Galen Vesa

Cookies. It was all about the cookies. Handmade, mana baked cookies with cocoa and spices. And a little bit of a kick granted by a glass of whiskey. Or whatever that spirit was.

First, one had to start with flour. Out of a bag of wheat one would measure out a portion of grain, taking care to sieve out all the impurities that might have come within the bag.

After that, all the grains, still floating within the field of rich mana were pressed and tossed against each other until the friction ground them into finer dust then and only then one would collect the finest flour and discard all the shells. At all times keeping the utmost care. Not only to prevent clumping but to save yourself the trouble of exploding kitchen. Not many people know that given proper fuel to air ratio, a flour can go boom. Something that did happen on numerous occasions to the owner of the memories I’ve been following.

Holding the swirling white cloud above the counter I have cracked two eggs and let them fall into the cloud while their shells floated into a bucket. A feat I should probably be proud of, given my arms were tied behind my back and my ankles were chained together.

Now came butter. A messy endeavor most of the time resulting with my face splattered with half melted goop.

But not today. Today I sliced off a freshly battered cube of white, creamy wonder that had a light golden tint, and chopped it into tiny cubes that I once more sliced into smaller bits. Spreading that into an equally spaced constellation, I let it mix with the floating dough. Together, it created a dancing twister into which I tossed a cup of sugar and a cup of secret cookie spice, making of which cost me an eyebrow. That was the day when I learned that air suspended powders do like to explode. Especially ones packed with mana.

But not today. Today I lowered the spinning dough of soon to be cookies and flattened it against the counter. Thus, came the most artistic part of the whole process, cutting out the shapes. As I learned before, also the most delicate part of cookie making. Cutting out the shapes without chopping up the countertop.

Careful, as not to rip out the wood from underneath, I transferred my cookies onto the baking sheet which I first coated with a layer of butter then I moved the entire thing into the oven. Well, a stone furnace really but with proper care it could be used as an oven.

At this point I should be sweating blood and hanging at the edge of consciousness, but not today. Today I sat relaxed within my restrains and watched the oven heat up by the flow of my mana, my mind reaching inside and sensing how the cookies baked.

Rooth came and stopped by the entrance, his burning pipe a slight annoyance over the aroma of my cookies.

They were ready. I felt it through the string of mana my mind pulled, perfect if I were to believe the memories that boy gave me. And they were. Gently I peeled them off and stacked inside a floating bowl. Today I had made it. Pushed beyond a point I had never passed before.

One last step remained; I floated the bowl towards my teacher. Rooth reached out and fished out the bowl from midair, his face ripe with disappointment. Why? What had I done this time to lose his approval?

A big blotch of boiling blood dripped out of my nose and splashed against my knees. Oh. That’s why.

My head clonked against the hardwood floor as lights dimmed around me. Well, not today it seems. I thought as darkness took me.

Darkness and screams.

In darkness they kept screaming. I made them scream. My hands bringing pain to faces without names.

And they kept screaming. Begging…

“You are being restless.”

Rooth's voice awoke me before deeper nightmares could claim my mind. He sat cross legged beside my head, smoke from his pipe forming a halo around us.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Nor did I want to speak with him. Ever since Courage and Rage became a part of me, my mind been troubled by… memories for a lack of a better word. Shards of life i could not remember before nor was I sure if those were mine.

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“But you did, birdbrain. Is there something you wish to tell me?”

One could even mistake his squinting eyes as concern for his pupil.

“No.”

“Is there something you perhaps should tell me?”

“No… I don’t think so.”

“Humor me.”

“I have memories of killing people. I excelled at causing them pain. I strived to send a message… I think I was… proficient in what I did. “

Perhaps enjoyed would be more fitting of a description.

“Do you regret doing so?”

Do I? I was ordered to. Why? By whom? Why would I follow such orders? And yet, I think I did.

“I don’t know. It was so long ago. It might as well have been someone else, not me. As if I witnessed someone’s life, not mine but then again, all those… skills, my body remembers.”

Like riding a bike. My body just knew how to move. Even now as I watched him, my eyes search for vital spots to strike. These were not just memories. These were skill hammered into me by countless hours of training and repetitions.

“I don’t know what to think about it.”

“Leave it for gods to judge your actions. What passed is past, now has no say in it. Repent if you have the decency to do so but do not condemn your future because of what you did. “

“Does it work?”

A cloud of smoke escaped his nostrils, his eyes looked as if he were watching his own life, remembering.

“No. “

“I see. How were the cookies?”

“Disgusting.”

“Can I have one then?”

“No. I ate all.”

“I see.”

Night breeze rustled the crowns of trees around our meadow. I had lost count of how many times I slept by his fire in this everlasting night. So many times, and yet the dawn never came. Until now. To the east, night slowly rescinded her hold on the forest while the sky paled and brightened. How peculiar.

“It is dawning… teacher?”

Tears. I did no more than speak those words, yet it was enough to break this stern man and bring him to tears.

“That cannot be…”

As if smacked by a whip, Rooth got up and run, run towards the sunrise. Without thinking much, I followed. Matching his breakneck speed, I chased him between the threes and up onto a hilltop. There, free of obstruction, we witnessed the burning crimson of sun climbing out of its slumber.

And he wept. Fell on his knees and wept like a child. Then he laughed. Laughed like there was no tomorrow.

And then he sang.

Deep, almost guttural voice greeted the rising sun. Perhaps Mongolian throat singing would come close to what I heard while the fabric of space itself vibrated with every note he sang.

And it burned inside my soul, taking its place among the others. The song of knowledge crept into my mind and I sang with him, swept in by the moment.

We sang deep into the noon. We sang until our throats were raw and no sound would come any more.

We sang until his frame began to shiver and drift away with specs of golden dust.

Kneeling, I let him rest, propped against my chest, he took my hand and closed it inside his palm.

I had shown you little of what you should know and yet you had given me my freedom… inside the house… look for a box in the attic… bound in brown leather… take it.

He vanished with one final smile.

“Goodbye teacher. Sleep well.”

Alone again, I walked back to the house that no longer had a master. I walked past a track my own bare feet made in the moss when he made me run laps every time I failed to satisfy his demands. I walked by the towering water jars he made me fill from the stream, holding water with nothing more but my mana. I walked pass the tiny herbal garden I was made to tend with nothing but my own hands.

I stopped before the doors that no longer lead to a house somebody lived in. How odd it seemed. The jamb was still broken. My first spell that I made to work, sent a stone smashing into the wood. It was still embedded in there, he never fixed that.

I went into the kitchen and sat on a chair, the same one he used as he watched me blow up myself, trying use what he shown me. Time and time I failed. Time and time again, he repeated and shown me.

First time I ever tried, I spent countless hours staring at the bag of grains before any even moved. He came took my hands and moved my mana for me. Again and again until I got the feeling of what I was to do.

Good.

His calm voice praised my efforts when a single grain twitched under my stare.

He had shown me how to pull the strings of mana strewn through the world.

And I could not offer him a single tear for all he did.

But I could bake cookies. This time, for sure. This time I knew. This time it’ll work, his song whispered in my mind. I mixed the dough and cut shapes as I did countless times before. I spaced them on the baking sheet and let it flow inside the oven. I let my mana burn, heating up the old bricks. Now all that left was to wait. I could wait. I got up and climbed to the attic, I need not to hold my focus anymore. I knew it would work.

In a wooden box hidden in the corner, I found a book wrapped in brown leather.

Book of origin, song of the God by Rooth of Naver.

For you are my and I am yours.

Handwritten and old. A gift to one that no longer could claim it.

I sat with the book in my lap, cookies in the bowl on my left. They came out alright. I wonder if he would like them.

The book had a portrait hidden among its pages, drawn by the hand that wrote this book. A woman. Smiling towards the one that drawn her. Even though inhuman, I could see beauty in her face. He must have loved her.

She held a staff resting against her chest. Not unlike the one that now floated on my left.

I turned around the image and sure enough, the runes were the same.

Aeree, the first name.