The First Principle

Logan

There was a murder two weeks ago, and Logan Margraves could not shake the bloodied image from his mind.

The grey sky stood above everything that gloomy day, where the sun could not be found. Thick wisps of morning mist crawled around the field of wet grass, playing at the feet of the two hundred and odd something students and faculty that saw it fit to attend the funeral. Most of them do not know her, Logan thought. How could they? To those beneath her, she was the sun. To the few above, she was the moon in quiet wait – always finding a way to make them feel her beauty was untouchable.

Fingers of hurt raked against his chest at that.

If only I could find the nerve to press my fingers against her one more time. The tears formed just behind his blue eyes, and he privately tried to blink them away – hoping that none might catch his grief, even in this terrible time.

Alison Parks, Logan’s white haired girlfriend, brought a hand to his shoulder and smiled so softly it may has well been a frown. “You don’t have to speak, if you don’t want to,” she said.

“I should,” he replied, and she squeezed his shoulder tighter.

“We have to be strong for her… and for Richard.”

Almost everyone was dressed in black. Some in casual t-shirts and pants, others in fancy dresses or suits and other rich clothing. The sole exceptions to this code of mourning were only broken by Headmaster Ispwitch and Master Aegelmare. Ispwitch was standing sullen beneath the behemoth Hanging Tree, just some fifteen feet behind the podium and black and gold casket which held her. He was dressed in his traditional fine ochre robe and hat, his sole change in wardrobe being only the Mantle of Many Sorrows; this was a set of shoulder pieces made from black feathers and numerous rubies. It’s origins were unknown to Logan, and perhaps only the Headmaster’s Inner Circle were privy to it’s secret history. Headmaster Ispwitch brushed back a lock of his raven hair, tucking it behind his pointed ears which seemed to want to hide themselves from the world.

To hide. That’s what I want to do right now. Hide and be done with this gripping sorrow.

The other exception, Master Aegelmare, stood at the front of the aisle, flanked at either side by chairs and all their seated persons. His old hands were clasped behind his back, dressed sharply in a deep blue, double breasted tailcoat and dark brown pants. Great, long strands of chestnut hair swayed with the whispers of the wind, threatening to brush against the wet grass at the man’s feet. He’s beginning to show the silver of his age.

I want to bring her back, Logan thought. The tendrils of pain wormed further into his chest at that. I must. I must bring her back.

But the First Principle rang through his mind. Through his core.

At the head of the podium, beside the casket, stood Richard Morning. He loved her too. Loved her more than anyone, even if she didn’t love him back. Logan’s heart was broken then, for his best friend just as the rain began to trickle from the uncaring skies. It had been nearing a full minute since Richard had made his way to the podium, and although Logan understood the weight that clenched at his friend’s chest, the audience of student’s were becoming perturbed by his prolonged silence.

The many colored Birds of Paradise started to roostTK on the many-dead limbs of the Hanging Tree. Each and every one of them looking down at the scene unfolding, singing their quiet songs filled with such sweet sadness.

“I don’t know where to start,” Richard spoke, his blonde hair moving with the breeze. “Tallulah loved the stars, and her kindness…” his green eyes scanned the crowd of students before locking with Logan’s. “There won’t be another like her.” His choking made a pebble form in Logan’s throat. “Never. She was the brightest and the strongest pupil this academy will ever see,” Richard shook his head, and a heavy bitterness washed over his face. As the seconds passed by, it was evident that something was stirring beneath the surface – an ocean of anger crashing against the stones of his will.

Richard Morning was no stranger to self-loathing. That much Logan knew.

“I should have saved her,” Richard ejaculated. The way that it was said sent chills up Logan’s spine, and the rain itself turned from trickle to a light pour. Up on the branches of the Hanging Tree, the birds preened at their feathers, shook off the wet from their wings, and sang with a hurried pace.

The students whispered amongst themselves, hiding beneath their umbrella’s for shelter from the rain.

Logan turned to face Alison, and they shared a knowing look.

“I know who killed her,” Richard proclaimed, giving a short laugh and then biting on his lower lip. “But they’re too much of cowards to admit it. Too much of cowards to teach us, to teach us anything of use.”

The rain whipped with the wind, and Master Aegelmare shifted and straightened himself out. “Stifle your tongue, boy.” His voice held an unquestionable authority to them. What was Richard getting at? Is he really accusing someone from Belladonna’s teaching staff?

“You shouldn’t even be here,” Richard said. “I was there when she died, and I saw you kill her. Ispwitch covered your tracks. You should all be ashamed of this place, of these people – you, you don’t even question what happened that night. Just accept what you’ve been told.”

Aegelmare unclasped his hands from behind his back, and brought them forward as the Birds became further frantic. “Stop this. Now.” The Master’s hands shimmered with a faint blue, and Logan’s heart dropped in his chest. Richard’s going to get himself killed if he continues this stupid spectacle.

Logan picked himself up from his chair, the rain beating down and sinking it’s cold into his bones. I’ve got to bring him back down to earth, Logan thought.

Richard’s eyes found Logan. “You should really leave,” Richard suggested with a sadness, dipping his head down as his wet blonde hair clung to his face.

Logan made strides through the middle aisle in hopes to pass Master Aegelmare, but the Master would not let him pass. “Richard, this isn’t the place—“

“This can’t wait, Logan. They killed her, doesn’t that make you angry? Doesn’t it kill you inside? I’m going to bring her back. I’ll bring her back and I’ll have her tell you all what happened.”

With a slow, steady approach, Headmaster Ispwitch sauntered from his spot beneath the hanging tree, heading for the white, raised platform that Richard stood atop. “Mr. Morning,” he began, his voice soft as a lover’s whisper, but with all the carry of a man who could strip the flesh from your bones. “You are distraught. Sick with grief.”

Richard turned to face the Headmaster, his green eyes flush with contempt. “I am sick,” he admitted, and Logan tried once more to pass the ever ready Aegelmare. “Sick of your lies, sick of this school,” the words from his lips grew louder and louder still, each line more tinged with the hatred of a lost boy. “I’m sick of it all.”

“Please,” the Headmaster begged, his face already heavy with regret behind the cover of his pointed brim hat. A bolt of surprise struck Logan at hearing that. Even in three years I haven’t heard him sound like that. “Talk with me. Don’t dishonor her memory with this urge for vengeance.”

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With the rain, it was hard to tell, but Logan was certain that he could see water forming in Richard’s eyes as he looked down at the Headmaster. “He who brings the light, so to must make the world bright.” Since when did he believe in prophecy.

Ispwitch straightened himself out in the rain, and a palpable sense of dread swept it’s way through the crowd of students. Though it could not be seen, the aura of the Headmaster’s power was being projected.

This will not be some harmless display of power. The two Masters are going to kill him, if I don’t step in.

Logan gritted his teeth, flicked his wrist, and whispered, “Alacritem.” In an instant, the Third Year student appeared beside his friend Richard, placing a hand on the mourning prodigy’s shoulder.

Richard turned to face him, and Logan could see the wildness in the boy’s eyes. “Stop this,” Logan whispered, his heart filled with an inerasable ache. “Please, Richard. Right now we mourn,” he said, “justice is for another day.”

Ispwitch continued to move towards a flanking position on Richard, and Master Aegelmare’s hands shimmered further with that familiar blue light. “Everyone,” he boomed, “leave. Now.”

There was something, Logan surmised, something that Richard deeply and dearly wished to communicate. In his lips. In his eyes. In the way he feared to take his next breath, the way that he trembled as the rain fell.

The Student’s all began to leave from their places; it could not be certain if it was shock, or a lack of realizing the true danger within the grounds, but most of them were slow. All save for Alison, still standing there, waiting with nervous face and posture.

Ispwitch looked to Logan, “Mr. Margraves. Step aside.” His tone held no room for negotiation.

Aegelmare began to weave a spell with his hands in a series of subtle gestures. “Listen,” he roared with his old voice, “or I’ll cut you right down with him.”

This caught Logan’s attention for a moment, and his heart thumped in his chest, the cool of the morning shower soaking his person. He brought his gaze back to Richard, and for the second time that morning, he wished that he could weep.

This is madness. There’s no reason to kill him. “They’re bluffing,” Logan said quietly, “just come with me… and we’ll talk.” Again, Richard did not speak a word. His eyes were shadowy meadows, and behind each stalk of grass were glimpses of memory, sorrow, and thorn. He struggles over her murder, Logan was sure. He’s afraid, and he’s worried that nobody believes him. “I believe you,” he told him with the certainty that a brother not of one’s blood could. Logan nodded his head and repeated himself emphatically.

That was when the warm surge ran through Logan’s body, and he could feel his will slipping quickly from his body and mind. Without saying the invocation, Master Aegelmare had already performed the highest level of levitation on Logan’s person; trying to remove him from the situation.

Richard closed his eyes, shed a tear, brought two fingers up to point at Logan’s chest, and swallowed just as the students were finally beginning to clear out. “Calcephorus.”

In that singular horrifying instant, confusion was what hit Logan first, as the forlorn words left Richard’s lips. Then came the thunderous, deafening crack of the spell as a thin strip of red lightning ripped through Logan’s chest. He was thrown hard and frightfully fast to a tree, pain blooming against his spine from the impact. An invisible hand clenched tight at Logan’s heart, and an agony of needles danced outward from his chest and all over his body – the world instantly becoming a sluggish picture before him, every second becoming more and more dizzying than the last.

Students screamed and gasped, some ran away, and a few – including Alison – ran to Logan. Others began to cast spells, the few bolts of arcane and strips of fire both missed, fizzled out, or were simply guarded against by the unseen shield that Richard shrouded himself in.

Logan struggled to look down at his wound on his chest. The lightheadedness was a sweet poison to succumb to; more so was the succulent thought of shutting his eyes, the edges of his vision becoming dark and blurred.

What was that smell? The scent of roasted flesh and burned fabric wafted to his nose – and the taste of it sank deep into his tongue.

The Killing Spell, Logan thought. A chorus of ‘why’ sang through his head, the connection from Master Aegelmare’s spell severed now. There was no blood. Just a black spot with vein-like lines that stretched outwards all across his chest. One would hardly notice the damage from a cursory glance, save for the seemingly harmless rip in his navy blue suit.

Richard canted something that Logan could not understand, and the rain turned red. The tree and it’s limbs and it’s leaves offered some small protection, but each drop that found Logan, and all the other students, ate away at whatever they touched. The Birds of Paradise screamed as their bones became exposed, dying in horrific haste.

How he was even capable of producing such an unusual spell was beyond Logan’s understanding – save for the terror of watching his classmates desperately try and set up any kind of protection that they were able.

Headmaster Ispwitch traced a series of figures quickly in the air with a habitual efficiency of someone that had casted a lifetime worth of spells. The ground around most of the students became encircled by a pink-white shimmer, and when Ispwitch clenched his fist, then let go, nearly everyone vanished in a cloud of thick arcane smoke.

Master Aegelmare flung out bolts of blue with rhythmic flicks of his wrist. They soared through the air and curved in approach to Richard.

With the twist of his fingers Richard cut the bolts, sending them flying beside him and exploding against whatever tree or rock that they struck.

Logan looked for Alison with vision fading, but could not find her.

Bringing his hand down, and then up to his mouth, Richard blew from his mouth and out came a grey smoke. The red, acidic rain continued to pour, and from the smoke that left his lips, spewed suddenly a series of metallic hooked chain; they serpentine through the air in a vicious attack, scattering to plunge at what few students remained and both Masters.

Two chains went for Ispwitch, who twirled to avoid them, having them only graze at his skin and clothes. The chains that missed their target bit at the earth, stopping dead where they stuck. With one hand and two words that Logan could not discern, a circle of fire formed in preparation. The other hand clenched and rose up, bringing up a sheet of bedrock to protect a half dozen pupils.

Six went for Aegelmare, who held up ten fingers in response, stopping twice that number in chains with his mastery of levitation.

The ring of fire around Ispwitch’s hand formed into a lance, and it shot out towards Richard.

That one, he could not block or destroy. He only narrowly avoided it by jumping out of the way, the flames grazing along his clothes and clinging to them.

Seven chains speared through the chest of the helpless students, yanked them at break-neck speed, and flung their bleeding bodies to the Hanging Tree. The chains snaked up their bodies and choked the necks of each and every student – all but one perished in the throes of death. A fifth year student: Garret Cornell. Black, velvety strips exhaled from his mouth – Ink of the Soul – and he casted what Logan knew to be the Rosendo spell. A form of Nullification.

The chains around Cornell dissipated, and he fell hard to the ground, laying there as the rain ate away at his back.

Logan’s eyes fell on the hung students. He willed himself to lurch forward, to try and help, but his body would not move like a puppet without strings.

Ispwitch moved to a hard offense, bringing forth a set of fiery lances in each hand, the sorrowful intent to kill gleaming in his amber eyes.

Richard twirled a finger in the air, and the torrents of rain swirled to protect him, encasing him in a bubble of red water.

In response, Ispwitch let his spells fizzle out to reserve his strength.

Master Aegelmare did not care for such subtle tactics, and instead spread his influence of magic around the barrier of water, granting it that familiar blue shimmer and scattering the particles of water in a radiating explosion; exposing Richard, Aegelmare wasted no time in sending a pair of blue bolts at the man.

Logan gnashed his teeth together until he could feel the pain of it, so that he could keep himself from falling into a sleep that he would never wake from. What he saw next shocked him. Richard hastily exhaled strips of black smoke from his nose, brought up his hands and performed levitation on the bolts, stopping them a couple of feet away from their intended target.

Aegelmare’s hard face gave the ghost of a smirk, and as Ispwitch flung a snaking trail of blazing fire towards Richard, Aegelmare detonated the bolts.

When the haze of smoke, flame and blue arcane energy finally cleared, a thick aura of black was what shielded Richard – but when that vanished too, the damage was clear. Burns were on his face and his chest and his legs, the fire and explosions having torn away parts of his clothing. Blood trickled from his mouth, thin lines of red covered his agonized visage. There wasn’t a chance in hell that pulling that defensive maneuver off didn’t cost him a good ten years of his life, Logan surmised, the edges of black dancing across his vision and threatening to swallow him whole. Even just Richard’s staying alive as long as he did was feat enough against two of the most unquestionably powerful wizards in the school.

“Your fate is sealed.” Aegelmare proclaimed. “I suggest you repent, boy, before I am finished sending you to the Dark Below.” Aegelmare straightened out his back, upturning both of his hands in front of his chest and mentally beginning an incantation.

Headmaster Ispwitch plucked three black feathers from his mantle, and he sent them to the palms of Aegelmare’s hands.

Richard’s laugh started off quiet. Unsettling. Like an impending hysteria, some uncontrollable gut reaction to hearing what Master Aegelmare uttered. It swelled to the heights of madness in an arrogant cackle.

Not yet, the thought skated across Logan’s mind. Not yet, it repeated weaker.

Not yet. Not… yet…

That was when the world became engulfed in an inky darkness, the day vanishing into the pages of history.