"That one's Winfred the Great-- and that one's Laches the Berserker Queen!"
"Arthur-- Arthur. Respectfully, I can't tell the statues apart from one another."
As I crossed the massive stone bridge that separated Belfaust from Tisali, I reorganized the tasks in my head.
A discussion with Heron to— hopefully— progress my research in Dimensionalism; retrieve my schedule for the term; then Arthur and I will return home to prepare for the meeting with the Warden. After that meeting, and before I go to sleep, I will schedule a Dreamspinning appointment with Penelope Oliver and properly check the catalog Juispe Auctioning sent me, I recited. Yes, a very simple and easy to execute plan with plenty of flexibility. Good job, me.
After the talk I had with both Clara and Maple— I’d felt better, whether that came from unwittingly taking a step forward, because I finally felt as if I’d made some kind of progress, or because I’d finally slept off the last of the lingering headaches and pains, I wasn’t sure. The question that had plagued me for a week had shifted from, what’s next? to, what should I fight for?
That question hadn’t plagued me like the former; quickly being answered when I’d thought back on the main reason I’d even begun walking into that alleyway with Arthur: to protect him.
So, naturally, the question became one of how I’d do it— and while I wasn’t exactly sure, it felt infinitely more manageable than nebulous plans for the future.
Despite the fact that I didn’t know the exact source of my quiet elation, it didn’t change the giddiness silently thrumming through me— I’d just felt better than I had in weeks— months, even. Knowing me, I’d probably find something else to be worry about given enough time, but I’d take delight in the temporary feeling, no matter how fleeting.
“Something good happen?” Arthur prompted, a small, tired smile on his face.
“Something like that,” I vaguely replied. If I thought too hard about it— the joy I’d felt would trickle away faster.
“Extra coffee this morning?”
I gave him a funny look. “You were there. You saw me have my normal amount.”
“Your normal amount is half the pitcher, Elle.” Arthur let out a strained breath.
“A perfectly normal amount.”
“Half your diet is coffee, Elle,” he stressed.
I snorted. “At least I don’t replace half my cup with sugar, unlike someone.”
“Normal people put sugar in their tea!”
“Well— ‘normal’ people are wrong, then.” I shot him a look. “That’s why you’re tired, you know?”
“What?” He gave me a flat look. “That’s not how that works.”
“Certainly, it is. You had put sugar in your tea this morning, then had your usual sugar high, then it wore off in the carriage ride over. Very simple.” A part of me severely doubted the veracity of my explanation, but it sounded reasonable enough, so until I got corrected, it would stay.
“I didn’t even get a sugar high!” he protested.
“Ever hear of tolerance?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s just the early morning.”
I checked my pocket watch— a new one, since I’d never actually retrieved my old one from the workshop we’d been stashed in— and muttered back, “It’s only nine.”
“Still,” he said.
“Still,” I replied back.
After a moment, Arthur’s shoulders drooped and he let out a long sigh. I gave him a pitying look. “Aren’t you usually in favor for early mornings?” I recalled a quote: “Early to bed and early to rise makes one healthy and wise?”
“It’s healthy, wealthy, and wise,” he corrected.
“Well— I don’t think either of us are getting any wealthier, so maybe you should just be like me and appreciate the mornings more?”
“Memory seems to be playing games, recently.” Arthur fixed me with a flat look. “What was it you once said?”
It took me a heartbeat to catch up to his implication— and I sputtered, “Arthur— Arthur, please—“
Arthur threw a hand over his head, mock-gasping in imitation: “Oh! How absolutely dreadful mornings are— why, it’s only eleven— who with a fair heart would—“
“Okay!” I nearly shouted, pink tinging my cheeks. “Okay! I get it! Hush— hush. Please!”
Arthur gave me a goofy grin, and I let out an exasperated sigh before recomposing myself. I huffed, turning away, and waving him off. “You’re misremembering the words, anyway. Memory is a vain mistress who suffers confirmation bias and inflicts unfair embellishments.”
“Sure thing, Elle,” Arthur snorted, tone making very clear how he saw through my lie.
I, magnanimously, decided not to further retort. Instead I let out a long exhale and stretched my arms above my head, content to silently bask in the bleak sunlight. Beyond, Belfaust loomed. Intricate stone towers rose into the sky like spears, an endless wall of expressionless, utilitarian gray that stabbed at the sky like some kind of giant brick pincushion. It was a very boring thing to look at. The statues that we passed were no better— don’t get me wrong, I’m certain whoever carved them was very skilled— but if I’d been interested in stone masonry I would’ve chosen a different career path.
Wordlessly, Arthur and I made our way under the last of the statues— two expressionless, gray figures twice the size of a normal person and forming a rough archway using their swords— before crossing the last of the bridge and into Belfaust’s main courtyard. Surprisingly, a good number of students milled about, either discussing with one another, or running some other errand I had no business knowing. Fortunately, no eyes lingered on us as we made our way towards the eastern edge of the island Belfaust sat upon.
The next three hours slid by very, very slowly.
Arthur and I sat in line for the better part of an hour, then endured another quarter hour as a very bored and haggard looking archivist fingered through a series of lockboxes and cabinets that stretched farther than what practicality needed. The same archivist handed me a slip of paper, tiredly droned on about confirmation and signing and how I wouldn’t be able to change my schedule once the term starts— so I’d better make certain of it now. A process that slowly caused my brow to furrow and my scowl to grow the longer and longer it dragged towards ten— the appointed time I had set to meet Heron.
As soon as the process was finished— I slipped past Arthur, muttering a hasty apology and a promise to catch up later, as I climbed up a frankly ridiculous number of stairs that threatened to draw curses from my lips— before I met up with Heron; reedy-eyed and balding as he stammered and shook while discussing the topic of my newest thesis. It was, like many of the talks I had with him, mostly a fruitless back-and-forth spent bouncing ideas off one another, then me haggling for some form of funding— since I wasn’t intent on draining my family fortune— and ultimately ending up with very little. Ime sat in the corner, looking as elegant and diligent as I knew she wasn’t.
By the time I’d checked the two tasks off my list, I’d felt immeasurably more tired, and very ready to call an end to my day. At least, I comforted myself, quickly beginning to curse whoever decided that this many stairs were a good idea, you got stuff done today, however boring.
I consulted the next task: returning home with Arthur to get ready for the dinner appointment. The problem was, I didn’t know where Arthur currently was. I was certain that he was still around— he wouldn’t just abandon me to go home after getting his schedule— so I checked around, eventually finding him and another surprise waiting for me in the Sparring Atrium.
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The Sparring Atrium was a a large complex that housed a variety of smaller facilities within it. Among them were practice rooms stocked with dulled weapons and battered shield for usage, fields stocked with training equipment, and large, fenced off pits for both official and unofficial spars. There were four sparring pits total; one lined in sand, another in dirt, one in stone, and the last a generic, flat zone.
I found Arthur and Clara sparring in the sand-lined section with Talon a farther ways away, standing inside the ring. I quietly slunk around the edge of the perimeter, hoping to use the chain-link fence to avoid Talon’s attention. I didn’t particularly want to interrupt the two, nor did I want to silently open myself up to conversation. Conversations with Talon usually ended in a lecture on fighting form and a note for the infirmary for the bruises he would give you.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Arthur stomped around in a full suit of plate armor, clanking with each step as he shifted and parried and blocked a flurry of Clara’s swings on his shield. He was, comparatively, moving like a glacier compared to Clara— who darted around him like some kind of over eager bee. Occasionally, Arthur’s shortsword would dart out and force Clara back. She held a dagger, and would dart in and out of Arthur’s defenses to land a blow that never seemed to actually do anything.
Neither of them were trying particularly hard. Though, I suspected that the two had been at this for a while, to practice fundamentals or endurance or the like. I took a seat on one of the many bleachers, hoping that I was out of sight.
I couldn’t see Arthur’s expression beneath his helmet— but I could still well the moment he spotted me past the fence. He promptly went on the offensive against Clara— surprising her and causing her to take several cautious steps back. In the seconds that followed he dropped his sword and started waving a frantic hand at me.
“Elle! Elle!” he shouted, his voice muffled from his helmet. “Hi!”
I narrowed my eyes, about to shout back to tell him to watch for Clara, before Arthur spun around, shield rising too slowly, and took a rough kick to the chest. I winced as I heard metal creak and watched Arthur go tumbling through the sand. I sighed, striding through the chain-link door before staring down at him.
“Doing okay, Arthur?” I asked.
Arthur sputtered and clambered to his feet, shaking the sand off his heavy plate armor. He took off the helmet, revealing a bright, reassuring smile. “Doing good, yeah. Finished up with your meeting already?”
“What, eager to continue getting beat up by Clara?” I raised a brow, glancing out of the corner of my eye at the girl. Clara was turned away, speaking to Talon about something. She shot me a passing glance, before continuing her conversation. After a moment, she began walking towards us, Talon in tow.
Arthur coughed, rubbing at where Clara had kicked him. The metal didn’t look dented, but given what I’d seen and heard, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been bruised. “I’ll have you know it was pretty fair over the last hour.”
An easy grin came to my face. “Getting distracted by my beauty, Arthur? Truly— you shouldn’t have.”
Before he could respond, Clara’s voice cut in, sharp and no-nonsense. A far cry from the vulnerability she’d shown me the day before. “Weeping Angels, can the two of you find a room? It’s far too early for something like this.”
Her expression narrowed, disapproval on display, though I suspected the disapproval had little to do with my presence alone anymore. Talon graveled besides her, addressing Arthur, “Getting distracted in the middle of a fight could spell your death, Trainee Bell.”
Quickly, Arthur stiffened, his expression restrained. “Yes, of course, Professor Talon. I won’t make the same mistake again.”
Then, Talon turned to me, the narrowed eyes of his bone-white bird mask somehow silently sharpening his disapproval. I spoke before he could reprimand me, inclining my head. “I apologize for my intrusion, Professor. I should have known better.”
I knew his response before he said it. “Actions speak louder than words, Laurent. If you enter the atrium, you must be prepared to fight.”
“I understand.”
“You will spar with Trainee Eigenlicht.”
I held my grimace. Clara had a blank expression. I nodded, swallowing my hesitation. “I understand, Professor.”
[][][]
Outside, I knew Clara was most likely choosing the weapon to smack me with, so I dressed slowly, tugging on the drab gray robes that served as the typical armor for mages.
It wasn’t particularly necessary— this was a spar after all, and I very much doubted leather would help me after watching Clara nearly kick through plate steel— but the armor was expected of me, and there’d be little point in arguing against it. Admittedly, getting stabbed or smacked or hurt in any way wasn’t exactly my idea of a fun pastime. A part of me wondered whether I should’ve given the fight any sort of effort beyond what was necessary, but that would most likely invite more chastisement from Talon, so I decided against it.
As such, I needed time to plan out exactly how I wasn’t going to be stabbed or smacked. I stood, and let out a slow, frosting breath, my attention mostly focused on slowly gathering ether. Pressure had built up behind my eyes, a thing I had ignored in favor of slowly expanding the scale spell I was silently working on.
I knew Clara was fast— blindingly so— and mostly relied on her speed to fight, so I’d planned to remove her footing, while giving myself more material to readily Transmute during the fight. I pulled on a draped, gray ankle-length cloak that was also lined in leather, before letting the grip on my ether loosen ever so slightly. Frosty mist slowly spooled and trailed around me.
As I stepped out of the locker room, into the boxed sand arena I saw Clara standing thirty feet away, her outfit much unchanged except for some additions. She’d dragged on a large, padded cloak like I had, and I could see a large heater shield hanging by her side. Talon and Arthur stood behind the fence, watching us.
Talon’s voice rung out as soon as I took my place: “You may begin.”
In the same instant the two of us began to move— I backwards, thirty feet against someone like Clara was practically nothing, and she towards me— I let the spell I’d been gathering ether for unwind. Ice and mist flashfroze the sand between us, spreading out from where I walked and rushing towards Clara’s feet. She quickly aborted her charge, opting to quickly step back. I refocused my attention on spreading the ice closest to her— and as the ice sped up, she turned and swapped directions, no longer growing the distance between us. A sharp, metallic glint from under her cloak tore my attention away from the spell.
A twist of will had the ice besides me shoot upwards, forming a slim wall to stop the dagger. In the same moment, Clara darted forward, brandishing a sword as she swiftly closed the distance. I stepped farther back, and with a cold wince, drew upon the ice sheet she’d begun running on.
Spikes erupted from the ground, some of which she deftly sidestepped and dodged, others she took and turned away using her shield. Clara’s dash had slowed, but not by much. I continued stepping back, slowly putting as much distance as I could between her and I while carefully managing the ever growing garden of spears I was caging her in with.
Between the spikes, I’d forcefully raise or lower the ice that she stepped on— sometimes forcing her to stagger and giving me another opportunity to trap and immobilize her. Another glint of metal had me pausing my onslaught to raise another pale wall. Another dagger embedded itself in the ice. Clara leapt over the small pen of thorns, throwing another dagger at me. I clicked my tongue, backing up further, forming another thin sheet. The edges of my ice sheet had begun to dwindle— used to create spikes and walls.
Forcefully, wincing, I had the ring of thorns that Clara had left behind her reform. The same process, this time, though, I’d preemptively raised a third panel of clear ice and redoubled my efforts. This time, even though the gap between Clara and I had become shorter— around twenty five feet or so— her movement towards me had all but been stopped.
She threw another dagger, which got caught in the wall I’d set up. I saw her grimace before in the next instant preparing to jump. I let my attention drop from the icy spikes— turning it to the mist as she leapt into the air. A twist of will had the mist solidify and crash into an explosion of ice and opaque mist.
After a heartbeat, Clara didn’t come out of the fog, and I let out a slow breath, releasing my hold on the spell. I didn’t turn my attention away, simple turned it towards silently spinning the next spell if the last one wasn’t enough. Something flew out of the fog, and I flinched as it crashed into my wall of ice, cracking it and breaking it apart. She’d thrown a hammer this time.
I scowled as another glint flew out of the fog— I drew up another panel of ice, painfully abandoning the previous spell I’d been working on.
Distantly, I recognized what she was doing: whittling away at me through attrition, I had no doubt that she could continue to dart around for much longer than I could rapidly swap between defending myself and attacking her. And while I was slowly caging her in, I could feel the exhaustion rapidly setting in. Already, I could feel the beginning of a headache forming behind my eyes.
Then, I realized that the thing she’d thrown this time was not, in fact, a dagger. Rather, it a spherical little ball, that a heartbeat later, exploded in a wave of smoke, eating up the entirety of my vision. I quietly cursed. In the end, even if I could cast faster than other mages, I still had to be able to see what I was doing.
I heard ice crunching as something quickly approached me, and panicking, I willed the ice around me to fully encase me, sealing me in a sphere of ice. A moment later, a blade sailed through the smoke and bounced off the ice. I grew a spike out that side of my sphere. It pierced nothing. Moments later, on the other side of my sphere, a fist crashed into it, sending cracks spiderwebbing through it’s surface.
I swallowed, my throat and mouth dry as I drew up more ether. My sphere of ice hardened, before reforming as an innumerable amount of thin needles shot out of its surface, expanding outwards and through the smoke. These didn’t pierce anything either, but the next swing never came, and as the smoke cleared, I saw Clara standing some distance away, panting. Her breath frosted in front of her, and a lump of ice and water had soaked through a portion of her cloak. She didn’t have the shield anymore. I saw it a little ways away, laying cracked and splintered where the explosion had caught her. After a moment, I watched her take her cloak and fling it off, along with the scabbard on her sword and the now-empty bandoleer of knives. I let out a long, frosty breath. The large sheet of ice I’d conjured at the beginning of the fight had dwindled, only covering a small amount of ground around my sphere.
After a heartbeat, I let my attention drop, and the needles slowly crumbled under their own weight with it. I pushed on despite the burning behind my eyes, and commanded the ice around me to begin reforming. Clara didn’t give me the time to set up again.
Clara, no longer weighed down by her equipment, dashed forward— and distantly, I recognized that within the next second— I would lose, I didn’t have the time nor the concentration to conjure or transmute more ice to throw at her, and the moment she caught me in a melee I would lose. Rationally, logically, I understood it was a simple spar— that my life wasn’t truly at risk, that at most, the worst I’d come off with is a nasty bruise that a healer in the infirmary could take a look at.
But after everything that happened— genuinely fighting for my life and coming a knife’s point away from dying? As Clara herself would’ve said— for the span of several quick heartbeats, I got lost in the moment.
Distantly, my awareness dimmed— it drowned out Arthur and Talon, sitting behind the chain-link fence at the edges of the arena; the silent stares of the random students milling about fell away— my awareness breathed, and I only saw Clara in front of me.
I sucked in a breath, feeling the singing frost that was my ether quietly dance beneath my skin.
The distance between Clara and I shrunk to thirty feet.
I raised my wand in one smooth motion, and allowed the cut of False Philosopher’s stone to fall into the sand below.
Twenty feet.
My eyes gauged the distance, and I breathed out.
The ice became a distant, distant thing. My ether gave one last pulse before falling silent, slumbering beneath my skin. In it’s place; a sky yawning static cradled me— feelings like needling fuzz and dry crackling and sparking tinder broke along the surface of my skin.
And emptiness.
A vacant hollow of unfathomable size— horizons without end— a pit with an unknowable depth— a skyline teetering between dusk and dawn. The firmament’s abyss; the clouds slumbering beneath Clarion Isthmus, revisiting me with the phantom sharp teeth and ashen tongues.
Distantly, I could see the intention, and it was frighteningly simple: Clara would approach, threatening my life. I did not want my life being threatened, so I would drown the world in ice. Enough ice to made avoiding it impossible. Enough ice that trying to get out would be futile. It was, the very same thing I did with the Vitrine crystal in that hallway. But, I did not hold any Vitrine crystals.
The frost in my veins sung— a hollow, singular note like a church bell— as it rushed to flood the impression of roiling static smothering me, and ice— as clear as spring water and sharper than a knife— sparked at the end of my wand—
And then Clara punched me in the face— and the feeling shattered like dropped glass as my vision went black.