Laur

You glance at the clock. He left you waiting. You’ve already been working nearly forty-five minutes longer than you were supposed to; half of you wants to complain, but the other knows you are here on behalf of begging Tornkvist for extra credit. Beggars and choosers, and all the hackneyed things.

Where was he? Getting his clothes gnawed on, supposedly. A half-formed thought that Regitze did something frivolous again passes through your subconscious.

Your mouth barely opens before Julian is already interrupting it, “I am not taking another step closer to that rotten greenhouse than I have to. I cannot let that flower eat more of my ties!”

A…flower did that? You find his excuse to be bothersome, a possible exaggeration, even, but some part of you hums with the innate knowledge that nature can be forced into violent things.

The back of your neck prickles.

Sighing, you acquiesce, “Fine…I can do that.”

There’s barely an acknowledgement from Julian when you gather the clover to take your exit, leaving him to stew in his own bitterness of being bested by something that relies on chlorophyll.

The academy is lively during these times in the evening; the dining hall bustles with chatter and fresh-baked sweet rolls, and the library houses the most dedicated academics—and a few felines too. 

There are few souls in the hallways that grant you the luxury of their regard, though that’s something you’ve come to expect in the daily ongoings of your life in the academy.

Some mages come into Seven Winds raw and jagged as a geode, born to be buffeted and polished into prisms; some shine with the understanding that they have infinite luster to purge; some are meant to be forever remembered in the headmaster’s gallery; some are not you.

Special is a joke whose punchline went stale half a decade ago. Dreams of stitches and sawblades suffocated under your steadfast surrender to being safely standard.

Though, you are breaking the mold right now.

It's rare for those who are not in the nature course to find themselves traveling to the greenhouse, as nature magic’s peculiarness is reserved for those select mages it found before the Hunters did. The greenhouse is free of students at the moment, now that classes are done for the day.

You, like the rest of the riff-raff of Seven Winds, stick out in this space like a not-so-green thumb; though, this jewel of the academy, while humid and smelling of dirt, still captivates all with its late autumn sunsets refracting through its glass dome.

Towering with the omnipresence of a magic most delicate and kind, the tree stands with the conviction of its own magnificence. You find it hard to be anything but pitiable when its exceptional confidence swallows you in its shade.

“Ah, a visitor! I need but a moment!”

Currently throwing countless garden tools back into what seems to be a junk bin with a sort of half-frenzied rush, Professor Hyben ensures to give you your proper greetings despite his current situation.

You idle, pinched at the shoulders due to being held by Hyben’s congeniality.

The teacher’s demeanor has a level of certainty and principle that leaves you timid. You always found that nature mages’ undeniable root to their specific magic causes you to skitter away in a coy, little shell—a place you go to often in response to your self-reproach for your feeble jealousy. Though, Professor Hyben doesn’t deserve to speak to a hermit in hiding, so your knee jerk response sends the voice too-loud out of your mouth, even for the distance between you, “L-Looking for something?”

Hyben slams the lid down with a huff, the seal clicking to prevent the overflow of mess, and has the humility to look sheepish. “Well, if you should know, just some very special herb scissors I seem to have misplaced,” he wipes his hands on his plaid suit coat before offering you his full attention, “now, how can I help you on this fine day? Or, should I say fine evening? Today has slipped by faster than I could catch it.”

Your jaw clenches when you force a clumsy smile and gesture with the box in your hands. “I’m returning the extra clover after sorting,” you say, thinking the leftover herbs will be turned into mulch or fertilizer. It's why extras always get sent-back, after all. “From the mender ward…obviously…”

He nods, affirmation that he was expecting this delivery, and takes the crate from you, “Yes, thank you. While you menders have no medicinal use for the clover that failed to hybridize into the stronger, two-leaf variation, my snapdragon still loves the taste of these leftovers when ground up and sprinkled in its pot.”

The professor turns to the…snapdragon? What a large flow…oh Lady Izith what is that thing–

Hyben shakes the box, and the snapdragon growls and flicks its leaves in anticipation; it reminds you of the way you play with Soldier using catnip in the infirmary, oddly enough.

“The Budolfan snapdragon, a wondrous creature that straddles the line of both plant and spirit, is quite the special thing,” Professor Hyben says, singing the praises of such an extraordinary piece of nature.

The snapdragon’s head, rose red and bright, swings in your direction. While it has no visible eyes, the creature appraises you with a grumble that is hard to associate with something so sprout-like.

It dangles its maw open like it’s presenting a gift, and you get a whiff of fresh flowers, alongside a sight of its petal-sharp teeth. You nearly take the moment to book it—instead, you bashfully flick too-worried eyes over to the teacher to gauge his own expression.

Hyben's interest in this moment illuminates his face. “Fascinating—the snapdragon seldom releases such a merry scent. Well, you did bring the clover, after all…I might say it even likes you!”

The flower creature snaps its jaw, not unlike a beartrap, in something you can’t necessarily guarantee is agreement. You gulp. Part of you does not want to be liked by such a thing; it looks like this would be a relationship with many occupational hazards.

Professor Hyben sets down the small crate of clover and leans close to the spirit-plant, scratching the scruff on his chin, “This snapdragon does not enjoy the company of many of my students. Quite the opposite, really.”

You grimace, “Are…you sure that was a sign of, uh, approval?” Unconsciously, your hand traces the scar line under your sweater, shoulder to sternum and back again, in a self-soothing gesture. “I’m no nature mage, but I think it does seem kinda hungry…”

Hyben laughs, “Pish-tosh, nonsense! The snapdragon shows all the signs of enjoying your presence. Though, it certainly is a bit surprising—it usually only finds solace in myself and Kim, your fellow senior. Have you met him before?”

“Uh, no. Not directly, I think.”

You know who he is, sure. The class sizes here at the academy aren’t necessarily large, being a mage is a rare affliction, after all. The Nature mages usually keep to themselves, but you would have to be ignorant to not have overheard a single rumor about the academy’s sole spirit mage student. 

“Ah, a shame, then. I get the feeling that the two of you would get along. I would introduce you, but, well, he’s found himself in detention this evening.”

The conversation lulls and you take no measure to fill it yourself. Hyben’s eyes drift towards the snapdragon, but his attention is on something you cannot see. You pick at your sleeve as he goes diving into his own thoughts. No student in the academy is good at guessing what any of the professors are thinking at any given time, and you are no different.

You’re about to make your leave when Hyben stares you down again, and if he tries to disguise the perplexed pinch of his brows as he smiles your way, he fails. Something unsettles him, and you wish you could say anything more in this moment, but you don’t.

“You know,” he starts, hands sliding into his jacket pockets, rocking on his heels, “I still haven’t yet had the privilege of having you in one of my classes.” He beams. “There is still time before your final semester begins to add one of my nature-based electives into your schedule.” Oh…well, this isn’t the first time Professor Hyben has hinted to you about taking a lesson of his.

During your third year in the academy, you tripped into a conversation with the teacher in question when he appeared in the ward. Hyben made some comments on how you must be new to the academy and he loved to meet future nature mage students before they ended up in his greenhouse.With the subtlety of a piano crashing down the stairs—sometimes the Illusionists get wild—Tornkvist corrected him that you were already one of her mending students and had been at the academy for years. You remember Hyben looking stupefied at his own overconfidence; you remember feeling small at your own inability to impress.

The underclassmen laughed at you over that for months.

There are other times, like today, of course, when the professor grins like a boy and extends a verbal olive branch your way. He must still be trying to make it up to you, you guess.

Something in your head is screaming at you. It aches with the cruel knowledge that Mother Nature eats all of her children in the end, even those who run, buzzing so horrifically at the base of your skull that your vision nearly tunnels. A formless hunger swells in your mind, a nameless desire for something you cannot justify.

You decline, “I’m sorry, Professor, but I have to redo a couple mender classes or else I won’t graduate,” apprehensive and unconvinced by your own apology, you smile with drooping shoulders as the feeling fades, satiated in starvation, “but thank you for thinking of me.”

The lines next to his eyes crinkle when Hyben’s lips pull upwards; a sigh; a nod; an acceptance. The answer was always the same—though he still holds his tongue. If he did not have the courage to say something before, there is little use in saying it now.

“Very well, then. I’d continue my ramblings of the snapdragon if it were timely, though I’m sure you have much better things to do that entertain this old man’s musings…like, let’s say, studying for midterms?”

Graciously, Professor Hyben cuts the conversation like a perfectly pruned bonsai. He has things to do, of course, as there is no doubt the staff are just as busy at the tail-end of a semester.

You nod, stepping back to take your leave, “Yes, thank you, prof—” but are stopped by a frustrated snarl. Jumping in your skin, the snapdragon shoves the snout of its bulb in your direction, leaves flapping a pay attention to me! signal.

Ah, okay, this is new. Soldier practically throws himself at you whenever you step into the ward—you’ve gotten used to finding blue fur clinging to your clothes—but being prepositioned by a plant-spirit thing is, arguably, not the same…right?

You want to do that thing confident people do where they can laugh their way out of a situation, but the breath in your chest is more of a wheeze than a charismatic tool to be used; so, with the skepticism of someone who believes they’re about to lose a hand, you reach out to the snapdragon.

Light as fairydust, your fingertips skate over its petals: a goodbye. The snapdragon purrs. 

The smile pinned to Professor Hyben’s face is done with muscle memory instead of emotion, and the pressure between his teeth strains with the effort to keep his chattiness to himself.

You already gave him your answer, and he respects it.

He does, of course he does, but—

Despite your uneasiness with the monstrous plant pressing its bulb into your palm, you look to Hyben for approval. Is this okay? His eyes reflect a kind approval to your question a few beats too late, too distracted by his own attempts to pretend he didn’t see what he just saw, but he gives you no words.

You must’ve done something wrong.

“Well, uh, have a good night.”

This time, you do not turn around when you leave.

Your skull pounds, nausea boiling over like a pot left abandoned over heat. This is what happens when you ignore what it wants; this is why you don’t go to the greenhouse.

It’s the same reason you avoid walking past the Illusionist dance hall else your steps lose their steadiness and every further step feels like resentment; it’s the same reason you never check inside the Tinker workshop else your left arm goes soft and numb as the cold; it’s the same reason you never stand in front of the door to the Restricted Section else you…you…

…you don’t remember. Your chest hurts.

You take the long way back to your room, already losing concentration on anything other than your steps carrying you across the castle. The stately brick walls of Seven Winds watch as you find the secondary hallways that avoid each and every classroom. You’ve been doing this for too long.

Leaden feet carry you back as darkness drips through the windows of castle that has weathered many seasons. Winter approaches with the omen of the cold and loney—the midterm season a frosty haze building up along the inside glass when the night is at its coldest.

Your sluggish stride means you avoid clattering into Hannah as she comes tumbling out of the room, arms full of books and stationery. She’d be swallowed up in paper if she was any shorter, yet she’s left herself enough space for her eyes to peek out over the top.

“Oh! Hi there. Perfect timing,” Hannah says as she bumps the door open wider with her foot, “the room’s all yours for the evening.”

“...’kay. Thanks.”

Hannah’s follow up fizzles out before she can start. She had been waiting for a Prefect work? or a Late night rehearsals again?, or any other sort of quip that she’s heard from you enough times to have it imprinted on her brain.

You’re roommates, and that’s it. Hannah’s spinning eight different kinds of silver plates on any given day, far too busy for an adept social life, and you’re just you.

You keep to yourself, to the mender’s ward, to…well, that exhausts the list anyone keeps on you, if they bothered to keep one at all. Unlike your roommate, you’re not even a footnote nor reference in these halls, barely even a superscript. She’s a full page, a chapter, her own storybook in the making. You’re not friends.

Though, even so, Hannah thought you would say something like you usually do—something polite, or sweet, or maybe just small. That would be anything; instead, you gave her close to nothing.

Her glasses reflect in the dimmed light as she tilts her head and looks you over, “Are you…feeling alright?”

You want to peel your skin open and yank out whatever the hell is wrong with you.

“I’m fine. Ward’s busy, midterm stress.” You shrug. “You know how it is.”

Oh, by the paragons, does she ever. It takes barely any effort for her thoughts to float back to the collection of novels and research on foliage in her arms, and the stress about getting a good grade on her Botany Basics paper floods her full-force.

She nods, “That I definitely do. I-I’ll be quiet when I come back in later. Goodnight!”

You and the prefect trade place. The doorlatch barely falls shut behind you before you stagger into the bathroom whilst clawing at the burning Y-scar underneath your clothes. You vomit, and it’s barely more than bloody bile.

How many times has this happened recently?

You should write it down. You want to write it down. You don’t.

Shivering, you clean up. The headache subsides after a few sips of water, but you can’t stomach anything more than that.

You change into sleep-comfortable clothes behind the privacy of a locked door, as you always do. Shimmering on your wrist, a too-low number and Rank C shine dully before you tug your sleeve down to cover them up. Oddly enough, your grade—the physical embodiment of your failure to meet professors’ expectations—is the thing you’re most comfortable with on your body.

A cold autumn gale gusts into the room. The chill leaks in, and the mutilated rings of scar tissue around your elbows and knees throb. A couple years back, you stopped looking at them every time you were in front of a mirror; a couple years before that, you cried on bitter winter nights and wondered what you did to deserve them. Now you wish you never knew of them at all.

Hannah must’ve left the window open.

The wind rushes forth, curtains billowing. A nightingale coos a song at your windowsill. Your fingernails, short, square-shaped on the left and long and rounded on the right, bite into the frame as you slam it shut.

You want your story to die.

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