XXXIV. REDEEMING THE WRETCHED
An arctic gale blew through Algaë, portends of the coming winter. Winds howled through the cracks in the tower and whipped about Osric’s meager dwelling as heat robbing drafts. He prodded at the growing fire in the mage towers hearth as he tightened his scarf against the chill winds of a northern Sorn autumn. The shutters banged and rattled against the wailing squall as he tossed a handful of herbs onto the fire. The leaves fizzled in bright blues and greens, releasing a fragrant smoke of the same hues. He levitated a cup of tea into his hand as he stared into the flames, as if enchanted by their swirling tendrils lazily climb towards the ceiling.
“A penny for your thoughts?”
Osric took a sip as he continued to stare into the fire, choosing to ignore Morana as she hovered nearby. He stirred his tea and watched the leaves float and settle to the bottom as the fire crackled and danced before him. He attempted a divination but was unable to concentrate under her fear-inducing gaze. A shiver ran down his spine, shaking his entire body, and cast a spell to increase the size of the flames. Despite this, he knew it was not the cold that bothered him. A stolen glance in Morana’s direction showed that she continued to stare at him, not perturbed by his reticence. He took another sip and stared into the flames once more as he tried to lose himself in his thoughts.
“In case that antiquated phrase has finally been retired, that means I would like to know what has enraptured your attention so.”
“Go, your presence irks me to no end.”
She floated over and sat at his feet, laying her head upon his lap as she stared into the fire. “I can’t see what you find so fascinating. Unless it is only a vessel upon which your mind seeks to wander.”
She turned her gaze up to Osric and pulled a face at his thick coat and wool scarf. “Why are you so bundled? You’re from the frozen wastes of Balalaika.”
Her breath was like wintergreen mint, cold and sweet, intoxicating. Her voice was like the morning dew, frozen in a snap frost, she was seducing him. Either that or he had let his emotions run too far.
“…I’ve been away from home for some time now.”
“Ahhh. Therein lies the heart of the matter.”
“Enough prattling, you cannot begin to comprehend the thoughts in my head. Now go.”
Unmoving, she continued to stare into the fire, humming softly. He still could not decipher the woman, and she still caused him a great deal of unease. The skin had returned to her back, smooth and inviting, he found himself confused by the feelings she elicited in him. Her power was oppressive and provoked dread. Her ability to cast powerful magic without symbol or words was more than a little disconcerting. He was torn between admiration and disgust whenever she came near.
“Idiot girl.”
She smirked and rolled onto her back. “I was older than you at the time of death, forgive me if the eternal youth I bargained for comes with lapses in maturity.”
Osric levitated his cup to the table and he retrieved a large armchair in the same motion. He placed the chair in the corner and took a seat, bringing several tomes and scrolls with him. Morana raised herself to float just above the mantle. She stretched with a yawn and rubbed her buttocks.
“It is a little chilly.”
Osric opened a scroll and began to read over it. It possessed no information he needed or was even particularly interested in, but he was eager for any sort of distraction. She had spent most of her days off traveling, though where or why he did not know. When she was around, she made a point to pester him to no end. She had taken to speaking to him in Xanavien, though an antiquated form. He was not sure if that was where she was from originally though, the texts were rather vague about her origins. He realized that information regarding the life of Morana was limited, and only her uprising and subsequent defeat at the hands of Saint Cecily the Blind were ever recorded. His presumptions about her were most likely the result of transferring his own desires to a relatively blank canvas.
“Where are you from?” he blurted, regretting his decision to provoke a conversation almost immediately.
Morana turned a sly grin upon him. “You first.”
“But you already know.” He countered wearily. “Forget I asked.”
“Truthfully,” Morana said at length, “I cannot recall. I have lived in Xanavene, though the places I called home no longer exist. Same for Duvachellé, when the Wraith Wood extended north of Marquez. I also lived in Thiudioricus, back when people thought the winter would eventually end. More than fifteen hundred years hence and it still snows. I’ve seen Sorn back when it was a barren wasteland, where one could contract the fallout sickness in a matter of hours. I’ve also seen Agrayda, with the convoys of sky ships ferrying men across the spheres, and the glass towers that rivaled mountains in height and majesty. To answer your question, I am from Silex. I cannot give the specifics unfortunately.”
Osric was silent for several moments; he had not expected such candor from her. She watched and waited intently, her eyes holding a childlike innocence that was at odds with her sensuality.
“Tell me about your childhood.” She asked.
“Don’t be absurd.” He snapped reflexively.
“A touchy subject,” A mischievous grin spread across her lips, “now I’m really interested.”
“There is nothing to tell.”
Morana continued to stare at him with an expression of a mother that knew her child was lying. He squirmed wanted desperately to leave. Her gaze was uncomfortable, and left him feeling violated, though he knew not how or why.
“How much longer do we have to wait in this dusty old tower anyway?” She whined, abruptly changing her mood and tone.
He looked at her, puzzled as to why she changed so suddenly. The oppressive gaze was gone, so too was the dread that accompanied her. He felt as if a fog had been lifted, so much so that he began to doubt it had been there to begin with. With the lifting of whatever spell, she had been casting, he was confronted by an uncomfortable truth. She was gorgeous.
“Until I find a way to breach the forests of Alfheim. Unless you cease this charade and bestow the knowledge, I am well aware that you possess.”
His words tumbled out clumsily, he was uncertain, but knew only that he wanted her favor. He swore under his breath and began to mutter an incantation, a ward against spells of desire. It was a troubling thought; he would need to remain ever vigilant in her presence lest he fall under her sway.
“And what would that accomplish?”
Her voice was sickeningly sweet. He saw the room bend and warp as fragrant smoke filled the air. It was unclear whether she was referring to the ward he had spoken or his demand for information. Osric took a drink of tea and everything returned to normal. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook it off, attributing the hallucination to fatigue.
“Hmm. Quite so.” He shooed her away as he went back to his reading. “Now be off, I need to be free of all distractions.”
“…I wonder.”
She grinned, and he could have sworn that for an instant she looked demonic. She tossed her hair with one hand, sending forth a gentle shower of snow and ice. He saw a blur of colors that pulsed in time with his own heartbeat surround her as the walls began melt behind her.
“I shall see you on the morrow.” She bowed mockingly and turned midair into a somersault, disappearing in a wisp of smoke and small shower of sparks.
“How childish.”
As soon as she was gone, the room returned to normal. He cursed her under his breath for altering his perception and returned to his reading. As the seconds ticked by, he was uncertain if she truly had done anything. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like a figment of his imagination. The wind continued to howl as he struggled in vain to maintain consciousness amid the warmth of the fire and liquor in his glass. He silently admonished himself for partaking of too much, though he could not recall having more than two glasses of wine. Certainly not enough to cause his current state of drowsiness. The banging shutters hammered away rhythmically before they eventually faded to silence.
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* * *
Osric awoke to the midmorning sun filtering through the cracked windowpanes of his childhood bedroom. Despite the clear skies and bright sun outside, the air was below freezing, and his breaths came out in small puffs of vapor. He was infinitely confused as to how he had arrived there, though the bite of the freezing air he felt told him it was no dream. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, startled at how small his hands had become. He threw off the hand-stitched quilt and stepped down onto the warped hardwood floors, devoid of lacquer or finish. Wool slacks and a slightly oversized cotton tunic had replaced his robes; his tiny feet were bare.
“What the hell is this?”
He caught his reflection in the cracked mirror across the room and froze in horror. His face flushed red with anger as realization dawned on him.
“MORANA!”
His screams echoed into the silence as he stood trembling in rage. He took a deep breath and ran his hands through his tangled hair, his ears rung slightly in the still silence. By some magic Morana had returned him to his home in Balalaika, everything was as he remembered it, even his sister’s crude handmade dolls in the empty spot beside where he slept. His brother’s straw mattress was unmade in a corner as was usual.
“Light damn this accursed cesspit and the witch who returned me to its grasp.” He swore and shuffled over to a dingy vanity mirror.
He frowned upon seeing the reflection of a ten-year-old boy starring back at him. It was an illusion, or perhaps it was a dream. Either way none of it was real, though how that woman had managed it was a mystery. Perhaps she had drugged him after all, there were potions that could make a man recount his entire life since conception. He picked up one of Maleah’s hairbrushes, and picked out strands of her hair as he made his way into the hallway. The tiny two-bedroom cottage had remained as he remembered it, down to the cracks in the wall and smell of baked bread over rotting wood.
He gave her credit; the level of illusion was like none he had seen or even believed possible. The fey of Aes Sidhe were said to be able to make a man believe a hovel was a palace and leaves were coins of gold, or even transport them across centuries in the span of hours. It was possible that she had planted a seed in his subconscious and subtly cast a spell over him. He had no real way of knowing; conventional casting rules did not seem to apply to her.
“You have already woken my wrath with this intrusion to my memories; your silence only serves to further provoke my vengeance.” His voice trembled with both rage and uncertainty.
“Dispense with the poetic threats Osric. I only seek to find out who you are, or shall I say were.”
Osric peeled off a flake of paint from the wall. “You could have asked.”
Morana stepped out from around the corner. “I could have, I believe I did actually, but regardless your answer would be most un-helpful.”
He hung on to the paint chip momentarily, lost in his thoughts, before he flicked it to the floor in disgust. “You could have at least chosen a memory in a more pleasant season.”
“It is spring,” she sang, much to his irritation.
He stepped into the main room; the table his father built held prominent position in the center of the room across from the hearth. His mother’s pots, pans, and other cooking utensils, none of which matched; were hung upon nails or stacked on a repurposed bookcase next to the basin and wood stove. The floor warped badly from spring thaws and winter freezes; water stains virtually painted the ceiling.
“Must I take this form as well?”
“It would be incongruent if you did not.”
Osric walked the room, examining the artifacts of his childhood. Everything was in its place, from the tacky scraps of floral wallpaper peeling from the walls to the portrait of Renata the Gentle hanging above the fireplace. He stopped at the doorway and ran his fingers over etches of names and numbers next to horizontal cuts in the wood.
“Hmm, was I really so short at ten?” he murmured.
“You’re not that tall now, er, you know what I mean.”
He turned his gaze to Morana, his face placid as his eyes flickered with rage. She smiled sweetly and turned her attention back to the home’s modest decorum. She glided across the floor, leaving a trail of frost in her wake.
“You’ve had your fun, return me and I may not kill you.”
Morana sat at the table and absently picked at a bowl of hardy vegetables. “Are you kidding me? You’re so cute! It’s just too bad you turn into an evil bastard.
She playfully flicked his nose when he snatched a root from her and returned it to the bowl. “No, I’ll let this play out for a little longer.”
“Good and evil are all matters of perspective Morana, and when I kill you, do not say you haven’t been warned.” He began to brush his hair as he paced the room again. “And what particular event did you wish to witness?”
The door opened, slamming against the wall as a gust of arctic wind caught it. A woman in her late twenties entered carrying a burlap sack of taproot vegetables. Her long lavender hair fell past her shoulders in loose curls, her skin was fair, and her eyes were the same golden hue as Osric’s.
“There you are!” The woman fumbled with the door before she managed to shut it with her foot. “Give me a hand here honey.”
Osric froze, unable to move or speak. She was slender but of a sturdy build, and her hands were rough from a life of manual labors. Despite this, he knew the feel of her touch was softer than silk and satin. Her eyes held warmth and humor, but also the burden of a peasant’s life. Where he fostered contempt and internalized rage at life’s injustices, she held onto an unjustifiable optimism, which at once sickened and inspired him.
“No…” He finally managed to stammer. “You’re not real; it’s just an illusion…”
“Illusion huh? Tell that to the scar I got when they had to cut you from my womb, now get over here and help me!”
Instinctively Osric ran over, took the wicker basket strapped to his mother’s back, and carried it into the kitchen.
“Did you get the ice box workin’?”
The woman set the burlap sack down and lifted the lid to an iron chest.
“No.” She sighed in exasperation. “I swear Ozzy, how do you plan on making it in Asketill if you can’t fix a simple ice box?”
He slowly approached his mother and peered into the box. Its cooling element, an azure stone, had turned the color of coal. He examined it in his now unfamiliar hands.
“We need a new one, this one is depleted.”
“Make do Osric, it’s tough enough trying to scrape together funds for your tuition.”
He set down the basket and drew light blue runes on each face of the stone. He chanted an incantation and the color returned in a brilliant flash as sparkling fog began to pour out of the stone. He quickly dropped the stone with a gasp as the cold stung his hands.
“Your poor brothers workin’ day and night to keep food on the table…” She turned to see the box fill with the cold fog. “Now how did you manage that my little magician?” She cooed, brimming with pride.
“It doesn’t matter, it’s all an illusion.”
She kneeled and held him at arm’s length with a frowned. He looked away, unable to look into her eyes and keep the tears from spilling from his own. She pulled him close and kissed him on the forehead. He returned her kiss and quickly wiggled free of her grasp.
“When did you get so morbid Ozzy?” The woman handed him produce to be stored as she looked over her son in concern. “Is everything alright?”
“…Fine mother.”
She looked down at him with a discontented frown. “Hmmm, alright then.”
The woman retrieved a large knife from one of the pots on the bookshelf and began chopping vegetable for a stew.
“Maleah!” she hollered as Osric went about storing the rest of the vegetables. “Your brother caught a couple of hares for supper Ozzy, you and your sister be sure to thank him.”
Osric finished loading the icebox and took a seat at the badly worn table.
“I remember. They were sickly looking things.”
“Hush now! Some meats better’n no meat at all, especially since I got two growin’ boys to raise. One a teenager to boot. MALEAH!” she cried out again as she hung a cauldron in the hearth and attempted to lite a fire.
“And don’t you and Séverin pick all of the meat out again like last time! Make sure Maleah gets some as well.”
With a fire burning, she bustled about the kitchen, dumping the chopped vegetables into a pot. She filled the pot with water and poured it along with the vegetables into the cauldron, all the while Osric watched with watery eyes.
“Dawn have mercy on me, MALEAH! Get outta bed and come help your mother with supper!” She began the process of skinning the hares in the basin as Osric watched on with awe and pain.
“Maleah! By the Light! That girl’s too spoiled for her own good. Ozzy, go rouse your sister for me.”
“She isn’t here.” He replied apathetically.
The woman froze, setting down both hare and knife. “Well, where is she?” She peered out the window, a hint of panic upon her voice, and worry etched on her face.
“Am I her keeper?” he spat in contempt.
In an instant, his mother crossed the room, and he caught a full backhand to the mouth, knocking him from his stool onto the floor. He rose without a tear and wiped the blood from his split lip. This whole ordeal was far too real for a mere illusion. He searched for Morana, but she had disappeared.
“Yes, that is exactly what you are! You and Séverin both, if the two of you do nothing else with the lives, I have given you, you will watch over and guard your sister till death. Do I make myself clear?”
Osric nodded, the defiance in his eyes giving way to shame as he looked upon his mother’s face and familiar features once more. The idea that everything else had been the illusion began to take hold. This exchange had never happened, though it was undoubtedly something she would say. It was unlikely Morana could recreate the scene from his memories, and even more unlikely she could transport him through time, at least, that was what he chose to believe. It was equally possible this was some fever dream that resulted from drinking the juice of ergot with his former master’s in the swamps of Asketill. For all he knew he was caught in another infinite regression.
“I am sorry mother…”
The effects of ergot were never this severe though, yet he could think of no other cause. It was possible that the previous night he had experienced the first of his visions from the demon; it was not beyond the realm of possibility. If such was the case, he needed to know how much of the knowledge he acquired he retained. He recounted the various spells and magical theorems he learned and knew with certainty he could put them in to practice. His thoughts returned to Morana, but he quickly dismissed them, the idea that she was a figment of his imagination was saner than the alternatives.
His mother sighed and removed her apron. “It’s just not safe out there for her Ozzy, especially not with the Wolves.”