The colors burst across the sky in a banded arcing spectrum. The warmth of the sun on their backs as they marveled at the bow was an odd sensation considering the icy drops of rain that still fell. The puddles at their feet churned and their hair was soon drenched. They stood in silence, mesmerized by the beauty and strangeness of the moment. Then the storm shifted again and the rainbow faded away, taking its promise of gold with it.
The day held many such magical moments as the sun slipped in and out of view and the rain fell in starts and stops. They never seemed to tire of it, though. It didn’t become routine or mundane. Each new spark of beauty was a reason to stop and revel. Perhaps that was down to their youthful naivety? Or, perhaps, that was the full power of nature on display? The truth may never be known and doesn’t really matter anyway. They didn’t need to know why the day was magical to appreciate it.
He ran his hands along the fabric of their existence, caressing the invisible strings that connected all things and sending reverberating melodies strumming before him. He smiled, sad and euphoric. The song was beautiful, the song of life, of connectivity, but he would never get to share it with anyone else. Long had he traveled the world looking for someone like him, someone who could see the threads of life, the connections and interdependencies, and had never met anyone who could see as he did. The magic of who he was did little to quell the loneliness.
He stood apart, disconnected from the grid. He could walk through it, manipulate it, and, with a brush of his hand, send a thousand songs cascading forward, but he was not a part of it. In all his wandering, he was the only living thing he had come across that was not intertwined with the rest of the grid.
When he had been young, he had tried to tell his parents and friends about what he was seeing. They all just said he had a vivid imagination. When he got older he considered trying to bring it up again but had grown less naïve in the intervening years and was loathe to risk being labelled as something he was not or being drugged into conformity. As lonely as it was to be the only thing set apart from the rest of the world, he didn’t want to give that up, didn’t want to lose his unique view. Not to say that the world wasn’t beautiful for everyone else as well but getting to see how all things were joined and hearing the music that came with those connections must, absolutely must, enhance the experience of that beauty.
The rain cleared and the horizon stretched to where the mountains met the heavens, clean and clear and glorious.
There isn’t much I don’t like about good storm. And, I would be hard pressed to give you the same answer every time to what my favorite part is, because that certainly changes based on time of day, my mood, how long it has been between storms, what day of the week it is, … and on and on.
But, there is certainly something magical about letting my eyes cast towards the far off lands and feel like it is so close I could touch it. It’s right there. If I could just get my fingertips to push that much further outward… If I could just keep walking, just keeping running, just keep driving… If…
Well, that’s just it, isn’t it? A storm, to me, opens up the infinite possibilities of that magical “if.” The power behind it. The way it sweeps the world clean. The sense of rejuvenation of purpose and spirit. The basic essence of life. They combine into this one thing, a drop of rain, that can mean so much more, that can mean everything, if only we have the imagination to dream…
The room smelled of leather and wax. A desk took up most of one wall, a bed another, a small window would have invited in the sunshine if the thick drapes had not been shut against it. Two candles on the desk provided the only, flickering, light. A small bookcase, only two shelves and those only half full, was on the third wall within reach of the desk. There was no door to the room. It required magic to get in and magic to leave, as per its design and intent. The creator favored privacy so he could study uninterrupted at his leisure.
He had come to his room that morning to tidy the place up a bit. He would soon have an apprentice he would be bringing along to study and practice the craft. However, he had soon gotten distracted in the particulars of a spell he had been toying with. The few books he did keep were more a set of observations and ideas rather than written spells. He was of the belief that magic was organic, natural, and couldn’t not be controlled simply with words. It had to be felt, breathed, tasted, touched, lived. Some of his peers laughed at him and called him a fool and yet sometimes their magic failed them. His magic never failed.
Still, they flourished in their schools and their traditional methods, advancing through hierarchal ranks, accumulating spell books and scrolls, accolades and apprentices. He became the recluse, happy to practice the craft in his own way, confident in his abilities and his assumptions of the art. He was fine with that arrangement until a recent trip to the nearby town and had resulted in a deviant attempting to rob him of his meagre possessions. He had called upon his magic to foil the heist. A passerby had witnessed the exchange and had begged him to teach them. After a prolonged conversation, it was learned that the passerby, still a child in many ways, had failed in the traditional schools but still wanted to learn. He saw this as an opportunity to prove his theories were correct. If he could teach another his methods successfully….
Light sprang from his hand as he finished the spell. He had called upon the flame from one of the candles on his desk to share its illumination with his flesh, then he called upon the light itself to intensify until it was as though his hand had become a torch. He pointed his palm at the dark corners of the room to reveal the cobwebs gathering dust in the shadows and that reminded him of the task he had meant to set upon. Closing his hand the magic dispersed and the light went out. The candles continued to flicker in the stirrings of his movement. The room still smelled of leather and wax. Nothing had changed. Everything had changed.
Have you read Blackmoon WarMage yet? Do it!! Do it now!!! That’s an official Kingdom directive. When the First Knight of the Matticus Kingdom publishes a story, I insist that all layal kingdomites go forth, purchase, and read that book. Furthermore, I require that reviews be left afterwards as feedback for both the author himself and for potential future readers. So… stop reading this silliness and go read Revis’ book!!