> I hex with whispers soft as night's own hush.
>
> Feel my highs, my lows, the push and shove,
>
> In every quiet, fleeting rush, I hex you.
>
> I hex, I'll taste the same, the skin, the tear
>
> I hex your ups, your pull, your touch and your tongue.
>
> While speaking, screaming or hiding. I will be there,
>
> I hex you with my laughter and tears,
>
> With every beat of life's in my blood.
>
> If you stray, we'll share the fears, I hex
>
> Until back into my arms you come near.
>
> I hex your children, and the children of your children
>
> with this love will cling to their children of their children,
>
> I hex you to death and never leave you alone
>
> And should you fall forever alseep, I hex and I hex myself
>
> to sleep by your side, and trick death until the end of time.
>
> —the Spell of Hexe by Yeso Sternach and Zonnestra Duvencrune
Mediah dashed through the camp with a frantic haste, his heart pounding against his chest. The news from the night before echoed in his mind, an unbelievable, unacceptable reality. He reached Ulencia's tent in record time, barely processing his actions as he burst inside. There she was, methodically packing her things. "Tell me it's not true!" he demanded, breathless.
"You really don't know how to knock?" she said without turning to face him.
"Tell me it isn't true!"
"And what about manners, Mediah?" she replied, looking at him but her gaze seeming distant.
Mediah spun on his heels and exited the tent, slapping the flap as he left. Moments later, he called from outside, "May I come in?"
After a deliberate pause, Ulencia answered, "Ollo."
"Please, tell me it's not true!" he pleaded again.
"Ollo to you too, Mediah," Ulencia responded calmly, continuing her task.
"Stop this!" he begged as he began rummaging through her belongings.
"What are you doing?"
"You can't leave!"
"Mediah, please, stop this now!" she demanded sternly. "Stop! Para!"
But he was relentless, his movements chaotic as he scattered her neatly packed items. It wasn't until she firmly grasped his arms, halting his frenzied unpacking, that he ceased, panting heavily.
"What's gotten into you?" she asked, baffled by his reaction.
"You're really going to marry him? That... that big fat oaf?" Mediah blurted out with a clear sound of jealousy.
"He has a name, Mediah," Ulencia chided, bending to pick up her clothes. "His name is Xendrix!"
"How can you... why him?"
"For starters, he asked me," she responded simply, resuming her folding with a calmness that contrasted sharply with Mediah's turbulent emotions. "Nobody else asked!"
"You don't even know him well enough! You met him a few moons ago! How can you love him or even... care? This is absurd!" Mediah shouted with disbelief as he paced around the tent, desperate to capture Ulencia's attention. But she continued her packing, unfazed by all his overaction.
"Some relationships aren't about love. Marriages are often just agreements, contracts, and this... this is a mutually beneficial arrangement for both Xendrix and me," Ulencia explained, her tone unusually detached. Mediah scarcely recognized this cold, pragmatic side of her.
"Look at me, Ulencia! Ule!" he pleaded, reaching out to grab her arm, forcing her to face him. "I thought... I thought there was something between us, that we..."
"We what, Mediah?" she challenged.
"We... I mean, you and I... we've been..."
"We've had sex, Mediah. We fucked! It was fun, and that's all it was," she cut him off sharply.
His grip slackened, disbelief and hurt clouding his face. "That's all it was to you?"
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
"What else was it? You needed magic, and I felt alone. It was a transaction as simple as that."
Ulencia brought her hands to her face as if suppressing a scream, then dropped them, locking her eyes with his. "Do you love me, Mediah?"
"What?" he stammered, taken aback by her directness.
"Do you love me?"
"I... I mean..."
"It's a simple question. Do you love me?"
Mediah found himself at a loss for words. He cared for her, certainly, and he liked her a great deal, but love? That was a profound word, one he felt too inexperienced to fully grasp. And he had thought the same of her—too young to truly understand what love meant. The kind of love Yeso felt for Noctavia. It was a love that was built over centuries, if not more.
Love, Mediah realized, wasn't just the ripened fruit hanging from a tree, waiting to be picked. It was more akin to the seed planted deep in the soil, requiring nurturing, watering, and protection as it grew. Love was an ongoing journey, not just the prize at the end. He wanted the entirety of that journey, not merely the fruit it bore.
"Not yet," he murmured, acknowledging his own feelings. "I would need time... I would need... it wouldn't be fair to say… you know that…"
"I understand," Ulencia replied. "But I can't wait indefinitely for something that might never happen. Xendrix offers me stability, a sense of belonging, and maybe royal titles I'm not yet ready to wear. Our potential child, a human with blue blood, could bridge worlds. As halflings, we're both adrift... but at least this way, I have a choice." Her explanation was pragmatic as she zipped up her suitcase.
"Will you find happiness? Will you be happy?" Mediah asked, "Truly happy?"
"I'll try," she said, her words simple yet laden with meaning. "You should try, too."
As she hefted her luggage, preparing to leave the tent, Mediah reached out again, gently turning her towards him. In a moment of raw emotion, he drew her into a final kiss.
A kiss as sweet as cherries and the scent of iodine from the shores Ulencia never visited, nor will she one day. But it was the taste of their kiss. It was the bittersweet kiss of goodbye, the kind that would haunt them both with the lingering question of "What if?" long after their paths had diverged.
As their lips separated, he vowed, "I swear, one day, I'll find a way for a few Magi—four, three or even two—to overcome a thousand men. That's my promise to you."
"Leave that aside. Forget it. It’s too late. I want you instead… promise me you'll never stop dreaming big. Dream until you may reach an Ortmarluft."
The day eventually came when the camp, once a bustling hub of life and activity, dwindled to a ghost of its former self. It transformed into a space of transit, a metaphorical no-place marked by the comings and goings of faces soon forgotten. In this limbo, only Jaer and Mediah remained, witnessing the days and nights grow colder, an inexplicable chill hanging in the air.
As time marched on, new expatriates drifted in, each seeking passage back to Ormgrund. Jaer and Mediah welcomed these temporary companions, embracing new friendships and learning about diverse cultures. Yet, these connections were fleeting, evaporating before they could solidify into lasting memories.
Amidst the sea of forgettable faces, Jaer and Mediah found solace in their growing bond. They developed rituals, often sitting together on a bench, quietly observing the boats vanish into the horizon of the Meerio. It was a shared silence filled with thoughts and lingering nostalgia. "You still think about her, don't you?" Jaer broke the silence one evening.
"Sometimes," Mediah replied, his voice low as he took a sip of his beer.
"I find myself thinking about him too," Jaer confessed.
"The elf?"
"Yes. I wonder what I'll do when we're no longer needed here. When there are no more ships to load, no more people to send off. Then what? Do I go to Pollux? Do I go to Faewood? Where is my place?"
"I've been considering going to the Trial District," Mediah mused.
"To learn?"
"To teach."
"I don't know if you're ready for that. You don’t even have a beard yet."
"I know... maybe it's a foolish idea."
"I didn't say that. I'm just aware of why you're still here. And as long as you hold onto that, as long as you look at the horizon hoping she comes back, any plan you make is just a draft in your mind."
"I don't know how to let go."
"That makes two of us," Jaer agreed. "This is all Yeso's doing, convincing us there's an impossible love destined for each of us."
"Fuck Yeso!"
The tiefling chuckled lightly. "Don't be too harsh on our Commander. What's left for you if you can't even dream? And if you dream, dream of the impossible to be possible!"
Mediah, finishing the last drops of his beer, looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"Maybe you can't reach your end because you're too caught up in what you've left behind. It seems clear that Ulencia doesn't regret her choice. And for all we know, she is safe. She has a place and a future to build a family, and maybe she's right, and their child will build a new bridge. Perhaps it's time you saw it for yourself. Go to Keblurg!"
"I don't want to see it firsthand. That would just…"
"Hurt, right? That would hurt like scheida!" Jaer said, placing a comforting arm around the young Magi's shoulders. "Pain is inevitable. It always hurts, and it always will. But you need to face it, be punched by life right in the balls, then pull your shit together and become the Menschen you're meant to be."
"Seems like beer turns you wise!"
"More like I'm trying to convince myself by convincing you." Jaer took a deep breath. "I should probably go to Pollux and see what matrimony life did to Finnegan with my own eyes. Maybe Yeso is right, and he has a broom stuck in his arse."
"Is it working?"
Jaer shrugged with a grin. "Haven't had enough beer for it to take effect yet."
"I'll go get us another round," Mediah said, pausing before turning to Jaer. "Say, if you were up against a thousand men with just a few Magi on your side... how would you approach it?"
"A thousand men?" Jaer chuckled. "Well, I guess the specifics don't matter much, but I'd be dancing as if it's my last grand performance. If I'm going down, I'm doing it in style. I'll be fucking remembered!"
"Dancing?" Mediah echoed, a spark of realization in his eyes as he held the empty bottles. "You know, if my hands weren't occupied, I could easily summon more bottles."
"Then just set them down on the table," suggested Jaer casually.
"But in a battle, I can't just drop my swords. I need time to conjure spells... I need my hands free! But if my swords could move on their own if they could dance—I could…"
Cutting him off, Jaer asked, "Mediah, you were going to get us more beer, weren't you?"
> Before I was born, necromancy was deemed a forbidden art. This prohibition wasn't formalized in any texts, manuscripts, or declarations; it was an unwritten rule universally acknowledged yet spoken of by none. Necromancy draws upon Nehsem, the essence of pure life force. The key distinction between syphoning Saatgut and syphoning Nehsem lies in their reproductive nature. Magic, by its nature, is cyclical; a water mage who harnesses water's power returns that energy to the world, albeit transformed. Life force, on the other hand, is finite and irreplaceable. What remains unused is all that's left. Using necromancy, which channels the essence of death, doesn't replenish the world. Instead, it further depletes it. Throughout my life, I've witnessed necromancy's usage multiple times. I would be dishonest if I claimed never to have felt its allure. The ease with which one can harness Nehsem is beguiling, yet the cost is invariably greater than one might anticipate. I lost my family for Nehsem, and if I am to be reunited with them, it will not be through the same means. ——Between Lore and Legacy: The Mystifying Histories of the Menschen Vol. IV by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune