Wild Card 23

I am surrounded in darkness by the sound of coins, the scent of metal, leather, and human skin oils, and the constant, bone-jarring thumping of horse hoofbeats. This is possibly the absolute worst substitute for an RV that a mouse has ever semi willingly traveled in. I can't even afford to cast Glow in case it's visible somehow to the other knights.

The journey out of Demos is dull, long, and uncomfortable. It's made all the moreso because I'm strictly confined to Vanion's coin purse, tucked between his surcoat and his mail shirt. While he's been kind enough to insert a supporting frame into the pouch to ensure I'm not crushed, I'm still rattled about somewhat any time his chain mail slaps forcefully against his gambeson. This happens about every four or five of his horse's steps. My only real distraction from the jostling is attempting to practice spell casting, a task complicated by being rattled like a mouse shaped bean in a soup can. I can only comfort myself with the knowledge that this is probably good training for using magic during stress or extreme environmental movement, like aboard a ship in a storm or during an earthquake. I am ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN this is a skill which I'll use EVERY DAY. Sarcasm aside, I've never been one for motion sickness, but I've come close to it more than a few times over the course of the last week and a half.

Clinking armor, hoofbeats, distant voices in idle, relaxed travel conversation between the other knights in the column, it all blends together into a background noise, one that's heavily punctuated by Vanion's own contributions to it. His voice booms hollowly through his chest and my ears by dint of his close proximity, like the companionable chatter of a mountain. The heavy rumble of Vanion's voice might even be soothing in its own way, were it not for the swaying of his coinpurse being worse than any sailboat I experienced in my life back home. Through it all, I endure, and immerse myself in the casting and recasting, over and over, of Upgrade. The coin that serves as my current target is being upgraded to be a better version of itself, the stamp of its mint centered more beautifully and crisply pressed, the tarnish of its copper removed and the surface polished to a rich, metallic burnish that would shine like a mirror were there light to do so. The embossment of the features on this side of the coin is a perfect likeness to the image of who it portrays, a royal face I don't know and don't care to.

In this servitude in which I find myself, I have little enough autonomy. In spite of this, I argued for and got permission to practice my magic and improve it when not required for anything else. Sure, there's a list of specific magics they want me to practice, but I have the choice now of what order I'll do it, and how far I'll take that practice beyond the minimum required, and that's a shred of self determination, of choice, that I will seize and exercise to the best of my ability.

Plus, there's the added benefit of magic being unreservedly awesome in its own right. Left to my own devices, I can easily see me sequestering myself away in a tower somewhere far from people, and just... practicing. Studying my magic, the spells, the effects, trying to devise entirely new spells all on my own. I could easily find myself doing that for a hundred years; I know that the higher tiers of this magic can stave off - and even reverse - aging, can eliminate disease. I could create my own food. Create my own fortress, populate it with whatever magical constructs I feel like.

Only two things would prevent this: my geasa, compelling me to serve and protect Sparhawk, and the knowledge that somewhere out there my wife waits for me, not knowing what happened, where I am, or even if I'm still alive. When I remember the panicked look on her face before the whirlwind of paper swept me away, I can feel myself starting to panic, starting to get desperate, and so I try to put it out of my mind as much as I can so as not to melt down into uselessness. More than anything, I resent this forced service for a year that compels me to stay here instead of bending my every effort to finding a way home. As much as I enjoy it, as awesome and fascinating as magic is, I think I'd give it up without a second thought if doing so would bring me back home to my wife.

I hope she's okay.

I grimace as a particularly vigorous step slams me bruisingly against the frame inside the protected pouch, both jolting me back to the present and breaking my concentration on my Upgrade spell. The carefully woven magic scatters harmlessly as coins scrape against coins with shrill and painful sounds inaudible to human ears but pitched perfectly to give me an especially obnoxious mouse tinnitus. I recast it, focusing on the coin again, which rests next to my paws like a legless table top.

With enough practice, enough advancement, I should soon be able to make incremental but permanent improvements to the things I upgrade. Not just finished products, but materials, intermediate refinements, anything. Upgrading the purity and magic receptivity of water, enhancing the quality of ingredients for Witch's Brew, then thereafter improving the efficacy of the brew itself. It'll be time intensive, but the end product will be something like Lucy's cordial from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Just a drop to heal mortal wounds and deadly diseases. And I'm damn well packaging it in personally made crystal, too. With serial numbers, and certificates of authenticity. Maybe a velvet lined clamshell box like Louis XIII cognac.

... on second thought, a fancy glass bottle is probably good enough. Wouldn't want to get carried away with it or anything.

Well, maybe I'll splurge on a crystal bottle.

Despite the disruptions of being tossed back and forth, I have enough focus to practice my spell while I let my mind wander. As I reflect on everything Vanion has told me about current events, it occurs to me that there's an awful lot of easily testable variables that this crew has decided to leave up to chance. Or rather, their evolution of logic and reason hasn't quite reached the scientific method loop of Observe, Research, Hypothesize, Test, Analyze, and Refine, much less any sort of peer review. Which will take time.

Cooped up in this coin purse, I have no idea what time it is, much less how long we have before we stop for the night. Since I actually have the ability to remove poisons now, the first thing I should be doing when we reach wherever Vanion intends to hide me is acquire a sample of this 'darestim' and test on animals whether I can remove it in the first place. It'll save a lot of ambiguity, not to mention this papal election crisis - or archprelate, whatever - of theirs might be solved if we can wake up the queen and get her back in charge of her own finances before the pope dies and the critical vote comes down.

Alternately... can I heal their pope, archprelate, outright? Is that a thing I can do? From what they say, his problem is natural aging. Rewinding that would be the fix. A developed enough version of Vigor could do it, and when maximally mastered, Witch's Brew could too. But that assumes he'd live long enough for me to gain the skill to do either one. And I'm not sure restoring youth is a can of worms I want to open up. It strikes me as the sort of impulsive kindness that would start wars either to kill me or control me. Although... Sephrenia is hundreds of years old, and looks to be at most in her forties. Maybe I'm overthinking it? Except hers is, I'm assuming, some kind of perk of being a high level cleric. According to Vanion, all magic is borrowed from the gods here. So, a secular form of expanded life span is still probably a terrible idea for everyone.

An especially strong jostle slaps me to the sparse pile of coins in the middle, yanking a squeak out of me and a loud, tinnitus enhancing jangle of copper and silver. This of course disrupts my spell again, in addition to bruising my chin and my dignity. But, by now I'm used to it, or close enough, and neither rattling my current accommodations nor recasting Upgrade appreciably affect my train of thought. Okay, healing the pope is a no-go. Even if every one of the powerful people here somehow decided not to act like powerful people, with gods being a real thing here the Elene god might just take issue with me derailing his shit. And given the principle antagonists are going up to and including regicide, then even if he doesn't, his servants almost certainly would. Especially that Annias guy.

But then, a change in the pace of our motion grabs my attention. Vanion's horse slows to a halt, and in the sudden lack of swaying, thumping, and shaking, I can softly hear the bellows rush of Vanion's breathing past the leather of the pouch.

Distantly, I hear a young man challenge, "Who art thou who entreateth entry into the House of the Soldiers of God?"

It's genuinely funny, I can literally hear the capital letters as Vanion and the other exchange their codes and passphrases like a couple of old college buddies reminiscently reciting their fraternity oaths. Yet despite the humor, the prospect of finally reaching our destination surges in me, and I just want this journey to be over with. I'm past wondering how this ritual challenge evolved in the context of their culture as a militant order, just so long as I can get out of this stupid pouch. I'm sick of the smell of leather and well circulated coins, I'm tired of swaying and jostling all over the place, and I'm truly DONE with spending days in the dark.

For that matter, after only having Goodberry every day for weeks on end, I want a goddamn steak. And a baked potato. A LOADED baked potato. And some roast squash in tomato sauce with gruyere melted over the top. I might be losing weight on the Goodberry diet but bloody hell I want a delicious, fattening, excessive dinner. I'd even settle for a fast food cheeseburger and fries.

It's only a minute or so before the ritual challenge is completed, and the knights are going across what sounds to my mousey ears like a wooden bridge. Probably a drawbridge, all things considered. I may only be only minutes away from being able to finally breathe fresh air, and I keenly yearn for it.

The ride from the gatehouse is a short one, and less intense than the traveling pace of the last nine or ten days. When one spends that long in darkness repetitively practicing the same spell over and over, the sameness of it starts to blur a man's perceptions of passing time and rest cycles. A guy loses count. But now it's over, and Vanion dismounts. He holds a brief conversation with the stablehands on the care of and condition of his mount, then departs, and I'm subjected to gentler, human paced footsteps that are far less jarring than horseback was. Almost civilized. The pouch sways a little, but being between surcoat and chain mail means that most of the movement is analogous to that involving the torso itself while walking, and as such, is far milder by comparison.

Vanion's pace slows to a halt, and there is the sound of a heavy iron key in a hand forged lock, the creak of iron hinges and the slight groan of sturdy, metal reinforced oak.

Then, a moment of silence before the surcoat is removed, and light peeks in wanly from the fold of the coinpurse flap. It's barely anything but all the same, it's uncomfortably bright to my darkness adjusted eyes. Beautiful, beautiful light - and then, a moment of sudden motion followed by a brief weightlessness that ends in a coin tumbling seismic event that bounces me like a tennis ball. That son of a bitch has completely forgotten I'm in here, hasn't he?

I hear a muffled curse; the flap is thrown wide open and in the glare I see an incoming hand that, to my current stature, is approximately the size and speed of an oncoming Buick. I let out an involuntary squeak of alarm, but it's probably high-pitched enough that Vanion can't hear it, which is good, because my reputation with this lot is probably pathetic enough that I can't afford to lose what little regard they have for me. I'm lifted unceremoniously out of my hated travel accommodations and deposited ungently on Vanion's desk. The plateau of administrative workspace stretches to either side of two walls of poorly organized paperwork, and I am treated to the sight of a gigantic Vanion shrugging himself out of his chainmail gambeson and the padded underlayer beneath it. He carefully hangs each over opposing sides of a dual hooked armor stand that reminds me of a coat rack.

While I'm a mouse, I obviously can't speak a human language; the Tongues spell is good but not THAT good. I cast Prestidigitation to draw glowing lines in the air, forming the Elenic script. 'What now?' I write.

Vanion doesn't answer me immediately, even after he collapses into his chair with a tired grunt, then finally notices the glowing writing in the air. "Now?" he says wearily, no longer pretending energy he doesn't have. I remember the sword-burden he took from Sephrenia, and wonder just how much it weighs him down. "Well, after my back stops aching, I'm going to get a bath."

'Not what I meant' I scrawl in the air, waiting a few seconds for him to read it, before I continue, 'moving forward' followed shortly by, 'teaching, brewing, practicing'.

"I don't understand your question," Vanion responds, rubbing his eyes. "You have your priorities already."

'Can't practice Druidism' I point out. 'If hiding me' then 'can't hide the plants'.

Vanion frowns and nods. "That is a fair point."

'Also need more herbs' I add. 'Running out'.

Vanion opens his mouth, then pauses. "And you can't grow more for yourself, because of the Druidism," he concludes.

'Exactly'

Vanion grimaces and sighs heavily, looking worn. "Alright then. Continue your work on... Upgrade, that's the one you're working on currently, correct?"

I don't bother with the writing this time, I just nod emphatically.

"Then work exclusively on that. I'll see about acquiring the herbs you need for more brewing. You have a list somewhere?"

I glance around, then pull down a piece of parchment from one of the walls of paperwork. Shape Water allows me to pull a measure of ink from the nearby inkwell, splattering it across the parchment before using Alter Object to array the ink into writing. A full list of what medicinal herbs I can remember from my active Wiccan days, in hopes at least some of them can be useful to enhance my brews. I look back up at him, and return to Prestidigitation. 'Small bundles are enough' I display, 'still need work space'.

"You will work from my office," Vanion replies. "Mind you, while you're human, you CANNOT allow yourself to be seen, although I don't much recommend being seen even as a mouse. I don't wish to confine you to a prison, but necessity calls men to begging at hell's windows."

That's an interesting phrase. And semantically, very close to one from Earth. 'Needs must' I show, 'while the devil drives'

"Mmm. However you wish to say it." Vanion groans, leaning forward before hauling himself to his feet. "I'm going to bathe myself. Your spell that creates a hiding place, use it on the wall - there's a storage closet, rarely used, next to this one."

I cast the spell, but not on the side wall where he surely intended me to cast it, if not saying so specifically. Semantics are important when giving orders, after all. The camouflaged door appears on the wall, and I open it with Mage Hand to reveal the rusticly furnished room behind it.

As I turn back to human, Vanion frowns. "That isn't-" he begins, before cutting himself off and peering at the open room behind the door, obviously not the open air from the window litereally right next to my hideaway. "Where..."

"Extradimensional space," I reply, then remembering last time, I clarify, "Ah, a space that is larger than - or extra - the size and shape, the dimensions, of what's normally there. Extradimensional."

The compound of the words in Elenic sounds awkward in Vanion's mouth, but there's an understanding there after my explanation that was utterly lacking the last time I used the term. "... what a marvelous concept."

I shrug uncomfortably. "On the shoulders of giants, and all that."

"... What?"

I don't really want to explain that idiom right now. "I'll get to that another time. We're stalling your bathing."

"Right." He nods, then moves to leave the office, but stops and turns to me. "I'll knock on your door three times when it's safe to be opened. Rest well, Anthon."

I manage to keep my dissatisfaction out of my voice. "Thanks."

To both my surprise and chagrin, I find myself a little bit sleepy. All this time spent on these knights' waking schedule is starting to rub off on me, and I don't like it. I typically prefer the nighttime, the solitude and the quiet that comes with it, and being awake at the same time as everyone else is just asking for people to interrupt my study or writing. Yet now, it gives me something I don't want: time alone with my thoughts. Thoughts that always turn to what I've lost, personal freedom, safety, my wife and my life back home, in exchange for a medieval world where gods are at least real enough to grant magic, where I'm magic, where I'm at the beck and call of people who I had no choice in being subordinate or beholden to. People who scare me more than a little with their cavalier, casual attitudes towards killing and violence, and against whom I have no defense. Stupid geasa.

But then, that's just my life now, isn't it? Waiting out the clock on the sidelines where I can't even tangibly help complete their quest. Where I'm superfluous, powerless to guide my life nor to affect anything else, because I'm on house arrest as a backup plan. And I don't understand that Sephrenia woman. Horrified by the prospect of anyone acquiring the Bhelliom thing but gung-ho to drag two kids into a quest to find it, all while insisting on leaving a healer behind. I don't even know how long the Witch's Brew will last for them, either. If it's still usable for healing anything more severe than a stubbed toe by next week, it'll be a miracle, and their quest could take months yet.

I have to stop dwelling on it; there's nothing I can do about any of this tonight. And I'm not getting a non-goodberry meal tonight, either. Oh, how I want a nice chicken pot pie, with a thick gravy with parmesan and carrots and peas and maybe some green beans! All baked up in a flaky,, homemade pastry crust. Preferably across the dinner table from my wife.

I cast Goodberry, and munch listlessly on a small cluster of grapes, as I think of things I cannot have. I don't remember falling asleep.

Walking up, on the other hand, is unpleasant enough that I'm probably going to remember it for a while. Morning aches and pains I haven't had to deal with for a week and a half as a mouse reassert themselves with a vengeance, as though making up for lost time. Reintroducing themselves like disliked high school classmates who you've just barely managed to forget before you run into them unexpectedly at the store. I shapeshift into a younger, less scarred version of myself and just bask for a few minutes in the sensation of not hurting all over.

I take a moment to pull my crafted mirror from my Pocket spell, wondering briefly on the magical space warping that allows me to open one extradimensional space from inside another, then firmly drive that question out of my mind. Instead, I look at myself in my mirror. Unlike when I was in my twenties, my head is still shaved bald and my beard is full and bushy, if jet black rather than the shock white of my current self. I fix that, growing my hair out to my lower back while receding my beard to clean shaven. Long unused but still familiar skills at tying my hair back into a ponytail serve me well, shortening the apparent length of my hair to somewhere between my shoulderblades. I huff a wry chuckle as I remember college martial arts tournaments, tucking my hair beneath my red head protector before stepping into the ring at competitions. I carefully form fists, staring at them a moment before I sink into a horse stance. It's like seeing an old friend, the sensation of centering my mass, and I adjust until I can see, can FEEL I'm doing it correctly, taking my time. Do it carefully. Do it right. Take my time. Don't try to move fast; slow is smooth, and smooth is fast.

I don't look much like my older self. The combination of hair and no beard makes me look like a completely different person, let alone shedding about a hundred pounds. The build I had from when I was working out regularly. Not a knight's or a swordsman's build, no, but one that they might at least respect all the same. I ponder a quote from Arnold Schwarzenegger: "The pain that you hold is yours. There is not a single pain quite like it; nobody else on God's green earth can feel this pain, or have the indescribable feeling of pride you will have when you overcome it. This pain is not your curse, it is your privilege."

And suddenly, the enjoyment of my younger body is gone, replaced by a feeling of shame. I was never a professional bodybuilder but I approached my martial arts with some of the things I learned from Arnold's encyclopedia of bodybuilding. Yes, I'd been reckless in martial arts, pushing myself too hard in trying to emulate Arnold's quote, but when I'd gotten smart enough to know what not to do, I could have still worked out, still practiced. Instead, I let the pain speak for me. I let myself go. There's a hundred and one small ways I'd have changed my twenties, my carelessness with myself and my health, small mistakes and shortcuts that led to one or another large consequence a decade or more down the road.

I revert myself back to my natural age and shape. Immediately, my lower back complains at the sudden weight of my gut, and I adjust my feet to compensate for my new center of balance in my horse stance. Despite the exercise of the last month, my thighs quickly start protesting, my knees voicing their displeasure, my ankle clicking as I briefly stand up straighter before catching myself and sinking lower again into a proper horse stance. Yet it doesn't alleviate the shame. The pain isn't cleansing like some would have you believe. I don't feel vindicated. I don't feel validated by it. It's just pain, old, growing, familiar, and unpleasant. And I hate myself for not being able to internalize Arnold's words in any way that emotionally matters.

I hate myself for a lot of things. For never making it as a small business owner. For never succeeding at singing or acting. For never winning a martial arts tournament despite my love for it. For never completing college. For never pursuing computer animation or programming even though I was decent at both. For never following through with my childhood dream of becoming a cetacean biologist. For being a mediocre writer with a talent for turn of phrase but little else, including not being able to finish anything I start.

I grit my teeth. This isn't doing me any good. No amount of exercise is going to overcome the cartilage and tendon damage I've accrued, nor the aches from long healed bone bruises that were only fractions of an inch away from actual fractures. No amount of diet and self care will fix the permanent injuries I inflicted on myself after learning to overcome the natural reflexive resistance to self injury through exertion. The only thing that will actually help me repair my body at this point is doing what I should already be doing, practicing my spells.

I stand myself up straight, and sit back down on the bed that comes with my hideaway spell. What a waste. What a laughable joke is youth, that it's squandered on the young.

If I'm going to obsess over adages, I may as well try to do so with one that's useful to my current circumstances. The best time to start investing in yourself is the past. The second best time is now.

I get to practicing my magic.