continue. Maybe she was naïve, but she could tell that he would not use anything of what she said to harm her.
"When I was eight, that arrangement suited me fine… I had lost my mother, after all, and was reluctant to lose another parent. But as I grew up I started to get weary… I was selfish… I wanted to stop living for him and start living for myself. When I reached the age of eleven and was supposed to start my formal training as a witch, my father refused to send me away. He hired the best tutors that he could, so my education would not be lacking… but he didn't send me to a school. I didn't oppose his decision. I could not… I was too afraid that without me he would break… So years went by and I had virtually taken the role of the mistress of the house. It didn't bother me that much… cooking, cleaning and other such activities were not a much too great a task… What it did bother me was that my father and my tutors were the only people I got to interact with… I was earning to go outside, to meet others, to see how the world was out of the bound of our estate… I was tired of being alone. So when I reached the age of eighteen I enrolled in the Witch Training College behind my father's back and after being accepted I confronted him with the fact that I would be going… "
Constance cleared her throat once more and tried to suppress the overwhelming feeling of nostalgia that threatened to overtake her and convert into tears.
"I think the last bits of sanity left him then… Faced with the prospect that I would be leaving him he became slightly… unhinged. He killed himself two years after…" at this, Noah instinctively wrapped his hands around hers tighter and she offered a feeble smile in return. "… But I digress. I went to the WTC and in spite of some elements that made my life there less than enjoyable, I can say that the experience was not altogether unpleasant. I met someone who I then believed to be the man I would spend my life with…Cain came at a time when I was starting to lose faith in my decision of going to college… he was…" she stopped not exactly knowing how to describe the feelings that she had had for that man. She had loved Cain. She had loved him so much that after almost fifteen years she could feel her heart clench painfully at her memory of him.
"…different. I had been surrounded by men who were as old as, or older, than my father, so the moment I saw him it was perhaps only natural that I would fall in love with him…"
Constance closed her eyes for a second and she could see him as he was burned inside her memory: a tall man, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, with dark silky hair and deep blue eyes that would grow darker whenever he was aggravated and angry. He had been a handsome man. She could remember his movements always slow and deliberate as if he was trying to control the great power that was coursing through his veins. She could remember his large hands, so much bigger than her own, envelop her and caress every inch of her body. She opened her eyes and looked at the hands that were now entangled with her own. Noah had much more delicate hands, gentle hands… doctor's hands.
"We started pursuing a relationship and I believe those few months were perhaps the happiest in my life… Our…daughter" she swallowed for a moment, a flicker of pain flashing on her features at the mention of her child "Our daughter was conceived shortly after and although it was by no means a planned event, we did however welcome the addition. We were both young, but we felt like she would be the final tie that would forever bind us as a family. She was what we needed…a final piece that would complete the jigsaw and make a beautiful picture…"
For once she could no longer contain her tears and allowed them to fall freely on her cheeks. She felt raw and naked for doing so in front of the doctor, but Noah's eyes, so warm and filled with so much compassion never left hers. Instinctively, maybe before she did, he understood that she needed more, so in one swift move he abandoned the chair and sat next to her on the bed wrapping one of his long arms around her thin shoulders. Constance stiffened, but did not reject the contact. The warmth of his body, the smell of his manly perfume lulled her into a state of calmness and general comfort. It was something that she had never felt before so, empowered by the connection, she decided to continue her tale, her voice now slightly broken by tears.
"…My father took the news of a granddaughter less than well… he was, I believe, scared… I never did understand why he was so afraid, but he kept saying that the child would be my death. He kept saying that she would kill me… At first I believed that maybe he was talking about childbirth and how it posed some dangers to the mother but now I don't know… maybe he somehow knew what was going to happen... Maybe he somehow sensed it. Again, I digress… Cain was less than happy with my father's reaction. He was already embittered by what I had told him about the years after my mother's death and by what he had perceived as an injustice against me. It did not help that, in his turn, my father regarded Cain as an intruder and made sure that he felt as uncomfortable as possible whenever in his presence. So slowly, but surely he convinced me to avoid my father, under the pretence that the stress of each encounter would harm the child…I…well, my father killed himself two weeks before his granddaughter was born… "
She stopped for a moment, overcome with emotion and unconsciously leaned more into the doctor's touch. When had this happened? When had she started to feel so close to this man who was practically a stranger?
"… I didn't know. Cain did, but he never told me… the pregnancy was hard and towards the end I had been confined to bed rest… he was afraid that I would lose the baby if he told me my father had died…I resented him quite a bit for it when I ultimately found out, but I can understand why he did it..." her voice wavered for a second and she took a deep breath to try to regain a modicum of composure.
"I woke up one morning and I just knew that it would be the day when I would finally bring my child into this world… It initially went well but… as strange as it would seem, it felt like something wouldn't allow her to come into the world. At some point she stopped moving. The doctors told us that she was still alive so they suggested a C-section. Of course we agreed but it was all for naught. She never drew breath. "
The tears she had managed to momentarily contain were back in her hazel eyes as the events of that fateful day came back to her. She had tried for such a long time to bury what had happened in the most obscure corner of her mind, but she often found that she could not. No mother can forget the loss of a child. It is a wound that is burned deep into your very soul.
"We got to see her. We dressed her and held her. It was strange, it seemed like she was sleeping and would wake any moment… Cain was angry. Beyond angry… furious, really. After we buried our child, he told me he had something he needed to take care of… I never saw him since."
She finished her story and wiped the tears away with her pale hands. She suddenly felt very tired. She closed her eyes for a second and allowed herself to lean into the man's embrace. Noah simply held her. He didn't speak. He didn't offer his commiserations. He only offered his quiet support. For that she was grateful.
Noah looked at the woman in his arms and it suddenly hit him like a ton of bricks: The black clothes. The slightly aloof demeanour. The lingering sadness that prevailed from her beautiful hazel eyes… After so many years she was still in mourning.
Spending years as a frog had made Algernon Rowan-Webb an extraordinary observer. After all, life as a frog afforded one little in the way of pleasurable pursuits. He had spent years, day after day, looking through his amphibian eyes at the small universe of plants, mud and water that had surrounded him. He had learned the shape of every petal, the vines of every grass-blade, the smell of the different kinds of swamp mud and water. Yes, his unusual experience had made Algie quite the observer.
Still such a valuable skill tended to get overlooked when faced with the reality of human existence. More often than not humans see only what they wish to see and forgo truth in favour of making the image of the world fit their preconceived ideas. Sometimes, as skilled as an observer he was, he was guilty of the same fault. The events which had been plaguing Cackle's academy were proof of as much. He might not have been as great a wizard as his friend was, but he was not an idiot. He understood things. More importantly, he saw things. And what he saw and understood was that this particular situation was beyond the comprehension of normal witches and wizards. The powers that were at stake here went beyond one's most imaginative dream. What right did they have to interfere? Sometimes he missed his previously peaceful existence.
"Mr Rowan Webb…" a delighted voice chirruped from behind him and the wizard turned his head towards the voice only to be faced with a flurry of black taffeta robes and messy grey hair.
Algernon could not help but smile at the image the chanting teacher presented. He wondered if she had come to the same conclusion as he had. Her nonchalant attitude and her unwillingness to be more proactive about what seemed like a very dangerous situation seemed to point to that much. Maybe she understood that it was not their place to get tangled into such a dangerous game. Maybe she knew that, on an instinctual level, there were things at play which went beyond their limited powers. Or maybe it was just in her careless nature to never interfere.
"Miss Bat, what brings you here this fine morning?" he answered in a gentlemanly way that most youths would see as very old-fashioned.
"Oh, I decided to pick some flowers to brighten Constance's room. Would you care to join me?" she replied, bright smile never faltering.
Algie did not know much about the deputy of the academy but he had serious doubts about her room being in any way brightened by the wild flowers the chanting teacher seemed so fond of. He did not voice his opinions, and instead offered a nod and followed the woman on her erratic path through the meadow. She sang and chatted about nonsensical things in that chirrupy voice of hers and he could not help but join in at her odd moments of silence. Then she stopped and looked at something in the distance. Algie had to strain his eyes to see what the woman was looking at and after a few failed attempts he managed to see what had captured her attention.
On the path that lead to the castle, Miss Hawthorne was making her way, dressed in a simple black dress, high heels and a decidedly blank expression on her face. It was uncanny how different the woman was from when he had seen her in the school's staff room. In fact, he could have sworn they were two different people. Back then she had been confident, playful almost, now, in a moment she thought herself to be alone the girl seemed absolutely empty, devoid of any form of feeling. For some unknown reason, Algie felt suddenly afraid.
Miss Bat was still and for the first instance in their acquaintance, Algernon could see her as something more than the slightly irrational chanting teacher at Cackles'. She seemed older, wiser…
"They think I don't see…or maybe that I don't understand…" Davina said softly, a not quite genuine smile appearing at the corner of her lips. Algie decided immediately that he didn't like that particular expression on the chanting teacher. "She is dead inside, you know? I knew from the first moment I saw her…She was so pretty … standing there in Cosy's with this big potions book… Her clothes were so fine… her manner so nice. Yet she was all alone…Lonely in her own makeshift world…"
"Every day they look at her and see her smile…They think she is happy… " Her voice retained her trade-mark high pitch but a touch of sadness had crept into it. Algernon had the distinct impression that they were no longer talking about Miss Hawthorne "But she isn't because she has no one… And how can she have anyone when she is dead? Dead people can't have friends… Dead people can't talk… Dead people can't hear, or see, or feel… Dead people are just that…dead" she finished much quieter and held onto her basket, filled to the brim with wild flowers.
Algie once again looked at the chanting teacher absolutely stunned, not exactly expecting such a morbid monologue from this particular person. Quite frankly, he would have expected such words from the potions mistress. Hell, he would have expected them even from the headmistress. But not from this woman. Not this woman who munched on flowers, talked so loud and laughed so heartedly. Not from her. Never from her.
As she stood, stone-faced in front of the makeshift volleyball court she had built up from scratch, Imogen Drill felt the cold hand of disappointment wrap its tendrils around her heart. It wasn't a feeling she wasn't accustomed to. In fact, Imogen knew better than most what terrible effects disappointment had and thought herself accustomed to it. Apparently not, for had she truly been accustomed to the feeling of disappointment she would not have stayed alone, in the cold autumn air obsessively checking her phone once in a while, afraid to miss a call coming from him.
Truth be told, she was terribly frustrated with herself for feeling the way she did. She had told herself on countless occasions that it wasn't healthy to allow herself to get attached in such a way to a man. Yet, despite her own advice, she could feel herself fall prey to Evan's charms. It wasn't really that she loved him. No, it wasn't really love. Not yet, at least. She felt attracted to him, to his physical attributes and his cultivated, gentlemanly behaviour. Furthermore, in light of the current events she could not help but care for him and feel a certain brand of protectiveness towards him. For heaven's sake, she had just spent a week at his bedside!
And that was exactly the crux of the matter. After a week of practically being at his bedside, praying to all divinities that would listen for him to get well, the moment her back had been metaphorically turned (physically she had been in the cafeteria grabbing something to eat), he left the hospital without a word. That is not to say that he had been ungrateful. On the contrary. While strapped to his bed, in the few moments he was not too tired to keep his eyes open, he had thanked her many times for being there and making sure he was as comfortable as he could be in the situation. She had not felt, in any way, underappreciated. She had, however, felt at moments her presence to be superfluous. Especially when he was asleep and, in his dreams, he muttered her name.
Quite frankly, Imogen had not been as surprised as she should have been when he first asked for Hope in his fitful sleep. By that point she had already derived that the two had some sort of connection and the fact that his morphine-induced dreams only reinforced that did not bother her as much as she would have initially expected. What did bother her, to a certain extent, was how troubled he looked when he whispered her name. What happened between the two of them she did not know. She also felt that Evan would take it as a personal offence if she interfered. But that did not mean she could stop feeling… pity, empathy, a surge of protectiveness? She didn't know exactly what she had felt, but she knew that she didn't particularly like it. Maybe it was disappointment.
It wasn't exactly disappointment that the man she had been sleeping with for the better part of almost two months was calling for another woman. Of course, that stung her female pride a bit, but it wasn't disillusionment. What she was slightly annoyed about was that in her thirty years of life she had never managed to secure such devotion from the opposite sex. It might seem odd, but for someone who sometimes indulged in romantic thoughts, having someone whisper her name in moments of great distress would have meant a lot. Having Evan do that would have meant even more for Imogen, but she was disinclined to pursue that particular line of thought.
She had understood, during the second night in the hospital, that an outright contest with Hope for Evan's heart meant an outright loss. Not only because of the younger woman's clothes, wealth and status as a witch but also because she heard it in his voice and saw it in his expression. Somehow, the woman had entranced him. When and where and how, she did not know. Quite frankly, she wasn't sure that she wanted to know. No, Imogen didn't want an all-out battle with Hope. Instead, she did what every decent human being would do. She held his hand when he was in pain, called the nurse when he couldn't breathe properly, snuck him some decent food from the cafeteria, fluffed his pillows so that he would be comfortable, provided intelligent conversation when he was bored and, to the best of her abilities, didn't allow him to notice that herself and Doctor Elwood were his only visitors.
While she had not expected anything per see for her performance as his impromptu caretaker, Imogen could admit that she did feel strangely gratified by his thanks and the smiles he sometimes offered. That was until he left the hospital. Why he did so without telling her was a mystery. Was he tried of her company? Maybe, but he had never made any indication of that while in the hospital. Did he think that she would try to stop him? He would have been right, but she was certain that had he explained his reasoning she would have understood. Maybe he just felt the need for privacy. Maybe he had simply wanted to be alone. Whatever the reason, Imogen had been annoyed and resolved not to try to contact him until he called her first.
Until now, that is. At that very moment, while she stood on the empty volleyball field, she didn't feel angry. She felt disappointed at his disregard. But even that paled in comparison with the concern she felt. The truth of the matter was that a person she cared about was not well and he had disappeared for almost twenty four hours. A million scenarios went through Imogen's mind, each one having a direr outcome than the other. What if he was sick alone and without anyone to care for him? What if he had had another heart attack? What if a meteorite had fallen from the sky right on his house?
Figuring that sacrificing her pride for the preservation of her sanity was a worthwhile, she composed a simple SMS message: "Please let me know you are alright!" She felt it was a good message. It wasn't too sentimental (she was glad she had refrained from adding "I am worried" to the text) and it was polite enough so not to be taken as an outright demand. After all, the uncertain status of their relationship didn't really allow her to make many demands of him. Then Imogen waited. And waited. And waited some more.
After five minutes, she made sure her phone was not on Silent. In fact, she chose the loudest setting for her ringtone and double checked that it actually worked.
After ten minutes she wondered what she would do if he didn't answer back. After all, he might be unable to call back and might thus be in need of medical help.
After fifteen minutes she decided that if he would not call back after an hour, she would go to Doctor Elwood and ask him to find Evan and make sure he was fine. But was an hour too long? If he couldn't call her back that might mean he was too sick and might need immediate medical attention.
After twenty minutes she almost went inside and asked Amelia for doctor Elwood's phone number. Then she stopped herself for the selfish reason of not wanting to face an onslaught of questions about her relationship with Evan.
After twenty five minutes she was prepared to answer any questions Amelia might have. She was even about to go inside the school when the small black phone rang and the screen displayed Evan's name. Suddenly, as she pressed the "Accept Call" button, all was much better and brighter in the world.
"Why did you leave the hospital without telling me?" Imogen had honestly not wanted to start the conversation with that particular opening line. She had not! But the worry and questions of the past twenty four hours and the indecisiveness of the past twenty five minutes suddenly bottled up and poured out in that one particular phrase, without her being able to do anything to stop them.
"Look, Imogen…" he sighed softly "I don't exactly feel my best right now, so could we please discuss that some other time?" He sounded tired and somewhat defeated.
"Are you alright? Did you take your medicine? Do you have any medicine?" she asked her questions rapid-fire her concern for his physical well-being overriding every reminiscence of anger she might have had. He sounded tired.
"Yes. No. And yes." He offered a wry laugh. "I just need to rest for a bit. Don't worry, I am fine…"he tried to placate her.
"You should take your medicine. But you should eat first. Unless… well, unless it specifically says that you should take something on an empty stomach… then you shouldn't eat" she finished clumsily and wondered for a second if he was annoyed by her nagging. Apparently not, because as she finished he offered another laugh, this one slightly more genuine than the first
"I will eat… I don't think I should take any of them on an empty stomach" He replied easily
"What do you mean you don't think? Didn't the doctor tell you how to take them?" she sounded outraged.
"I guess he did, but I was slightly distracted at the time" once again he tried to placate her, faint traces of amusement clear in the tone of his voice. They did nothing to assuage her concerns and everything to aggravate her.
"Do you want me to ask Doctor Elwood?" Honestly, how could anyone expect her not to be worried if he was unable to remember how to take his pills correctly?
"If it's not too much of a bother…"Evan might have been proud, but he was not suicidal. He knew that he had to take the blasted pills correctly for them to work and was quite disinclined to make a trip to the hospital and ask how he should take them.
"It's not and I will ask him…" Imogen was momentarily distracted by the Academy's gate opening wide and allowing the thin figure of Miss Hawthorne to enter the courtyard. She immediately noted that the woman wore the same clothes that she did the previous day. She also noticed that the girl seemed to be much more expressionless than usual, as if she was trying to hide a great deal of things behind a self-imposed blank mask. Hope noticed the gym mistress but didn't say anything. Instead she offered a perfunctory nod by way of greeting and walked inside the school.
"…Imogen?!" Evan's voice broke her transitory moment of distraction her eyes involuntary lingering on the door that had closed behind the other woman.
"Sorry… what were you saying?" she tried to turn her mind back to the conversation but found that she was still thinking about Miss Hawthorne. Her female intuition gave her a pretty good guess about why the woman was still wearing the same clothes and why Evan sounded particularly downcast. But that might have also been paranoia.
"I was thanking you" He replied simply, and Imogen once again felt gratified.
"Don't worry about it… And…" she took a deep breath as if she were bracing herself "Are you certain you are alright?" her voice was softer, much less demanding, much more caring.
"I will be" he took a moment before he answered and the tone of his voice was a lot quieter than before. His answer was also much more sincere than before and Imogen felt, at least at that moment, appeased.
In spite of the flurry of emotion that had marked the beginning of her day, Miss Hawthorne felt decisive enough to follow through with what she had planned to do. Everyone who knew her, Noah especially, could attest to the fact that Hope was not a planner. She was not the type of person that had a schedule or that was able to plan ahead for months. More often than not she played things by the ear and usually did what she had to do in an erratic manner. What she was supposed to do at that point was not in any way different. Before undertaking her tremendous task, Hope had actually thought about what she had to do. She hadn't scheduled her actions per see but she had thought about them. As she stood in the hallway of the academy she revised the conversation she was supposed to have with the girl in her head and softly knocked at the door.
"Enter…" Mille's voice came from inside the room, slightly surprised that someone would actually bother to knock before entering a room. Cackle's was known for many things, but respecting one's privacy was not one of them.
" Hello Mildred… I want to talk to you about something, but do you mind if we go to my room?" being granted permission, Hope entered the sparingly furnished room of the student and offered a benevolent smile.
"Sure… but why?"
"Oh, I just feel that this conversation might require several cigarettes and I would not want to get you in trouble by smoking in your room" Hope replied honestly and gestured for the young girl to follow her. The girl complied easily, years of living in the proximity of Miss Hardbroom teaching her not to question her teacher's orders too much.
Mildred had decided, long before the potions lab incident, that she genuinely liked Miss Hawthorne. Quite frankly, it was hard not to like the woman, especially when you compared her behaviour and easy going manner with that of her predecessor as a potions teacher. What the woman had revealed to her about her newly found powers of bringing drawings to life had initially stunned her, but had also allowed her to gain a greater degree of trust in her temporary teacher. It pleased her that someone, anyone, actually took stock of her talents and refrained from classifying them as either juvenile or completely useless. What had happened in the potions lab and the composure the young woman had displayed served only to increase tenfold the trust that the student had in her.
Once they arrived in Hope's room, the teacher motioned her student to take a seat on the chair while she opened the widow panels wide and took out a cigarette, lighting it effortlessly with a flick of her wrist. Mildred wondered if Miss Hawthorne would mind terribly if she told her about the hazards of smoking. While she decided that her teacher wouldn't really mind, she decided to withhold those particular pieces of advice for later. Maybe for when she was out of school, off age, and on a somewhat evener keel with Miss Hawthorne.
As far as she was concerned, Hope was intrigued by the student for a variety of reasons. One of the most prominent ones was the fact that Mildred was somehow still alive. Not that she minded that she was alive. On the contrary. She had grown quite attached to the four girls in the potions lab and would not wish any harm on them. But the fact of the matter was that she had seen Mildred's image in the lake. The lake never lied. The lake always showed the image of the people whose souls were no longer bound to the human realm and needed to be taken. Ergo, by all accounts Mildred's soul should have either demanded to be taken, through a visible degradation of the flesh and blood, or, if it could not be taken, simply destroyed itself leaving behind an empty carcass. Obviously, neither of the two had happened, and no matter how much she rejoiced at the fact, she was bothered by the inconsistency of it.
"Coffee, tea, Coke, apple juice? I would offer you some bourbon as well, but I fear Miss Hardbroom might have my skin if I do that" Hope decided to start the conversation by playing host. One could not just ask another human being: 'why aren't you dead?' without at least making them comfortable beforehand.
Quite frankly, Hope didn't really understand what the fuss about underage drinking was. She could remember that when she had been fifteen her own father had allowed her to indulge in the occasional glass of wine and cup of Champaign. He had also never said anything about her rare expeditions to the liquor cabinet to sample some Baileys or, if she felt particularly daring, some of his old bourbon. Then again, when she had been fifteen she had ran away from home for several months and lived with a man who would later on try to kill her. That being said, she was responsible enough, or better said she had enough self-preservation, not to offer Mildred anything remotely alcoholic.
"Coke please" Mildred replied easily, somewhat impressed at the wide variety of drinks her teacher had in her room. She didn't really know what bourbon was, but if it caused HB to be aggravated, she would be certain to steer clear of it. The teacher merely nodded, conjured a glass out of thin air and filled it with the brown liquid, offering it to the girl. Then she took a seat on the bed, crossing her legs in front of her, after she easily conjured an ashtray.
"Ok Millie…" Hope paused for a second as if to gather her thoughts "Firstly, how are you coping with everything? After…everything, really?"
"Oh, it's ok, I guess. I mean it was a bit strange at first to be able to do normal things and we had to eat porridge for a really long time before Doctor Elwood allowed us to eat normal food. Miss Cackle even invited us to eat cheesecake with her when we were allowed to eat normally again! But I guess it's fine. I mean, Ruby and Jadu are a bit angry that we asked Ethel and Drusilla to eat at our table, but I think they will understand in time and will stop being annoyed with us" Millie rambled for a bit, but her teacher didn't seem to mind. "I mean, we couldn't have really left Ethel alone after that. She has Drusilla of course, but I don't think Drusilla quite understands… I don't think anyone but us does, really. I mean, for them it being stuck in a room for seven days doesn't really mean much. It just… I guess they don't really know how it is to be hungry all the time or thirsty, or afraid that you will never get out of there"
Hope merely nodded at what the girl had said. She had expected all four children to have certain psychological scars, but healing those scars wasn't really her job. Even if she had wanted to heal them she wouldn't have known how. In fact, to her shame, the only time she had gone back to the potions lab after the incident (to check for any residue from both spells), she had unconsciously flinched before entering the room. Thank whatever divinity, that Miss Cackle had had the foresight to cancel all practical potions classes for an indefinite period of time, replacing them with theoretical classes which were, for obvious reasons, exclusively taught by Miss Hardbroom. The only thing that had been requested of her, in order to keep her half-hearted cover as a student potions teacher in front of the entire student body and staff sans Miss Hardbroom, was her physical presence in the class room while the straight-laced teacher taught the third years.
"Well, things will get better as more time passes… I guess, we all need some time to adjust." She offered kindly and wondered for a second if the other members of staff had talked to the girls about the ordeal. She certainly hoped they had. "Now Mildred, I want to you to think really hard about what I'm going to ask and answer as truthfully as you can. It's important. Why did you scream during our last day in the potions lab?"
"Oh… that… I just had a really strange dream" Mildred answered simply and Hope involuntarily raised her eyebrows. Whatever Mildred's dream was about it had to be connected to what she had seen in the lake. The two events almost coincided, after all.
"Would you mind telling me what it was about?" she offered what she hoped it was a reassuring smile.
"Well, it was really weird…I was in this strange house and Miss Hardbroom was there, only that she wasn't Miss Hardbroom… she looked like Miss Hardbroom but she was dressed in blue and was really happy. She also seemed to believe that I was her daughter." Mildred stopped for a second and felt her cheeks grow redder.
"Go on" the teacher prodded, easily lighting another cigarette.
"Well, then I went to the living room and I met a man… and when I looked at him I felt really bad… like I couldn't stop looking at him and I would never be happy again. That's why I screamed" she explained further and noticed that the her teacher had was sporting a strange look that she could not place.
"Was the man someone you have seen before?" Discarding the possibility that Mildred's dream had been just that, a dream, it meant that there was a possibility that it was real. As such, the man in her dream was someone real and apparently capable of manipulating emotions. She only knew one person who could manipulate emotion to such a degree.
"Not really… I never saw him before" she took a sip of her Coke and wondered if Miss Hawthorne had put some sort of spell on the glass to keep it cool.
"How did he look like?"
"Tall, with black hair and blue eyes… I really never saw him before" she tried her best to remember the man in her dream even if it wasn't a particularly pleasant memory. As she pictured the figure in her mind she realized a small thing she had overlooked. Maybe it wasn't important. Maybe it had just been her imagination, but she was certain that Miss Hawthorne would not laugh at her or think less of her if she revealed her doubts "Only that…"
"Only that what, Millie?" Hope asked, deliberately using the girl's nickname in an effort to make her feel slightly more comfortable. Now that she had assessed the person in the girls' dream was not Evan, she dearly wished to know who the man who could control emotions was.
"Well, a few weeks back I wanted to take a warm shower so I woke up really early before everyone else. Back then, it might sound weird, but I used to think a lot about Miss Hardbroom. I guess it was because I just found out she was sick, or something. I don't really know why. Anyway I went to take a shower and then when I was getting dressed I looked in the mirror and I saw myself but it wasn't really me. I mean it looked like me but some things were different. My hair was wavier and my eyes looked were shaped like Miss Hardbroom's but were the same colour as the one of the man I told you about" she explained calmly and had the distinct impression that underneath the calm façade, the young teacher was getting increasingly worried.
"Anything else weird about the reflection?" Hope followed, her mind racing with hundreds of possible explanations.
"… Ummm…. I think I was a bit older than fourteen and was wearing a necklace although I never wear jewellery" she answered and noticed that the hands of the potions teacher were shaking slightly.
"How did the necklace look like, Mildred?" Hope asked in a slightly nervous voice. This was bad. This was beyond bad.
"I can't remember but it was made of gold and had a round pendant on it"
Hope took a deep breath and fought the urge to scream at the top of her lungs in frustration. Of course, she could dismiss the entire thing as a coincidence. She could somehow rationalize that the necklace Mildred was wearing in her pseudo-reflection, was not the necklace that she was concerned about. But, unfortunately, Hope was not one to believe in coincidences. The thing was that the entire situation had gone from slightly irrational to utterly incomprehensible in a matter of minutes. Why did Millie see herself as wearing the pendant? Hope knew for a fact that the student wasn't its owner because the spell of the pendant had been in full effect for months and it had worked. In fact, at that very moment, it was still working. So, by all accounts, there was no reason for Millie to see herself as the rightful owner of the pendant. And how in the world was this connected to the fact that the girl was still alive? How was the fact that the pendant seemed to recognize her as its rightful owner related to the lake showing Mildred's image if her soul was still earthbound?
"You said you were older in the reflection, right?" Hope broke her train of thought to ask the girl for confirmation.
"Yes" Mildred replied calmly watching the woman fall back in thought, her brows furrowing slightly as if she was pondering a particularly difficult question.
If Mildred has seen herself as being older when she was wearing the pendant, Hope reckoned that the pendant did not recognize her as its current owner, but as its future one. It's heir so to speak. But why was Mildred the heir of the pendant? As far as she knew she had no connection to Constance Hardbroom whatsoever. Like the ring and her power, the pendant could only be inherited from mother to daughter. Short of Mildred being Miss Hardbroom's daughter, there was no conceivable explanation of why the pendant recognized her as an heir. Then again that still did not explain the lake, or the girl's affinity towards Air which could only be gained from her father.
"Millie, which one of your parents is magical?" Hope asked trying to sound as casual as possible. She was certain that the girl would say her father was the magical one. It would at least solve part of the mystery her student presented. If the girl's father was magical, then she would be certain that Mildred's father was in fact, an inheritor to the power of Air. Whether his powers were latent or not, that was altogether different line of thought, which she would have to follow in order to gain a powerful allay on the journey towards her goal.
"Neither"
It was certainly strange how such a simple word could complicate matters even further. That was impossible. A child who had such power could not come from non-magical parents. It simply was not possible. It went against all laws of magic. Was Mildred adopted? And if she was, was she aware of it? As to her parentage, if she had been adopted then the most logical conclusion that fulfilled all the conditions would be that she was somehow the child of the stoic deputy and the true inheritor of Air.
"Millie…are you certain your parents are indeed you biological parents?" Hope tried to phrase the question as delicately as possible. After all, all evidence pointed to the girl being adopted and she was loath to think that she might soon have to deal with an exceedingly emotional teenage girl.
"Yes, Miss. I am very certain. I look exactly like my mum when she was my age. Apart from my eyes… they are my dad's…" the girl laughed not really understanding her teacher's sudden interest in her parentage. "Do you want to see a picture? I have one of both of them when they were fifteen and met in high school."
While she did not fully believe Mildred's assertion (after all physical appearance could be changed), she decided to drop that line of questioning. She could not gain confirmation of its validity or not either way. And the matter of the lake still bothered her. It wasn't really that it was the most important piece of the puzzle that was Mildred Hubble. In fact, considering her long term goal, the fact that she was somehow the inheritor of the pendant was the most important piece. But she could not help but think about the lake. Quite frankly she took personal offence at the thought that the image in the lake might have been wrong. The lake was part of her realm, the place she knew best and whose rules she had upheld for years and years. She could not admit that something had gone wrong within it, because, if something indeed was wrong, then how many souls had wrongly been taken before their time and how many souls were left wondering before being taken? That was a frightful line of thought for it challenged the very core of existence.
And yet, the very proof that something was wrong stood before her, calmly waiting for answers her teacher was unable to give. Once again Hope felt compelled to systematically review all the information she had on the girl.
Mildred could control the attributes of Air, ergo Mildred's father was the inheritor of Air. Mildred's father was non-magical.
Mildred was the heir of the pendant, thus her mother had to be the current owner of the pendant, namely Constance Hardbroom. Mildred's mother was non- magical.
Mildred's soul demanded to be taken. Mildred's soul was still earth-bound.
It was as if the girl was made of paradoxes. Of dualities. It was as if she were two different people at the same time.
"Fuck!" Hope swore loudly, momentarily forgetting the presence of the student in her room, comprehension drawing on her and splashing her wide awake. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" she swore again for good measure and started to nervously pace around the room under the slightly stunned eyes of the human puzzle she had been contemplating for the better part of an hour.
The answer was so simple and yet so crazy that she could not believe it could be true. It certainly explained all the conjunctures she made about the girl and even the most thorough logician would infer that given the conditions, and assuming that the laws of magic were unbreakable, it was the only conclusion which made sense. Or at least it made a semblance of sense.
Mildred did not seem like two completely opposite people. Mildred was two opposite people. Or better said, she was two opposite souls, inhabiting one body. One was Mildred's very own (earth-bound) soul. The other was another (presumably) child's soul who, for some reason had not been taken. Why the soul of the child had not been taken she could not say. In fact, it was something which certainly required further analysis, especially considering that more likely than not, that particular soul was the spirit of a child pertaining to the deputy and the inheritor of Air. As to when the soul had started to attach itself to Mildred's body, she could not say. She could, however, say that she knew exactly when the two souls had started to coexist and, to a certain extent, merge: the day Mildred had the dream. The day she had fully acknowledged, albeit unconsciously, her dual life and saw with her own eyes a glimpse of the life her 'new' soul would have had.
Beforehand, Hope had been unable to see the soul in the lake because it did not have a host body. Once the soul was completely accepted within the host body, the image of the body appeared in the lake as the flesh and blood representation of the dead soul. But of course, although it was technically no longer earth-bound the fact that it shared a living, physical body with a soul which was very much in the world of the living, prevented it from being taken because taking one soul would mean taking both.
Now the only questions that remained was when and why the soul had attached itself to Mildred and not someone else?
"Tell me, Mille, did you ever hear strange voices?" she asked as calmly as possible satisfied that the look of disbelief and recognition on the student's face proved her right.
The Grand Wizard's character, title notwithstanding, was one that was seeped in mediocrity. Mediocre intelligence, mediocre knowledge of magic, mediocre levels of power, mediocre upbringing, mediocre parents, mediocre schooling… and the list could go on ad infinitum. He was mediocre and unlike others who had the same status as him he had been unfortunate enough to have not been blessed with ignorance. Egbert Hellebore knew exactly how much he was worth and this knowledge ate away at him on a daily basis. He thus tried to overcompensate. Whatever he did, he did it as big, as exaggerated as it was humanly possible in hope that maybe, just maybe, no one would look at him and saw the average man that stood beneath the pompous surface.
The wretched beginnings of the man who ended up being known as the land's greatest wizard were marked by the stigma of being an orphan. It wasn't a very unusual feat. After all, Egbert had had the misfortune of being born during the time of the Second Great War. The life of his father, a non-magical person and a pilot of moderate repute, had been cut short during a failed attempt to air-raid an obscure German town. His mother, a witch by birth who had denied her powers for most of her life, had succumbed to the trials of child bearing and had lived long enough to name her infant son. By all intents and purposes, Egbert Hellebore was bound to lead a life of hardship and misery.
With no extended family existent, the Grand Wizard would have been a fine epitome of a 20th Century Oliver Twist had it not been for the foresight and kindness of one of the nurses in the hospital he had been born. Even now, with his markedly increased status he was not able to find out what her name was. Yet, she had somewhat saved him. Knowing that orphans were appearing left and right and being reluctant to send that squished, stunted and otherwise unremarkable baby to one of the understaffed and overfilled orphanages in the area, she took him to a friary.
Egbert couldn't really understand why a cloister of monks had accepted an infant among them but they did. They took care of him, fed him and taught him how to read and write. They taught him the scriptures and made him follow the rites of the catholic faith to the letter. For fifteen years he had thought himself to be content with his life. He had imagined that once he was old enough he would simply join the monastery and continue in his worship of God. Back then, Egbert truly believed in his existence. It was impossible not to believe when all that he did, every single day, revolved around that particular figure.
Then it happened. One day, during breakfast, he had been especially annoyed at having to once again eat the bland porridge that the friar-cook served him. He had no idea why he had been so angry, after all, he had been warned on various occasions about the perils of gluttony. But, the reason behind his anger pales in comparison to its outcome. In one swift movement, with one hard glance, fifteen year old Egbert Hellebore made all the plates in the kitchen crack and the container of the vile porridge splash its hot contents on the unsuspecting cook. He was stunned and rather thrilled at what he could do. The monks were afraid.
Fear makes people do irrational things. That is a fact. That is also why Egbert could, to a certain extent, forgive the injurious actions that were taken against him after the porridge incident. One moment he was standing there in stunned admiration of his own talents, the second he was tied to a plank of wood with thick ropes and had a cloister of monks splash holy water on him and recite exorcism prayers. His fifteen year old mind could not comprehend what had been happening. He could not understand why the people who had been raising him were depriving him of basic liberties. He also could not understand how those people, who had shaped his character, could believe him to be the devil. The vilest creature of them all. Did they not love him? And if they did, how could they do that to him?
Shades of grey don't exist when we are fifteen. The world is either black or white. For the poor boy tied to a wooden plank day after day, having to live on holy water and to suffer the indignity of not being allowed to take care of his most basic human needs, the world was especially black. Back then he could not understand that it was their superstition and fear that motivated their actions. Back then he could not see that they genuinely believed they were doing something good. The only thing he could understand was they their love for god surpassed their love for him. His little world shattered.
"What do you want?" the fifteen year old asked the old monk with a voice cracked by incessant screaming. He had been tied for days and the rope seemed to almost blend viciously with his skin. He was tired and hungry and wet. He wanted nothing more than to be allowed to walk freely.
"To help you find your way towards God, my boy" the old man replied serenely, seemingly not at all affected by the pitiful condition his charge found himself in.
It was at that moment that he snapped. He could feel the last threads of his sanity snap and a new surge of power course through his veins, intoxicate his senses and make the vile rope break with the force of his anger.
"God?! You dare to talk to me of God?!" he yelled, small drops of saliva unattractively falling from between his clenched teeth while he lifted himself free from his bindings. The old man fell to his knees in horror. "For years I served your God. I offered him praise and made sacrifices in His name! I filled this church several times with candles! And what is the end of it all? Where was He when you bound me to a plank of wood ? Was he blind? Was he deaf?" with swift, deft moves he grabbed the small golden chain around his neck and defiantly showed the cross pendant hanging from it. He forcefully broke the chain and threw it on the floor, his eyes never leaving those of his interlocutor the old man desperately muttering prayers under his breath "Here you go! I spit in the face of your God!"
The Christ from the cross watched from the floor, his dead golden eyes unable to see the tragedy unfolding before him.
That day, Egbert Hellebore had become free in more ways than one. He was free from his ropes, free from his sheltered upbringing, free from his faith. Years later, he would wonder if that freedom was that brought about his downfall. But at fifteen he could not know that. Instead he left the place of childhood and his innocent tormentors never to return.
Standing in the library of the Academy, Egbert wondered for a second what had brought about such reminiscence. Maybe it was the bland environment that reminded him of the small monastery. In his own school, he tried to make things as colourful and as modern as humanly possible to prevent such an association. Cackles' was painfully different. Or maybe it was the particular book that stood in front of him which had triggered that walk on the memory lane.
De Praestigiis Daemonum by demonologist Johann Weyer was a book that few people took seriously. In fact, few outside the more academically inclined circles of witches and wizards, knew that the book had some merit beyond satisfying some form of sadistic curiosity. Weyer had been a progressive mind and that was clearly shown in his book. While he complied with the orthodox view of demonology, he also went against the well-spread witch hunting practice of his time. In his book, Weyner had proposed the uncanny theory that the witches of his day were not acting as such because they were possessed by some evil spirit but because of psychological issues. As a non-magical person, he could not have known that witches and wizards did truly exist and that their powers had, mostly, nothing to do with demonic possession, but his claim, which had somewhat reduced the rate of witch hunting, had endeared him to the magical community. That, and his uncanny ability to be an excellent demonologist in spite of his lack of contact with the supernatural.
In the magical world, dealings with the demons were understood slightly differently than in the world of non-magical beings. While following the various religious doctrines of the world being in contact with a demon meant being possessed by it and as such being unable to control your actions, from a magical perspective, demonic possession meant actually possessing a demon. It meant summoning and being able to control a demon. Of course, the power required to do that was immense and few witches and wizards ventured into this dangerous land because it usually brought about only misfortune.
During his days at Cackle's, the Grand Wizard had heard various accounts of different suspicious activities. The most disturbing one had been, without saying, the incident with the blue field and the potions lab. Another one was the unexpected collapse of the school's benefactor. A third one, in his personal opinion one of the most relevant, was Miss Hawthorne's ability to seemingly control Fire. Yet, there was another event that few put stock in mostly because it had nothing but a positive impact on the school: the apparition of the Phoenix after the collapse of the deputy.
For Egbert, who was more versed than most in the science of magical creatures, this event was the most chilling one. Why? Simply because Phoenixes did not exist outside fables. They were purely fictional. Or so he had thought.
It was for that particular reason that the Grand Wizard had decided to forgo afternoon tea and spend his time in the library reading fragments of his personal copy of Weyner's book. He was particularly interested in the appending. The appendix of De Praestigiis Daemonum was a well-known treaty by the name of Pseudomonarchia Daemonum which basically explained the hierarchy of the demons. The main idea was that there were 7 451 926 devils which were divided into 1111 legions controlled by 72 infernal princes. It was in this particular part where, after hours of incessant reading, he found what he was looking for:
67) Phoenixis a great marquesse, appearing like the birdPhoenix, having a childs voice: but before he standeth still before the conjuror, he singeth manie sweet notes. Then the exorcist with his companions must beware he give no eare to the melodie, but must by and by bid him put on humane shape; then will he speake marvellouslie of all woonderfull sciences. He is an excellent poet, and obedient, he hopeth to returne to the seventh throne after a thousand two hundreth yeares, and governeth twentie legions.
After reading and re-reading the passage several times, Egbert could not help but feel the tendrils of raw fear once again wrap around his heart. If what he had read was true then the situation was worse than he could have imagined. Someone had managed to summon a demon and bind him to his or her will. Worse, it was not an ordinary demon, but one of the 72 infernal princes. This inherently meant that the person who was capable of such a feat was incredibly powerful and, most likely, had absolute disregard for his or her own safety. Summoning a demon was mentally and physically taxing. It could easily lead to his death or his insanity. Most importantly, it scared the person's soul beyond belief. It darkened it. It endangered its immortality.
Quite frankly he had a pretty good idea of who that person was. In fact, he would bet a great deal of things that the person who had summoned the phoenix and sent it to the academy was none other than Miss Hawthorne. Too many of these happenings revolved around her and her apparition to the academy. But if she had indeed sent one of the infernal princes to Cackle's that posed an even greater problem: why had she done it? Apparently, the demon saved the deputy from the clutches of death. That meant that she wanted to preserve the deputy's life and that she knew that the deputy was endangered. How did she know? Why did she want the woman alive?
No matter how hard he tried, Egbert could not find an answer to those questions. By all accounts, Miss Hawthorne and Constance Hardbroom had only met at the academy. There was no previous connection between them and no reason for the girl to know that the deputy's life was endangered. Or to care, for that matter. So how had she known? Of course, Egbert could take a leap of logic and say that she had known because she or someone she knew was the cause behind the woman's decline in health. That being said, and taking into account what had happened at the academy the previous weeks, he could infer that one of the three people, all of whom were inexplicably tied together, was behind what had been happening to the deputy.
The doctor was out of the question. Not because of his status as doctor, but because he had met the man and heard accounts of him and his handling of the deputy. If nothing else, he seemed to want to help her. That left Egbert with two possibilities: Hope Hawthorne and Evan Mallard. Algernon would definitely scold him for believing in world wife's tales, but he could not help but think that the legend he had so graciously exposed a few days ago was indeed true in the light of current events. The two were the representatives of the two feuding families. More importantly, the two were part of the most powerful bloodlines on earth. To put it simply, if magic were money, all witches and wizards would be nouveau riches. Hope and Evan would not. Magic was their birth right. What they did with that birth-right was a completely different matter altogether. If the legends stood true, then they essentially used it to obliterate one another. But how did that involve the deputy and her spectacular saving?
His hypothesis was simple: Either one of the two had wished harm upon the deputy. The other one, out of spite maybe, decided to thwart his or her plan. As to who was the first and who was the second Egbert could not tell. On the other hand, there was also the possibility that the same one who wished her ill changed his or her mind later on. Or maybe the deputy's deteriorating health was simply a ruse to cover something deeper? Something more sinister?
Sadly, as to the reason that stood behind these events, the book was quite frankly useless. The two people that could give him the answer would, for obvious reasons, not do so. In fact, ever since their talk, Miss Hawthorne had started to avoid him like plague. Trying once again to make some sense of the situation, he scanned the paragraph about the Phoenix. He had read it so many times it seemed to almost be burned into his mind. But at that very moment, his eyes locked upon a phrase he had previously disregarded.
The Grand Wizard suddenly felt a wave of fear hit him full force. His eyes widened and his hand shook violently. Wasting not a second more, he left to find the headmistress.
Back in the shabby room of the inn, Noah could not help but go back to the conversation he had with the potion mistress. He somehow felt privileged to have been able to look into the depths of the woman's soul and discover her most private part of her life. It somehow made sense. It somehow explained why such a brilliant woman was chaining herself to a second rate academy. Cackle's was her home. It was the place where she had found security and shelter from the things which had marked her early life. It was the place where she could mourn her loss in peace and mould young minds in a way which the early loss of her daughter had not allowed her to. Cackle's was an anchor for her and change disturbed her because change had brought nothing but misfortune before.
With that in mind, Noah allowed himself to close his eyes and drift into an uneasy sleep.
Made of dark stone and lit only by a sparing amount of torches, the room was incredibly dark and crowded. There had to be at least sixty people in the room, the smell of poorly washed bodies making him feel slightly sick. Without thinking too much, Noah made his way towards the centre of the room where he could see a dark wooden table, covered with a large array of iron dishes filled with various meats and four candles affording the five people at the table a small amount of light to consume what he supposed to be their dinner.
Noah thought that the four men and the girl seated at the table made a strange gathering of people. The man seated in the centre, the oldest by far, was a sturdy individual of about fifty years of age, sporting a long beard and equally long brown tresses. His hands were dirty, his teeth were yellow, and his eyes were as dark as never-ending tunnels. Next to him, there stood a younger lad, tall and lanky with pale skin, unruly black hair, protruding lips and eyes of the strangest grey. He seemed somehow lost. On the man's left there was another young man who was completely different. He was short and sturdy, his hair was brown as were his eyes and he was sporting the beginning of a beard that promised to grow as unruly as that of the man in the centre. Next to him was the third young gentleman, his features well-defined, if somehow too sharp, his skin tanned, his hair falling in elegant golden curls and his eyes big and blue as the ocean. He truly was a remarkable example of male beauty. At the other end of the table there stood the only female in the party. She was young and slim, her skin was white and her hair was a vivid red. He would have found her beautiful if not for the distasteful expression on her pale face and the boredom rooted in her clear blue gaze.
"Lord Elwood, welcome!" the man in the centre addressed him, his booming voice overriding the quiet chattering which came from the crowd of people in the room. "Come, man, come!" the man beckoned and Noah was at a loss of how to reply. It seemed like he was supposed to know the man, but he had no idea who he was. "Adenah" he followed, turning to the girl "Go greet your betrothed properly!" he ordered.
The girl, Adenah it seemed, lifted her bored gaze from the plate in front of her and directed it to him. She calmly lifted herself from her place, gracefully as to not ruin her long white dress, and came to him bowed and allowed her pink lips to open in a smile, her movements precise ,well-practiced, nothing superfluous in them. Nothing genuine, for that matter, either.
"Would not kiss me, uncle?" she asked, her blue eyes holding for just a second a sadistic glint.
Noah stood rooted to the spot and did not know how to react. Like the man, the girl seemed to know him. In fact, they seemed to be related, for she had called him "uncle". Even more surprising, despite their familial connection, they seemed to be betrothed. He once again felt sick and it had nothing to do with the unappealing scent in the room.
"Woe is me, father! My uncle and my betrothed scorn me! What shall I do, my king?" she declared in a mocking tone while turning towards the man at the centre in the room, her red hair flowing rather wildly with the movement. He had the distinct impression that she revelled in his discomfort.
"Oh uncle, is our sister not enough? Fear not, if you do not claim her pretty little lips, others will" the blond haired man spoke in a tone which at first appeared benevolent but was as sharp as knives and as cold as ice.
"That is enough, Alton" the king turned the young man and although the cold glint in his eyes did not disappear, the man stopped speaking. "Adam, take your uncle to his quarters. He must be tired from the road. Aether go down to the kitchen and make sure warm supper is prepared for our guest. As for the others, feel free to leave us" he ordered, turning to each of his sons in turn and lastly addressing the crowd.
"Come uncle. I will show you to your quarters" the sort, sturdy man addressed him a gruff voice and beckoned him to move.
Noah complied wordlessly, too confused to do anything but follow him out into an equally poorly-lit narrow corridor. They walked in silence for a few minutes, Noah trying to absorb all the information he had gained thus far. Then, while he was turning the scene that had taken place between the king and his supposedly three children, the young man next to him stopped in his tracks and turned to face him.
"You should run before she ensnares you" Adam said in a matter-of-fact way, his brown eyes piercing those of the man in front of him.
"What do you mean?" Noah spoke for the first time since he had found himself in these strange surroundings and was surprised that he had not recognized his own voice.
"No one says no to Adenah. Not even Alton, although he sometimes tries…"he answered bitterly "And if she decided to marry you, uncle, it must be for some reason. No one knows why…maybe the old man does, but I can tell you for certain it is not for your personal charm. She wants something… what exactly, no one knows. But it can't be good. It never is…"
Noah gave a blank look and the man offered a profuse sigh.
"You really don't know, do you? Then I cannot help you…"Adam finished cryptically and opened the door of an equally dark and dreary room. "I do however suggest you check the drawer of your desk… If you do not wish to have the same fate as your late wife, that is" the man added as an afterthought before he closed the door behind him, leaving Noah alone.
More confused than ever, Noah walked towards the desk Adam had so kindly indicated. He opened the drawer and could see something akin to a dagger, with a gleaming blade and a simple dark leather-covered handle. It looked like an ordinary weapon but something compelled him to touch it. When he placed his hand on the handle he was struck by the power of the knife. It was as if the weapon was infused with a strange sort of magic which coursed through his veins, made his heart beat widely in his chest and breath come in uneven gasps. Knife in hand, Noah looked at the dreary dark room and for a second felt like he had a purpose. Like he knew what to do. Then everything went dark…
Drenched in sweat, Noah opened his eyes and fought to control his ragged breath. In his thirty six years of life many strange things had happened, most of them due to his association with Hope. Yet, the dream he had just woken up from had to qualify as one of the most odd occurrences in his life. It had seemed so very real, from the intoxicating smell to the amount of detail in which the people in his dream were shown, that, had he not been a rational person, he would have said he had somehow managed to travel to some sort of faraway land in the span of a few hours. He dismissed the idea with a soft chuckle and reached for the glass of water he had left on his nightstand. His hand touched something else and for a moment his heart stilled. On his nightstand there was a knife and next to the knife there was a note, written on a yellowed paper.
"This time, use it well…"
Next to it, the silver blade of the dagger shone menacingly in the poor light of the room.
AN: I literary worked on this for about 24 hours straight (23 hours and 37 minutes to be exact). My brain has been officially turned to mush.
Random note: this is the only time in my fanfiction-writing career that I have actually enjoyed writing Imogen Drill :)
I hope you have enjoyed it. Please let me know what you thought through your PMs and Reviews and I will reply as soon as possible.