Beck didn’t recall waking up. Waking up was peaceful. He recalled his face scrunching and twisting as beams of light pelted his eyes from above, recalled groaning for a breath only to break down in dry sputters, recalled his eyes creaking open like an ancient chest, the crust around his lids like decades of rust. That could hardly be called waking up; was this how the dead felt once revived? Necromancers were one heartless bunch.
Even as his vision swirled back into focus, his head was still in a daze. No, not just his head. His arms, legs, fingers; they were hardly responsive. The sharp plunge his heart took was the only outlier. For a split second Beck feared that he’d been paralyzed from the head down; but only for a split second. He brushed his hands against… whatever he was laying on, and felt the soft touch of linen. Gradually, the feeling of touch returned to the rest of his body, and with it came fragments of clarity. Enough to be able to think, anyway.
But as the events of whenever-ago surged back into his mind, he much rathered not being able to. That thing that Mir summoned; he hardly remembered its form. Only pieces. Even so, in those pieces he saw an inferno, heard a nightmarish trill, felt the air blast in front of him. All veiled – though hardly shrouded – with the perfusing scent of burning blood.
Quit it. Banishing the thoughts proved to be difficult, but not impossible. Now wasn’t time for old ghosts’ haunting. He slowly hoisted himself to an upright seat, and realized he was on a patient’s bed. Blemished white curtains draped his left and right, and the distinct smell of tinctures and draughts wafted throughout the area.
Beyond the metal curtain’s metal frames above was an articulately painted dome, divided into eight great panels: One of a crowd cowering before a gleaming mixture, another, a still of a small group of robed figures in fervent debate. The other six were equally grand, colored in everything from deep crimsons to earthy browns, and the enchantments made them look less like paintings and more like living moments captured in stasis. In Anaestra, such intricacies were scarce outside the Winding Galleries — and given the subject matter of the paintings, Beck knew he could only be in one place. Journ Ward.
His hand reached for his pocket, checking for his watch, but brushed on nothing. He did the same for the other side. Still nothing. Before he got worked up about it, Beck recalled that it was standard practice for healers, no matter the institution, to temporarily seize patient’s belongings in the case that they may be harmful to other members, magical or not. He understood the intent, but it was annoying regardless. Weakly, and with a grimace, he stumbled off the mattress, clinging to one of the metal frames for support.
He must’ve made a ruckus. Almost immediately, one of the healers made their way towards him. They were covered head to toe in a drab sea-green frock, with only their eyes visible. With how the dress draped down, it was hard to tell whether they were man or woman. Cradled in their arms was a tub, filled with an array of different bottles; some filled with liquids sparkling, others with capsules the size of a fingernail, all of them jostling about.
“No, no.” A voice rasped from beneath the mask. “Back to bed you go.”
“My watch,” Beck responded. “Do you have it?”
“Yes, Mr. Danor. Now get back into bed before you stumble over yourself again.” The healer said, taking the medications and setting them on a nightstand nearby. Beck obliged the order, but reluctantly. There was a reason he’d rather go to Yuna’s office than Journ Ward; he’d been admitted so frequently already that he feared the healers were getting sick of it. It hardly showed behind their covered faces, but it did in their words and voice.
The healer aliquoted a dark-green syrup into a small glass and pushed it towards Beck. “Drink.” They said, preparing a few more medicines. By the time Beck drank them all, his mouth might as well have been an alchemy table. The healer put most of the bottles back into the tub, but left one with capsules to him. “Two a day, six hours apart. That means if you take it during lunchtime–”
“Have another during dinner, yes, I know.” Beck interjected. “May I leave now?”
The healer narrowed their eyes. “No. High Scholar Le’heth wishes to speak to you.”
“Mevis?” Beck said. His words carried a tinge of surprise. “Why her?”
“That’s a question for the High Scholar. Not me.” Tub in their arms, the healer rose to her feet to leave. “Stay there, Mr. Danor. She will be here shortly.”
Shortly? Not by any means. It’d been thirty minutes – or at least, what felt like thirty minutes – before he heard a door swing open and a near-silent rippling of voices. He thought he was about to die from the boredom of mentally recanting the same magic tables over and over again.
He heard a chatter from the far left, and the opening of a door. It sounded like a protest from one of the healers – something about improper procedure, another thing about inappropriate wear – coming closer his way.
“Madam Le’heth, please! At least change into something cleaner! The other patients might contract complications if–”
“Sezuren. There, I’m sterile. Now if you may be so kind as to depart.”
“You must be more careful! That enchantment won’t associate well to normal clothes, even if you cast it! And nevermind you, why is that girl–”
The second voice muttered the enchantment again. Classic Mevis. “We’re both clean. You have my word that the other patients’ll be safe, not that there were any to begin with. Now leave. You’re getting annoying.”
Something that vaguely sounded like a sputtered objection exited the healer’s mouth before being followed by seething mutters. Beck saw two shadows from behind the curtains, and soon after, one emerged before him: Mevis Le’heth.
The position of High Scholar, historically, has always been one of prestige. They were the ones defining and redefining magical law and theory about everything. Singularities, each one of them. Which is why Mevis’s ascension was so contested; she didn’t really care about any of that.
“Hey, Beck.” Mevis yawned. Most of the High Scholars were old, at least middle aged. Mevis looked to be in her late twenties. One of her eyes was draped by a messy sheet of caramel-colored hair, while the other drooped drowsily at the corners. She wore an old Anaestran uniform, one of the sleeves rolled up to her elbow, and the other dirtied and mired with a sludge of colors visible even with the black fabric. The only thing scholarly about her was that mantle she wore. High Scholars had their choice of color when it came to them, but Mevis wore an unassuming monochrome black. If not for the insignia embroidered at the corner, she could’ve been mistaken for someone else entirely. “How long’s it been?”
“Not long enough,” Beck said. “As disheveled as ever, aren’t you?”
“Aw, come on. It’s not that bad.” Mevis piped. She had an irritating habit of stretching out some words for too long. It sounded too carefree.
“It’s horrible.”
“Hey. I’m still a High Scholar, you know? You should be treating me like one!”
“Then act like one.”
“Ok,” She said. “You’re expelled. Be off the academy grounds by tomorrow, will you?”
Beck’s heart took a swan dive before remembering it was Mevis who said it. If his heart took any more dives, he’d probably be dead by forty. “Horrible joke.” He quickly added: “You were joking, right?”
“Of course.” Mevis took a seat at the edge of the bed, letting out another yawn. “It’d be so wasteful if Anaestra lost your talents. Especially after all the work I did! I had to fight tooth ‘n nail to get you in Ludwig’s class!”
“Right,” Beck relaxed only slightly. Dealing with Mevis was difficult. When she wasn’t talking about mixtures or alchemy, it was impossible to tell when she was being serious or not. “The healer said you wanted to talk to me. Why?” He paused for a split second. “If this is about a project, I’m not interested. Sorry.”
“It’s nothing of that sort. I just wanted to let you know what happened earlier, since you were unconscious and all.” She fiddled with a thin strand of her hair. “So, yeah. You passed out. And… Now you’re here. You missed dinner, though. I heard they served Kruschaten today.”
“Kruschaten?” Beck said wistfully before snapping back to focus. “Wait, no. That can’t possibly be it. What else happened?” What happened to Mir?
“About that… Well, the rumor of a monster inside the barrier spread like wildfire. But Olin managed to convince people that it was a stray illusion escaping from one of the Mirror Labs. Pinned the blame on some anonymous Heruta and called it a day. Most are convinced.”
“What about the girl?” Beck blurted. “The familiar’s owner. What happened to her?”
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
“Oh yeah. Her.” Mevis tilted her head slightly, as if trying to remember. “I was surprised at first, but she’s– Hey. Quit hiding behind the curtain. Seriously, what’re you doing?”
Her eyes squinted at something Beck couldn’t see. Like she was examining something. No – like she was reading something. Mevis continued speaking to the figure behind the curtain, but it all went fuzzy to Beck’s ears. There was no way. There was just no way.
And then she appeared. Anaestran crest beaming on her left breast, just above the heart, the ink-black raven contrasting her now-gleaming white hair. Skin free of dirt, metal mask polished and hiding the scar on her face that stretched to the corner of her eye. Clutching a new, thick leather-covered book to her chest, a Norra mantle that looked several sizes oversized framing her small figure. She looked hesitant, but gave a small wave. Beck flinched.
“Anyways,” Mevis chimed. “She’s the real deal. A transfer.”
“You can’t be serious!” Beck cried. He didn’t realize how loud he was, even when his voice reverberated throughout Journ Ward.
“Quiet down, will you? You’re so noisy.”
“Mevis. I– You– This is–”
Mevis put a finger to her lips, and Beck went quiet. “She’s got quite the familiar, I’ll tell you that. One of a kind. Which makes her one of a kind. Which makes her a valuable addition to the school. Isn’t that right, Mir?” Mir only shifted uncomfortably in response.
Beck was still slack-jawed. “How can you look at that – at that thing – and decide to keep it on the grounds?” He was talking about the familiar, but Mir looked hurt. A tiny piece of guilt gnawed at him.
“You’ve no regard for a woman’s feelings, don’t you?” Mevis muttered. “I just explained why. That’s how it is. And I trust you know the standard for transfers too, given that you were one yourself.”
A horrific realization happened upon him. “I’m not doing it.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“No!”
“Yes.” Mevis sighed. “It’s not like you’re going to be stuck together for the rest of your time here. Be her guide for only a month or two until she gets acclimated. Well, maybe even a bit longer. I don’t know if they have schools over in the Glass Isles.”
“Why would I do that?” Beck grumbled. “Because you’re a High Scholar?”
“Not just that. It’s ‘cause if you do, I’ll make it known at Ulstrom. To a certain band, no less.” She gave Beck a small, wry smirk. “I like that you aim high. Liar Court’s quite the goal.”
Beck curled his lip into a frown. He knew the connections of High Scholars ran deep, but didn’t know it ran that deep. Mevis also could’ve just been joking again. “Bribery? Quit pulling my leg. We both know you’re too eccentric for connections like that.”
“You think I’d be lying about something like this?” You did just joke about expulsion, Beck thought. He chose to remain quiet in reality. Mevis continued: “You’re forgetting that other scholars aren’t the only people interested in my work.”
“And they’re supposed to take an interest in me from your word alone?”
“‘Course not. Obviously you’re going to need to show something for yourself, and we both know it’s not going to be your magic.” Beck’s brow furrowed slightly. “You don’t have to be a fighter to get into a band.”
“Who says I’m not a fighter?”
“Beck, you’re nearly failing Dueling. If you were cornered in the Horizon, and no one was there to cover your back, you’d die. You’d die unless you ran.”
He scowled. First Yuna, now Mevis? A long quiet passed in which Beck’s thoughts simmered and seethed. On the one hand, this was an extraordinarily rare chance – maybe once in a lifetime. He recalled the shock he felt when Killen told him about the news, and wondered if he’d feel the same way if Beck himself got in. They’d be in different units, and would probably see each other only in passing. But they would be equals.
Though he was unsure if that was worth involving himself with Mir further. “Why me?”
“I don’t know. Ask Mir.” Mevis responded with excessive nonchalance. “But if that’s all the questions you’ve got for me, I’ll be heading out. You know where to find me.”
Before Beck could interject, Mevis lazily left the bedside, patting Mir on the back, before disappearing behind the curtain. Her footsteps echoed as she left, followed by the opening of a door, a couple more chatters from concerned healers, and then a resurgence of silence. Beck shifted uncomfortably. He set his eyes back on Mir. She looked like a completely different person, but he wouldn’t be fooled. Saying he was merely hesitant was a massive understatement.
Pulling out that thin, glass-rod like instrument from before, Mir began to write something down. Just the sound of the scrawling on paper was enough to put him on edge. “What do you even call that thing, anyway? I’ve never heard such an unpleasant sound.”
She briefly stopped writing, looking at him in surprise, holding up the instrument. “Yes. That thing.”
Mir inched towards the nightstand like she was walking on eggshells, seating herself in a nearby stool. She turned the journal towards him. It’s called a pen. You don’t have pens here?
“Do you see anyone here using one?” Beck spat.
Mir’s eyes narrowed. No need to be rude. I haven’t forgotten what you did for me, but that doesn’t excuse discourtesy.
Beck snorted. “Better for me in any case. I don’t want to deal with you any more than I must.”
The feeling isn’t mutual.
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
I don’t know anyone else here. Only you. She jotted something else down immediately after. I think people are still scared of me, even if Mevis says otherwise.
“You think?” What a statement. He almost felt like laughing. “You summon a – whatever the hell that thing was – in broad daylight. Of course people’re going to be scared!”
Are you? Mir wrote. She looked at him intently, with a dire seriousness. Of course! He wanted to shout. That thing’s form, it’s shriek, it’s bloodcurdling gaze; Just remembering what happened sent frigid icicles spiraling into his spine. And yet, part of him couldn’t let him say it outright. Like it purposefully held his tongue in a vice.
“...Yes.” He said with the last vanishings of a breath. “I don’t know what that familiar of yours is, but you’d have to be insane to not be scared of it.”
But you’re not scared of me?
“Look, why do you even want to concern yourself with me to begin with?” Beck sneered. “Now that Victor knows who you are, we’ve both got targets on our backs. It was hard enough to cover for myself. Do you really expect me to cover for you, too?”
Mir seemed to ingest this thought for a moment. The pen in her hand dipped towards the pages, globulous gold sparks dripping from the tip, but she hadn’t written down a single thing. Not for a while.
In the Glass Isles, I didn’t have anyone. She finally wrote. Every one of my days was a fight for survival. Beck turned away. He’d asked for an answer, not her life story. Yet somehow he couldn’t find it in himself to just brush it aside. Yours, too, are the same. Just a little bit different.
When you helped me out earlier… I felt thankful. I think. Mir paused, the gold from the pen still pooling onto the paper. Her face hardened. You were there for me. So it’s only right that I–
“Stop.” Beck said. His voice simmered down to an unsteady murmur. “I don’t need another person hovering around me just because they’re afraid I can’t watch over myself. You’re already cursed. You don’t have to fraternize with an Egra, too.”
She stared at him for a few seconds, struck with disbelief. Is that seriously what you’re concerned about? Are you worried I can’t handle that? Are you looking down on me?
“What? No. I just–”
Mir suddenly put a finger to his lips. Her eyes were intense, like concentrated nightshade. Beck narrowed his eyes slightly – he wasn’t used to being interrupted, much less shut up. But he couldn’t say he was bothered.
I think we’ve made it clear that I’m not the one to be worried about. Even so, I’m not looking down on you. So don’t look down on me. She took her finger away. The Glistening Dunes get lonely during the days, and lonelier during the nights. I don’t know how far away the Glass Isles are, but I still feel like I’m there. She stopped, her pen’s golden tip wavering, as if she didn’t know whether to continue or not. When I took your hand the other day, it didn’t feel like that. I felt like I was here. Here with you. I liked how that felt, so I want to know you more. I want to be friends.
Beck blinked at her as if she spontaneously grew a second head. There still was a part of him that wanted to dismiss it instantly; as a matter of fact, that’s what his first instinct told him to do. When was the last time someone had said this to him? Aside from Killen, all those years ago? No. That didn’t matter. She could’ve had some other ulterior motive. He didn’t exactly know what kind, but it couldn’t have been a good one. Relationships operated on what both parties could give, and Beck had nothing to offer. There was no merit to befriending an Egra.
Nevermind that. Her familiar – just the mere thought of it brought a splitting pain to Beck. Familiars were, for the most part, under the influence of their owners. That wasn’t to say they were subservient. Horror stories about familiars snapping back against their contractors existed in droves, with too many cases ending in death. And that thing wasn’t just a familiar. It was a monster. He saw it even now as the two exchanged gazes, and was blasted back into that night.
But that wasn’t all there was. He saw someone cursed. Someone who, in spite of that, held out an olive branch to him. And what more; tucked behind those lashes, behind those violet irises, were faint glimmers of himself. Perhaps they were more alike than he thought. Perhaps Mir saw herself in him, too.
“You’re setting yourself up for failure.” He said. “If you didn’t have a target on your back for being cursed, you’d have one for getting close to the Egra. If I were you, I’d steer completely out of my way. It’s not worth it in the long run.”
I’m not you. Mir wrote. So I won’t steer out of your way.
Beck almost wanted to laugh at how straightforward she was being. She was a strange girl, that was for certain. And that familiar of hers could kill him without a second thought. But he was strange as well. The idea of being strange together; it was not as abhorrent as he’d once thought.