There was something to be said for keeping one’s cool under duress. It was a useful skill to have, if frustrating in the moment. He wanted a rise out of her and it was becoming clear that such a thing wasn’t in the cards today. With an open invitation to harm the target of her ire and and and– Only a sluggish rivulet of blood trickled down to his elbow, more itch than ache after the initial puncture. Not the mauling that some self-sabotaging part of himself wanted.
He watched the wound zip back up, frowning faintly at the top of her head. When she was done he slipped behind her shoulders and took her hand, gently arranging her fingers until they were splayed before her.
“Is this always how you wield your magic? Outstretched, like a snake that might bite you?” He closed her hand, moved her by the wrist– up, down. Back to neutral again. “Your chantry would teach you that, I suppose. But I’ve also met southern mages who use it like a cudgel.
“That’s … Better. But it’s not right, either. Magic is your arms and legs, Lyric. I need you to make a fist.” Tiberius curled her fingers into the proper shape and then let her go entirely. He took a folded handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the now heavily smudged blood on his arm. Something fell out of it and rolled in the grass. Cursing softly, he bent to retrieve it. Stood, watched Lyric a moment with an unreadable expression. Finally arrived at something resembling an decision.
“Here. Wear it if you like. Like all curses it can only be given away.” His grandmother’s ring, chunky silverite set with an enormous black moissanite, the band encrusted with tiny diamonds and garnets. Tiberius placed it carefully into the center of her palm rather than on her finger.
Not wanting to see her expression, he looked back toward the house and ended his spell. The conjured shadows burned away from the windows and doors in an instant, spilling several footmen and Lyric’s father out onto the lawn.
“Please do not trouble yourself overmuch. I would not expect my wife to do laundry.”
He watched the wound zip back up, frowning faintly at the top of her head. When she was done he slipped behind her shoulders and took her hand, gently arranging her fingers until they were splayed before her.
“Is this always how you wield your magic? Outstretched, like a snake that might bite you?” He closed her hand, moved her by the wrist– up, down. Back to neutral again. “Your chantry would teach you that, I suppose. But I’ve also met southern mages who use it like a cudgel.
“That’s … Better. But it’s not right, either. Magic is your arms and legs, Lyric. I need you to make a fist.” Tiberius curled her fingers into the proper shape and then let her go entirely. He took a folded handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the now heavily smudged blood on his arm. Something fell out of it and rolled in the grass. Cursing softly, he bent to retrieve it. Stood, watched Lyric a moment with an unreadable expression. Finally arrived at something resembling an decision.
“Here. Wear it if you like. Like all curses it can only be given away.” His grandmother’s ring, chunky silverite set with an enormous black moissanite, the band encrusted with tiny diamonds and garnets. Tiberius placed it carefully into the center of her palm rather than on her finger.
Not wanting to see her expression, he looked back toward the house and ended his spell. The conjured shadows burned away from the windows and doors in an instant, spilling several footmen and Lyric’s father out onto the lawn.
“Please do not trouble yourself overmuch. I would not expect my wife to do laundry.”
04-07-2024, 04:00 PM
