CHAPTER VI - Something to Protect
“You’re a little bundle of chaos, aren’t you?” Silas said, quietly.
The two were settled in front of the stone hearth, with the crackling of a fire besides them. Aurae sat, sleepily. She was blanketed in a crow-feathered cape, and held a freshly made tea within her frail hands. After she had coughed up and spilled the last one, Silas (despite his sheer disappointment) had decided to make her another brew. This time, she drank slowly, while the liquid wasn’t searing hot. The necromancer was glad.
“My tongue still burns,” she murmured sadly.
“I did try to warn you,” Silas took a brief sip from his own teacup.
“Don’t you have any magic that can make it stop burning?”
“Hm,” he paused. “Perhaps chew on some snow outside,” Silas said, to which Aurae shot him an unamused look. Though she quickly realised he hadn’t been joking, and he shrugged at her hostility, “What?”
“I can’t believe Vilja is afraid of you.”
“Afraid?” Silas laughed, “Vilja?”
“Well, she told me to stay away,” Aurae said.
“But of course,” he grumbled, “She holds a grudge.”
“Why so?”
Silas’s amber eyes were settled upon the fire, quietly, “She hasn’t told you about her previous students, I take it?”
Aurae was silent.
“Ah. Well there is much for you to know.”
“Tell me.”
He thought about it. Silas gave Aurae a sideways glance, but then returned his attention to the fire with a sigh.
“Vilja was one of the best mentors in the arts of spirit-weaving,” he continued. The tea in his hands breathed steam onto his cheeks, softly. “She had a gentle heart, despite what she had known. A kindness rarely found in this world. With such love and care, she raised her apprentices like they were her own kin, and found meaning in nurturing others.”
“What happened to them?” Aurae squinted, “What did you do?”
“It was what I didn't do,” Silas uttered. “There was a flood. It engulfed the village, like a watery beast set loose on the land. Vilja lost all her children that day. And when I – a necromancer, a friend, a lover, told her that I could not bring them back…”
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Vilja was overwhelmed with grief. Silas could see it. The rage within her spirit had fought and fired, but suddenly it stopped, and it wilted. Her magic died; her every love and hope. As though a crack had splintered her soul, and it was left tainted with agony.
“I am not fit,” she cried. The warmth of her tears flowed into the icy seas, where the remains of the village were lost to the storm, “I am not worthy of motherhood! They are gone! Every one of them! And yet here I live, for what reason do I deserve the life that they did not?”
The water lapped over them, reaching as high as their elbows. Hurling waves threatened to tug them in if they did not stand their ground. Perhaps Vilja would have let the ocean take her, if Silas was not holding onto her so very desperately. Her body was cold, like a corpse itself, empty of life.
“I have all this magic… and what is it for? When even the most powerful sorceress cannot protect what she loves, what she lives for, what purpose does it serve to me?!”
“Vilja, please,” Silas begged her, “You must go! The water is rising–”
“Tell me!” she grasped at the empty sea, her hands tasting blood, “You, who calls yourself a necromancer! Such knowledge you have shown me, such power you hold, and yet you fail. You fail, Silas! You cannot bring back the dead!”
“I would if I could, Vilja, I swear it.”
“But you cannot! You are weak… and God is cruel. She takes and she takes, she does not hearken to our cries.”
“You mustn’t let this break you,” Silas tried to keep his composure, he truly did. Yet his voice quavered, and his hands trembled, “Turn your grief into strength my love, we must keep moving forward.”
“I will not!” Vilja screamed, “If it was Veifa’s intent to strengthen me, then she deserves naught but my hatred! What of them? Were their lives worth taking to strengthen a fool like me?!” she cried. “It was not… they did not deserve…”
Stolen story; please report.
The wind howled, and the ocean pushed on. The skies grew tall and dark and grey as a dulled blade; the water turning and twisting beneath it like a vicious beast climbing higher up the shore. The waves were like claws, they grabbed and they tugged. The water ate up the trees and the homes, and within its chaos, Vilja lost what little balance she had. She slipped – Silas lost his grip. The sea towed and it pulled, the black water devouring her being. Yet the necromancer fell after her, as quickly as his body let him, and caught onto her arm before the tides took her away.
Silas dragged her weeping body back up to the land. His every muscle ached and strained, yet he kept moving, one foot after the other, Vilja’s body limp and heavy in his arms. The clouds gloomed, the storm roared. She wept, silently, her hair dampened and dark like a dying fire.
“I could not protect them,” she rasped, “I could not…”
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The hearth’s fireplace burned on. Dancing flames flickered and fumbled, they painted shadows across Silas’s face, and though his eyes were open, he looked to be inanimate, unblinking. As though his head were somewhere else, far away. Remembering.
The story was a lot to comprehend for Aurae. When Vilja took her in, she was very young. She remembered it vividly, the bitter of the snow and how the grey skies looked down upon her. The rubble of her old home weighed down upon her body, burying her, yet it provided the most miniscule amount of warmth that she desperately clung onto. There was dust, in her hair, her lungs. Her blood refused to flow to her fingers, her heart ached. She was only 7 years and had lost too much. Her home, family, her sense of self. Everything that made up her world.
The red-haired witch was walking through the forest when she spotted ashes in the distance. A pile of black that melded in with the snow like charcoal paint. There, she found Aurae lying within the rubble. And within her loss, she saw herself. That same grief, the inability to move forward. A fractured soul.
Vilja saved Aurae’s life. It had been 10 years since then… and she had never known anything of her past. Not until now. It had always been an enigma.
“I am sorry–”
“Do not be,” Silas interrupted. Though it took a moment, his nonchalance returned to him. He carried his teacup and rose to his feet, “On a lighter note, would you like anything to drink or eat before bed?”
Bed? Aurae frowned; she rose with him, “I absolutely cannot stay here the night!” she took the crow-cloak from her body and pushed it towards Silas, “I must return to Vilja. I promised.”
“I’m afraid not,” Silas continued out the room, “Night is upon us, my dear. I think we both know it’s dangerous to travel the forest during such a time.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” she mocked and followed in his steps, “You’re a necromancer–”
“Please stop saying that.”
“–surely you’re not afraid of anything. Wolves, bears, you could fight them all! Even those ghosts at the lake…speaking of which, what was that all about?”
Silas didn’t respond. The hallways of his home were long, he passed by many rooms, the heels of his shoes tapping against the floor upon his every step. Click, click, click. Aurae did glance down at his shoes, and wondered why he felt the need to wear something so extravagant. Wasn’t he already tall enough?
His kitchen, like the other rooms, was beautiful and strange. Ingredients of all climates grew from branches that reached in from an open ceiling; an arched pergola made of hard iron. It looked like a garden, with such plants and open space, but there was a sheltered area nearby that Aurae presumed was for cooking. There, a cauldron was set. Cabinets held onto harvested foods; little books of herbology and recipes piled up on the counters.
“Well then?” she moved to stand in front of Silas, who spoke a line of magic that sent his dishes cleaning themselves atop a stone sink, “Answer me. Are you completely deaf?”
He chuckled at that, “Only when I want to be.”
Aurae made a sound of annoyance.
“Do you value your happiness?” Silas questioned her. He clicked his fingers, and a tall broom began to sweep at the floor.
Aurae stopped to wonder if that was a trick question, “...Well of course I do.”
“And would you agree that, in some cases, people are happier to know less?”
“Perhaps.”
“Then perhaps it’d be best if you stopped seeking answers to things that aren’t for you to know,” Silas said.
“And who are you to decide if they’re for me to know?”
“Miss Ivanko.” Silas tired of her questions, “I fear that if I were to tell you everything, your mind would ache profusely. You are too young to bear the burden of such knowledge.”
And with that, the broomstick began to sweep at Aurae’s feet. It gently pushed and guided her out the room along with the dust and clutter of the kitchen. She grumbled, and peeped back inside, where Silas was busy observing his plants with utmost care. It seemed that despite her stubbornness, the necromancer was all the more stubborn himself. If he wasn’t willing to tell her about the apparitions, well, she’d just have to find out about them on her own. Somehow.
While Silas was preoccupied by other matters, she decided to explore his home. This place looked ancient — not in a worn out, weary and tiresome way, but exactly the opposite. It was tall, mighty, powerful. She knew it held much knowledge, so many stories and truths she had yet to discover. All his books and scriptures appeared older than the ones at the Komidraya; it made her wonder where he had gotten them all in the first place.
The abode was alive, she could feel magic and spirit emanating from its walls. Roots of trees painted patterns along the ceilings. A full moon followed her every step, and it beamed down upon Aurae like a distant guardian, its light bathing her in a pearly-bright glow.
The more she found, the more curious she became of the place. Going back up the hallways, she noticed there were sections of the house where one could not tell if they were walking indoors or outdoors. It was as though his home was the forest itself, the rooms disguised behind some strange work of illusions.
And then, within the main room atop the hearth, she saw it. Something as beautiful as an espeth; old as time itself. A lyre, shaped like the ocean waves. Aurae leaned up towards it, she observed the intricate patterns that were carved into its body. She could only but assume that it had not been used for a while, as flowers and vines weaved their way through its strings, to hold it up as though it were a painting or a neglected antique, lost to the years.
Aurae took a quick glance around the room. She returned her attention to the lyre. The sight of it was ever so mesmerising, like an open book, revealing stories of the sea and the sky. She reached out towards it, curious…
and a gust of wind pushed her back.
“No touching,” Silas spoke, now appearing beside her as if he had always been there.
“How did you–”
“Sharp senses, that is all,” he started as he pushed his reading glasses atop his head, “Now, Miss Ivanko, I know of the trouble you have caused at home, and despite the fact I allow you to stay here, under no circumstances do I want you messing around with anything you don’t understand. I don't care how shiny it is, or pretty, or interesting – you do not touch without permission. If you need anything, you may very simply ask me, and I will–”
“What’s this?” Aurae poked at a crystal ball upon a thin, silver scepter.
“No, Miss Ivanko not the–”
The ball rolled off the scepter...
And it shattered entirely.
A pitiful silence filled the room. Aurae stared at the fragments of glass that were now scattered along the floor, “...So much for having sharp senses. You could have caught i–”
“Silence,” Silas said, calmly, “is golden.”