Caffeine and Magix
They/she, 30, lazy writer. Here's to sigils in coffee creamer and half read books about magic. I write short stories about subverting destiny and being funnier than the bad guy.
The canopy sailed over the horizon line.
The mother looked out the window, snapping the sheets as she folded them. Her clear gray eyes were the same color as the morning sky and just as gloomy.
“Closer,” she muttered. She seemed surprised she had spoken, and her hands slowed, fingers lingering on the fraying edge of her own bed sheet. She wet her lips. Said again, “Closer.”
“What’s closer?” the daughter asked.
The mother didn’t jump, but the air changed as if she did. Her shoulders stiffened. Her hands went back to work. “Nothing,” she said. Then, not being able to help herself, “The forest is growing quickly.”
“Teacher says that trees don’t grow fast. Only an inch or two a year.”
“You couldn’t see the Bly when you were a baby,” the mother said. Her heart stung. She knew her daughter wasn’t calling her foolish. Lately, when the little girl spoke of her teacher, something she never had, it makes something sour in her want to lash out. “Now look how tall it stands!”
The daughter came to the window. Her clothes were ill-fitting. She looked as if she tumbled in and then out of fresh laundry only to come up wearing a whole bedspread. The dress she wore used to be the mother’s from when she was young. Her eyes traced the horizon. “That’s faster than teacher said.”
“Not even a teacher knows everything,” the mother said. Her own mother’s voice rang through hers. That made her jump. She thrust the laundry away from her and finally looked at her daughter. “Some truths are only learned while living—”
The daughter stared at her bare feet. Shoulders rounded. Lip jutting out so far the mother could see it through her hanging, flaxen hair. The mother’s heart stung different.
“The Bly is…different,” the mother said. It’s her own voice this time. Softer and more yielding. She kneeled so that the daughter could see her right away when she chose to look up. “It’s a secret I’d like you to keep.”
The daughter’s eyes darted up, meeting the mother’s. Her lip contracted a centimeter. “A secret?”
“Just between us two,” the mother agreed. Was the little girl old enough? She would give anything to bring her daughter’s chin up again. “Your teacher is right that trees grow slow. The Bly is different here. Only here.”
“Only here?”
“On our land. You see, the Bly is home to another kind of creature. Like us, but not. They are mischievous and kind and cruel. More importantly, they’re magic.”
“Fairies,” the daughter said confidently.
“The Good Folk,” the mother said in her own mother’s voice. Then to soften it, “And that’s not the secret.”
The daughter reached out to put her hands on her mother’s shoulders. She jumped in excitement, using her mother to steady herself. “Tell me! Please, tell me.”
The mother smiled and placed her hands over her daughters. She tilted her head forward and was rewarded when her daughter stopped leaping about and pressed her own forehead against hers. She whispered, “The secret is that once, a long time ago, I stole something from them. That’s why the forest grows so quickly over the horizon. They’re looking for what I took.”
“What?!” The daughter was amazed. “You said never to steal.”
“I did. I needed it very badly, mustn’t I have?”
“Yes,” the daughter said. Her quick mind tumbled through her mother’s confession. “So you’ve been in the Bly? What was it like? Teacher says there are wolves in there. What did you steal?”
For a moment, the mother was not there. She raced through dense old growth with her feet cut to ribbons and her skirts sticking wetly to her legs. Her breath came in cold clouds in front of her and she ran through them just as quickly as they formed. She could use only one hand to shield her face from vines and branches. Her other arm was curled around the bundle in her arms.
“One day,” the mother said. She stood but wrapped her hands around her daughter’s so that she knew it was only a necessary retreat and not a complete one. “One day, when you’re older, I’ll tell you all the stories I have.”
The girl’s lower lip was out again. “How old?”
“When the Bly hits the edge of our land,” the mother said. She held out her pinky. “Promise.”
The girl was suspicious. “It grows fast?”
The mother’s heart stung differently again. “Very fast.”
“Deal!”
—
You are the adventurer who went on an epic quest and defeated the evil king, all to gain the sacred amulet and use its one wish to revive your sister. Now everyone expects you to accept her death and use the wish to undo the damage instead. You refuse.
Blood has stopped streaming from the wound bisecting your brow, but it still stings your eyes something fierce. You take your gauntlets off, grimacing as the grime and soot from battle tries to keep the metal welded to your skin. There’d been an explosion during the final fight with the king – no, the tyrant. Explosions, maybe. Your magic’s been erratic lately, the sudden growth of your mana pool far outpacing your control. You wipe your eyes with the back of your cleaner hand.
There’s pressure in your chest you’ve never felt before. You want to laugh. No, you want to scream. Your body is too tired to jump around like you did when you were a little girl, but you find yourself bouncing in place regardless. The thrill of battle and of escaping the castle as it collapsed is thrumming through your veins. You did it. You did it.
You are so happy, so devastatingly happy, that you can feel yourself shutting down. You need—you need rest. Food. Sleep.
Then you can save her. Then you can bring her back.
“Roksala,” Prince Eloyn says. You squint past the last rays of day to see him frowning at you. The ruins of the tyrant’s castle don’t appear to interest him. His eyes narrow. “Are you ignoring me?”
Summary: Marigold Fletcher is a good witch. However, when her dark past comes knocking, her reputation is on the line.
——
Marigold Fletcher is a good witch.
“No, not a good witch,” she tries to explain to the knight on her doorstep. She pinches the bridge of her nose. “I mean good in the sense that I excel in my craft. Morally, I’m more gray.”
“Oh, good,” the man says. He puts the hat he’d been wringing in his hands back on his head. The leather pops back into shape and the desperation he’d been wearing like a cloak melts away. He looks ten years younger when he smiles. “I can drop the act then.”
Marigold gapes. “You were lying? To a witch?”
“I’m a knight,” the man says with a shrug. “We aren’t known for being smart.” He nods towards her living room. “Do you mind if I come in, or…?”
Wordlessly, Marigold lets him duck past her. He finds his way into her living room with prompting and sighs when he sits on her couch.
“Sorry,” he says, tipping his head back against the backrest. “It was tough getting here. I had to climb three separate mountains and fight off at least a dozen griffins. And you were the easiest witch to find, believe it or not.”
Marigold believes it. Most witches are nomadic. Those who put down roots, like her, usually do so in the most inhospitable places. Marigold is lazier than her brethren. She doesn’t live too deep in a forest, though she does live so high on her mountain that the air is a little too thin for most human’s comfort.
“You didn’t give me your name,” she says. She shuts her door and picks a seat in an armchair across from the knight, right by the fireplace. If this turns out to be an elaborate plan to dig out her heart, she’ll throw him into the flames head first. “Awfully rude of a guest.”
“Alas,” the man says gallantly, “I can not give you my name.” He winks at her. “But you may call me Jax.”
Rather than be charmed, Marigold is irritated. “I’m not fae, idiot. I can’t take your name even if you said you were giving it to me.”
Based off this story prompt/fill (X) where you are born with a designation like Hero, Demon King, Blacksmith, etc.
Your name is Dolly. You are a Villager. You, as well as anyone, know what that means.
——————-.
You are sixteen and it is your first day at school.
Your first lesson is that Villagers are the only ones who start so late.
“Because there’s not much to be taught,” a boy says. His clothes are made of finer cloth than your mother’s wedding dress and his hair is as shiny as the brass buckles on his shoes. He grins at you, as proud as a peacock in front of half the class. “Don’t need to ask what your Destiny is, do I?”
You don’t know why he’s singling you out. A quick glance back into the classroom shows the rest of the students sitting at their desks with their heads low. They’re Villagers too. Most of you are. That’s why there isn’t anything special enough about any of you. You look back at the boy. “…are you going to ask me something else?”
“What?”
“If you don’t need to ask me my Destiny,” you say slowly, “do you need to ask me something else?”
“I don’t need to ask anything from a Villager!” the boy cries. He jabs a finger at his own bicep where his mark lies under cloth. “I’m a Lord!”
“Okay,” you say. The other kids behind him are frowning at you. Some of them are Villagers too, but different from you. They’re the children of merchants which is a different sort of destiny altogether. “I need to run some errands for my mother. Will you let me pass?”
You are a warrior pledged to protect a chosen priestess on her quest to quell a great evil. What she finds at the end of her journey is not a dark god or towering beast. She now stands before an altar of sacrifice. You knew the truth the whole time, you just couldn’t bear to tell her.
You are not a knight.
You were once. A long time ago. Back when the skies were still blue overhead, and you could hear the bustle of life floating on the wind from town. You remember the feeling of pride that stole through you when the house you served bestowed upon you your first sword. Back then, you stood tall and your armor gleamed in the sun. There were brothers and sisters who stood with you, who believed in what you believed, who took the same oaths you took.
Lin won’t turn around. Her long, black hair is blowing faintly in the breeze and the torn edges of her green traveling cloak flutter around her calves. In front of her lies the ruins of a once great temple, crumbling pillars on either side of a massive set of stone steps. Every surface is covered in a thick, wet moss that smells like the rain that just passed through.
The altar at the base of the stairs leading to the temple, however, shines as if newly polished.
You are a warrior pledged to protect a chosen priestess on her quest to quell a great evil. What she finds at the end of her journey is not a dark god or towering beast. She now stands before an altar of sacrifice. You knew the truth the whole time, you just couldn’t bear to tell her.
You are not a knight.
You were once. A long time ago. Back when the skies were still blue overhead, and you could hear the bustle of life floating on the wind from town. You remember the feeling of pride that stole through you when the house you served bestowed upon you your first sword. Back then, you stood tall and your armor gleamed in the sun. There were brothers and sisters who stood with you, who believed in what you believed, who took the same oaths you took.
Lin won’t turn around. Her long, black hair is blowing faintly in the breeze and the torn edges of her green traveling cloak flutter around her calves. In front of her lies the ruins of a once great temple, crumbling pillars on either side of a massive set of stone steps. Every surface is covered in a thick, wet moss that smells like the rain that just passed through.
The altar at the base of the stairs leading to the temple, however, shines as if newly polished.
I spent literally 20-30 minutes of the hour just staring at this and wondering how it escalated, but I think its decent? Hope you like it.
Used the dialogue prompt and picture sorta.
*****
Lila strides out of the bar, blade pressed against her side, bell dinging over her head like a toll for death. She walks around the side, to the cold, bricked, dark alley. Spray paint tags the wall, a swirl of colors that is abstract to any human who doesn’t know better, but more to those who do. It’s a doorstop for the portal she’d opened to get there.
It leads to the woods. Long grass curling around her ankles, curled fingers from below, trying to pull her in with the old magic imbued within it. Spindly, tall trees reach for the sun, jagged branches thirsting for magic that no longer lives under its thin cover. Magic migrates, like flocking birds, to where it is easy to live, to where those who practice it reside. When the nest is left behind, empty, the twigs and dirt and sky thirst for what is now gone.These grounds were sacred, once. Lila was going to make sure that they were again, if just for a single moment.
The buildings were long gone, overtaken by nature as the centuries dragged on, but the magic they had been built with, tempered with, housed with, remains. It will take more than time and moss to remove that.
It thrums under her feet, desperate, pleading. Lila unsheathes the Soul Dagger she’d tricked Xia into relenting. It should corrupt her, leak poison into her blood that explodes her mind, taunting her with all of her thoughts of death.Lila isn’t a Soul Keeper. She doesn’t have a drop of it in her blood, in her past, in her ancestry. But the blade will cooperate, with what she’s going to use it for.
It takes souls. Cuts the bond between body and soul, an astral blade, forged by the Fates, eons and eons and eons ago.
There are few weapons older, more pure, than a Soul Blade. This one, Lila knows, happens to have belonged to the Cutter of String. The final Fate, the lesser Fate, the one who held the shears.
Beautiful imagery and really special world building! Thanks for sharing! I really recommend reading the other parts to this :)
Every night you look at the stars, to navigate, see what time it is and all other kinds of things, except tonight they are inarguably different.
The stars. Eternal. Cold, distant, and unchanging. The one constant in this uncertain world.
At least that’s what we all thought.
Maria looked up at the stars from where she was stood at the wheel, as she did every night she was on navigational duty, seeking comfort in their familiarity, looking to trace their patterns in a bid not only to keep herself awake, but also to ensure the ship stayed on course and didn’t drift off course. However, as she stared up, trying to find the North Star, and helper of all those who navigate by starlight, she couldn’t find it. Her first thought was that it must be cloudy, or an albatross was blocking its light, but the more she looked, the more she realised that it wasn’t any of those. Frantically, she scanned the pitch black canvas, desperately trying to see any familiar pattern; the hunter, the bear, the swan, but to no avail. They weren’t there.
After several panicked and confused moments, she noticed that not only were the stars different, but they gave off a slightly different colour. Whereas before they had had a slightly reddish tinge, now they appeared more blue.
“What the fuck,” she whispered softly.
Nothing made sense. How could the stars change? Ever since her people could remember, the stars have been humanity’s companion during the dark nights, shedding light and bringing hope, even when the moon had gone. But now? She was in turmoil; such a little thing, but the implications were huge, and bigger than her comprehension.
At that moment the captain walked out on deck, taking a stroll as she often did in the small hours.
“Captain!’ Maria shouted to get her attention, when she would usually only just nod in acknowledgement. “Captain, the stars….. they’re….. different tonight! What happened?”
The captain, still with her back facing Maria, stiffened, then turned and stalked towards her. “What did you say?”
“I…I said the stars are different. I can’t see familiar constellations, let alone Polaris!”
The captain stared at her in bewilderment, uncomprehending, then her eyes changed, showing a flickering of hope as she slowly, so slowly, like she was scared of confirmation, lifted her head to the sky.
She stayed still for several minutes, the only movement was her eyes, darting backwards and forwards, scanning the stars. Eventually she turned back to face Maria, her yellow eyes full of tears, and a tentative smile on her face.
“I’m home.”
*****
Thanks to @caffeinewitchcraft for advice and encouragement to get me to start writing again!
This is the first thing I’ve put of mine on Tumblr, and I might continue it at some point!
Chills! I love when the main character isn’t the one the Event revolves around. Like being married to the chosen one rather than being the chosen one. This falls in the same category for me–Maria is dragged with the captain to the conclusion of her journey (returning home). Your world-building is tight and you characters are so believable. I love it!
You are the wind’s interpreter. What’s it saying?
Tell Miles, the wind whispers, that he’s a little bitch.
It’s only through years of long practice that Dyta’s able to keep a straight face. The King’s name is Miles? Everyone just sort of assumed he was named after his great grandfather, King Raymus since that’s what he’s written all over the kingdom. She tries to remember if she’s ever heard of a Prince Miles–
“Well?” King Raymus (Miles) asks. He looks down his nose at Dyta, thin lips thinning further. His knuckles are white around his gaudy scepter. “What did the Wind say? Will my reign be remembered? Am I truly the greatest King across the six kingdoms?”
There’re actually 208 kingdoms, the wind hisses out from underneath the door. Which Miles would know if he weren’t a little bitch.
“Yes,” Dyta blurts out. The guards’ glares have been growing each moment she’s been silent and she’s not interested in finding out at what point they use the spears they’re holding. “Super remembered.” She brings her hands up, trying to gesture just how remembered the King is, but the shackles around her wrists hinder the movement. “The wind knows your truth, King Raymus, and it spreads that truth across the globe.”
You never interpret correctly, the wind whines through the gaps in the stone walls. You are the worst wind-speaker I’ve met in centuries.
Dyta’s the only wind-speaker in centuries. That’s why she’s in this whole prisoner mess to begin with. It’s just luck that King Mi-Raymus is vain enough to spend the majority of her captivity asking after what the world thinks of him.
There are much worse applications of her ability. Spying, for example. And assassination, though she tends to stay away from that one, much to the wind’s chagrin.
But what if your childhood was shitty and traumatizing and you were meek and quiet as a kid so get a sweet little kitten and eventually as you grow and realize your worth and become more confident that kitten slowly grows into a lion.
Usually, when I bring kids their Companions, it’s a happy day.
Most parents like to throw parties for their children. Make it a big ‘lifetime milestone’ type deal. Sometimes, if there are a lot of birthdays on the same day, they do events at the local schools. I never really have to call ahead - people know I’m coming. The roster at the head offices keeps a running record, and Deliverers like me pack up the Untouched Eggs (wearing gloves, of course), and set out to cover their area for the day. I work six days a week, and sometimes I take emergency runs if I’m nearby and another district is overwhelmed. Overtime is common, but so are short days, when only a small number of kids are hitting ten.
It’s a job that has me travelling a lot. i go wherever there’s the most need for Deliverers. We don’t like to be late; tenth birthdays are an important matter. But I like being on the road. It lets me see a lot of the country.
It’s always such a pleasure to read a short story that so clearly, cleverly, and magically creates a whole different universe. I would read a seven book series of this, from any perspective. Thank you @feynites for writing this and posting it on here! This really made my day something special.
