#monthlymagic

Seems like I'm the only one left with that, that burning disgusting spite. I want to smash things. I want to shake them from their zombie like hypnosis. Everyone saying the same thing. Staying safe.

Cause suddenly magic is the enemy, the enemy among us, the enemy that divides us and unites us against each other.

I wish I could forget what I know. That I could leave my anger and the fire, that I could let my mind succumb to the pressure and my heart go numb. It would be easier. I would be part of the group again. I would be ignorant and happy, my fate in someone else's hands.

I miss it. I miss it so much to be stuck in rigid systems of senseless authories, to be sure of what I was doing, cause there was no choice to be made, because no one was asking.

Decisions and free will? Pche. They just make people miserable. Breaking under the pressure to decide for oneself, everyone will happily trade freedom for safety, fairness for submission, just so they wouldn't feel the guilt installed into them.

The media. The authorities. The experts. I don't even know who to blame anymore. Psychopaths among us? The vulnerable human nature to be and do good?

Twisting that intent is so easy. And now here were are. Lost on politics of rights, of existence, status, influence, recognition and dominance. Cause if you are against us, you are wrong and worthy of social death. If you are against us, you have no right to be free and happy. You are a monster guilty of human crime, of being too selfish to think about others, even if the rules make no sense and the only ones winning are the secret puppeteers behind it.

I don't know who to blame. I don't know how to fight. The frustration will eat me alive at this pace, and my revolting won't change anything. Stepping up would just get me killed.

Saeed sat with his back against a birch tree, gently twisting the little sprig between his fingers.

What are you?

At first glance, there was nothing remarkable about it: a narrow, flexible vine, with blade-shaped leaves sprouting out at regular intervals, reddish purple in color. A simple cutting from a simple plant. If all he was going on was its look, he’d figure it was one of thousands of ordinary plants native to the three realms.

But he was Saeed Azhari, and he wasn’t going on looks alone.

He took in a breath of crisp mountain air and let the background chatter of his mind fall silent. Within seconds, the aether filled his awareness, swirling and flowing around him like an invisible, immaterial mist. Lifeblood of the universe, the aether was the force which gave life to all things; even now he felt it coursing through him, humming throughout his body, providing the sturdy strength of the birch tree behind him, the contented calm of the grasses carpeting the hills as they drank in the warm afternoon sunlight.

And then, against the backdrop of all that, was this.

This anomaly of a plant. Absorbed in aether-oneness as he was now, Saeed sensed the plant’s essence more strongly than ever—the flickering, staticky edges, the buzzing hunger, the too-large energy signature for a thing of its size.

He’d been gardening since before he could remember, and had since spent his whole life dealing with plants of all sorts. To be sure, there were some unique ones out there, ones with strange and powerful qualities…and yet, none of them had ever been anything like this.

He narrowed his focus onto it, resisting the urge to flinch away, shaking off the sense that he was peering into the gaping jaws of a many-toothed beast. He borrowed a dose of the birch tree’s unwavering calm, letting it wash over him and hoping it would last. Then he allowed the edges of his metaphysical self to meet with those of the strange plant, dissolving.

As the bond coalesced, he spoke to it in the language of flora, which wasn’t one of words but of simple feelings and impressions. He let a soft, soothing reassurance blossom inside him and sent it outward. It’s okay, he tried to convey. I’m not gonna hurt you.

He gritted his teeth as the plant’s response lit up within him. Its energy was cold and blinding-bright, like winter sun glancing off an icicle, and it was restless, agitated. Barely contained. Saeed continued to radiate calm, hoping to settle it, but its disquiet only seemed to grow.

Back in his body, he felt his heart rate pick up. Something in his gut was telling him to back off, retreat, leave this thing alone and never look back—

Too late.

Without warning, it swallowed him.

It happened so fast it took him a moment to make sense of it. His essence was engulfed by that of the plant, siphoned from his body and confined within a bubble of icy, sparking voracity, leaving him trapped and formless.

No!

As far as he knew, his physical self was unharmed—probably—assuming he could get back to it in short order. If not…

No. No time to think about that now.

Hey! He turned his attention to the plant-being, thrusting out with a pulse of what little he had left of his energy. Let me go!

But it bounced back inward, and the plant didn’t listen. Now that he was…within it, he sensed its singleminded drive to expand itself ever further. That tiny, innocent herb was a ruse. This thing, whatever it was, had a bottomless desire to strengthen itself at any cost. What else—who else—had it consumed before him?

Tiny wisp of life that he was, Saeed use everything at his disposal, which wasn’t much. He thrashed and flailed, struggled and strained, but nothing worked. He did his damndest to scream.

Let me out of here!!!

The plant ignored him.

Saeed fell still, his hope rapidly fizzling. He needed to get back to his body. But what was he supposed to do? What could he offer it? Did it want for the same things plants usually wanted?

Please, he begged. If you let me go, I’ll find you a nice patch of earth. Some rich soil. Plenty of sunlight. Water. Anything you want.

Nothing.

For a long moment he remained quiet, thinking. There had to be something he could do to convince it.

An idea slowly took shape, and he decided to try one last thing.

He focused on his presence, and calmly, he began to expand it. He claimed a wisp of energy from the bubble around him, and then another, drawing it into himself. The plant reacted frantically, fighting to maintain itself. He could practically hear it hissing and spitting, clawing at its precious aether. But Saeed didn’t waver, and he felt himself grow stronger.

No, he said firmly. This belongs to me.

With rigid concentration, he soon had control over more of the shared energy than the plant did. He opened a gap in the bubble, letting himself flow back into his mortal form.

All at once he had lungs again, and they burned as he gasped for air, opening his eyes. The plant had fallen to the grass below, deceptively limp, but the connection hadn’t fully broken. It pulled at him, desperate to take what he’d reclaimed, but he was ready for it this time, and he pushed back.

Absolutely not, he said. This is mine. You can’t have it.

Reluctantly, the plant’s presence shrunk back into itself. He could’ve sworn he heard it whimper. He paused, staring at it, purple leaves splayed against green grass.

Then he made up his mind. Let me show you a better way, he offered to it, extending an incorporeal hand. Cautious but curious, the plant sent back a meek puff of agreement.

With the plant bearing witness, Saeed felt for the loose energy drifting all around them, floating in the air, the excess aether given off by living forms, yet unclaimed by new ones. It wasn’t as concentrated as the energy powering a living being, but it was there, freely available, and he demonstrated how to absorb it, invigorating himself with it.

“See,” he said aloud to the little vine, “you just have to be patient. But there’s plenty of it here, and you can have as much as you want.”

It repeated his action, and afterward, he felt a ripple of satisfaction flutter through it. Good, it seemed to say.

Saeed didn’t conceal the pride that swelled within him.

“Hey, you wanna go for a ride? There’s this neat place I can show you…”

Everything is set: lights are bright, props are set in place, and the music sets a mood for a scene to be played out. Yet there is something amiss. Or someone.

As a dancer arrives late to the room, she lowers her head, and rushes towards the dressing area. If someone spots her, they’d probably have a fit about her lack of punctuality.

Good thing, she’s already in her costume for the ballet that they’re putting out tonight. She’d be in trouble if she didn’t.

As some dancers leave a vanity table, she goes to check if she’s good to go.

Glancing at her face at a mirror, she trails a patch of rogue applied on her cheek. Her hair’s down and loose in ripples over her back. She fits a part for a princess waiting for her true love, instead of a confidante of the leading protagonist. Her pale costume, embroidered with gems and stitched with an exquisite fabric, appears to belong for the star of the story.

Only the cosmetics lets her look as if she’s a ghost. It covers most of her fair skin, erasing any remnants of energy within her. All she has to do is dance a part of a person, who’s haunted by darkness of her past. She jotted the entire idea and she’s no stranger of what unkind memories used to be.

She’s only a supporting dancer, not a principle dancer. She has a small solo act and rest of the show can proceed to go on without her.

It won’t fall apart if she goes.

Cassie takes a deep breath to clear her nerves.

It’s not her first dance performance. Yet it’s sure not to be in front of an audience either.

A stage manager beckons her to perform out there. She follows an instruction given to her. She moves some strands of her hair from her face.

Getting out to the center of the stage, she lies down over a wooden floor. A set of spotlights fall on her, ready to follow each of her steps.

Five, six, seven, eight. . .

When curtains begin rising, Cassie sits up to look at the audience. She lifts an arm, lowering it at her side. She gets up to a sinister resonance of music, raising her leg while maintaining her posture on foot. She leans downwards and stretches her arms behind with her head tilting backwards. Her muscles tighten at exertion except she has to go on.

Moving to a closed position, she stands with her feet close together. She slides them equally, causing a distance between them. She leaps in the air, reaching the floor with a careful landing.

Leaning to a side, she transfers a pressure onto a leg on full pointe. She tries to remain steady then twirls across stage while music changes into a slower rhythm. From her peripheral, the audience watches her unabashed interest.

A warmth lingers through her. She’s dancing without caring if she’s the leading star. She dances because she likes to.

Raising her arms in the air, she presses her leg over the other, and spins around. She leans herself forward, forming into a different position. She dances to a calm flow of music, rapt with it’s notes. Dancing with her best and ability that she trained for.

Dancing like there’s a hidden magic within the grace of her steps. It’s sweeping through her, guiding her to a tempo of a course.

Music accompanies her as she throws a leg in the air, pushing off the floor with another. She jumps up and lands precisely on her first leg.

A member of the crowd gasps.

She lowers herself, close to sinking into a heap.

Waiting for music to fade, she lets her eyes fall downcast.

As the audience gives a round of applause, she bows to them as velvet curtains fall. She goes backstage, where the next ensemble of dancers wait for their cue. She walks the room with a physical ache slowing her down.

It’s a good type of ache, though. It’s a result when she danced to her heart’s content. Being a ballet dancer’s incredible.

You’re a worthless piece of work, only good for nothing.

Numbed by a haunting voice, she fights an onslaught of insecurity. Maybe her efforts aren’t worth much.

***

Birds perch on a sill of a window, singing to a bright tune. Another bird taps it’s beak on the glass as if to enter. Mild rain crashes down on a grove of trees, trickling over their heads, and turn their feathers wet. They shake on cold temperature of the night. Dark clouds scattered across blue sky, concealing the moon and stars. Only streetlights illuminate a location.

It seems to resemble a painting: serenity of nature being an inspiration, birds being a part of it’s view, and rain creates a mood. Yet no person’s actually turning it into a chance to paint.

Opening a window, he lets those birds check his room. He chuckles while they chirp in frustration. They visit his home every day, stopping by on any window. They don’t do it at night unless the weather changed their plans.

If the cats go in here, they might cause trouble for them. However, they’re rather occupied with being lazy and sleeping with dreams of food.

Krispin’s eyes fall on the window. He watches raindrops dripping down over a leaf, slipping down onto a branch. It lands to the grass in a splash. He grasps that fleeting moment, his heart picking up at a stream of an idea.

Energized by creativity, he open a drawer filled with painting supplies.

It’s been a while since he painted. He had been busy with his job and volunteering for an animal shelter, reducing much of his free time. Now that he’s got an entire night for himself, maybe he can try again.

Framing the subject of a painting, he captures it in his mind’s eye. He lifts a palette, propping it on a holder. He lays an empty canvas on an easel. He retrieves colors to match the ambience of rain. He pours berry blue, wood brown, and pine green on empty spots. He glances outside once more then focuses on evoking an image for this painting.

This rainy night might be a right muse.

Tracing an outline, he sketches a tree. He draws each shape and form he remembers, ensuring that he conveys all of it. From the highest bramble to the lowest branch, he concentrates on connecting each detail together. He designs a structure of small raindrops. After completing a contour, he proceeds to a major aspect.

With a paintbrush dipped in blue paint, he trails it on the canvas. He fills an expanse with varying hues of color, highlighting presence of rain at night. He avoids letting it smudge the outline, staying away from it’s graphite edges. He adds extra shades of dark blue to distinguish it all over it.

This entire painting can’t have only one shade of color. It’s what charms an interest of a person, who might find it in their sight.

Just as he completes the sky, he blends colors together to form a different one. He cleans his paintbrush with water before soaking it in brown paint. He sweeps it on branches and trunk lightly. He changes some colors to resemble rain, painting each drop outlined throughout the canvas.

So far, this progress appears to be a close replica of that scenery.

When he steps back, he remains still. His hands slightly cramp because of his efforts. His mind still carries the canvas’ subject. His heart flutters while his chest loosens. He sighs at a feeling of painting again.

Whether anyone looks at them or not, a joy lingers in his being. He paints because he believes in himself. Paints because his creativity can be expressed on a canvas if inspiration finds him.

Picking the paintbrush again, Krispin colors those leaves of a tree. Flecks of blue, green, and brown stains sleeves of his sweater. He paints with his imagination racing. Painting with beauty surrounding him.

Painting like there’s a hidden magic within the creativity of his soul. It’s flooding through him, bringing out a passion in him.

Colors soak through objects formed on the canvas as if it’s a part of nature. He leaves no traces of empty dots anywhere.

His pulse quickens at his process.

He lets his paintbrush down, upon completing his painting. Okay, this probably should do.

Gazing at the displayed art, he draws in a long breath.

At those results, he smiles at his daunting achievement.

It’s a good feeling. Pouring his heart and soul into what he loves to do. To express his appreciation for nature. To hold a paintbrush, trailing l it on a canvas. Being a painter developed his skills, helping him to find courage of discovering his true self.

Elated by the grand effort, he basks in a feeling of warmth.

Lalik may seem as a childish fool, hardly capable of taking care of themself. They may also seem like an incompetent weakling. And, truth be told, most of the times they are.

Barely a magician, barely a man - all worm, is what they often describes themself.

But Lalik has secrets - quite a few and quite dire ones.

One day they will be forced to openly demonstrate their power. They will freeze time, encapsulating three dozens of people in a bubble of stillness. A rather formidable feat for someone who has only a few tints of magic in his blood as they claim. And to their horror, Tajena will witness that.