CONTENT WARNING: Minor bit of blood
"No, no, you're getting all the rhyme all wrong! Ugh, you're so bad at this, Simon!'
"I can't help it! These are girl's games! They're silly! We should play doctor again! I can pretend to cut off your leg!"
"No! That's scary!"
"It's not scary, Constance! It's not real, is it?"
"Now, now, children, less of that! Aren't you both hungry?"
"Well...We might be. Who made food? Was it Father, or was it Mother and Miss Tilly?"
"Don't worry, it wasn't your father."
"...Then yes! We're hungry!"
* * *
Owen
We sit down for some food as a family before the appointments begin for the day.
"Well? How do you like Mary-Ann?"
"We love her!" says Simon. "She's so very nice and not strict like I thought she would be! She's teaching us how to read."
Mary-Ann is a recent addition to the household- the children's governess. Lydia and I were insistent that she treat our children with respect, and not to be strict with them unless absolutely necessary. So far, the children seem to adore her. We wish we could spend more time with our children, but even with my cancellations, I don't have a lot of time to spare for them. Having Mary-Ann around will buy us a lot of time. I'd recommended Lydia hire a wet nurse for little August, but she insists on breastfeeding him herself.
"She says if we're good, she'll take us out to the woods again! Maybe we'll find the werewolf this time!"
The toddler, Ophelia, is a little shy, but Constance and Simon always include her in their little games. They often play by Lucia's grave - 'so she can play too', Simon tells me. Watching your children grow up is a thing of beauty, but for anyone with magic in their blood, it's a mixture of emotions- a simultaneous sense of excitement and dread. Will they have magic? Won't they? What does the future look like for those with magic?
"Werewolves aren't real, Constance! They're just stories grown-ups tell so children won't sneak out late at night!"
"Yes, they are! Aren't they, Father?"
"They are indeed," I tell her. Her face lights up.
"See? And I bet they're so soft and fluffy too!"
"Perhaps, but I wouldn't recommend trying to pet one..."
Simon and Constance are both too young at the moment, but in four or
five years, we'll see. Whilst the two are distracted with their strange
chatter, Lydia looks to me, speaking through a mouthful of rice.
"You're on a home visit today, aren't you?"
"Indeed- a certain Eduardo Volpe."
The kids look at me wide-eyed when I say his name. They know of him for all the time he visits this place in a bizarre attempt to socialise with me. He seems to think I am my father, and that I think about little other than talking to him. The children are all frightened of him- I tell them not to worry.
I've noticed she's been staring at me more than usual across the table- not in a sense of admiration, either.
"You look awfully pale, sweetheart."
So she has noticed.
"Oh? I hadn't realised. I suppose I haven't spent much time outside lately. Anyhow, the food is appreciated, Lydia. I'd better go back to the laboratory-"
"In a rush, are we? I thought you loved my cooking," she says, chuckling.
An aching pain burns in my leg as I lift myself out of the chair. It's only been getting worse.
"Of course I do, Lydia, but you know how it is- we're both very busy people."
"Very well. I'll sure Alex will finish the rest off. Are you sure you're going to be-"
"I'll be fine, Lydia. Don't worry."
I haven't told Lydia everything. I would, if only I knew everything that was happening to me at the moment.
The past year or so, my health has declined. I have my own theories as to why, but so little is known about magic's effects on the body that it's hard to say for certain. At first, I thought the aches and pains and stiffness to all be a natural part of approaching old age- something I didn't want to think about too much.
As well as the magic I used for the potions, and the magic I used to help with healing patients- I had been practicing Wild magic in the basement. The years of relative detachment from my gift made me realise just how much I'd missed out on, forced to hide my true self by my father, as well as by everyone else. I tried to remember what my mother had taught me about magic secretly in my teenhood, but it's difficult to recall.
On top of that, I wanted a way in which I could defend my wife and children from harm, should the situation come up. I hope I never have to use it for that reason, and I would be lying if I said the thought of it didn't unnerve me- but I have never been a physically-strong person; magic is all I have.
I've almost finished crafting a herbal remedy for Volpe. In the past, my impartiality came to me naturally, as it does with an occupation such as this one. However, I find said impartiality beginning to slip away from me. Volpe had been benefitting from the Annorin family's magic for years through our potions, and yet he sought to have every witch in Henford killed- if there were any witches left at all.
Samuel knew that Volpe's 'friendship' with him depended entirely on his silence about magic- his own, and that of others. Samuel was not only self-serving, but thin-skinned. I find myself thinking back to a conversation Katlego and I had long ago- when she wondered if my 'social stature' might be able to turn things around for those with magic. She may have a point, but it's too much of a risk. With my knowledge, I'm no good to Henford hanging from a rope, and I'm no good to my children that way, either.
That said, if I don't say or do anything- if I don't try to change things for the sake of my family, and for the people of Henford...
Begrudgingly, I finish off the potion with a touch of magic- raw magic to emphasise the effects of the ingredients, and the Katharis spell to remove any possible contamination.
A sense of unimaginable euphoria washes over me for a second before a burning pain shoots through my entire body, forcing me to the floor. My muscles catch fire, and my body crackles with excess magic.The flickers of the remaining Katharis spell dissipate in my palm.
I try to lift myself from the floor with great difficulty. It hurts to move, so I try to instead catch my breath. There's no reason a simple spell like that should have overwhelmed me the way it did. I've been using these simple spells for years, and with no issues.
As I endeavour to get back to my feet, I think back to Tilly and her occasional brushes with overcharge... I don't recall her ever looking pale, however, nor do I recall her pain ever carrying over into the long term. As for Reynold, he'd peformed a far too powerful spell when he was rather out-of-practice with his magic. The trouble is, I can't take a break from using magic. The Katharis spell is a large part of what allows Lydia and I to have the best chance of keeping people alive. Infection is dreadfully common, and Lydia's surgery patients have much higher survival rates than any other surgeon in the country because she uses magic on the wounds or on the dressings. If I stop using magic, if I stop practicing magic, then people will die.
Yet, if I carry on...
Anyhow, the further speculation can wait- I have to get this to Volpe.
* * *
Volpe had been requesting far more frequent general check-ups than usual. Perhaps it was his age, but with Volpe, you could never tell if there was a more specific reason for his changes of behaviour. It's difficult keeping my thoughts to myself when I'm having to tend to him, but a patient is a patient, after all- even if it's someone as vile as Volpe is.
Volpe's favourite part of these regular check-ups is knowing he can ask or tell me anything, no matter how much it might irritate me for him to do so.
"These men are out of practice, Owen. There's hardly any witches around this part of Henford these days."
I wonder whose fault that is.
"Is that not what you want, Eduardo?"
"Of course it's what I want," he spits. "Trouble is, they're all in hiding, aren't they? My men will be ill-prepared when they come crawling out of the woodwork."
"I see. Anyhow, everything seems normal for a man like yourself. You seem to be in good health."
"And in my old age, I only have one family to thank for that," he says, with a cheery demeanour.
Just as I'm about to leave, it seems he isn't done. "Now that your work here is finished, do you have a moment? There's something I'd like to speak with you about."
Of course he does. Since this is no longer a patient-doctor conversation, I don't have to pretend to care or agree. I ought to listen to what he has to say. Knowing the inner workings of someone so dangerous just might be useful, if push comes to shove.
"Go on."
"Well, you see, Owen...I'm rather concerned for you. Your health is failing you, isn't it?" he asks, his eyes upon my cane.
"I'd hardly say that," I tell him. "You are one of the lucky ones, Eduardo- you still have the same energy you had forty years ago."
Volpe laughs and swirls the potion bottle around in his hand as if it were a fine wine. "Not only that, Owen, but these past few years have been concerning for other reasons- mainly, your attempts at philanthropy."
In his writings and in newspaper interviews, he speaks with a domineering edge, a pathetic attempt to look intimidating to the public. To Samuel, he spoke with a false air of friendship, whilst simultaneously looking down upon him. To me, the confidence in his voice slips away on occasion.
"Concerning how, Eduardo?"
Volpe tuts to himself. " You of all people ought to know the risks of such a venture, Owen. Look at your father- he preserved the lives of the people who worked hard. The poor folk in the villages - what good is it keeping them alive?"
"You've known our family for many years now, Eduardo. I would have hoped you'd have gathered that the main aspect of being a physician is keeping people healthy and alive, is it not?"
"Of course, I understand that...But why them? Why the poor, Owen? Whatever have they done for you? You've heard what they say about you, don't you? The threats, the slander against your children! They want you dead!"
And so do you.
"It doesn't matter how they feel about me, Eduardo. Making sure that the most poor folk in Henford have food and something of a roof over their head- it's a kind of medical care in itself. You've seen what poor sanitation and malnutrition does to people."
"It makes them want to work harder," Volpe says, with a sly smile. "You know the saying. Give a man a fish and he'll eat for a day. Teach a man to fish-"
"Well, I have plenty of fish to spare, Eduardo. Unfortunately, no-one is hiring fishermen at the moment, and so no-one can catch any fish, and a starving and sick man is in no way well enough to pick up the rod and give it a try. Is this making sense to you?"
Volpe liked to speak endlessly of hard work when he had hardly done any work in his life. Back in Tartosa, the Volpe family sought to keep the poor in endless poverty, ensuring that they would always have someone convincing to blame for the country's issues when their own poor ruling and intentional misdeeds angered the working folk. The plight of the poor and of the witches had a great deal of overlap. To Volpe, witches are a threat to the divide he helped to solidify in his home country. Them killing his entire family...I'm more than sure it has little to do with all he's been doing.
"And when everyone survives, Owen, then what? What do we do with all of the people who can't give anything to Henford in return?"
"We look after them don't we?"
Volpe sighs deeply to himself. "Owen, you remember what that naturalist wrote about in his recent book, about survival of the fittest-"
"All this talk of 'survival of the fittest'...I'm assuming you didn't read what he wrote about adaptation, did you? You aren't young anymore, and the world is a different place to the one you grew up in, with different ideas. Times are changing, Eduardo, and you'd better get used to them."
Volpe's eyes narrow at me as I reach for my cane and pull myself from the chair. For such a long time, I've been meaning not to antagonise him too much, but it's impossible. I can't just let Eduardo's dangerous ideologies fly freely any longer.
"I feel I must remind you, Owen- I know the secret of your success."
"A secret, you say? It's hardly any secret that I went to university, Eduardo."
"You know precisely what I'm talking about," he spits. "I've respected you, your father and the rest of your family enough to mention nothing of it to anyone else-"
"You never respected my father. You only respected that he knew never to say 'no' to you. He only respected you because he was afraid of you, and he always knew you were ready to blackmail him at any moment about his blood should you have needed to.
I am not my father, Eduardo. I am not afraid of you."
* * *
[Letter from Reynold to Owen]
Owen,
I've translated the Old Simlish charcoal rubbing of the base of the orb for you:
Miracle of the skies; grant me your strength and ferocity. Hunt down my adversaries and defend my allies. I call upon you in my time of need.
I'm not sure if it's some kind of deific affirmation, or some sort of incantation. Certainly interesting.
Hope all is well,
- Your friend, Reynold
[ There is a scribbling of a wolf at the bottom of the page.]
We'd had the orb on display in our bedroom for some time. Every now and again, I noted that shadows seemed to appear and disappear on its surface. Lydia would tell me the glowing kept her awake at night, yet I'd never seen it glow. Right at this moment, I saw that it wasn't just the light through the curtains at night- the orb's glow has suddenly grown brighter in my presence.
I gaze into the gemstone, and the shadows reappear- only in far more clarity. The creature seems to glide on enormous wings and disappear. The carvings in the base are beautiful; stone-carved gryphons circle all the way around.
I've always wondered on the mystery surrounding this orb, and why Samuel chose to leave it in the basement for so many years. I wonder if it's some kind of illusory magic- a homage to the symbol of this family, possibly something older generations used almost as if they worshipped the creature. I think to Lydia, and one of our major differences - her belief in higher powers and in luck, fortune and prosperity. Perhaps, somewhere in our past, so did we.
In my Uncle Jonah's diaries from the Bloodmoon, he always mentioned the 'little bird' on his shoulder and how it got him through the horrors of conflict. Could this be it? Could my wife and my ancestors have a point, after all? With my declining health, and my concerns about it and the future of my work...would a little attempt at self-affirmation hurt? If it worked for them, it might work for me.
I read the words from the base, and for a few minutes, nothing happens. I note the dancing shadow of the gryphon seems to change its course around the gemstone, but that's all. I swallow my skepticism. I suppose I have to do say it like I mean it, and so I do, with more fervor.
A light erupts from the orb, blinding me. I drop it onto the sofa.
My head throbs, and I hear some kind of voice inside it- low-pitched and feminine.
"Who are you?"
The voice repeats itself, over and over, and the searing in my mind just gets worse as the voice grows clearer.
When I blink away the last of the blurriness, a powerful feeling washes over me. I let out a surprised shriek and fall to the carpet. This illusion, it feels real- so very real!
Talons like razors, covered head-to-torso in brilliant white feathers!
Powerful wings, like those of an angel!
Piercing eyes, with the sureness of an eagle and the ferocity of a lion! If I didn't know any better, I'd think this illusory creature was real! It's beautiful - such majesty!
"Never mind, 'who am I'! Who are you?!
The creature's voice echoes in my mind once again, and the burning behind my eyes returns.
"I am Valravn- and I am not an illusion. Now, tell me- who are you?"
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The title is a reference to an old book, the 'Book of Saint Albans'. A section in the book is about falconry, and roughly assigns a hierarchy of 'suitable' raptors to each social class. The top one is 'an Eagle for an Emperor' but I thought the second one, 'A Gyrfalcon for a King' sounded cooler.