dead heroes

Aloys's copy of The Complete Works of Solana Tinuvial had lived a long life. The hardcover binding was frayed all around the edges, weak particularly in the spine, and the outer fabric was stained with the mud of the road and speckled with blood, mostly his. The pages were brown and stiff, more likely to break than bend if folded. He memorized the page he was on, as he read and reread the book over and over, to avoid any more indelicate placeholders. He had been foolish when he was young in how he had treated the book, and he regretted it. He had enough coin to purchase another, but sentimentality held him back. This copy had witnessed who he was. These pages comforted him when he was his worst self. 

Sitting in the soldier's barracks beside his bunk, he pulled the book out now, letting his hands feel the embossed lettering of the author's name. Uthenera was but a myth, so few had survived through it and carried on into the Thedas he knew. Somehow, she had managed it. Of course she would. But Aloys had never considered it a possibility when her poems curled around him, whispering about a world that had been and could yet be again. Her words were his dreams. He pulled out the slip of the order, comparing the letters of the name with the letters on the book. In the solitude the barracks during mealtime, he leaned back in his bunk and ran an astonished hand through his hair. First, he had learned he was given clearance to learn magic properly, and now, he would meet her? Had the ether finally decided to bless him?

Solana Tinuvial. The letters were a perfect match. 

Aloys Tinuvial to report to the repository for general magic lessons with Solana Tinuvial at noon in 3 days, for a general routine curriculum in all basic spells.

What the fuck would he do? What would she say? What might she expect? What would he wear? He stiffened looking around, only to relax remembering all he had were uniforms now - brown hunter's boots and a long, green coat. No more Orlesian flair. (He missed wearing a mask. Nyllian had faith in him, but he felt awkward when he couldn't hide a frown when others pestered him.) He sighed. He came here to blend in, but if Solana Tinuvial had found Uthenera, he needed, more than ever to stand out.

~~~

Three days later, at noon, Aloys reported to the repository library, and within, was directed to the small laboratory they would meet in. He didn't know what to expect. He didn't know how he would pull this off. He'd never done anything like this, nor imagined himself doing anything like this, but here he was, about to meet his dead hero. He wore his uniform as clean and pressed as he could get it. The dirt of the field had been scrubbed out of him. He'd erred trying to get ahead of himself with his magic before she taught him, and the effort had only sparked a painful energy in his hand. It was now bandaged. He hid the hand in his pocket, a blessing soldier's uniforms so generously provided, and entered with a stiff formality, looking everywhere.

Aloys... reporting, he managed, his thick Orlesian accent coming down an octave, an old instinct to assert dominance, as he glanced voraciously, wondrously around.

In some ways, Solana felt she was still finding her place in Arlathan.  For someone who had spent the majority of her waking years consumed with wanderlust it was a little odd to stay in one place for so long before feeling the itch to move on.  Yet she was a different person now than then, and the world was similarly turned on its head.  Perhaps once that would have sparked wonder and a desire to learn it anew.  It might still again, but more often than not she felt like she was trapped in a shadow realm seeking glimpses of the colors that once drenched the world in splendor.

At least here she was accepted and could be useful.  Her gifts were valued, and she could restore small pieces and parts of what was lost.  Those comforts did mean something.

One of the ways she'd sought to contribute was to offer what knowledge she could to others, including training in basic magics.  With the Veil down once more mana could permeate Thedas in the way that it was meant so, and alongside that came more people who found themselves able to tap into powers that were once beyond their reach.  A room had been set aside for this purpose, properly warded to protect the people and within from lessons gone awry.

Her pupil arrived, an elf in solder's clothes with an accent she had learned to recognize as Orlesian.  It was good that Arlathan was welcoming elves back home, and that at least some were choosing to return.

[color=#9a00b2]"Aloys,"[/color] she said, turning the name over on her tongue to in an attempt to get the pronunciation correct.  [color=#9a00b2]"Pleasure to meet you.  I am Solana, and today we will begin the journey toward understanding your magic."[/color]

[color=#9a00b2]"I'd like to start by having you show me what you can do.  Don't worry about any ill effects, I'll make sure we are well protected."[/color]  A gestured invited him further into the room to do what he could when he was ready.

As a magical laboratory, the room was filled with all sorts of components, alchemy sets, and ingredients. Cabinets of glassware and books lined the walls and several desks faced the podium about where she stood. When Aloys' gaze finally settled on her, he could not help but gape, eyes flicking about every detail of her countenance and fashion. She did not look like the Orlesian paintings of her - darker skin, darker hair, darker eyes, like she were sculpted from the very mud of the earth. He felt suddenly jolted by the egotism of homeland. Of course she would look like Arlathan. Like squirrel cradle and bear hole. The Elven homeland, carved out of nature instead of built over it, had taken quite some getting used to for the city boy. Particularly, the mud. It got into everything.

Aloys took her command as an invitation to step closer, half because he trusted her to dampen whatever misfired spell he conjured, but also, to get a closer look. She was ancient, like Elgar'nan, but he'd seen so few of the Elvehen to truly know their look. He stole little, furtive looks at the slant of her eyes and the thickness of her eyelashes, as he ambled closer.

His right hand - his good hand - lifted palm up.

If you wish, he began, but please, be prepared, he grimaced. An embarrassed redness seeped into his cheeks as he concentrated on the magic within him. He closed his eyes, breathed in through his nose, and out through his mouth. He would try to make a mote of fire, the classic orb of light used to light the dark pathways. He reached inside where something stirred within him, a well of sorts, with water that moved and shifted as he reached for it. He drew it close, feeling its cold, slimey wetness gather in his palm. Whenever he touched his magic, it felt wrong, like touching a snake or eating purple flowers felt wrong. He stuffed the fear away because she wanted to see - his brows furrowed nonetheless - and, then, he snapped the fingers of his right hand to summon his intention.

Pain seared his skin as green sparks zipped about every which way, like an explosion of toxic glitter. He stepped back, but they fizzled out as soon as they appeared. A pinching, hot sensation lingered where each on had hit his skin, and welts began to form. He looked at her, shock and fear pulling at his eyes. It had never failed this terribly before. Would he be deemed hopeless? Told to stuff it away and never practice again? He hid his freshly injured other hand in his pocket.

Oui... yes, this happens. Is it all right? he managed with a quiver in his voice, now looking at the ground.

She watched as he pulled on the threads of magic, trying to weave them into something warm and familiar only to have it go painfully awry.  She regretted that he had been harmed, but the demonstration, brief though it was, had taught her much about what they would be working with.

[color=#9a00b2]"Of course it is,"[/color] she said reassuringly.  She took a few steps toward him, leaving a respectful distance and held out her hand.  [color=#9a00b2]"May I?"[/color] she asked, indicating she wished to see the hand he now hid in shame.  If he let her, she would take the injured limb gently in one hand while holding the other one over it.  He would feel a soothing warmth as her fingertips hovered over each welt and wound, healing them as she went.

[color=#9a00b2]"Magic is a fickle thing.  To some it comes as easy as breathing, to others it takes time to understand how to live in harmony with it.  The possibilities are endless, but most of us will never be able to harness all its facets.  We are imperfect vessels for it to flow through, and as such we often take more easily to using it in some ways while others stay perpetually out of reach."[/color] The lesson was given with no judgement, only a desire to help facilitate understanding.

[color=#9a00b2]"Some take to the elements, others to nature or healing.  You, it seems, have taken to something of the opposite.  Tell me, what did you desire to achieve with your spellwork just now?"[/color]  She assumed it was something simple - light, perhaps, or a small show of the elements - that shifted to align with his aptitude when pulled forth.  If she was right it would be good he had come; an untrained negation mage could cause great harm without trying.

Over a decade ago, another elf hovered above young Aloys, his shadow long and cool. He leaned over the boy, checking his broken nose and dislocated shoulder like he was visiting the butchers. There were no details but his sandpaper voice and the blackness against the light.

"The nerves. Your opponent. He smells them. Pull yourself together," his master spat down. The other slave had been hitting him, and the crowd wanted pieces of him too. Aloys had never been hit by his own before. Someone twisted his arm back into his shoulder. The lights were bleary halos, with stars sprinkling here and there.

'Yes, Master,' he had said through the blood in his mouth.

'You earn your healing or you lose.'

Now, in Arlathan, Aloys' nerves roiled as she stepped closer as if he were brand new to the fighting pits, and the more he thought about how nervous he must look, the more nervous he became. He nodded, and slowly gave her his clenched fist. He shifted to face away from her while she clasped his mangled hand in her own two. He knew the feeling of magical healing well enough. His body remembered what always came before, the memory of pain a carved force. But he let her fix it like she knew how. It was important. Magic was important. She was important. Her magic touching him... He stole a glance at his hand in hers, whilst in the middle of listening to her talk. Hope pressed into her words, into his hands. Aloys regretted flinching, as he came back to look at her face. The way she looked at back at him, careful yet trying to coax a beauty back out of him.

It was only meant to be a light, he said scratchily. He cleared his throat. Pardon, he realized, feeling rude to have turned away or to have been so amateur. But I have only ever done simple spells. A candle, lit. A pen, moved. Never consistently. It fizzles or springs back. It is dangerous. I don't know why. Maybe for never being taught, but, I am here now.

Solana nodded. This wasn't terribly uncommon, especially for those who were finding their connection to magic later in life, or for whom it had never been their primary talent. And that is what matters. You are right that your magic is dangerous, but all magic is dangerous until we learn to live in harmony with it. In time, and with practice, it will be no different than any other tool that we use to help or harm.

She looked around the room for something suitable for her next test, eyes eventually landing on an apple. She cleared a space on a table, ensuring the apple had a wide berth around it, and set it down. I'd like you to reach for your magic again. This time don't try to force it into a shape that it doesn't like. Let it be your guide. See if you can direct it toward the apple, but let it do what it wants. Don't be afraid of it, embrace it.

She had picked up on the hesitation, perhaps even shame, he felt regarding his magic. Yet, there was nothing to be ashamed of. Seldom could anyone do more than tap into their natural talents when they first began to pull on the threads of magic and she wanted to reassure him of that. To allow him to begin to break free of whatever might be holding him back from embracing the type of magic that came naturally to him. Hopefully this would be a small step toward that.

Aloys shook his newly healed hand as if the exercise might reset him. He trained his eyes on the floorboards, and he nodded weakly as she gave instruction. Her words were like raindrops, but his face betrayed a fear of thunder.

Yes, teacher. His soft voice was thick with the memory of his home. Her generousity and patience could only last so long - and what then? Who was he kidding. This was Solana Tinuvial, (He glanced at her morosely,) and he was lucky to live at the same time as her. She had a whole country to help reform. He steeled himself in this bitterness and resignation. Nothing he did or didn't do would matter, and after this brief lesson, he would fade back into rank and file, and eventually, disappear back into the circle of Elgar'nan's supporters.

Aloys closed his eyes, and once again, felt for the well of his magic. It felt deeper now, its surface buzzing and tangled like a wasps nest in a rumpled ball of string. His shoulders and arms tensed, and his head lowered as his brows shifted with disgust and dread. As he leaned closer toward it, his hand rose to hover over the apple. His fingers twitched eratically. The sensation of slime and the smell of sewage rushed over him as he pushed his feelings into it, and the tingling of wet warmth leaking all over and inside his body overcame him. He felt every surface of his body, inside and out: The glaze of his eyes, the sheen on his roped guts under a gurgling pod of acid, the marrow like rivermoss in his bones, and the fatty pearl of his brains enclosed in darkness, leaking their dampness - he vomited. His eyes shot open and he looked down at the stain on his pants. He quickly turned away from his teacher, the smell of his piss confirming what he had done. Shame rushed over him like a curtain fall.

Excuse moi. I'm unwell. I apologize. He was far too harried to notice that the apple had turned brown.

Note: probably good to dm me to chat about next scene if she doesn't chase. also.... lol.