Post by Seek on Apr 16, 2015 23:15:26 GMT 10
Series: Where the Wind Blows
Title: Break
Rating: G
Event: 400 Word Cross Country
Competition: Decathlon
Words: 400 words
Summary: Erik Thorkellsra takes stock of his new life.
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Some nights, Erik regrets fleeing Scanra. Once or twice, his breath crystallises in a cold fog on his mirror when he shaves, even though it’s cursed hot in Carthak, something he’d never thought possible until he got here. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches his reflection changing; features shifting in an eyeblink until it’s Inar gazing sharply out at him.
He raps his hand against the surface of the mirror and calls on his Gift. The reflection settles; it’s his weary pale eyes that glance back out at him. His mouth twitches. It’s only the first few weeks at the university and he’s already a mess. “Stop that,” Erik mutters. They say you can take the boy out of Scanra but you can’t take Scanra out of the boy, and with what they shared…
Inar never says anything. Erik’s not sure he wants him to.
Some nights, Erik puts his hand to the mirror and considers. He can scry, knows the Scanran prayers to send the eye ranging far over sea and land; prayers that, it seems, can reach out even here in this torrid, foreign land and find him. It’s always easier if you know the feel of the other mage’s Gift. They’re teaching him to scry too, at the university, but that’s second year material. It’s a strange magic he’s learning in Carthak; divorced from the sacrifice, the prayers and pleas that he has never learned to question. “Shamanic magic,” says Birchriver, dismissively. “It’s just as well you’re training in more rigorous methods.”
In any case, he’s not ready for magic yet. No one speaks Common in Scanra, much less writes it. He’s busy learning a new language and breaking so many reeds that he’s become very acquainted with the structure of a good reed pen.
Is this what you wanted? he imagines his reflection asking him. Studies it through glass: the dark circles under his eyes, his clothing patched and mended and ripped far too many times, inkblots in the shape of fingers on his cheek. He doesn’t know if he’s happier. He’s traded everything away for a student’s uncertainty.
Yes, he replies, as though the glass can carry his words over sea, to someone left behind in a frostbound land. No prayers; no rituals. That part of his life, he sets behind him, cleanly, like a broken reed. And then: I don’t know.
Title: Break
Rating: G
Event: 400 Word Cross Country
Competition: Decathlon
Words: 400 words
Summary: Erik Thorkellsra takes stock of his new life.
-
Some nights, Erik regrets fleeing Scanra. Once or twice, his breath crystallises in a cold fog on his mirror when he shaves, even though it’s cursed hot in Carthak, something he’d never thought possible until he got here. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches his reflection changing; features shifting in an eyeblink until it’s Inar gazing sharply out at him.
He raps his hand against the surface of the mirror and calls on his Gift. The reflection settles; it’s his weary pale eyes that glance back out at him. His mouth twitches. It’s only the first few weeks at the university and he’s already a mess. “Stop that,” Erik mutters. They say you can take the boy out of Scanra but you can’t take Scanra out of the boy, and with what they shared…
Inar never says anything. Erik’s not sure he wants him to.
Some nights, Erik puts his hand to the mirror and considers. He can scry, knows the Scanran prayers to send the eye ranging far over sea and land; prayers that, it seems, can reach out even here in this torrid, foreign land and find him. It’s always easier if you know the feel of the other mage’s Gift. They’re teaching him to scry too, at the university, but that’s second year material. It’s a strange magic he’s learning in Carthak; divorced from the sacrifice, the prayers and pleas that he has never learned to question. “Shamanic magic,” says Birchriver, dismissively. “It’s just as well you’re training in more rigorous methods.”
In any case, he’s not ready for magic yet. No one speaks Common in Scanra, much less writes it. He’s busy learning a new language and breaking so many reeds that he’s become very acquainted with the structure of a good reed pen.
Is this what you wanted? he imagines his reflection asking him. Studies it through glass: the dark circles under his eyes, his clothing patched and mended and ripped far too many times, inkblots in the shape of fingers on his cheek. He doesn’t know if he’s happier. He’s traded everything away for a student’s uncertainty.
Yes, he replies, as though the glass can carry his words over sea, to someone left behind in a frostbound land. No prayers; no rituals. That part of his life, he sets behind him, cleanly, like a broken reed. And then: I don’t know.