#wizzyblr

“Yes, well, you would know.” He hands the shopkeep a handful of gold coins before depositing a bundle of herbs in the bag at his hip.

“Did Syl—”

“Cyrus, since when are you my damned babysitter?”

Cyrus balks at the way his brother hisses at him, like someone has just told him to go bed a minotaur. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“That I am the older brother—”

“By barely seven minutes.”

“—and you need not waste your time fussing over me. I’m a grown man. I can handle a simple errand for my wife.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You implied it clearly enough.”

Cyrus sighs as he follows his twin out of the shop. “You know, for an elder twin, you certainly are acting like a child.”

“And you are acting like you’re my mother.”

“Oh, we’re resorting to name-calling?”

“Just shut up, will you? You’re the one trailing after me like an anxious little boy. It’s a lovely day, and I’d like to enjoy it.”

“I am not trailing you. I happened to enter the same shop as you, and now we’re having a discussion. That’s not the same thing.”

“A discussion? Is that what you call this?” Malistaire nearly laughs. “No wonder the students hate your class.”

“Says the man who, lately, can barely make it through a full day of classes. You’re overworking yourself and you know it.”

Malistaire turns on his heel, his magic flaring and chilling the air around them, making the grass between the cobblestones shrivel — and then it stutters and fizzles out. He shuts his eyes suddenly and pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a small, staggering half-step to his right. It’s just enough to make the strap of his bag slide from his shoulder, and it puddles around his feet.

“Dammit, Cyrus…”

“Hush. Nothing spilled.” The conjurer’s voice is soft as he bends to put the bag back where it belongs, careful of the tender scar around what remains of Malistaire’s right shoulder. He doesn’t make any snarky comments, even though he definitely could. It would only agitate his brother more. “…Come on. Let’s get you sitting down.”

Malistaire grumbles, not opening his eyes, but allows himself to be led to a nearby bench. The tremor in his left hand has worsened, his breathing is shakier, and he’s a few shades paler than normal. They’re both quiet until his breathing evens out.

“…It is a nice day, isn’t it?”

“You’re a bastard.”

“So are you, then.”

like, okay, i’m gonna get a little pepe silvia here (…pun not intended, noticed, and then very much intended). but cancer is, to me, the most likely (non-magical) answer. consider who we’re talking about, here.

sylvia drake is a theurgist. a life wizard. and a massively talented one, at that, if she was selected to teach at ravenwood.

it’s even noted by those who knew her, such as gloria krendell, how strange it is that she was killed by an illness.

but no other, more nefarious explanation is ever stated, or even implied. she just… got sick. it was a cruel twist of fate with no one to blame for it.

part of life magic is renewal, and healing, and growth, and new things. cancer is a mutation — a new thing in the body — that grows like a weed in a garden, stealing nutrients from other living things. it spreads, and it flourishes. and, like decay, it is an extant form of life.

just, y’know. one that kills things.