Not Kingsfoil, You Fools

Edith stared down at her body on the table while those that called themselves her disciples scurried about performing various preparations. Some were crushing herbs over her head, others were assembling candles around her. She sighed.

"It's like they didn't even bother to listen." She said to the hulking form of Death beside her.

He shrugged.

"They're all too young, I think. None of them were thinking about the grave. Not that it really matters, none of it's true. But it's the principle of the matter..." She trailed off, scowling at the people fussing over her corpse.

Death raised his non-existent eyebrows. "Mother Edith, High Priestess of the Thirteen Hives, a non-believer?"

She shrugged back. "And Mother Theresa was an athiest. These things happen."

Death chuckled silently to himself.

"After a while, you realize something about magic." She moved about the table, examining the faces of the people buzzing about her body. "It's not about energy, or spirituality, or alchemy. It's about results." She nodded to herself after looking into each face for long enough. "The thing that matters, when you work a spell or craft a talisman, it not what it is made of or how it is created, but what it does. And if what it does improves the quality of a life, then it has worked. Magic or not."

Death watched quizzically as she moved from disciple to disciple.

"If I had a nickel for every potion of courage I helped some kid brew to ask out their sweetheart, or every curse that caused someone to seek forgiveness from the one they wronged..." She paused in her rounds and looked down at her body. "Well I'd still be dead. But I'd have died in nicer clothes."

Edith and Death shared a smile.

"The placebo effect. It's a wonderful thing." She sighed, and a sense of contentment radiated out from her.

"If you knew it was all a façade, why keep it up?" Death asked, genuinely intrigued.

"Because the façade works." She smirked. "Best one I've found for getting people out of their own heads, and out of their own ways."

"Hm." Death nodded slowly.

"Case in point. I was so disappointed in this lot," she gestured to the disciples currently chanting some ancient ritual almost correctly, "because I felt like they hadn't learned what I tried to teach them. But while they might not be getting it right, you and I both know that doesn't really matter."

Death shrugged innocently.

"What matters is that they're here. That they came, to honour my wishes. To do right by me. And that they miss me." She smiled, and let her hand rest on one of their shoulders lovingly.

Death hefted his heavy scythe, and rested it gently on his shoulder. Edith understood what that meant, and turned to depart.

As they walked away, she cast one last glance over her shoulder to see her disciples consoling each other, and becoming closer for it.

Just as planned.

She took Death's bony hand in her own, and the two of them walked off into forever.

Good Soup

"I forgive you, child." The old man was pouring soup into a bowl in his little cave home. He didn't look at the boy as he spoke, simply poured with care.

The boy stood worriedly at the mouth of the cave, unsure of what was happening and afraid of this strange new person.

The old man poured a second bowl of soup, and set it on the ground between himself and the boy before retreating to a bedroll on the other side of the fire to eat his own soup.

The boy fidgeted at the entrance.

"Those were not your parents that left you here, were they?"  the man called out over the fire.

Silence answered his question, and the boy continued to fidget. Wondering if he should flee. Would he be able to find his way back? Did he... did he want to go back. After what he'd done.

"No. Not parents. But family, I think." The old man slurped loudly. "Mmm. Good soup."

The boy's eyes slid to the soup. He was hungry, after all. It took a lot out of him when he... when that happened. But he still didn't trust the old man.

There was quiet in the cave, save for the crackling of the fire. The old man finished his soup, and set the bowl beside him but he did not rise.

"When did it begin, if I may ask at least that?" His voice was kind.

The boy, still standing at the entrance, shuffled back and forth for a moment before deciding to answer.

"Not long ago." He spoke with shame.

"Hm." Came the ambivalent reply.

The two looked at each other.

The boy decided he wanted soup after all.

"Your family thinks I can fix you. Make you normal again." Came the voice from across the fire.

The boy slurped his soup slowly, and stared across the fire. Could he?

"But I can't."

Oh.

"You are not broken, child. I cannot fix what is not broken. Tame, perhaps. But that is up to you really."

The boy stopped eating.

"The Magic has chosen you as a conduit. It will fill you until you burst, or until you learn to control it."

He put down the bowl.

"But you are a boy, so control will not come easy. And so I say, I forgive you."

The child looked through the flickering flames at the wrinkled face of the sage.

"What for?"

"For what you cannot forgive yourself. For what you will do to me."

The boy was confused, and cocked his head.

"Know that when you lash out someday, in anger, and your magic unmakes me... I forgive you."

The old man's face was soft, and full of honesty. The boy was shocked.

"And so do your parents."

Hello Darkness

The circle on the floor roars to light, the arcane sigils burning a bright green before simmering into a glowing purple. But not extinguishing. Not yet.

I touch the holy symbol I'm wearing more out of fear and respect than true belief, and hope that I made no errors on the inscription. The barrier seems to be holding. Good, good. Now the true test.

The purple fire continues to crackle, and a thick black smoke appears, trapped by the circle. It swirls, and coalesces into a shadowy form, underlit by the purple light of the magic words at its feet. It's skull-like face reflecting the light brightly, as thought it was pulling the light from the rest of its body even. To look at the thing's chest was painful to the eyes, almost like it was taking away light from the viewer.

"Many moons have waxed and waned since last I saw you, magician." The darkness spoke, a surprisingly human tone to its voice. It tapped at the invisible prison it was trapped in, walls of mystical force projected by the burning runes on the ground. "And you have learned much since then, I see. Perhaps you are more useful than I gave you credit for."

I did it. I got it right.

Hello old friend. Let us see if you can suffer, as I did at your hand. Let us see how human you still are.

Greater Fey

"Oh but the forest is so beautiful today, it is yes." The words echoed out from a porcelain boar's face atop the body of a mighty bear. Tella froze.

The creature did not move. It continued to stare at her with empty eye sockets. The mask was terrible and beautiful, perfect in its craftsmanship and utterly inhuman.

"Do you not think, it is yes?" The thing moved with grace to put its face next to the young girl's. With only a few hands space between them, Tella was now quite sure it was her the thing was speaking to.

"Yes." She said calmly. No sudden movements. Agree to no bargains. Trust nothing.

"Yes it is, it is yes!" The thing danced back, it's head not moving up or down, left or right as the whole body rotated around it and bounced. No expression was worked into the mask.  Tella was terrified.

The thing suddenly stopped.

"Why are you in the Feasting King's kingdom I wonder... perhaps it is a runaway? It is yes." The mask tilted quizzically.

Tella nodded.

"Yes it is, it is yes!" The creature positively beamed. It danced around her, and everywhere its feet fell the ground was painfully colourful for a moment. "Why do you run winterlet? Is it seeking of adventure? Is it seeking monies? I think it is not, it is no." It stood behind Tella, craning its body impossibly over her, and twisting to be face-to face with her. She was enveloped in the Fey's body.

Tella thought hard about her answer. Give him nothing to play with. Make him bored.

"I'm leaving my home... because... I have... left my home." She replied, and hoped it was good and bad enough.

"Ooooohoo hoo hoo, you know of me winterlet!  Or of my brothers perhaps. You think to bore me, it is yes? You have left home because you have no power, and home is no place for a winterlet with no strength in her arms."

Damnit.

"It is on your face why you left your home, it is yes."

Thrice damnit.

"Worry not, winterling! The Feasting King is a happy king! Have this, and return home!  Or find adventure. Do as you will!  The Feasting King is busy feasting." And he danced and danced, and the world spun with him around Tella until she was sure she would vomit.

She closed her eyes, hoping it would pass. Everything hurt like a terrible pressure, and she was sure her stomach would explode, but shortly it passed. All save for the feeling in her gut. That remained.

She opened her eyes, and the world was normal again. It was indeed a beautiful day in the forest.

The Feasting King was nowhere to be seen.

Tella sat down on the ground hard, and exhaled deeply. She tried to remember stories of people who had survived encounters with the greater fey.

She could only think of two.

They didn't end well.

Her stomach still hurt, despite the rest of her having recovered from the experience. She put her hand on her stomach, and probed at the pressure inside her.

Oh no. Oh please no.

She pressed a little harder, and felt a belch work its way up and out her throat.

She felt physically much, much better after that. However, the glittering motes of fey magic that hung in the air after her expulsion told her one terrible, horrible thing.

There was fey magic stuck to her soul now. And there was no-way she could think of to get rid of it.

No way at all is it, it is yes.

An Agent of Her Grace

"What is it you are trying to do?" Abbott Keremor asked his pupil.

"Smite the target, Abbott." Rankin replied.

"So why isn't it smote?"

"Well..." Rankin kicked at the dirt sheepishly. "Maybe... the target isn't... evil? Enough? You know, to warrant Erathis' wrath?"

"Ugh, if only it worked like that... no. It is not yet smote, because you have yet to smite it." Abbott Keremor shook his head, but smiled warmly.  "Remember, you are not just a conduit for the power of Erathis, not some wand used to direct her righteous fury or her benevolent love. You are an agent of her grace, an operative of her might. You must earn her trust, and her power."

"Right..."

"She is not working through you. You are not some mere puppet of her Holiness. She does not reach through you to strike down her foes, she's busy boy. She needs to trust you to find her enemies, root them out and strike decisively. She needs to believe that you will give her blessing to those in need, not those who want."

"Okay... so... how do I convince a god that I'm worthy of her time?" Rankin asked, more perplexed than ever.

"You start the same way you do when you ask Brother Lawrence for seconds, child."

And Abbott Keremor lifted his hand to the target, and spoke with a booming voice a word as ancient as the gods themselves. His whole body shook with the deep timbre of his voice, and the walls echoed with the clarity of his speech. The target was engulfed within a column of flame as high as a house, a twisting torment of fire as hot as it was divine, which dissappeared as quickly as it came. All that remained of the target was a pile of embers, glittering red. Abbott Keremor smiled.

"You ask nicely"