Jackal Among Snakes

Though Anneliese put up a strong front before Argrave, the truth was she was greatly nervous about this. Hiding as much was a habit she had picked up from Argrave. She had not lied about being confident in understanding Llewellen’s lectures, yet even still, the hound of trepidation followed her as Argrave gazed with expectancy and nervousness both. As though to shut away the world, Anneliese closed her eyes and focused only on the knowledge she had accrued regarding A-rank ascension during the past months.

For a spellcaster to ascend to A-rank was not as simple as comprehending another form of spell matrix with greater complexity than the ones before. Instead, it was a fundamental reconstruction of the magic and body to accommodate handling mystical forces beyond what most mortals were capable of. There were two kinds of processes to break into A-rank: active and passive processes. Active processes reformed the body directly. Passive processes made a change in their magical makeup, and then their body itself changed to match. The body was the essential part that had to change. In essence, the body became a part of the matrix forming the spell.

The methods of ascension were unique to each strategy—traditional Veidimen techniques, for instance, focused intensely on the cold their people survived in. Anneliese did not know details, but what few she had ferreted out from her teachers back in Veiden suggested intimate contact with ice to change the nature of the magic inside the body.

Llewellen’s [Life Cycle] was a passive process. His instructions were similar to Veidimen techniques only in that both sought to advance to A-rank.

The first part of the process was something that Anneliese was well-practiced in. Magic permeated her being—though many spellcasters grew accustomed to interacting with this force only when casting spells, Llewellen’s obsession with his insufficient pool led him to constantly examine it and manipulate it. The first part of his technique revolved around getting a full grasp of one’s own magic and priming it for movement.

Anneliese did so. Her experience both in seeing liquid magic from the Amaranthine Heart and seeing Onychinusa’s magic in mist form allowed her to easily visualize and seize the mystical force throughout her body. In short order, she felt she had a sufficient grasp of it. She wrapped her will around the black storm of power like an envelope, and her bindings held firm and strong.

The next part, too, Anneliese was practiced at. In anticipation of this day, she had done it many times before. She used her will to direct the power within her to stretch and crane and thin, testing the boundaries of the veritable vessel that housed her magic. Llewellen had taught this might be used to gain an objective measure of the magic within any one individual. Now she needed to do precisely that, in preparation for the reformation.

Anneliese tested the limits of her vessel time and time again, her magic fumbling about like a hand grasping in darkness to find the walls. Before long, she knew where the magic would stop and where it could proceed—it was a familiar process, after all, and did not take any longer than half a minute. The next part, though… this was where her progress had ceased before.

Yet it was an impediment no longer. Erlebnis’ presence, that experience… the second encounter she had been expecting and anticipating the feeling, and as though caught, it left an indelible mark on her perception of the world around her. The first time had an effect, true enough… but it was faint enough that Anneliese doubted it. Now, she was certain of its existence.

So much projected its presence outwards. Living things, magic spells, even the ground beneath her feet… they were all constant suppliers of magic, taking it in and expunging it concurrently in one grand cycle. Llewellen had changed his vessel that held magic to accommodate these suppliers. He could harness the magic within spells, from living things, and from the world itself. Ordinarily, the body and its vessel rejected these things: Llewellen changed that.

Llewellen’s fatal mistake had been accepting the magic of the world. It projected too much for his body to accommodate—no matter how high he went, no matter where he travelled, it assailed him like an unending river that eroded his vessel from within. His inevitable fate became death: the torrent was simply too great in magnitude to handle. His revised A-rank ascension rebuilt the vessel, though made a notable exception for the magic emanating from the world. If she allowed the magic of the world to pass by, she would meet the same fate he did.

With these emanating forces all around her… Anneliese felt she had a grasp of what must be done. But the task remained before her. She had to destroy her own metaphorical vessel—a culmination of well over a decade of effort—and rebuild it to accommodate foreign magic. If she should fail in this, she would not die… yet she would no longer be a mage. Decades more would have to be spent rebuilding this foundation.

The nervousness had been quelled by starting the task, but now it rushed up once again, fluttering within her chest so fiercely she could hear her blood pump in her ears. Time was of the essence—once she broke her vessel, the magic within her would drain. She had to maintain its form by willing her magic in shape before it all escaped, all the while rebuilding what had been broken in a new manner.

Anneliese hesitated a while. A long while. She recalled Llewellen’s description of how to break the vessel, and it played in her head again and again… yet still, she dared not do it. She stood on the edge of a cliff before a pool of water, yet she dared not jump. Her mind wandered… until a burst of courage found her.

A burst was all Anneliese needed. She jumped, and then she was in the sky.

At once, she could feel the magic escape from her body like air escaping from an airtight bag. She heard a sharp intake of breath from Argrave as something occurred outside her body, yet she was already on to the task at hand—rebuilding what she had shattered. Llewellen had described this process in the best detail he could, and his words rang in her head as she followed the procedure.

As the magic flows out of you, that once within will briefly intermingle with that currently without. It remains within your will. Grasp it, seize it, and mold it around what you have broken, Llewellen’s words filled her head. You must filter out the strongest energy, though. Pick for what is not harmful.

She did precisely as he instructed… and felt a rush of triumph as she realized it worked. The walls of her vessel, once gone, now returned. Her magic did not escape from all points as it once had. Her will moved and moved with the magic like a craftsman digging wet clay from the ground to build the beginnings of a wall. It was constructed perfectly: stable, strong, and capable of accepting that without.

Yet as Anneliese persisted… though the make was perfect, she realized her speed might be lacking. Filtering the magic of the world out of the construction was a trying task. The rate at which she replaced the broken wall did not match with the speed at which her magic escaped. She tried to hasten yet found that a trying task. She pushed and pushed to go faster, faster, then made a mistake and lapsed back into an even slower speed.

I’m not fast enough, Anneliese realized, though had the bearing to remain committed to the task. Once all the magic escapes, the construction will become hollow and collapse in on itself before it can finish.

Anneliese stubbornly resisted against what she saw written on the wall. Still, no matter how hard she tried, the reconstruction remained perfectly slow. As she confronted this, tears started to well in her eyes, distracting her even further. The thought of failure loomed.

“Glad I paid attention to Llewellen’s instructions…” a voice came, then she heard something move before her. She opened her eyes only to see pale skin before her face… and a dark redness pooling out. Argrave held his wrist out, a great cut open. Dark red blood already fell on her chest. “Don’t make me bleed for nothing, now.”

He would replenish my magic with his own blood.

Anneliese blinked away her tears, but realizing no other option existed, obeyed. She struggled to swallow the warm, metallic-tasting liquid, nausea further enhanced by her fear of failure… yet then, a new and steady trickle of magic already her own returned to where her vessel was, replenishing what escaped.

On the verge of vomiting, Anneliese drank Argrave’s black blood. The wall built and built and built, dreadfully slow. As things neared their end, Anneliese felt the flow start to cease. Argrave pulled his wrist away, and she thought it was truly over with failure… yet in seconds, his other arm took its place, bleeding afresh.

Finally, Anneliese finished building the vessel anew. She pulled her mouth away and fell over, gagging and spitting up his blood. Argrave knelt down beside her and she looked up at him, utterly ashamed and embarrassed. She wished to heal his wrists, yet he’d already tended to that… and she was in no state. He only smiled, reached out, and held her.

“I’m sorry,” Anneliese muttered into his arm. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“I should be saying that,” Argrave said softly. “Pushed you too hard.”

“No,” she protested weakly, feeling faint. Her body had undergone fundamental changes, and it had to change. Her vessel could take in foreign magics: her body had to change to match. She could not yet be called an A-rank mage… yet the worst was over. Unconsciousness threatened to consume her. “I wanted this… as much as you did.”

“Shh,” he soothed. “It’s over. Take it easy. You did it, Anne. It’s over and done. And you did it.”

“Not me. We.” Anneliese looked at his wrists and saw the copious amounts of blood spilled everywhere. With what little strength remained, she clenched him tight and said, “I love you… so much.”

Argrave smiled. “As I love you.”

With that exchange… Anneliese drifted off.

#####

Galamon opened the door to the room, feeling that things were over. The Magisters pushed past him and inhaled sharply when they saw the state of the place, Argrave holding a bloody Anneliese.

“Did she…?” Vera began, utter shock on her tone.

“She fell asleep,” Argrave explained. “I’ll bring her to bed. I think… a quiet night would be best.”

With that, Argrave rose to his feet, carrying Anneliese even despite the state of his arms. The Magisters looked about the room, and then slowly acquiesced, filing out with their concern unalleviated. Argrave gave a nod to Galamon. The big Veidimen looked around the room… at the blood spilled just about everywhere… he’d heard the exchange, and he knew what happened. But Argrave’s blood had missed its mark more than met, it seemed.

And Galamon realized he felt nothing at all, looking upon so much blood. With that realization, the snow elf turned and shut the door. He stared at his hand wrapped around the doorknob for a long while. Then, a faint growl sounded beside him, and Galamon turned his head to the bear. He stared at the big black beast for a moment.

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?” Galamon spoke to it.

The bear stared back.

“I am, too,” Galamon said. “I heard the villagers slaughtered cows.”

The bear tilted its head.

“Are you…?” Vasilisa asked.

Galamon snapped out of his haze, realizing others were present. “I have to guard His Majesty. Have someone send a meal,” he asked, acting as though he had a purpose in his ramblings.

Slowly, the Magisters left, talking amongst themselves. Galamon leaned up against the wall just beside the bear, vigilantly watching the hall. He stewed over his realization. Both he and the bear were enduring great changes, it would seem. They would have to become accustomed to living civilized lives once more, free of their bestial natures.

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