#1 Mimicmage Fan

There’s usually a rippling across the lake’s surface, but today, it’s like looking into a mirror.

I glance at Trevor briefly — not even turning my whole head towards him. His cheeks are flushed red, and he’s staring at his reflection like I am mine. With how little of him I saw, you’d think I only really used my peripheral vision.

“It’s… frozen,” he mutters in more of a question than a statement. I shake my head, but I doubt he sees it. “I’ve never seen the lake this… still before.”

He’s right. Far across the water, the low hum of Zakuska Falls echoes like it always has. I raise my gaze to trace the sound, and, in the distance, I see the usual splashing of water. A mid-morning glare makes the top of Zakuska glisten.

“The waterfall isn’t frozen,” I tell Trevor. He finally raises his head, squinting as he tries to make out the sight in the distance. I take the time to actually look at him — the flush is still there, but I suppose it’s silly that I’d think it would just disappear after the intensity of our run here. Trevor furrows his brows, and it feels like we’re ten years old and stumbling through magic for the first time again. “The ripples just stop in the middle of the lake.”

His gaze falls back down to his reflection, and his hand creeps towards the water’s surface. I don’t hesitate; that was never something that turned out well before. In an instant, my fingers are wrapped around his wrist. It’s cold.

“S-sorry, Mara.” He pulls his hand, now balled into a tight fist, to his chest. “Maybe we should head back and let the guild handle this.”

I raise an eyebrow at him and respond in a whisper-scream, “There definitely weren’t any plans for us to handle this.” Trevor chuckles nervously. “No, of course not; I mean that we should leave the ‘checking the lake out’ to them.” I nod my head, and we both climb back onto our feet, dusting off the knees of our fustian uniforms before heading back to Zusa. We were planning to fill our waterskins with the water from here for our return, but it looks like neither physical thirsts nor thirsts for mystery will be quenched — at least not today and definitely not by us.

We don’t intend to go slow in case there’s an urgency we don’t know about, but we’re by no means going back as strong as we came in with our lack of water. I let Trevor walk a few paces ahead of me before I bring out my familiar.

Putting one hand into my pocket, I feel a weight crawl onto it through the spaces between my fingers. I open it slowly, peeking in with one eye to make sure nothing bad happened on the way here, and a bird no larger than my thumb greets me with the fluttering of its bright colourful wings. “Just keep an eye out and fly home if you see anything weird, okay?” It chirps, and I raise my palm slightly to help it take flight.

Then, I turn around. Trevor is staring at me. I… don’t like the look on his face.

-----

The Greatbell hadn’t yet tolled its second toll when I awoke this morning. That was a pity. I spent the entirety of last night getting bloodydamn blasted, and all I have to show for it is a headache much too soon in the morn.

One day a week — that’s all I’d gotten off for the past two months, and now that that’s been upped to four for this week, I can’t seem to drink myself to sleep for half of it? Gods forbid a young man lets himself breathe a bit!

I don’t even reach for my bedside table; I know drunk me — there’s no thoughtfully placed glass of water waiting. I wasn’t supposed to be awake for the ‘being hungover’ part. A groan escapes my gritted teeth, and I press the base of my palms to my forehead. It doesn’t do much, but it diverts some of the pain inside outwards. Perhaps if I’d been a bit of a brighter drunk, I’d’ve at least closed the window. The world looks unsteady — although, I doubt it looks as unsteady as it did last night — and the thought of getting up to shut the bloody window now only irritates me.

Would a pillow on my head make it much too hot for comfort? I take one and rest it lightly onto my face to block the light. It is, in fact, much too hot for comfort. More groaning. I make sure to include expletives between every few groans to ensure that anyone listening to me muffledly screaming into a cushion knows that I’m displeased with the circumstances.

“Ahem.”

Success.

“You ought to get that cough checked, Mortimer,” I say, face still covered. Mortimer is an alright fellow. He’s always been rather intrusive of my time and whereabouts, but I assume it’s because the man is madly in love with me. He won’t admit it, but there’s something emasculate about him.

“What?” The pillow doesn’t leave my face.

“You ought to get that—”

“I swear to Gods, if you’re saying ‘loser says what’, I’m going to hurt you.” There is a growl in his voice. I’m sure he’s overcompensating for something, but there’s nothing a bloke can do.

I slowly pull the pillow from my face, a smile revealed just for him. “And yet, you’re across the room not hurting me. Your acceptance of being the epitome of defeat is the humility that I admire in you, Mortimer.” I don’t look at him when I say that, but I know that he’s glaring at me from his desk like usual from the sound of his huff. In my peripheral vision, I see a shimmer of colour.

There is a plated serving of toast with banana and honeyspread and a large glass of tea on my bedside. It smells like chamomile.

I reach over and bring the glass to my lips. It’s a pain to get myself seated to do so, but every edible from that Mortimer has always worked wonders, so I trust it’ll pass. With a sip, I’m proven right once more. The brown-haired fellow has his back turned to me, but I can read the aggravation in his movements from across the room. “Still all up in my business?”

“You could have prepared something yourself if you were actually a good Healmage.” Ah, a feisty one, he is. I force myself up and move to stand behind him. The chap is an alright Healmage himself, but his true strength lies in his dedication to the art of human biology. His desk is home to several piles of books and journals and other things I’ve no understanding of along with small models that he plays with every now and then.

His hands toy around at what looks like a replica of a foot, functional toes and all. “Eugh, tickling your fancy this early in the morning?” I jest, but he doesn’t laugh. “If I can replicate her foot structure and find out what’s wrong, we might be able to help Leyla walk without the crutches without also having to spend so much on a higher-Tier Healmage.” His gaze does not meet mine when he says this, but I can see him shifting his attention away from the foot.

“You know, Rafe, if you worked a little harder, you might be able to do something with yourself. I don’t want to help hide another suspension from your father,” Mortimer says. Disgust is all I let my face show. He’s a pillock to think that working harder is going to be the thing that changes the game for me. I smile and put a hand on his shoulder, and when his gaze follows my hand, he finally tells me to put a shirt on. A rather entitled request considering we were all men in the dormitory, but I wouldn't have expected anything less from a bloke that wears vests all day.

As I make my way back to my bed, a little birdie makes its presence known at the window. Mortimer looks at the sound of its tweet.

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