2.
The snow glows white on the North Mountain tonight. There is not a footprint to be seen. Framed by mountains whose only spotlight is the moon, this place can only be called a kingdom of isolation. And The Queen?
With wind howling abaft, she tears over the mountain's face blowing aside any type of storm, swirling or not. Her feet do not brush the snow nor do her naked hands tremble in trying to keep her upright. Just as well because her dress still flutters in the wind she, herself, created. To a passerby this scene would be reminiscent of one of the many ships on the fjord that slice through the water. A lone magus should not be capable of such nature interference. Rather than the speed, it is the sustained velocity which seemingly breaks whatever laws magi have set up for themselves. Even if she is The Queen, the holy maiden who matches the 27 Dead Apostle Ancestors themselves, seemingly free falling up a mountain is still something beyond even her.
So then how is it possible?
"No wonder the old fools wanted this place," Barthomeloi speaks out of turn to no one in particular. An unnecessary action or rather an imperfect one. "Yes, it is not unfit for a Phantasmal Species."
The quality of Arendelle as a spiritual land is truly first class, in fact, almost beyond first class, so even if she is not the owner of the land or rather, since the land has no owner who understands its potential Barthomeloi can easily do the impossible and streak up a mountain as if she is a jet.
Leyline surfing.
The colloquial term Barthomeloi would never use attached to a common magecraft technique. Magi derive their magical energy from two sources, the Lesser, Od, and the Greater, Mana. The Lesser comes from the life force of the magus herself while the Greater is known as the blessing of the Earth. It is through leylines which the life force, mana, of the entire region circulates. With the support of the land it is even possible to blow away the processed abdominal fat of a god.
Using the leyline itself as a supply of magical energy, a magus is able to perform miracles that would require an entire team as long as the brain can withstand such a current. However, the term leyline surfing is also a misnomer. Rather than a technique it is more of an application. Regardless of the spell used, it will be sustained as long as the magus is willing. For example, all Barthomeloi cast was a floating spell, a miracle easily replicated with a broom. Then she applied a vector and added an acceleration attribute onto that vector. In short, the Jet Propulsion Method coupled with an attribute. The only short-coming of such an application lies in the first word of the name. The user is solely reliant on the leyline so then sustained travel can only be actualized above the arteries of the Earth. In the decadent terms of this era's degenerate hobby known as video games it could described as a very limited form of "fast travel."
After reassuring herself that as long as she follows the leyline she would find the Queen of Arendelle Barthomleoi frowns but it is not because of the abundance of snow around her. She had cast a barrier beforehand to keep herself warm and more importantly alive. She frowns because she remembers what happened when she stepped outside into what was supposed to be midsummer's night dream.
The source seemed to be a fountain that had been frozen mid-flow with its bowl half-filled with ice. Yet it was not an isolated case as the white carpet framing the castle's entrance crept onto the earth and now the little green that was left was trying to peak out wishing for a moon that it did not know had already gone to bed, under the cover of the clouds. The people in their party dresses and summer outfits shivered, hurrying back to the fireplace that was no longer Barthomeloi's. Trying her best to ignore the rabble, Barthomeloi took her time looking around. Many shrieked about their queen having cursed the land into an eternal winter and out in the distance a foolishly optimistic princess mounted a horse ready to chase after her sister who had run across a now frozen fjord.
"A Reality Marble, Milady?" A slight voice peeped up next to Barthomeloi. Murmuring in hushed tones, her familiars slowly gathered around her.
"Not even close." Barthomeloi almost snorted scornfully, but a Barthomeloi does not snort. "Not everything abnormal is a Reality Marble. You've seen too many human leeches if you think that a Reality Marble is the cause of any situation."
"You mean you've been fighting too many human leeches, Ma'am." Ironically the leopard was the one who leapt to the stag's defense. "After all, you're only here because you left your post at Aylesbury to chance at a one, are you not?"
Looking away, Barthomeloi feigned disinterest. Her familiars were right; the moment she had stepped outside the palace she also assumed that this was some sort of Reality Marble, the blueprint of the soul of the caster, the Queen of Arendelle, projected onto the world. From what Barthomeloi could gather a world of ice might be something close to the shape of that girl's soul. That is to say, Barthomeloi had no idea what was in the girl's heart, only that she remembered the ice in the ballroom. That row of icicles was made to pierce. As far as she could remember the queen had said "Enough," while casting the spell. It would mean it was a one count spell.
While everyone else was rushing after the queen, Barthomeloi just stood there, shocked. It was the recreation of a miracle, anyone could see that; however, there was no change in the mana in the air, neither did the ice contain the usual magical energy. The form, the process, it was infinitely close to magecraft however infinitely close meant that it was evidently not. So when she saw the scene outside, what was at least a Ritual Class Magecraft produced and propagated so quickly she came to an answer.
Frozen Fractal
A common sorcery trait that often appeared in Nordic magi lineages. It was so common that even Freelancers would question the sanity of the Association if there was ever a target because of this attribute. The power itself wasn't that impressive either. Just by adding a simple attribute like "slowing," a magus with water as an alignment could easily cool her drink and make that new-fangled iced tea while those who could use attributes like "freezing," could emulate such an effect regardless of elemental alignment. The simplest way was to take one's own magical energy and add the "freezing" attribute onto it to make ice. It was a process that worked on most things in the world. Specialists were supposed to be able to freeze magical energy taken physical form, for instance, incredibly dense curses. But Frozen Fractal was what its name stateed. Simple ice creation. Rather than creation through freezing, magical energy itself when expelled was turned to ice. There was no attribute, no mechanism. It was a simple, clean, average sorcery trait.
So while standing outside in the biting cold, Barthomeloi could only conclude that this was a Bounded Field rather than a Reality Marble. Disappointing, considering a Reality Marble would only last, maximum, the night. She had heard of a similar Bounded Field before, however she could not be sure if the information was accurate or not. Rather than a true Bounded Field it was a Dream Barrier and the owner was the familiar of the former Number Seven's killer. If she remembered correctly it was dubbed "Midsummer Snowfield." In that respect it could be a mirror to this Bounded Field which infinitely produced snow. Quality-wise though the Bounded Field the Queen of Arendelle put up was superior. She converted what was summer into winter-like conditions. "Midsummer Snowfield," would be considered closer to a Reality Marbles as a Reality Marble was made to do something impossible under the World's rules. Any team of magi, coming together, could change summer into winter if they tried hard enough. However, there would only be a few who could make it snow in summer. In that respect, even if this Bounded Field's effect was more pronounced, "Midsummer Snowfield," was a greater deviation in nature, the greater mystery. More importantly "Midsummer Snowfield" was basically the actualization of an internal world. The queen's bounded field, no matter how complexly it interfered with nature, could not come close to that. Following that agonizingly thorough and extraneous, yet quite obsessive line of thought, Barthomeloi graded her accordingly.
She was not just a magus who revealed magecraft to the public, but a dangerous heretic unsure of her own power. That is why the moment that Barthomeleoi caught sight of a cloaked figure struggling against the wind she takes to the skies and, snapping her fingers, sends three bullets of unprocessed magical energy at the shade.
With a muted thud and then a sizzle, three holes mark the white carpet. Did the great queen of the Clock Tower just fire warning shots? No, from the beginning the killing intent was clear; anyone experienced enough could feel it through the icy wind. One to the leg, one at the head, and one final one to the heart. So then, is it possible that Barthomeloi missed? To assume for a second that the The Queen can miss is more laughable than her firing warning shots. So then the reason why the bullets never reached their target is clearly because of the wind.
"What-?" Sweeping up the snow with her cloak the Queen of Arendelle turns, trying to find her attacker.
However, Barthomeloi had already given up the advantage of being in the air; she will not allow herself to be attacked from all directions. Her first attack was to kill. In Barthomeloi's mind that surprise attack is the only one allowed for her. Considering the terrain and weather conditions any other action will lead to an incredibly drawn out duel and without her whip or gloves it will be a lot more troublesome than Barthomeloi will tolerate. More importantly, she is still wearing the same dress from the party. There had been no time to change and she likes this dress. She will not have it marred in some foolish magecraft tussle in an undeveloped backwater.
"You're-" The queen is surprised anyone came after her. Her voice has lost most the stifled regality bound to it during the coronation reception. Just like ice it is a façade that shatters when struck with the harsh reality of the world. This fragility leads Barthomeloi to quickly crush a wandering thought about what would happen when the queen's sister finally reachs her destination. "I met you at the coronation. You're Lor-"
"-Lady Barthomeloi," she interrupts, trying to move the process along or does she merely not want that insult spoken? "I'm here to negotiate a treaty."
The queen shakes her head vehemently, "Arendelle doesn't have any enemies."
"No," a pause. "It didn't, did it?"
Insensitive considering the queen just ran away from her coronation reception with screams of monster and sorceress trailing behind her like ravenous wolves edging her to this very mountainside. The kingdom's memory of this queen could be wiped, the other princess installed and then manipulated into giving Barthomeloi the rights to the land. So then what is this talk supposed to achieve?
The queen does a double take at Barthomeloi's words before replying with "I'm going to stay far away. Why do you care?" Stewing with rage, the queen doesn't even consider how out of place Barthomeloi looks or how she travelled so far away without a mount, but it is that question which slaps Barthomeloi.
Why do you care?
The first thing that Barthomeloi did after seeing the magecraft was not hypnotize the party-goers like a normal magus; rather, she ran after this minx. It was not a mistake as Barthomelois do not make mistakes. At least they didn't before she did.
Why do you care?
There was a line of logic and a clear decision that was made. So then what was that thought that led to this decision?
The Queen of Arendelle is indeed a heretic. She exposed magecraft to the public; that is for certain, but Barthomeloi had dealt with heretics before or rather, she had allowed others to deal with heretics. They were to be killed, not followed. The hunt, the burning sensation that Barthomeloi felt during a Dead Apostle siege doesn't exist here. Her blood did not yearn, yet Barthomeloi still chased this girl, abandoning the principles drilled into her since birth.
Then it is because she is a queen as well. She has the same authority as Barthomeloi did and Barthomeloi respected that.
Laughable, truly laughable. Barthomeloi has met more than her share of queens. Those who were born queens, became queens, or convinced themselves they were queens. Boring, all of them were boring. Just like this boring queen who is boring.
So then...
Only the snowflakes descent marks the time that seems to have stopped due to the prolonged silence between the two queens. The two queens who can use magecraft. Perhaps the only two queens in existence who can use magecraft.
Only one week ago Barthomeloi had tasted defeat. First against a mediocre Dead Apostle Ancestor and then against something she did not even catch a glimpse of. One week ago Barthomeloi learned what it meant to fail, what it meant to be human.
So then a mirror of ice with one glove in a backwater country is the closest thing that Barthomeloi has to herself. One week ago that would not have mattered to Barthomeloi, but that was a week ago. During that span of time Barthomeloi fell and cracked. The most fundamental part of herself splintered and no matter how much she tried she could not conceal it. So then had Barthomeloi merely regressed to the point of a chick deciding to imitate the first thing it saw?
But that line, what was that line? That infinitesimally insignificant line that tied Barthomeloi to L- It was the shiver on the back of her neck, the oblivion recording of a syllable, and the phase that lies on the tip of one's tongue which simply cannot be shaken off with mere regret.
But Barthomeloi immediately dismisses that thought. Her iron-clad reason being that if it was truly insignificant it should mean nothing at all, a cyclic redundancy.
"You're a queen, don't you have to be with your people?" Barthomeloi finally answers.
"They don't want me to be their queen. I'm sure you have heard what they have to say about me."
Barthomeloi whole-heartedly expected an indignant yell rather than that dejected response. If it had been a shout, perhaps Barthomeloi would have forged on. Even with Barthomeloi's "special" childhood, she understands the queen wants to be left alone. Perhaps Barthomeloi will come back in the morning. Maybe after a good night's sleep the queen will even look fondly on the treaty. However Barthomeloi decidedly will not tell her about the circumstances surrounding her kingdom. Instead a sigh and a direction is all she will offer.
"Yes?"
"The top of the mountain, it's that way, not the way you are going. That is where you were going, correct?"
The former queen opens her mouth and then closes it without uttering a word. Fabric flurries as she draws her cloak tighter to her body and leaves in the direction Barthomeloi points to.
The top of the mountain, the zenith of the world, and the peak of isolation, all phrases which cloud the queen's thoughts. She will be free, never to hurt, never to be hurt so in her delusions she never questions the peak as a peak. She never realizes the higher one is, the more likely and the further there is to fall.
Lowering her finger and with a small crease on her brow, Barthomeloi's face is stony as always. Yet, if one listens closely she would hear a regular rough grinding sound as if Barthomeloi is lingering on some half-formed though. Barthomeloi stays that way watching the hooded figure move further away until,
"Advice," she finally barks, letting the wind take her words. "Let it go."