| Le Honnête élève - Project "Harbringer" |
His flowers aren't good enough. Even as he despises magic, seeing it as a stain on art, the son of noble blood still tries to work with it--For his friend's sake. But it still does not enough. (First sacrifice.)
"One day, you will not only be stable.. but as close to alive as possible.
No addictive effects or side-effects. Your ailment will be fully countered, like with your condition as a Graveborn, 'Vic." So you, yourself, may not have to suffer constantly. --The promise echoes still though his frazzled mind, doing little to soothe the steadily increasing static hum of panic and despair.
To believe this potion would truly, entirely, bring him back to life-- Set him free of Immortality's clutches, would be delusional and a grave disservice. But what the potion is aimed to do, is counter the effects, symptoms of his ailment. And it will help him not go become unstable so easily anymore. Won't fall apart and revert haphazardly lapse.
And that's more than enough.
Images flash before the young aristocrat's eyes, memories that once held much warmth now embers barely a healing balm. A fire poker jabbing sweetly akin to an arrow of the clock invisible he so desperately struggles to outrun.
And now? Now he has to watch his one biggest treasure left wither.
By the gods, he's trying, everything-- By his powers alone, of healing through his own magic, the lilies, called upon his leftover power through his status as an Earl to get the best medic-- The best physician in the whole region, the Empire.
From village to village, from town to town, to the very heart of the lands of the faction that was once his own. Hurrying as though running for his own life, relentlessly hounded by the merciless mistress. The clock ticking with each second. ....Yet none could do much, if at all.
Every physician, every doctor and medic, shrugged their shoulders. Some were on the verge of outright refusing, however wisely reconsidered.
Tried to call upon Merlin, and when that damn fool refused with peaceful reason-- Then by brute force. Because no way, in all nine damned hells, am I going to let my friend die JUST BECAUSE YOU, decided to be a petty bastard. Nothing. That magic was not enough.
It's akin to refill a large, very tall pitcher, filling it only half mid-way. Restore merely a fraction of the contents. And there's not enough time.
The young Earl is literally racing against time, growing more and more frantic, desperate. Carrying the firebird-wyvern limply resting in his arms, once having blazed so bright, alive with swirling colors. ...now a discolored, ashen shell neither dead- neither alive. A peafowl that has lost all his glory and majestic splendor that lighted a path in the surrounding dark.
Berial tried to help as well, filtrating and adjusting the frequency of his own magic in order to reach a "neutral" level. So to avoid accidentally corrupting the bat.
Bu there's only so much the Jester can give, before dying himself.
The Celestials firmly refused to so much as spare Pirin a glance. And there is no chance of attempting to brute force them into aiding, as with the other Hypogeans. He'll only get killed, and if he dies now? Then no one will be left to help Pirin.
No. I can't afford true death now. Can't let it happen. Not when my friend is suffering, on death's door--
Not when I can reel him out of its vile clutches.
Ioan Hestios, does not deserve to suffer, nor this gruesome fate of withering away in agony. Of ceasing to exist.
And if me suffering in eternity a little longer means He lives, he does not suffer-- Then be it. So be it.
I won't let you wither as I did.
Not without a fight. Not now, not ever.
His art, sculptures and treasure trove-- Memories, experience, emotions, knowledge and wisdom. And magic. Learn magic, along with bolster his own, that of Gravecalling. The next best choice for course of action. The other options exhausted and list dwindled... As time resumes cackling with its galloping strides so remorseless.
So Ludovic does, snatches and throws away his own disdain, hatred for magic. His own pride. Burns away his own beliefs of magic-- And wholly dives deep into magic. Devotes himself entirely in its name, cause.
Any book, tome, grimoire he could find, get his hands on regardless of school of magic-- Earl Ludovic wastes not a second to gleam the knowledge and wisdom there. From dusk to dawn, all that his eyes saw, mind drank greedily and ravenously in its voracious desire--
Were scriptures, spells and diagrams, charts. Runes, letters and alphabets, arrangements and constellations, stars and planets; The Major Arcana, the Arcanis Minor, transmutation and transfiguration, shape-shift, purification, crystals and jewels, geodes, the Elements, Thaumaturgy...
The Graveborn teen struggles to rapidly become a sponge, rich treasure trove of magic. Accumulating as much of it as possible while fighting to keep himself together from tearing at the seams and kicks his own episodes of destabilizing away vehemently.
By now Ludovic could teach at the Lyceum and Evergreen Conservatory, better than most of the Magistrates together. On Magister Merlin's level and surpassed far beyond.... But paying so very dearly the price.
Hang unto the tether, my liege. A little longer.
The masterpieces and sculptures, placed into the circle's heart of symbols, gaze back at their disheveled creator solemnly. Somberly. Every piece of treasure, of gifts once received long in the past, every trinket, all has been hunted down without relent. Brought back here, pooled into the circle of transmutation, and within the smaller circle- The young noble stands with eyes closed as he recites the incantation with perfection.
Extracting all the knowledge, emotions, wisdom, experience from all his masterpieces and treasures-- Adding them all to the overwhelming accumulation within himself. And relinquishes it all to the Night nymph on the other end of the spell circle.
Every last ounce, morsel and shred. While hanging onto a thread himself. But somehow those flames don't seem to ever return to their bright, vibrant powerful shimmer of majesty.
At this point, Ludovic's conviction, determination and desperation have overthrown his obsession with complete death. Like how his pursuit was in art. His lapsing, crumbling mind is fixated on this one single goal. The one thing to keep him relatively together.
A little longer... Soon.. Soon you will return from the brink....I promise you.
You will live my liege,
my dear friend,
I promise you.
Simply wait, hold on-- Only a little more longer.
....And still, no matter what he does.. The result is frustratingly, devastatingly, the same.
It was when they first met, became friends-- And Pirin got a smidge close, throwing his arms around him, giving a big bear hug without thinking--- Only to sharply withdraw and start coughing, wheezing and sneezing his lungs out, to the point of getting teary eyed.
And poor Ludovic's heart was stabbed by a pang of sharp panic, startled, scared he accidentally killed him or will kill him. As if the bat somehow got his sickness too now. Immediately, the undead aristocrat abandons all his painting, brush clattering to the carpeted floor-- scrambling to get a medic or do something--
A hand clasps onto his shoulder, stopping him, as a miserable looking night nymph smiles reassuringly at him. The boy looks down at the short man in fright, barely restraining his voice to remain leveled. Stern, worried, gripping the wrist of the hand rested atop his shoulder and preparing to bolt out the door with Pirin along as he lightly scolds.
"My liege! I need to fetch the medic-" "It's... Okay Ludovic. I'm- Ah! A- nnot d-dying. Or- Ach-" Turns away quickly as he sneezes "- Ill. Just my nose being a- Ah! Ah! Acho! ...Bother." A sniffle, Ludovic blinks at him, utterly puzzled and still very much anxious, offering the man a handkerchief.
"Pirin, your condition should not be disregarded."
"I'm fine, 'Vic, really! It's just, my nose is sharper than a hunting hound's, and when I catch a particularly strong or sharp scent... I cough and sneeze up a storm. Your lilies, are a little strong. Nothing to fret over."
The symptoms are, have gotten so very agonizing, and it's like his mind is falling apart-- warping and reverting haphazardly back to his death, to his previous life and the fear, confusion, sorrow he felt.
Despair and desperation, helplessness at the illness that has him ensnared in its cruel, thorned clutches no matter how much he thrashes.
A gentle, soft and breathless low tenor rasp- Familiar.
The cold hand on his shoulder an anchor, pulling his attention away from the torment.
A lullaby, hummed steadily and whistled quietly akin to a nightingale's lovely melody, a song. Calming. Clarity.
"....Vanya.. I..Remember you..."
A light smile of relief, of compassion, kindness.
"Welcome back, 'Beethoven'." A soft chuckle slips from his cold lips at the vivacious, teasing nickname of endearment that is a silly play on his own name. A nod to his affinity for music through making a reference to a classical composer, a genius pianist.
And memories trickle back, stitch together properly in sequence into a puzzle, under the song's guidance. Stabilized. Back to new normal, the hand gripping his own to help him rise onto his feet, slinks to rest around his shoulders in a side-hug, to both steady and guide.
"Thank you, Little Finch."
"Hey now! What gives?" Feigned scandalized indignance, before moving on.
When Pirin showed him a piece of "color mish-mash" and told him it's art as well, Ludovic was horrified. Simply could not agree with him.
"M..My liege, I'm afraid that I strongly disagree. There is no form nor shape to this-... Mess. How-?? How can you call it art...???
There is not a trace of the smallest principles of artful mastery! No lighting, no thought nor intent behind each line and stroke, no composition, only nonsensical swath of colors!"
"Vic, as we established, art is subjective and a form of creation. Capturing a vision or emotion and replicating it onto canvas. By this definition this, too, is art. Albeit lacking shape like your masterpieces."
Smiling with gentle amusement as his friend is left flabbergasted. Mind balking and feels a little defensive, insulted by the mere notion something like this can be labeled as art.
"I- Vanya, please tell me, how pray tell this-" Trying not to get irrationally angry, snappish and point, jab at the abstract THING so horrifically hideous in indignance, and not raise his voice.
"Is art, precisely? It appears I am overlooking a detail."
"Beauty. And expression, my dear friend.
Not every piece has to have a concrete form, intent nor deeper story and message to tell.
Sometimes, it simply aims to capture emotions....Or be purely for fun on a whim, no meaning in it." Lapsing into a long moment of pensive quiet, sparing a small brief glance at the atrocity, the Graveborn artist holds back from making a grimace and shudder-- Turning his gaze away from the offending thing. Resisting the urge to snatch and tear it apart or gag, face paler than it already is.
"...I see. You have a fair point, I admit. However I still refuse to call this.... form of expression, as "art". Even less give as high praise as call said expression a "masterpiece"."
"Agree to disagree." Then tone becomes playful, gleam of mischief good-natured. A gleam that bodes no good, peering down at him from his perch on the ornamented chair at the writing desk in his room, letting and elbow dangle off from the chair's top rail. "Maybe you could try it sometime? It could help you learn something new.?"
Appalled and nearly blanches, the young noble glances over at him from where he stands before his art stand with pencil in hand. Answering weakly in strained voice after loong pause. Dubious, skeptical. "...Perhaps I shall consider your offer."
The sketch of a pale young man with a warm, affectionately playful and serenely tranquil gentleness in his pearlescent eyes rests. A rosella firebird perched atop his disheveled head, peeking at the viewer looking at the canvas, whilst a violet budgie sits nestled in the crook of the man's delicate neck with head tucked into its wings in slumber.
Carrying an ashen ''firebird'' cradled close to his chest tight, the fifteen year old Graveborn shambles to the next medic he'd managed to catch wind of. ...Refusing to give up or accept that he'll fail or has already. Braving through the biting frost and smoldering heat, through the pelting rains, in march sure and swiftly purposeful.
To Rustport, through
To Cedartown.
The only clue to his turmoil raging, are the dried cold tear-tracks on his cheeks. And the unwavering, infernal wildfire of hell-bent determination in his eyes.
—"Ay kid. Heard you had a problem." - A Syndicate sorcerer called. The Graveborn paused, inclining his head. Go on. Speak, I'm listening.
—"Why dontcha take your friend there and come with me? We've got a project going on, and I think it's just the thing to save your birdie."
—"...A project..?" The weary traveler rasps in a soft-spoken, wary and skeptical yet intrigued near whisper. What does it entail? What if it makes matters worse? Or my efforts for naught?
.....What if he speaks the truth....?
—"Yeah. You wanna give 'im your Immortality, right? Y'know? Keep the rat from kicking the bucket? Well this project's just the right thing!" And so Ludovic accepted with a graceful, clipped tip of his head as wordless permission. Agreed. Because there's no other option left. (He was already falling apart. Only cared about keeping me alive, from dying.)
Little did I know, that I shook hands with the Devil that fateful day?
Received a blessing, and a curse.... Sentenced my only friend, to the same fate as I suffered.
That day, I both saved you....and failed you, dooming you terribly in my desperation, in my devastation, my fear and grief...
I simultaneously lost you, and ensured I would not.
The ritual was not outlined in the "deal". Or perhaps I neglected to pay close scrutiny to the much finer, crucial details. The scorching burn tore at both their very beings from the inside, and Ludovic could only hug the spirit tight. Hold onto the wyvern, screw his eyes tightly shut from the agony devouring, hug his one Light close. Solace and consolation to them both.
Even as his physical form collapsed onto the ground like a puppet with strings cut amidst the chant.
Even as the magic melted them both, pushed and crushed them together, melded and stitched, wove and glued them two....
Spirit, very being and core, consciousness. Pried open, apart and reshaped- Sown tight back together into tapestry. Into the final work of artistry, finest masterpiece of eternity.
At last suddenly the fires he'd so desperately scrambled to rekindle roared to life, so rife with this sweet life, to majesty, to power, to potential and vibrancy. Burnt with the glare of the sun, the leer of the moon's light. The stars' peer.
Suddenly, the shackles that have held them both back crumbled to dust. (And new binds took their place, holding us pinned in place as a singular amalgam.) Free of earthly and wretched caricature of Immortality. Free of constraints-- A Will-of wisp. A firebird, in all its glory. For eternity, casting light unto the abyss.
Loss, Sacrifice- Gain, Preserve.
Death- Rebirth.
Wither and Renewal.
Oh how foolish I was, to pursue true death!
When beauty was before my very eyes this entire time!
Now I hold Truest of Art, in my very palms!
(And am paying the sore price for so, forevermore.)
On this hour,
I cast aside my past,
my name -Farewell!
To my ailment that haunted me so,
to eternity's cruel caricature sister -Good riddance!
Burn to cinders, away the old world,
The old order and status quo,
Purge my old self, as I purge rot.
From the ashes-- I begin my new chapter,
my tale anew unburdened. I am at last, Alive - More than I ever was
As I (we) at long last hold the bridle of my (our) fate.
