achoo, I guess

White Water Point was no stranger to bad weather. The lighthouse had stood for over a century, and bore the scars of those many years of wild winds, crashing waves, and the simple passing of time.

For it to be raining inside the lighthouse, however, was a touch more than it had been designed to endure. And yet, endure it did, and rather frequently at present, as Crawford Seaver, the weather wizard who resided there, battled his way through a truly relentless cold.

Tarps had been strung up to protect the table, and the seat by the fireplace, and in a separate room, another covered Crawford’s bed. The bookshelf overflowing with books, and the masses of charts covering the walls, had all been treated with the waterproofing spells Crawford had learned out of necessity when his powers had first begun to run away with him all those years ago. Lightning rods had been installed, protecting the occupants from any sudden bursts of lightning Crawford happened to sneeze up. And yet, no amount of prevention and preparation could keep the chill, misery, and rain from the air as Crawford battled his way through his ailment.

Crawford himself stood before his wall of charts, frowning at one in particular, watching enchanted lines of ink move about, indicating wind and air pressure, forever shifting. He shivered constantly, despite the thick woolen blanket wrapped about his gaunt frame, the scarf wrapped around his neck, and the cup of tea clutched in both hands, sweetened with honey and spiked with rum. His prominent nose, red and raw from constant blowing and wiping, twitched with constant, useless sniffles, each one holding back the tide for mere moments. He desperately needed to blow his nose, but that would mean letting go of his mug and loosening his blanket, and Crawford had no desire to relinquish either.

Sniffling, however, could only serve him for so long, and before long, his bleary eyes began to grow hazy and filled with dread, and his chapped lips parted as his breath began to catch.

“Oh… Ehhh… Huhh… Oh dear…”

Neptune, Crawford’s scruffy little terrier, let out a whine, and retreated under the table, where his bed had been moved to protect it from the rain.

“Sorry, Neptune, I… HhhYUSSHOO!”

Occupied with both mug and blanket, Crawford merely turned away from his charts, narrowly avoiding catching them with the spray of mist that burst from his nose and mouth. Not that it would have mattered much; they’d been rained on enough already.

For just a moment, Crawford hoped he might have gotten away with a single sneeze. So long as he could keep it to just one, all would be well. His magic would remain at bay. The moment seemed to drag as he waited, eyes closed, lips parted, nose quivering, until…

“HhhuHHESSSHOO!”

And that was that. When there was a second sneeze, a third followed, as inevitable as the tide. And with it…

“HhuhhHAASSSCHOO!”

A crack of thunder sent Neptune whimpering and huddling into his blankets, as lightning struck the rods outside the lighthouse. Inside, a gust of wind swirled about the room, tearing a chart from the wall. The rain, which had slowed to a miserable drizzle, began to patter down anew, dripping from the light fixtures, the furniture, and Crawford’s long-suffering nose.

Crawford heaved a sigh that turned into a cough, and looked apologetically to Neptune.

“Sorry, old man. I am trying.”

Snuffling, groaning, rain splattering into his spiked tea, Crawford made his way across the room to collect the chart. It had landed dangerously close to the fireplace, and he hastily snatched it away from the reach of any errant embers. Sighing, Crawford dropped his rain-soaked blanket and settled into his chair by the fire, the tarp protecting both him and the flames from the sneeze-induced rain for now.

He stretched his feet out towards the fire, though only one could actually benefit from the warmth. The other, a wooden prosthetic, served as a grim reminder of the consequences of careless magic. Even over twenty years after the loss of the leg, Crawford still felt a dull ache where the limb ought to have been. It was always the way, when he was ill.

Wiping his nose on the back of his hand, shoulders heaving with the effort of an enormous snuffle, Crawford looked wearily over the chart. One finger came to trace a pattern of lines. A hurricane in its infancy, and in a region where no hurricane should ever be. His sigh turned into a cough.

“Again… Less than a year since the last… What’s going on there..?”

Neptune, seeming to trust that no further sneezes were imminent, ventured out of his bed and came to sit at Crawford’s feet, looking up at him and heaving a sad, doggy sigh. Crawford echoed it with a sigh of his own, and reached down to scratch the little terrier behind his ragged ears.

“No two ways about it, my friend. This one’s got me at a loss.”

For some time, Crawford sat and puzzled over the chart, turning the matter over with a mind muddled from both congestion and weariness. He sipped his spiked tea, the honey doing a little to soothe his raw throat, the rum not chasing the chill from his bones half as well as he had hoped. He took a sodden bandana from his sleeve, and gave his dripping nose a foghorn of a blow, wincing at the pain it caused deep in his sinuses. The more he puzzled over the chart, the more the lines ceased to make sense, until he felt ready to throw the damned thing into the fire and be done with it.

Not that he would ever do such a thing. Too much hard work had gone into those enchantments. Too much lost sleep…

“… Sleep… Gods, I need to sleep…”

Crawford’s eyes, having been growing ever heavier, suddenly opened, and he sat up a little straighter. Neptune tilted his head, and offered a questioning “wff?”, watching as Crawford stepped out from under the tarp’s protection, shivering violently as he went to rifle through a cupboard.

“Two heads are better than one, as they say, and I know of a head a lot older than mine. Let’s hope Thalassa is still asleep, hm?”

Neptune gave an uncertain whine as he watched Crawford fish out a glass medicine bottle, together with a dry bandana. Trembling and snuffling, Crawford brought both back to the fireside, carefully dabbing at his nose with the latter, and pulling the stopper from the former. Crawford glanced guiltily at Neptune as he poured a little of the bottle’s contents into the remains of his tea.

“I know. Awful stuff. But it’s the only way I’m getting any sort of decent rest right now.”

Neptune gave a noise of discontentment, his expression awfully judgmental for a terrier.

Setting aside the bottle, Crawford took the bandana and carefully blew his nose again. Doing so cleared out another flood of congestion, but ignited a spark of irritation as the blowing vibrated his raw nasal passages. Crawford frowned, wrinkling his nose extensively as he tried to sniffle and snort it into submission. It didn’t seem ready to become a sneeze, but nor did it seem to be going anywhere…

“Ugh.. Right, let’s get this over with…”

Taking the mug, Crawford took a deep breath and drained the contents, grimacing and shaking his head as he swallowed.

“Gods, that stuff is more vile every time! Still, let’s hope it works.”

Settling himself into his chair once more, Crawford wrapped his arms around himself, trying to rub some warmth into his aching muscles and joints. Leaning his head back, he gazed into the fire, watching the glowing embers, trying to breathe deeply, listening to the sounds around him. The howling winds outside the lighthouse. The slowing pattering of rain within. The gentle crackling of the flames…

As the potent cough medicine began to take effect, Crawford yawned, and Neptune echoed with a yawn of his own, stretching out by the fire and resting his head on Crawford’s foot. As Crawford’s eyelids began to grow heavy, he raised his hand to a thin strip of leather around his neck, drawing a peculiar amulet from beneath his jumper. An odd sort of coral, worn smooth from years of handling, a dull red in colour. As his breathing grew slower and deeper, Crawford turned it over in his hand, running his thumb over the lumps and ridges, calling to mind the one who had first pressed it into his hand. As sleep began to claim him, his last thoughts centered on a vision of silver eyes, and a mighty form stirring in ocean depths.

His nostrils gave a warning quiver, but before his nose could be satisfied with a sneeze, his head slumped to one side, a congested snore emanating from his lips instead.

When Crawford opened his eyes, it was to bright sunlight, and sand and stone beneath his mismatched feet. Looking about, he found himself on a sunlit shore, surrounded by towering sandstone cliffs. A place he had never visited in the waking world, but in dreams, many times. He took a moment to close his eyes, listening to the gentle lapping of the waves; a far cry from the wild seas he had heard as he slept. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost make himself feel the warmth of the sun, chasing away the fevered chills.

A lingering prickle nagged at his cold-ravaged sinuses, a reminder of the state his body was in. Pawing clumsily at his nose, Crawford made his way further up the beach, where great pillars had been carved into the cliff, standing on either side of the door of a temple long since abandoned. Crawford bowed his head respectfully as he stepped inside, onto cracked tiles half-buried in sand.

An altar stood in pride of place, and behind it, covering one wall, the faded remains of a great mural. It depicted a line of robed figures on a cliff, one in front raising a staff, as the others bowed their heads in worship. Depicted in the sea beneath the cliff was a figure not unlike a stylized dragon. A mighty leviathan, with a mane of flowing kelp, and great branches of red coral for horns, and great fin-like wings.

Crawford was not alone in the temple. A woman knelt before the altar, gazing up at the mural in quiet contemplation. Her robe looked to be made of tattered sail-cloth, and the silver hair that spilled over her shoulders was topped with a crown of red coral. Though plainly not young, her age was difficult to guess; though her eyes were creased at the corners, and laugh lines framed her mouth, there was something oddly ageless about her. Crawford knelt quietly beside her, and nodded up at the mural.

“Memories of happier days?”

The woman turned to him, smiling, warmth in her strange silver eyes.

“Memories of sunnier climes. I thought it might appeal to you. I could feel the chill and heaviness about you as you called to me. You are unwell.”

Crawford tried and failed to suppress a shiver at her words, and turned away briefly to scrub his nose on the back of his hand. The itch still lingered, and he longed to give a good hard sniffle to try and quell it. But not here. Not in Thalassa’s presence.

“It’s nothing worthy of your concern.”

“And yet, I am concerned. I know you do not rest properly when you call on me. And if you are unwell, rest is what you require.”

Crawford felt his cheeks warm a little, and he cleared his throat, wrinkling his nose again.

“I’m perfectly alright. It’s barely a sniffle.”

Thalassa chuckled, shaking her head.

“You admit to a cold like some might admit to a mistress. So be it. So, why is it you felt the need to call on me, when you should be sleeping off your sniffle? Loneliness, perhaps?”

Crawford quickly shook his head, and turned away to scrub at his nose again, growing a little more flushed.

“I would never bother you for something so trifling!”

There was a certain sadness in Thalassa’s eyes as she watched him try and fail to discreetly deal with his troublesome nose. She sighed softly.

“And yet, I wish you would. It pains me, to see a friend lonely.”

Crawford avoided her eyes, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“You needn’t trouble yourself over such things. Especially not over me. You… I’m a mayfly, in comparison. Why worry, over someone who, to you, will be practically gone tomorrow?”

“You are here today, are you not? Here, and ill, and troubled. If I can ease your troubles, I want to. Besides, do you see no beauty in mayflies?”

“I… erm… I suppose I…”

Crawford shifted awkwardly, avoiding Thalassa’s eyes. Somehow, she always did have a way to wrong-foot him. He cleared his throat, and sniffled. The irritation in his sinuses was spreading, moving forward, just begging him to…

He forced himself to speak, refusing to let his voice waver.

“There’s a hurricane forming off the coast of Altir. Hurricanes have no business forming there, and yet this is the second in the space of a year. I can find nothing in my research to explain it, and no history of anything similar occurring in the region. I thought… As you…”

He trailed off, rubbing his nose again, cheeks burning as he felt Thalassa’s silver eyes upon him.

“As I predate your written histories, you thought my memory might offer something your research cannot?”

“I… I did wonder…”

Crawford grimaced, feeling almost lightheaded with sheer irritation. He held his breath, and bit down hard on his tongue. His nostrils flared, and he scrubbed beneath them urgently with his fingers. Completely against his will, he gave a tremendous snort, loud and congested and completely revolting. Cheeks now positively flaming, he buried his face in his hands, bowing his head, mortified.

“I… Please, forgive, me, I… This wretched cold… I shouldn’t have called…”

 Though he refused to look at Thalassa, he heard her laughter, soft and warm with amusement, and felt her cool hand on his wrist, forcing him to lower his hands. Chancing a glance at his companion, he found her looking at him with fondness and concern. She raised her hand to cup his cheek, and Crawford only barely stopped himself from leaning into the touch, scrabbling back to some semblance of decorum at the last moment.

“How unwell you must feel, to be in such a state even here! You have nothing to apologize for, my friend, and there is nothing to forgive. I only wish I could do more to set your mind at ease. Alas, I’ve never known the waters in question to be home to such weather.”

Crawford groaned, bowing his head once more.

“I thought as much. I apologize for disturbing you. I should…”

“You should be gentler with yourself. And allow me to help. When I awaken, I shall go there myself. Perhaps I may see more from the depths than is visible from above.”

“I… I never meant for you to awaken, I… I can’t ask you to…”

“And you haven’t asked. I have offered, and will do as I say. In the meantime, I believe you have weather stations in the area? People shall receive warning of the conditions?”

“I… Well, yes, but I…”

“Then for now, you have done all that can be reasonably expected of you.”

“Yes, but I…”

Thalassa shook her head, and reached out, resting a cool fingertip on his lips, silencing him.

‘Go back now, my friend. And sleep properly, without seeking out solutions even in your dreams. Call on me again when you feel well, and I shall tell you what I have seen.”

Crawford sighed, and closed his eyes. His nose threatened to drip, and he snuffled pathetically.

“… May I not stay a little longer?”

Thalassa’s smile widened.

“I would be glad of the company. But I suspect you may not have a choice. Here. Let me help you along, so you can get to your bed sooner.”

With that, the cool fingertip left his lips, and instead flicked lightly against his nose, teasing the raw skin of his septum. The tickle flared to life in response, and Crawford’s breath caught, his eyes opening wide in alarm as he pulled back, covering his nose and mouth with both hands.

“HaaAAhh! Ahhh…”

“Bless you, my friend, and I hope to see you again soon.”

Crawford caught one last glimpse of Thalassa’s smiling face, before his teary eyes closed, his chest expanding with a great, urgent “HhaaAAHhh…”

“HhAASSHOO!”

Neptune, having perched himself on Crawford’s lap, leapt back with a yap of surprise as Crawford was jolted from his slumber, lurching forward with a tremendous, spraying sneeze. Crawford, disoriented and looking borderline drunk from both slumber and sneeze, had no chance of stopping the next, only managing to clumsily bring a hand up in time to mist it with spray.

“Uhh… HhhUHHhhRUSHHOOO!”

Neptune heaved a sigh, and crawled beneath Crawford’s chair as he helplessly gasped in a breath to fuel the inevitable third.

“HhhYYYFFFfffsssSSHHOO! Ughh…”

With a tremendous clanging and clattering, hailstones began to rain down, pinging off various metal instruments and the glass of the windows, and covering the floor in tiny while balls of ice, ready to melt into the puddles of rain already gathered. Crawford groaned miserably, taking his bandana and blowing his nose until he was out of breath. As Neptune emerged from beneath the chair to give him an admonishing look, Crawford reached down to scratch his ears.

“Alright, old man. Let’s go to bed. We can see cleaning all this up in the morning.”

Groaning and snuffling, limping slightly, Crawford hauled himself to his feet and made his slow, shuffling way to his bedroom, Neptune at his heels. As he changed for bed, his thoughts lingered on the beach and temple from his dreams, and the ancient being within. Next time he sought her out in his dreams, he hoped, she might meet him on that same beach once more.

“The Texture Transfer Manual is currently on hold in the library until Willownook University gets permission for duplication from Obard Academy,” Professor Swanfeather cautioned as the class began to conclude, “until it does, please do not attempt any duplication spells to snag an extra copy…I will message you all on Canvas when we get approval, but I suspect it’ll be at least two business days. Next week, I’d like to see you all prepared for texture transmogrification demonstrations in groups of two.”

A chorus of poorly-stifled annoyance filled the room, to the old halfling professor’s amusement. “Oh come now, you mustn’t grouse at the prospect of new friendships! Let this be an opportunity, find someone who you haven’t spoken to this week. Find a new friend, and enjoy the tides of change!”

You couldn’t help but look at the back of Mycah’s head in thought. You watched his ears lift at the professor’s words, before dismissively pinning back into airplane mode. He eyed the vacancies on all sides of him solemnly.

The distant chimes of the hour rang. The class rose in quick bursts of students, some eagerly launching to find partners, others making their exit. Mycah was among the latter group—he was out the doors before you could muster up the courage to ask.

Oh well, a fleeting moment. You were sure you could catch him tomorrow morning during Applied Brewing, it wasn’t like this was your only shot.

Noon was spent in the library. You needed to return the psychology books you’d used for last week’s paper, as much as it pained you. You didn’t expect to get sucked into the psychology of linguistics in verbal enchantment components as much as you did.

“Hh-hHh…snf! Hhh..! Hdd’ZZISSHHhuw-!” It took everything not to wheel around towards the source of the sound. That was Mycah, he was somewhere in the library, on the second…no, third floor. Perhaps your opportunity hadn’t evaded you after all! You had never been quicker to place the books in the return slot, and rush to a nearby elevator in pursuit. The third floor was cramped with book cases, each one filled to bursting with hefty texts and tomes. Occasionally, the labyrinth of dust and parchment would open up to a study area or two—brief pockets occupied by small tables and whispering students. There would be a narrow corridor, and then four humans reciting a divination spell over a letterboard—goofing off, certainly. Another corridor, and the next set of tables would be empty. Or at least, almost empty.

It shouldn’t have surprised you to see Mycah solely occupying a four-person table alone. A crumpled tissue was making its best effort to keep clear mess from overflowing and leaking all over his face. It pressed firmly against his orange and red nostrils, and evidence of allergic tears made his cheeks glisten.

Something about him compelled you to approach at last—perhaps it was the empty tissue pack on the table that you could replace with your own. You kept your voice low and level when pardoning yourself and making an introduction. When he realized he was being addressed, his hands hurried to his eyes, hastily clearing the residue. Something about the swiftness suggested those weren’t necessarily allergic tears he grasped at. An empathetic rush tugged your shoulders down.

Mycah cleared his throat, his nose squeaking noisily whenever he sniffled. “Afternoon, ah…Aspen Mycah. You can just call me Mycah, though. We have Trans-301 together, right?”

That was correct, among other things. Mycah tossed his last tissue in a nearby bin, which joined a gracious amount of them in the steel basket. Each was folded over itself twice—Mycah likely blew his nose by pinching it over his nostrils, before folding it a second time to wipe at any residue. That’d also explain the chapped look of his septum.

“Ah, well, I do have the Texture Tansfer Manual, but I’m in no rush to study it if you need it. I’ll probably be here the rest of the day anyhow.”

The hefty book in his grasp was quickly closed and offered forward to you with both hands. He was trying his hardest not to breathe out of his mouth, but the poor thing was terribly stuffed up—one nostril sounded like it was refusing to cooperate at all. In his attempts to sniff and sniff and sniff for clarity, the unclogged side was rudely introduced to the copious amount of dust kicked up in the brief exchange.

You hurriedly explained that you weren’t here to take the textbook from him. You were a transmutation student—you’d read that textbook, cover to cover, against your will, last year. You felt an embarrassed warmth rush to your face as Mycah responded in ticklish breaths.

“Hh-hh! Sorry- I’m—hhHh! Hxxt—…chw!!” You blessed his stifle sincerely. He wasn’t done, “Htt’ppchtt!! I’m so s-ssorry, snf! Dust makes me sneeze like crazy.”

The book was set back on the table when you blessed him again. Since he brought the subject up, you took the opportunity to offer him the tissues in your possession. The quiet shock on his face amused you a bit—goodness, had no one offered him tissues before??

“Are you sure..? I can make my own, I don’t want to take these unless it’s truly alr—hhigh—hdD’iishhhuw!” He whipped his head away quickly into his bent elbow. It was quite wet, leaving his head buried in his arm from the unfortunate sounds of mess. You blessed him again, setting the tissues down within reach, before grabbing one to offer to his free hand.

As he cleaned himself off, you gave him a bit of privacy, busying yourself instead with setting your bag down on the opposite end of his table. He blew as gently as he could into the tissue, folded it, and tried his hardest to blotch the residue before adding it to the collection in the waste bin. Hah! Looks like your observation was correct.

You brought up the masterclass assignment—there was no smoother segue you could find into it, but oh well. Requiring pair projects in university felt a bit redundant to you, and Mycah seemed to chuckle in agreement.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Saying ‘find a new friend,’ to a lecture hall of wizards feels like an oxymoron.”

You’d be his friend!

…A beat of silence hung between the both of you once you said it. You winced inwardly—was it too cringe to just outright say that nowadays? To emphasize your point, you took the vacant chair to his immediate left, and busied yourself grabbing your scrolls and notes. Though, when you looked up, he was still staring at you with raw disbelief. It hit him, hard. It looked difficult for him to swallow. You knew the face of stifling tears, you had felt it on your own so many times before.

You tried your hardest to tread delicately, lightheartedly asking if anyone had offered that before. He shook his head, and you mentioned how honored you were to be the first.

“Goodness, these allergies,” he spoke clumsily, rubbing his eyes under his glasses with a fist. He was trying to preemptively clear tears that hadn’t quite formed yet—poor thing, didn’t he know that’d only spur them on quicker? You both knew his words were a pitiful half-truth, he only verbalized it to excuse being so touched.

You asked if hugs were something he was alright with. He hesitated, and you stood to prove you meant it.

“I—yeah, sorry, I was just…snf! Caught off g—”

You embraced him the moment he had stood and pushed his chair in. He tensed for a moment, but a sincere squeeze invited him to lean in and return it.

You felt a warm ache in your stomach as he began to tremble in your arms. His body was flinching with sobs he refused to verbalize, aside from shuddering inhales that grew wetter each time. You rubbed his back and leaned in—it was the best you could do for him at the moment. He was a lonely soul, who likely tricked himself into believing it was by choice. You knew that feeling all too well.

It was uncertain how long the two of you held one another. It would’ve been longer if not for Mycah’s breath catching. He pawed at you to let him go, turning away with reddened eyes and a graciously dripping nose. That was the thing with holding back tears, they’d only drain into his nose and make it run profusely.

“I’m gonna s—sneeze,” which was alright, of course, “hH..! Ihh- hdD- Ihhtzzschhuwwh!! Hhhittszchhhuw!”

His nose clearly didn’t take too kindly to the salty tears flushing through them. The muffled sneezes sounded thick with mess, loosening up a once-stuffy nose into a water feature. When he lifted his head from his arm again, you could see the mucus trembling behind his twitching nostrils, patiently waiting like dollops of honey hanging from its comb. It made his face scrunch up in desperation. His nose tickled so severely that it was growing impossible to hide.

Maybe it would be best to skip the studying session, at least for now. A dusty library and a wet, allergic nose wasn’t the best combination. You made an offer to talk together in the courtyard instead, and perhaps find him a proper box of tissues on the way.

“That…I’d like that, yeah…”

Mycah tucked your tissue pack in his pocket and the both of you gathered your things. Mycah’s sniffles had become syrupy and heavy, despite how gentle he was trying to be.

It was gorgeous outside today, and no one was taking advantage of it aside from the wizards training in the broom field. As the two of you walked down the vaulted stone skybridge, you made a pit stop at a nearby bathroom to acquire a roll of toilet paper. Out came your wand, and you demonstrated with a bit of pride as the roll was transformed into a quaint, white tissue box. An extra-fluffy tissue blossomed from its top.

Mycah’s needy nose twitched greedily when he laid eyes upon it. “Thank you, you’re so generous—here, I could…hHhcould trade you back your pack,”

Mycah reached into his pocket, but you insisted he keep those too. He struggled awkwardly as the tickle of a building sneeze sprouted on his expression. It was rushing up his nose faster than he could react to it, and amidst redirecting his hands towards the fresh box, he whipped his head over his shoulder.

“hHuhHh—! UHhk’ssSCHHhhww!!” The poor thing snapped at the hip, openly spraying the floor and catching the front of his shirt in the blast. As you blessed him woefully, the box was inched closer. He shied away from it, cupping his hands over his face in horrified embarrassment.

“I’mb so sorry—I’mb so gross, it’s a mess…” he blubbered with a flushed face. You didn’t mind, and to be frank, it was only a matter of time before a sneeze like that happened, what with the tears and allergies. 

…If the two of you hadn’t just met, you would’ve offered to help clean him up. Oh well, all in due time! At least Mycah wasn’t shy about blowing his nose productively now, after all that embarrassment. 

The two of you found a quiet spot on the cobblestone stairs. Freckles of sunlight pierced the trees and kissed your matching robes.

“They’re so soft,” Mycah mumbled into the handful of tissues against his face. “It’s a perfect texture transmogrification, how did you do that?”

You remembered it well from the Texture Transfer Manual, specifically in the prologue: ‘A great deal of transmutation magic is intentionality.’ The toilet paper was a scratchy nightmare, and a lot of the incantation was dedicated towards something easier on his nose.

“…the world needs more people with your type of kindness, I think,” Mycah nodded quietly, “thank you again…for…for a- for a lot, honestly. For asking to be my friend, the tissues, the hug—I only just realized I haven’t hugged another person in over a year.”

For a while, the two of you simply talked. Talked about all manner of things, as if you’d been speaking this way to one another for years. Among them were the obvious ice breakers; areas of study, free time, passions. Mycah was just entering his second year of conjuration for his undergraduate degree. He was the son of Professor Aisha Mycah, who taught at QIAA (the Queensland Institute of Applied Arcana). She developed the mobility band, a magical bracelet that could summon and store mobility aids. 

She was his biggest inspiration, that was no surprise. Thanks to her, he often was at the top of his class. She never pressured him into following in her footsteps, in fact, she insisted he didn’t study where she taught out of a necessity for independence and individuality. It made sense why Mycah hadn’t hugged someone in so long.

He was finding himself out, and that was stressful. He was in a chess club, but not many liked playing with someone who was too good at the game. He was a tabletop nerd, D&D among his favorites, and would play weekly in downtown Mendacem. Most of the players didn’t speak to each other outside of those Thursday nights. He had a roommate, a human named Thomas, and the two were close!

“At least I’d like to think we are,” a bitter addendum that made your brow furrow. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s my best friend…I just…I don’t know. I get the feeling I’m not his. Is that weird to say?”

As he elaborated, you couldn’t help but agree. They were different, he was this swiftbroom jock who spent as much time as he could with his team. Mycah and Thomas did a lot together, but usually beneath a cloud of thrill Thomas had for his teammates. Mycah didn’t blame him, to be clear: quite the opposite. It was always heartwarming to see the guy laugh and cry with such a tightly-knit group of good people. Mycah was, as he put it to you, “…simply jealous, and too ashamed to admit it, you know? I-it’s..! Stupid, really: but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that amongst everyone I’m friends with, I’m their second choice at best. It’s stupid because I should be grateful for what I’ve got, or maybe I should put more effort into being a better friend for the people I care about—”

There was a painful pause. A sniffle followed it. “…but I dunno. I get in my head. I worry it’s something about me that’s holding me back from it all. Like, of course I’m not closer friends with one of Willownook’s greatest athletes. I can hardly walk between classes without gasping for air. And it’s also hard to make friends as a tiefling, especially at a predominantly-ord institution like this. I don’t really fit in with the other tieflings, I’m too studious and complicit with the system for them.”

Mycah scowled at himself in the reflection of his Oxford shoes. “And I’m not—”

He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t need to, either. The hurt, pitifully sour look he gave his shoes spoke for him. He couldn’t see how gentle and sweet he looked, those poor, kind eyes behind those round spectacles. The smattering of spots, the beautifully flawed acne scars. He’d blinded himself to his own beauty years ago, and that sort of blindness was hard to reverse.

“Sorry,” he cleared his throat, and blew his nose, “I didn’t realize this would just turn into a vent on my end…you’ve been nothing but kind and generous to me. I-I didn’t know I had so much on my chest—”

There was a rising panic in his voice; had he already sullied the chance of a new friend?

Of course not.

You asked for a second embrace. He tearfully accepted. He was doing the best he could to keep himself together, but you didn’t shame him when he fell apart in your arms.

“Bloody nine,” he parted after a minute or two, his sniffles squeaking, “your poor robes…snff! Thank you—I’m gonna start sneezing again at this rate.”

You tore a few tissues from the box, and after a request for permission, lifted his glasses and gently patted his sorrowful eyes. You felt that warm ache in your stomach return as his once-dormant tail curled and lifted with comfort. The moment was short, at least before hitching breaths interrupted the serenity.

“I’m ss-hHh! sorry,” he sighed, but his breath snagged again. “I’m a really sneezy perHh-! Hhh..!”

You hurriedly handed him the tissues his eyes were wiped with, and he buried his nose in them, turning away.

“HHedDZZSschhw!! Ihh- iih! ihg’ISSHHhw!! HHheh-! hnKKSSHhhww!!” It would develop into a fit of nine. He was too exhausted to hide their intensity. You were certain to bless each and every one of them.

“Thank you…snff!! Snfft…I’m sorry, you’re gonna have to get used to that.”

You could get used to it alright, but you didn’t dare say that out loud. Instead, it was something more blanketed—it was hardly a bad thing, everyone sneezes, or something else to that effect.

“Looks like bad weather at the lighthouse.”

Ruby, polishing glasses behind the bar, rolled her eyes as a fisherman, dripping wet from the rain outside, approached her Aunt Hortense with this grim warning. Two weeks working at the Dropped Anchor, banished to the tiny fishing town of White Water for “unbecoming behaviour” with the attractive son of a prominent cleric in the city, had done little to curb her impatience, or tendency towards sarcasm.

“It’s bad weather everywhere. Look outside!”

The fisherman looked to Ruby with disbelief, shaking his head disapprovingly.

“Aye… But it’s bad weather at the lighthouse.”

Aunt Hortense gave a disapproving tut, looking up from polishing the bar and meeting the fisherman’s eyes.

“Ignore Ruth. She…”

“Ruby!”

“Ignore Ruth. She doesn’t know, doesn’t care, and won’t be staying. Does it look bad? Poor Mister Seaver, out there all alone…”

Ruby snorted.

“Does he expect a social life, living in a lighthouse?”

Her elders ignored her completely, with the fisherman going on in grim tones.

“We’ll see how bad soon enough. His supply run day, isn’t it? And if he’s got what half the town’s had…”

Aunt Hortense’s brow creased with worry.

“If he’s got what half the town’s had, he’ll be sneezing up a storm. I’ll see that there’s something on the stove in case he wants to stop by for a meal, and we’ll just have to hope he has matters under control.”

As Aunt Hortense retreated to the kitchen, Ruby turned to the fisherman with interest, no longer even pretending to polish the glass in her hands, instead leaning in for a chat.

“So, what’s the big deal about this Seaver? Someone important? How come I never see him around town, if that’s the case?”

The fisherman shook his head disapprovingly.

“He’s a wizard, is our Mister Seaver. A weather wizard, and a good one, too! So mind you show him proper respect, and leave him be, he likes his space.”

Ruby rolled her eyes, turning back to her glasses and making a half-hearted effort at polishing one.

“Who ever heard of wizards these days? I thought they all live off in towers somewhere, all high and mighty and above it all. And if he’s so good with weather, can’t he warm things up a little? It’s been miserable for days!”

The fisherman opened his mouth, no doubt to chastise her, only to be cut off by a gust of bitter wind as the door opened, and a stranger entered. A tall figure, clad in an oilskin coat dripping with rainwater, his face largely obscured by a blue woolen scarf, and his hair wild and damp from the weather. Ruby caught a glimpse of hazel eyes over his scarf, looking watery from the chill wind.

A terrier trotted in ahead of the stranger. A scrappy-looking little creature, with one ragged ear, and a tail held proudly in the air like a banner. He looked up at the stranger, all attentiveness, and Ruby heard a soft, hoarse voice from behind the scarf.

“Go and sit, Neptune.”

The terrier, Neptune, plainly familiar with the place, trotted over to an isolated table in the corner, while his master approached the bar, hanging back a little as if unsure if the fisherman sitting there was being attended to first. The fisherman nodded respectfully and gestured for him to approach, and shot Ruby a warning glance, as if silently urging her to show respect as well. Evidently this was Mister Seaver, the local wizard.

Never one to blindly bow to those deemed respectable, Ruby had a quip ready along with an empty glass, when the stranger stepped forward, carefully unwinding his scarf. Ruby’s cheeky remark died in her throat.

The term ‘wizard’ had conjured up a mental image of an old man with long white hair and an equally long white beard, with flowing robes and perhaps a pointed hat. A somewhat ridiculous creature from a storybook. Instead, the man revealed as the scarf peeled away was strong-jawed with a hint of stubble, his age hard to determine. Handsome, in a weathered and weary sort of way. Jaw-length brown hair peppered with grey, gentle, intelligent eyes, and a prominent nose, the bridge of which was a touch irregular, as if broken sometime in the past.

Said nose was absolutely ravaged with a seemingly brutal cold. Rubbed red and raw, decidedly damp about the nostrils, it sounded dreadfully congested as the wizard wrinkled it and gave a marshy snuffle.

Ruby felt her cheeks flush. Something about a handsome man with a cold always made something inside of her squirm. It was no coincidence that the cleric’s son who had been her undoing had constantly been catching the sniffles. She broke into a catlike grin, leaning forward on the bar a little, displaying herself to best advantage.

“You must be Mister Seaver. I’ve heard all about you.”

The wizard only briefly met her eyes, and then lowered his gaze. Not to where Ruby wanted it, annoyingly, but rather looking at a corner of the bar, as if embarrassed to look her in the eye. He sniffled again, his nostrils arching with the effort of it, and he rubbed a knuckle beneath his leaking nose.

“I am. Crawford Seaver. At your service. You… erm… You’re new…”

He turned away slightly to cough into his fist, and Ruby took the opportunity to tug the neckline of her blouse a little further down. The fisherman, watching her disapprovingly, tutted and shook his head.

“I am indeed. Ruby. A pleasure to meet you. What can I do for you? You look as if you need warming up…”

Her attempt at a sultry manner was ruined by Aunt Hortense returning and taking her shoulder, pulling her back and directing her towards the kitchen, scowling all the while.

“If you’re not going to make yourself useful out here, you can go back there and start washing dishes. Now, Mister Seaver. You look wretched, I imagine you’ll want something warm in your belly. We’ve a mutton stew, if that suits?”

The wizard, Crawford, nodded, fishing a frayed old bandana from his pocket and roughly pinching at his nose. For a moment, his eyes took on a distinctly absent look, and his breath caught. Ruby, lingering in the kitchen door, watched unashamedly, and tried not to feel too disappointed when the vaguely sneezy expression faded, and Crawford breathed a sigh of relief.

As did the fisherman, who, Ruby noted, had been watching Crawford nervously.

Odd.

Crawford spoke up again, his quiet voice muddled with congestion.

“Thank you, Mrs. Platt. And if I might have some tea? My throat…”

“Sounds like you’ve gargled gravel, and no doubt you could use some steam to clear you up. Go and sit down, the girl and I will take care of it. Ruth, kettle. Now!”

Ruby shot a sulky look at her aunt, and, before retreating into the kitchen, looked back over her shoulder at the ailing wizard. As she watched, he took his bandana again and mopped at his streaming nose, before rubbing it none too gently. His breath caught, his eyelids fluttering. For a moment, Ruby noted both Aunt Hortense and the fisherman tensing up, the fisherman edging away a little. Both only relaxed when Crawford let out the breath as a soft moan, rubbing his nose once more.

Aunt Hortense spoke up.

“You have those sneezes under control?”

Crawford’s cheeks coloured a touch, and he nodded, avoiding her eyes. Stranger and stranger, Ruby mused, before retreating into the kitchen as Aunt Hortense turned and glared. Grumbling under her breath, she set about filling the kettle and hanging it over the fire, while Aunt Hortense came to fill a bowl with steaming mutton stew, and slicing bread to go with it.

“Why’s everyone so nervous of him sneezing? It’s just a cold, and we’ve had half the town hacking and spluttering all over the bar these last couple of weeks. No more risk of catching it from him than any of them.”

Aunt Hortense shot her an irritable scowl, placing the bowl and bread on a tray and passing it to her.

“Don’t you go meddling in our Mister Seaver’s business. It’s none of your concern. Now, take that out, and then leave him be. The poor man’s ill, he doesn’t need any of your nonsense!”

“Oh, I don’t know. He looks rather miserable. A little nonsense might cheer him up!”

“Ruth, I swear to whatever god happens to be listening, if you keep talking back…”

“Alright, alright, I’m going!”

Tray balanced on one hand, Ruby made her way back out to the bar, spotting Crawford now seated at the corner table, his dripping oilskin removed to reveal the same sort of cable-knit woolen jumper the local fishermen wore. He rested his head on one hand, and with the other, kept his bandana pressed to his nose, alternately pinching and rubbing. Evidently the swollen appendage was troubling him immensely.

The little dog, Neptune, sat obediently at his feet, and alerted him to Ruby’s arrival with a sudden “Wuff!”. Crawford sat up a little straighter, and lowered his bandana, avoiding her eyes once more. Up close, she could hear him giving soft little sniffles with every other breath. Offering her most charming smile, Ruby set down his food, and lingered, holding onto the tray.

“That ought to put some colour back in your cheeks.”

“Thank you. Very much appreciated.”

Crawford hesitated, seemingly unsure whether to begin eating in her company. No doubt unused to the charms of city girls, Ruby mused, toying flirtatiously with her braid. She offered a teasing smile.

“Everyone says you’re a wizard. You don’t look like one.”

Crawford blinked up at her. There was a hint of feverish haze to his eyes that melted something inside of her, and when he replied, soft and hesitant, his voice was so heavy with congestion, he struggled to make himself understood.

“Erm… Then I must resort to the old cliché, Miss Ruby, regarding appearances being deceptive.”

“I suppose they must be. Your appearance says you should be in bed. Yet here you are, up and about!”

Crawford flushed a little deeper, and looked down at his bowl as if it might hold the answer to escaping this conversation. Unwilling to let him get away just yet, Ruby grinned, leaning her hip on the table.

“So, if you’re really a weather wizard, can you conjure us up a ray of sunshine? Gods know we could use it around here!”

Crawford continued to stare down into his food, stirring it idly and addressing the bowl.

“That would be inadvisable for a number of reasons. Natural conditions shouldn’t be… Hehhh… Shouldn’t be tampered with. Too much… Huhhh…. Uhh… Sndfff!... potential for… for unforeseen… consequences… I’m so sorry, I beg your pardon, I…”

Shaking his head as if he might somehow deny the inevitable, Crawford lurched forward into his much-abused bandana, though, having struggled to talk his way through the build-up to his sneeze, he buried his nose in the damp folds too late, failing to entirely cover an impressive plume of spray.

“HhhhHHRUFFFSSSHOO!”

It was as if someone had suddenly pulled out a weapon. The various tavern patrons, who had been shooting Crawford the occasional worried glance, suddenly pulled abruptly away. One or two leapt to their feet. One dived under his table.

Silence hung in the air for a moment, broken only by Crawford’s unsteady breathing and pitifully damp snuffling. At length, cheeks and ears flushed red, looking as if he wished to disappear, Crawford emerged from behind his bandana at last, and chanced a brief look around the tavern, raising a hand apologetically.

“… Sorry… Under control…”

The patrons returned to their drinks, though wary glances continued to be sent in Crawford’s direction.

Ruby, mouth dry, face warm, struggled to find her words. Gods, the man sneezed like a thunderstorm. Loud, and wet. She swallowed hard, and struggled not to giggle as she spoke.

“Well, I’ll bless you, even if no one else here has manners. It’s alright. No need to be shy. Sneeze as much as you like.”

Crawford shrank into himself a little more, and dabbed at his long-suffering nose.

“I’d very much prefer not to. Apologies. I… You ought to keep your distance.”

Almost as if he meant to chase her off, Crawford buried his nose in his bandana once more, and, thin chest expanding with a slightly wheezy inhale, let loose with a blow that rivaled a foghorn, giving his nostrils a vigorous rub afterwards. Three times, he repeated this process, and at last tucked his bandana away once more, drooping over the table, somehow still looking heavy with congestion.

Far from being deterred, Ruby clucked her tongue sympathetically, and tried not to squirm. If ever a man needed to be held…

“Oh, you needn’t worry about me. I never catch anything. Except when I decide to chase something.”

Once again, her flirtation fell on deaf ears. Crawford merely shrank in on himself further, and shivered. Ruby fought back a sigh.

“Alright. I’ll leave you to eat, and get that tea ready for you.”

As she passed the bar, the fisherman, now being poured a glass of ale by Aunt Hortense, let out a low chuckle.

“You’re barking up the wrong wizard there, my girl!”

Ruby’s cheeks flushed with annoyance as she stormed back into the kitchen, and poured hot water into the teapot to prepare it for the leaves.

“Honestly, does anyone in this washed-up wreck of a town have taste?”

Waiting for the pot to warm, Ruby went to listen by the door, and struggled not to squirm as she heard another sneeze from Crawford’s table. Once again, it sounded loud, soaking, laden with cold… And was once again it was accompanied by the scraping of chairs and sound of movement as patrons drew away, followed by a hoarse, miserable apology, and assurance that all was under control.

“Honestly, they can sail through a storm but can’t handle a man with the sniffles…”

As Ruby emerged from the kitchen with a large, steaming mug of tea, her attraction to the ailing wizard merged with sympathy. Looking to his table, she saw him shivering hopelessly, having pulled his oilskin back over his narrow shoulders, poking miserably at his food. And, as if to further compound his misery, all those who had been anywhere remotely near his table had relocated to the other side of the tavern.

“Honestly, it’s just a cold…”

Ruby glanced at Aunt Hortense, and found her at a table at the other side of the room, laying down the law regarding a patron’s unpaid tab. Taking her chance, Ruby ducked beneath the bar, seizing a bottle of whiskey and adding a generous shot to the mug of tea. That ought to chase away the chills!

Crawford, feeding Neptune a piece of mutton from his stew, looked up at Ruby with bleary eyes as she approached his table, setting down the mug with a smile.

“There. That’ll have you nice and warmed up in no time.”

Worn and weary and wretchedly full of cold as he looked, this time, Crawford managed a slight, shy smile in return.

“Thank you. Very much appreciated.”

Crawford wrapped his hands around the mug, sighing in relief at the warmth, and raised it to his lips, attempting to inhale some of the steam through his stuffy nose. Failing this, he took a deep sip instead.

His eyes, closed in relief at the warmth, suddenly opened in horror.

“Is… Huhh… Is there… Snff-SNF! Huhhh… HaAHhh… whiskey in this?”

“Just a nip! I thought it might warm you up?”

Crawford gave a flustered snort, setting the mug down and pushing it away, and grabbing urgently for his bandana. His reddened nostrils flared wide, and he shook his head, as if he might somehow refuse the oncoming sneeze, even as his eyelids fluttered closed and his chest and shoulders jerked with violent hitches.

“I… I can’t… Ihh… I’m sorry… I… Ehh… HehEHhh… HhhHRFFFSHHHOO!”

Crawford did his best to smother the explosion in his bandana, but to no avail. It was torn from him, throat-scraping and violent, and already he was gasping in air for another. Neptune gave a sharp yap, and retreated under the table between Crawford’s feet. The patrons at the other side of the table rose to their feet, and Ruby heard one of them cry out.

“Best clear out, here he goes!”

“HhiieeffsssSSHOO!”

The second sneeze left Crawford panting and teary-eyed, bracing himself against the table, coughing weakly, but already drawing in air for a third effort. Several patrons hurried out the door. Others ducked under their tables. Aunt Hortense, spying Ruby, came storming over and seized her by the arm.

“Get away, you silly girl, before…”

“HhhHHRAAASSSSHOO!”

The sound of the sneeze itself was nearly drowned out by a crack of thunder, and a blinding brightness as lightning flashed just outside the window. Wind shrieked through the tavern, blowing an abandoned newspaper about the room. Ruby gave a shriek of alarm, clutching Aunt Hortense as the sudden violent gust tore at her hair.

Crawford, rubbing furiously at his swollen, leaking nose, attempted to stammer out an apology.

“I’m so sorry… The whiskey… I… Iihhhh… AhhHAAaahh… AHHhhHASHOO!”

Aunt Hortense swore, shoving Ruby aside and taking Crawford by the arm, trying to haul him to his feet.

“What whiskey? Who… Alright, time for you to step outside!”

“I… Hhhehhh…”

“Oh, no you don’t! You keep that nose of yours under control!”

Crawford struggled to get to his feet, but, seemingly clumsy from illness, stumbled back into his seat with the sheer force of the next sneeze.

“HhhhHHYAAASSSSHH!”

Aunt Hortense took Crawford by the arm once more, snapping at Ruby as she did so.

“Help me get him out, girl! Before…”

“EhhhHESSSHOO!”

Another violent wind ripped through the tavern, and this time, fat, heavy raindrops began to fall, slowly at first, then thick and fast. Ruby gasped as they splashed against her skin, rapidly cooling her flushed cheeks. Seeing the urgency of the situation now, she took Crawford’s other arm, and between them, the two women helped him to the door, the poor wizard already shuddering with urgent hitches, fueling the next sneeze.

“I… I’m really so… Huh! UhhHuhh… sorry, I… HhHRUFFFFSSSHOO!”

The force of it nearly sent Crawford stumbling, and Ruby put an arm around him to steady him as they stepped out into the street, where wild winds tore at their hair and clothes, and sleet stung their skin. The chill, Ruby noted, made the feverish heat radiating from Crawford all the more pronounced. With her arm around him, she could feel his chest heaving, readying for the next effort. The little dog, Neptune, yapped urgently, getting underfoot in his attempts to herd them onwards.

“HhhHRASSCHOO!”

Ruby felt the spray of that one on her cheek, and the shiver that ran through her wasn’t entirely from the cold.

As Crawford, teary-eyed, nose streaming, looking exhausted, stumbled to a halt as the next sneeze began to overwhelm him, Aunt Hortense took Ruby by the arm and tugged her back, looking grim. Still reeling from all that had unfolded, Ruby watched with wide eyes as Crawford leaned back in readiness, and was flung forward by the force of one final, exhausting sneeze.

“Ehh… Hehh… Huhhh... HhhhHHUUURUSSSSHOOO!”

 One last burst of howling wind swirled outwards from the unfortunate wizard, followed by an eerie silence, broken only by his soft moaning and snuffling, as the pattering rain turned to a thick, heavy fall of snow.

Crawford, shivering as snowflakes settled over his hair and clothes, raised his now all but useless bandana to his nose and gave an exhausted, careful blow, and looked to Aunt Hortense with rheumy eyes, looking thoroughly miserable.

“I… I’m really so terribly sorry. I could have sworn I had it under control, only…”

Aunt Hortense folded her arms across her chest, shooting Ruby a look that promised dire consequences to come.

“Only this one slipped you a shot of whiskey, it seems. That’ll be coming out of your pay, girl! And as for the mess…”

Crawford held up a hand apologetically, wrinkling his nose and snuffling terribly.

“You mustn’t blame her, she didn’t know. And if you’ll let me catch my breath, I can clear all this up…”

“She knows better than to slip people drinks they haven’t asked for! And by the time you’ve collected yourself enough for that, you’ll have sneezed us up a proper storm!”

Unable to argue with that, Crawford visibly slumped, hanging his head, mopping at his nose once more. Aunt Hortense strode briskly back inside the tavern, and returned with Crawford’s scarf, which she briskly wrapped around his neck, before pulling his oilskin coat around him tighter.

“Go home, Mister Seaver. I’ll speak to the grocer and have your supplies sent to the lighthouse.”

“I… You mustn’t go to any trouble…”

“Did it sound like I was asking?”

“… Thank you. Good day, Mrs Platt.”

The wizard and his little dog turned to walk away, Neptune with his tail still carried high, Crawford with his metaphorical tail between his legs, sniffling and coughing all the while. Ruby watched them go, vaguely aware of Aunt Hortense scolding her.

“And you, my girl, can spend the rest of the day with a mop for company!”