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True World Fantasia
21 – Veil II/Learn

21 – Veil II/Learn

“Hehehe”

He heaved out, impatient.

“Why would my eyes pop?”

The sage, who had fallen in chorus with his laughter, ceased, returning, most strangely, to his wise, aged tone.

“Well, it is not that your eyes would pop necessarily, it could happen… Heos, how long can you run for?”

Unmoved by the strange change in topic —as he began to understand, now, the inconsistent nature of this “master” of his— he answered back.

“I do not know. I dislike running.”

“Ah…” The sage scratched under his beard. “I was to use a simile, yet…” He sighed. “If a mage could do all he pleased with naught but a thought, what difference would there be between magi and gods?” His eyebrow rose. “Not that this is the reason for how things are… Never mind.” His hand waved away the thought. “Just as with any art or discipline, one must practice, be diligent in proper study, so as to hone perfect manipulation of Ousia —if such a thing exists.”

“Why do you speak yet I can’t understand —even if I know all the words?”

The old mage laughed.

“I am not cut out to be a teacher, you see. Too boring, too boring.” He pulled at his beard. “Just have fun with magic. Be careful, however. Cleave or shear too much, shape or taste too little, and you will die. True magic lies at the edges of both desire and indulgence. Capriciousness is fundamental.”

“Ok…?”

He still did not understand.

“Just do more magic. I don’t really have to tell you to do this, do I? As you do more and more, you will develop a sense for what you cannot yet do, what you can, what will result in your death, and so on. Which is why it is fundamental for me to spit out these… seemingly incomprehensible ramblings.”

The sun bubbled, pleasantly; the wind carried the faint shimmer of chimes, nonexistent; the scurrying of water lazily brewing under the light.

“Maybe you will understand later on, maybe you won’t; it really does not matter. Just remember: Magic, it is reflection of the self; the world has nothing to do with magic, magic has nothing to do with truth.”

A cloud in the shape of a… mask? No, of spread wings pierced by the near transparent blue, floated placidly above, shielding his eyes from the sun.

“Hm.” He remembered. “Aren’t you contradicting yourself…? or…?” A hum, again. “The soul of the world? All the words for Ousia, did they not all point at…”

He turned his sight to the smiling sage, seemingly amused at what he heard.

“This is the problem with teaching magic… Even if untold generations have carved out of language a… partial reflection —as the reflection of the moon on the waters— of what this thing or the other is, what does that have to do with you? Does it not have to do with you? Why listen to my words when you can listen to the words of others? Why listen to their words when you can listen to mine…?”

Heos’ gaze turned piercing, doubting the mage.

Language was much less confusing to learn; his brother just told him what each word meant, they conversed, and that was it. How this thing fit, how it became when paired with the other… when aimed at this or that, when in the past or present… Magic? It seemed as if the old mage wished to betray all that he had said up to this point… hadn’t he talked so adamantly about truth just before?

The sage broke into laughter.

“This is why I say: do as you please. You enjoy magic, so all else is secondary.”

“Hmph.”

Was doing as he pleased doing as the mage commanded? or was doing as the mage commanded doing as he said not to do?

“Boring… Can I keep going?” Such idiotic questions were irrelevant. He just felt like doing magic.

“Yes, go…” His words became slower, more marked. “The previous example, or plan, you used —the “veil” which separates the palace from that forest— is sufficient. Yet, you focused on disparate characteristics and ended up with some sort of chimera spell, nearly killing yourself. Visualize the veiling, not the separation. Do not imagine two divided spaces. As for how to stabilize it… use your imagination. Build upon the already made veil for cynn.”

Without even rising —nor closing his eyes— Heos lifted his arm and pulled at the empty air. In his mind’s eye a double-sided veil fluttered, thin and transparent, unaffected by wind or light. It flickered in and out, replaced in each repetition with the non-existent threshold that separated the world from the forest. Yet, what truly occupied its place was not the division between these two spaces, but its glass-like complexion; so as to make it not a door, but congealed light which hid the world behind its own surface.

The light trembled and followed behind his seemingly empty hand, all that passed behind this trailing —muddled light— disappeared. It felt as if a buzzing, bright mass was bunched up, in his fist.

As he placed it above himself, all things were replaced by a shimmering boundlessness.

Outside, the mage gazed at a bright blot, which covered his disciple and the grass around him, as if a piece of the world had been replaced by quicksilver and dancing strings of glass.

Heos scoffed, and with an irritated gesture, swung wildly at the “veil” until it shredded itself into nothingness, revealing his figure once again.

The sage did not speak, as Heos pondered. He was pleased with the attempt, although it was not what his apprentice desired, it was stable and hid his being from the eyes of mages… Too well, sadly.

He surmised the stability was due to the concept behind the spell being a hide and not a divide.

The flowing shape of a veil, a literal one, was good, as it did not need to be self-contained and thus did not require the level of sophistication his apprentice was, at this point, unable of grasping.

Heos, undeterred, focused amidst his questions, and puzzled out what it was he had done wrong when imagining the veil.

“Could you see me?” He asked the sage.

“No.” Was all he answered.

“What did it look like?”

The mage remained silent, even against the prince’s accusatory stare.

Neither could he see, nor could the old man see him, when using that “veil”.

All lay obscured behind the light.

“Hm…”

Why was it so much harder than the first time? It really made no sense…

‘No…’

He remembered… he was straying from the first spell, adding and thinking far too much; twisting and deforming something simple as he tried to mutilate it into a shape foreign to its first design… was it because he had attempted to use too ill understood of an example? Something outside of himself?

“Should I really use the forest veil as an… example?”

Silence. Just the sage holding his chin.

He did not wait for an answer.

Perhaps the problem lay in what he hid. The veil hid his own being… but now he imagined it hiding the world, in effect of holding, in his mind, that invisible threshold.

So, soon, it appeared in his mind, once again, as if it did not exist. Thin and imperceptible, and behind it, there was nothing amiss, except for himself, who stood, tranquil, made inexistant… —no, he was not attempting to stop existing; how could one stand if one did not exist?— rather, made invisible by the veil.

He tugged at the air. He felt nothing in his hand and felt nothing causing a misshapen light, yet something was pulled by his gesture.

The veil. Which was placed atop him.

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Nothing. Black, once covered by his spell. Yet not that virulent, terrifying darkness he had seen before. Just a rose-tinged silence, as if he had closed his eyes.

Once again, the veil was shredded and disappeared. Sprinkling impermanent iridescence across the meadow.

“Well done.” The sage sounded genuine

“What did you see?”

“You disappeared. Leaving behind the meadow, as if the light had swallowed you…” His tone was blushed by a pale smugness. “I assume you could see nothing, yes?”

“Hmm.” Heos assented with a halfhearted hum.

He supposed he focused too much on the “outside” of the veil, not enough on its inner face?

His mind was still, as it housed all it did before. But his own figure could now see through the veil, to a world unchanged by his spell… No… if he thought of it in this manner, would the spell not work…? He settled for “a world outside”.

Melted sugar cobwebs on his fingers, iridescence dancing in the air. A pleasant softness once he covered himself.

And his eyes, unimpeded, as he looked at the sage, a glad, proud smile on his bearded face. The forest behind, the meadow, the now clear blue sky.

All sound reached him… the river’s run lulling him as he laughed.

“Hehehe.”

He stood up, and, still covered, walked up to the sage, as he flicked his forehead.

At first, the old mage did not react. Until he did, laughing, in much the same manner he had, before.

He was glad.

“Well done, yet…” His arm moved as a blinding, shooting star, taking hold of the prince’s hand. “You are merely invisible my dear apprentice, not immaterial. Hehehe.” A smug laugh assaulted the prince.

The veil was dispelled.

Heos grinned, haughty.

“Not yet…” He answered back, challenging his “master”.

“I hope so.” The sage retorted.

Letting go, he spoke.

“There you go. A proper spell not of the Seven Arts, as I had said.”

“What is it then?” What kind of magic would this spell of his fall into?

“I won’t say…” His heavy brows remained inscrutable. “In fact, I would advise you show no worthy mage this spell.”

“Why? You can go invisible too, no?” He felt the old sage spoke nonsense.

“Why? I won’t say…” He met the prince’s deadpan stare with a pleasant smile. “You will die. I’ll tell you why another day, for now it is irrelevant.” After settling his hands in his beard, he continued. “Yes, I can go invisible too, yet the why, and how, are different. You use too distinct a spell.”

Although the sage’s tone remained playful, something told him the words were no play. He would die.

So, the prince decided to follow his advice. Even if he did not know why one would meet death by cause of this spell.

“And what is a worthy mage? Is it the same as a true mage?” He asked, now, once again lying down.

“No… and these distinctions are my own, so do not expect others to understand them or know them.” His placid smile fell. “Once you meet someone worthy, you will know. Especially if you diligently practice magic.”

“Hm.” He did not bicker. There was no point; his teacher seemed to be all but flexible.

He was becoming accustomed to the old mage’s non-answers. And, perhaps, it was not his “master’s” fault. Maybe magic was simply this obtuse, at least if spoken.

“Now, I wish to teach you all I know. But I cannot do so in a disorganized manner. Choose one of the Seven Arts and we will begin from there.”

The mention of finally learning something from the sage roused his interest. His back rose, so as to sit properly.

“Can I learn magic outside the Seven Arts first?”

“No.”

Finally showing irritation, his face contorted in a snarl… which soon disappeared, vanishing away with a sigh.

Before he had even asked the mage had already spoken.

“Why? As I said, the Seven Arts are pedagogical.” And, suddenly, possessed, the sage stood up, rising toward heaven as if his fleshly body were yanked up along his soul. His voice thundered, silencing the forest with its fever. A delighted grin cleaved his beard, as his face flushed. “MY DEAR DISCIPLE, HAD I NOT SAID THAT THOU ART AMONG THE TRUE MAGES?! HAD I NOT SAID THAT THOU DOST POSSESS GEIST?!” His trembling hands sought the sky, his fluttering robe and beard were swept along, tied to his body as salt-soaked ropes, clumped with seaweed, to a vessel. His words seemed to summon with them the salted sprays of a dark sea, with their rugged, fierce winds. And his screams blended with the yawp of thunder as it sought the sea. The sky darkened inexplicably, perhaps devoured by a storming night. “MATTERS NOT WHAT PATH THOU CLAIMEST, FOR THINE PATH WAS CLAIMED BY THEE LONG BEFORE THY BIRTH! WAIT NOT FOR ME BUT BURN THINE VERY BEING AS KINDLING FOR THINE DREAM!” Heos looked on. More than frightened, absolutely bewildered. Unknowing of what to do or say. His ears trembling alongside the yell.

Then, all became still, as if nothing had happened, as if all were a dream… The sky was still a lively summer blue. The scent of saltwater —which he knew not as to what it corresponded with, as he had never sensed it before— disappeared, along with the thunder and wind, and the raging storm.

Heos remained frozen…

“HAHAHAHA! Pfft!” The mage laughed boisterously, while he pointed mockingly to his disciple. “HAHAHAHA.”

He could not continue standing upright, as he fell, holding his belly, curled on the meadow grass as his breath left him from the incessant laugh.

“Oh gods, your expression! Hahahaha!” The sage managed to state in between cackles, as he trembled from laughter.

“Old fool!” The prince threw grass at him, annoyed. Then pointed at the still heaving figure. “Swan, hit him!” The phantasm, completely unmoved by the spectacle, made no effort to lunge himself at the sage. His head simply swung, disapprovingly, as a parent, disappointed at some childish prank.

The prince feigned outrage, in jest.

“Traitor.” And pouted.

Some amusement could be seen lining the animal’s beak… somehow.

“Okay, okay…” The sage patted the earth to calm himself. “Gods.” He dried his tears as his last laugh rang out.

Finally, he sat.

Another wave of weakened laughter hit him, although it did not knock him over.

“My stomach, Oh…” A few chuckles finally ended his bedlam.

“What was that?! I thought the world was ending!” Even if he acted outraged, a small smirk appeared, upturning his lips. The prince had found it amusing.

With a deep breath, the sage was back to his aged, wizened tone.

“Now, choose an Art.”

Heos was impressed at how the mage could so seamlessly shift back to this pretended solemnity.

The fierce, zealous figure of the sage still raged, windswept, in his mind. Truly bizarre.

Reflecting on the magic he wished for, Heos had noticed that, usually, before some strange phenomena manifested itself round his “master”, the old man’s lips would move, soundlessly, as if muttering an unheard order.

Was this how he did magic?

“I want to fly! I want to move from one place to the other in a breath! I want to make flowers bloom from the air!”

“So, the things I’ve done…? Can you not be a little more creative?” The words left the sage’s mouth as if clad in fog.

Heos had heard him; he did not retort.

“You do all this by muttering something… can you do anything by muttering?”

“Hm…” He wondered how to phrase it. “No muttering… by incantation. That is what I do when I mutter, I chant.” He patted down his robe. “This corresponds to an Art, Ars Incantatoria.”

“Do you have Geist in it?”

“Yes.”

The prince closed his eyes.

“Should I choose familiars? Ars Regendi? Since I have Geist in it?”

“You could have Geist in a number of things… And, of course, Geist itself is not a neatly cordoned off section of magical endeavor; It splays itself across the skin of all magic in a manner most perverse and transcendent. It is for convenience and enjoyment that mages say: I have Geist in this or that.”

He looked questioningly at the sage.

“So, I’ll choose whatever I wish…”

If he was to learn everything, then why not start with this?

“I choose Incantations.”

“Very well.” He ran his finger across his brow. “I said nothing, as I wished not to influence your decision too heavily… Enchantments is a good choice, precisely because it can be, and is, used alongside most magic; if not all… And, when learnt, properly develops that which is necessary for magic in its absolute. It is also boundless, and divine. Well, all magic is… Incantation is more so.” He coughed, then cleared his throat, as he proceeded. “I will focus on spoken, sung and chanted… the declaimed, more than the written. You will learn it too. If you wish, of course.”

Heos nodded.

“Do I speak or…?”

“When I say that incantations are used alongside magic, I mean that spells require them or are facilitated by them… among other applications.” His hand rose, the palm languidly open towards the sky, as water condensed, suspended above its center, until a small droplet of the liquid, bright like silver, formed a pearl, still, as if frozen. “Shape.” The words, he felt, were vibrating, burying themselves in the air. From one moment to the next the water had changed; once the droplet, now to a vertical needle, pointing at both heaven and earth. So perfectly had it left one shape for the other, it seemed the droplet had never existed. “Dance.” The needle wriggled, like a string being plucked. “Forget.” His hand left the needle’s shadow, as it still hung in the air, sustained by nothingness. The mage smirked.

“What…?” Heos had understood the other two commands, yet did not manage to puzzle out what “forget” had to do with the floating needle.

The mage’s index came close to the needle’s side, never touching it.

“Shape.” The needle disappeared, replaced by a miniscule droplet, tense, free of wriggling, almost touching the outstretched index. “Dance.” The droplet rotated. Its size was so that it went unnoticed, even as it spun with increasing speed.

And, after a silence, a whistling sound tore the air, accompanied by crackling, bubbles loudly bursting, falling behind the stele of the tearing droplet; flashes of brief, pale light warned of the water’s path.

It looked to hit a tree, as splinters burst forth, a crackle as garland of the impact.

Had it gone through the wood?

Heos watched, stupefied. Smiling.

“This could be achieved without incantations, of course, all is an example. “Incantations” in pale languages lack all artistry. Do not copy it. Don’t use romanse, or áradal or what have you for incantations. Only hedge-mages do.” He sounded truly disgusted, a grimace creasing his brow. Undeterred sternness dripped from his tone; this was truly something not to do, the prince thought. “Notice that this falls into three categories: Elementalism —bringing forth an element and manipulating it —Metamorphosis— changing the water’s shape —And Incantations. Keep so in mind.”

The prince nodded, woken from his reverie.

“Now, know that this is but a single part of the art of incantations. I will give you something pure.”

Before he knew it, a single word filled his mind.

All was submerged into the sea of this word’s blood. The letters that composed its hollow skeleton jutted out from the blackness of his thoughts, sharpened and bright, like nascent spires piercing… perhaps they would crack open his skull’s cap.

The images that orbited its body, as newborn shadows, tied by the belly with umbilical cords of black-charr putrescent, dripping quicksilver, immaterial. They built up haze from their exhalations, attempting to escape by bursting through past his eardrums.

Had someone burned them into the inner lining of his mind? A white-hot implement had seared his inner sight.

Buzzing, Buzzing… his mind’s eye filled with the buzzing of an uncountable myriad of singing thrums.

Once again, he was fine.

The afterimage of a whisper, of a song, tingling his tongue.

He feared that if he spoke, a caw would drip out, instead of all other sounds.

Genesājō.

[Create].

Was the intruder’s shape.

“Wha…” He stammered out, undeterred by the possible caw. Bewildered.

“It is a single word, of the Omphe. True Ars Incantatoria.”

The sage showed a bright, placid smile.

Heos knew, somehow. If this word were to carelessly singe his lips, he would die.

No, no… Something else…

His fingers trembled, excited.

His pale skin burned, stirred.

His reddened lips could not wait to utter, as if to sing, possessed by magic.