Aran sat cross-legged on a weathered mat, surrounded by the fragrant scents of herbs and tinctures. Sunlight streamed through the small window, reflecting off dozens of glass vials and bottles that lined the shelves, each one glinting like a jewel. The warm light illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air, creating a magical atmosphere that enveloped him. He focused intently on the array of plants laid out before him, each one a vibrant splash of color against the muted browns of the wooden table. The earthy aroma of dried chamomile mingled with the sharp scent of crushed ginger, creating a heady perfume that filled his lungs.
He had come a long way from Siam, a land of lush landscapes and rich traditions, where his family had envisioned a different future for him. His strict parents had wanted him to embrace the life of a monk, to follow a path of enlightenment and serenity. Yet, the weight of their expectations had pressed down on him, suffocating his spirit. The vibrant colors of the herbs and the lively scents around him felt like a celebration of life, a stark contrast to the tranquil, yet oppressive, atmosphere of the temple where he had spent his childhood.
Aran’s fingers brushed over the delicate leaves of a basil plant, and he recalled the long nights spent in refugee camps, the cries of children echoing through the darkness. He had wandered through war zones, witnessing the aftermath of violence and despair, and felt an overwhelming need to help those in need. The faces of the suffering haunted him, but they also fueled his fortitude. He could still hear the distant sounds of gunfire, the cries for help that echoed in the night, and the overwhelming scent of burning flesh that filled the air. Each memory was a reminder of the urgency he felt, demanding action.
With a deep breath, he settled into his practice, pulling out a small mortar and pestle. The cool texture of the stone felt grounding against his palms as he began to crush dried herbs, the rhythmic motion soothing his racing thoughts. As he worked, he could almost hear the whispers of those he had helped in the past, their words of gratitude mingling with the scents wafting up from the bowl.
“Aran, you must find your own path,” he recalled one of the monks at the temple. “Your journey is not one of solitude; it is shaped by the lives you touch.” Aran’s heart swelled with both pride and sorrow. Ironically, the monk’s wise words had triggered his desire to leave that life behind. He had made a choice—a difficult choice—and now he stood at the crossroads of healing and self-discovery.
As the herbs transformed beneath his hands, Aran summoned memories of his family. He could envision his father, a figure of strength and discipline, his brow often furrowed in thought, the weight of their family’s expectations heavy upon him. Aran felt that pressure like weights on his shoulders, unyielding and oppressive. His mother, gentle and nurturing, always encouraged him to seek peace and purpose, yet within the confines of the temple, Aran struggled to breathe. The walls felt like they were closing in, each prayer and chant echoing his family's desires rather than his own restless heart.
He had left without looking back, driven by a restless yearning to make a difference in a world that so desperately needed help. The thought of his family brought a twinge of guilt, a reminder of the love and hopes they had for him. Still, he reminded himself that his choice had not been made lightly. He wanted to help others, to stand in the places where despair reigned, where suffering etched deep lines into the faces of the innocent, and to offer just a glimmer of hope.
Now, as he immersed himself in the study of herbalism, alchemy, and thaumaturgy under the guidance of Völundr, he felt a spark of hope ignited within him. The enigmatic teacher had opened his eyes to the potential of combining nature's gifts with spiritual energy. Aran had learned to project his essence—Avish, Unhsiv, and Amharb were the names of those ghostly figures he created, each one a manifestation of his spirit that flickered into existence at his command. Yet, the limitations stung like a fresh wound. Five minutes. That was all he could manage before he needed to rest, a full hour for every minute spent. If he summoned all three for five minutes, he needed to recover for about fifteen hours, a stark reminder of how much further he had to go.
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After his preparation, he set the herbs aside and focused on brewing tea with the plants he had collected. The rhythmic sound of his mortar and pestle filled the room as he crushed the vibrant greens and fragrant flowers. He poured hot steaming water over the crushed herbs, watching the colors swirl and dance in the liquid, releasing their essence into the brew. He then filtered out the remnants, the warm steam rising to envelop him in its comforting embrace.
With a deep breath, Aran settled into his practice. He concentrated, allowing the herbal aroma to permeate his senses. Slowly, he summoned Avish, the first of his projections. The figure shimmered into being, a translucent silhouette that mirrored Aran's own features, yet radiated an ethereal glow. Avish took shape with its blue skin and glimmering bracelets, wielding a trident that sparkled in the light. The very presence of Avish filled the room with an aura of strength and resilience. Aran watched, his heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. Would today be the day he could extend their time together?
“Focus, Aran,” he muttered to himself, forcing his mind to quiet after sipping the warm tea. The vibrant colors of the herbs on the table blurred at the edges of his vision as he concentrated on the warm energy flowing through him, the essence of the plants intertwining with his spirit.
As he extended his will, he felt the familiar tug of fatigue creeping in, like icy fingers grasping at his body. But he pushed against it, determined to hold Avish longer. The projection flickered, wavering like a candle flame caught in a breeze. “Stay,” Aran commanded, desperation threading through his voice, his fingers tightening around the cup as he took another sip of tea.
For a moment, the figure solidified, and Aran's heart soared with hope. But just as quickly, it began to dissolve, the shimmering edges of Avish fading like whispers in the wind. He gritted his teeth, reaching deeper within himself for the strength to hold Avish longer.
“Just a little longer,” he urged himself, feeling the room pulse with Aether as he poured every ounce of his will into keeping the projection. Memories of the faces he had seen in the refugee camps flashed through his mind—the children’s laughter that masked their pain, the weary eyes of parents striving to protect their families. Each face fueled his resolve, a reminder of why he had chosen this path.
Avish flickered again, the figure wavering precariously. Aran felt the sweat bead on his forehead, the strain of his effort pressing down on him like a heavy cloak. He closed his eyes, envisioning the strength of those he aimed to protect—those who had faced unimaginable suffering yet still found a way to smile. “You are not just a projection,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “You are a part of me.”
Avish finally vanished, leaving Aran with a bittersweet smile. He had managed to keep the projection for a little over six minutes, a personal record, yet it did not feel sufficient. The familiar emptiness settled in, echoing the limitations he grappled with daily.
“Aran,” Völundr’s voice cut through the remnants of his concentration, grounding him in the present moment. Aran noticed the older man sitting on a mat next to him.
“How long have you been here?” Aran blinked just realizing he had not noticed the old man’s presence.
“About a minute, I suppose,” Völundr said brushing his beard his his right hand. “I didn’t want to break your concentration, so I didn’t say anything until you finished.”
Aran’s shoulders slumped, frustration bubbling beneath the surface like a tempest ready to break free.
“You must not push yourself too hard. Remember your limits.”
“But I need to do this. I want to help.” Aran’s voice trembled, desperation lacing his words. “I want to be able to protect those who can’t protect themselves.”