[Flashback] A Sickly Child (Solo)

[Icol de Mordi]

4th of Winter 482 It was cold. Even in the closeness of his bed it was still so chilling he shivered underneath his furs. A coughing fit hit him then, violently taking his breath away for almost a minute straight. Regardless of how long he had been confined to this bed, one never quite grew used to such an attack on the lungs. He came out of it groaning softly in pain. He tried his best to ignore the sickness, burying himself in the books that lay scattered around him. Most were tomes on herbs, poultices, other methods of healing wounds. It was not that he hoped to find a cure to his ailments within the pages, rather that this collection made up the bulk of the books that his mother and father owned, being healers themselves. Most of them lay in a neat pile of those he had read from cover to cover, some of them lay open in those he had put down for later, and few of them were around him on the bed within reach. The one opened on his lap was turned to a page with a diagram illustrating how one particular plant's leaves could be ground up and used in a powder to get rid of warts. It was hardly interesting. He was more killing time than paying any kind of attention. Finally his mother appeared, stepping gingerly over the many books. Her eyes were a vibrant hue of purple, showing concern for the coughing fit she inevitably heard and trying to hide it to keep her son from worrying. She gave him a smile. "How are you today Icol? Any better?" Her smiled retained even as Icol shook his head from side to side slowly. "Maybe this will help then." It was essentially the same thing she said every time it was time to take his medicine. Inwardly he sighed and leaned forward to take the small vial of red liquid. The medicine was bitter and made him gag when he poured it down his throat, but he knew that it would numb the pain at least for a while. And the Whitevine healers assured him that it would slowly make him better. He had no other choice but to trust in them. Her mother made short fusses over his health, his comfort, and other motherly things. Icol did his best to keep from sounding impatient, but his mother must have sensed his feelings and soon bustled off. He hoped he hadn't insulted her, but today he couldn't help it. Today he had his father's book. As soon as he could no longer hear his mother's soft steps he threw the fur covers from his bed and knelt down next to it. From above the boards the supported the skins he withdrew a large, leather bound tome that he hefted onto his lap.

[Icol de Mordi]

The book had no outwardly name, but when he hefted the large cover to the left the first page, yellow and aged, read 'The Disciplines of Magic and their Theories'. It was his father's book, taken without his father's knowledge. If he were ever to find out Icol knew that he would be furious. Magic was a dangerous thing, and yet it intrigued Icol to no extent. Certainly far more than potions did. This was not a spell book. It did not teach how to go about starting the path to becoming a wizard, instead it outlined and detailed how each particular discipline of magic is different from each other, what one would normally experience when one is performing or watching the performer, and some general ideas about how and why their magic works. It was written and edited by a series of wizards, and it was quite rare from what Icol could tell. Books explaining magic certainly weren’t common. Mages did love their secrets and mystery after all. The sick boy devoured the text with a fervor he had never known before. He read all about Djed, the fuel inside of people that powered personal magic. He read about the importance of circles and lines, of astral bodies and incantations. There was even a slight mention of Divine Magic, though it was only just a reference and the practice remained a mystery to Icol. He fancied, with dismay, his own Djed was hardly anything at all. Otherwise he wouldn’t be so sick all the time, would he? While he read page after page every day, his father had been searching through his private library. It did not take him long to discover the missing book, and after that to find out who had taken it. Anger flashed through him at first at the theft, but before he confronted Icol about it he made himself listen to reason. His hair, once long and black, was quickly silvering. His spells were not as powerful anymore, and what mages called the Sweet Whisper pulled at him more strongly than ever. As loathe as he was to admit it, he was old, and his work was not nearly finished. Eventually he would need someone to carry on where he could not.

[Icol de Mordi]

A heavy footfall outside of his room signaled what could only be his father approaching. This had happened many times before, and there was hardly any need to panic. Quickly and calmly Icol shoved the book underneath the tower of pillows that allowed him to sit up while still comfortable. His father would not see it, and there would be no reason to reach underneath there. The sick boy closed his eyes and pretended that he was asleep. Fenrus de Mordi walked into his room, making no attempt to quiet his footsteps at all. It appeared that his son was sleeping, but the wise old mage knew better. He folded his arms across his robed chest and stamped his foot lightly once. “Alright, boy. Let’s have that book back now.” He said with a frown. Icol tried for a little longer to keep up the charade, but he was caught and he knew it. Meekly he opened his eyes and slid the book back into his father’s waiting hands. He expected punishment right there, but instead Fenrus moved his hands along the spine in thought. “How much of this have you read?” He asked. Icol, knowing that his father would realize if he were lying, replied “All of it. Twice.” His father’s face was a mask in contemplation. It seemed an eternity before he spoke again. “Get up and come with me.” Icol’s father would not have requested that he move from his sick bed unless it was something important. Icol rose, his muscles sore from being confined to be most of the day. He ignored it, kept quiet, and followed his father into his personal study. It was a small room that smelled of chalk and book pages and herbs. Fenrus returned the stolen book to a case that held all of his private collection before turning to face his son. “So, you’re interested in magic are you? Do you even know the first thing about it? How it works, why people use it?” Icol timidly nodded his head. “Yes sir. ‘Magic is a process fueled by one’s Djed, the substance which the soul supplies and is acquired from the daily consumption of food, drink, and resting’.” It was a quote directly from the book, one of Icol’s favorites. A smile tugged at the side of his father’s mouth, though he did not let it bloom. “Yes.” He said. “I suppose that just about sums up Djed. Tell me boy, have you tried to practice any of this?” Icol instantly shook his head no. “It’s just as well. It wouldn’t have done you any good. You wouldn’t be able to conjure the smallest spells without first having the ability. Now, on your knees boy.” Icol, terrified that his punishment was now coming, swallowed his tears and did as his father asked.

[Icol de Mordi]

Fenrus produced a small and sharp looking knife from the inner pockets of his robes. It had a short black handle that held an encrusted ruby at the end. Though Icol could not see it while it was gripped in his father's hand, there was an elaborate design of swirls carved into the handle, meant to symbolize the fury of the wind. Icol's eyes danced across the glint of the blade and it reflected fear back at him. "Hold up your hands. Palms up." Fenrus commanded. Icol hesitated a moment before doing as he was bid, his hands shaking. He was thrown into a coughing fit, and his body shook with the convulsions. He dared not disobey his father however, and did not move his hands to cover the small bits of phlegm that escaped onto the floor. Fenrus, however, did not move until his son had recovered. When the symptoms of his illness finally subsided from Icol, he did not waste any time. He stepped forward and deftly drew a red line across each of Icol's palms. The boy winced and cried aloud, but his hands stayed up as he had been told to do. It was not for any fear of punishment that Icol so obeyed his father, but rather desire and apprehension. His father rarely ever disciplined the sickly boy, and so it was a desire to please his ever stern father and an apprehension to what his father represented. To Icol, there was no one more intelligent and powerful and secretive than his father. His was the epitome of the mysterious power of magic, and that was something that Icol both feared and respected. His father took a step back and closed his eyes. What happened next Icol had never seen before, but would remember for the rest of his life. Fenrus began pulsating with an odd gas like substance. It rose green from his outstretched hands, twisting and writhing within the air as it grew. It kept expanding until it practically filled the small room. His father then opened his eyes and locked them with Icol’s own, giving a slight nod. Icol braced himself.

[Icol de Mordi]

His father flung his hands forward, aiming his palms towards Icol's own. The green gas swiveled and pulsed as if with a life of its own as Fenrus struggled with controlling it. Icol bit his lip to keep from crying out in anxious fear. His had trust in his father, trust that he would not do anything to harm him. And still the gas crept closer to his hands. When the Res finally pierced through the gaping wounds in his flesh, the boy could not help but shout. Instantly pain shot up through his arms, as if he had plunged his hands into a frozen lake. He wanted to tear his arms away, to stop the blinding pain but the green substance held them up and pumped itself further into him. His father's face was a mask of concentration when Icol stared pleadingly up at him. He knew that he would not stop until the process was finished. The substance twitched into the air higher, and soon forced its way into his screaming mouth and up through his nostrils. The icy pain flooded his entire head and bloomed downwards to touch the pains that continued to surge throughout his arms. When they met, the sensation tore its way throughout his entire body, filling his frame with the alien presence. It was all Icol could do to keep from passing out, or keep upright as convulsions wracked his body. After what seemed an eternity his father began to slowly retract the Res. The gas seeped out from his mouth, nostrils, and wounds and finally when it had all been pulled from the boy the substance vanished in the air. The pain left him, but so did his consciousness. Icol de Mordi's eyes rolled back into his skull, and he fell forward onto the hard ground with a heavy thump!

[Icol de Mordi]

Icol awoke the next day, head and hands pounding. He was in bed, he discovered, and his hands were wrapped in gauze. When he pressed his fingers lightly against it he retracted them quickly and breathed in sharply. That hurt. With a groan Icol heaved himself out of bed and stood wobbling on his feet. The night before was a blur, he could hardly recall it all. Did he have magic now, like his father? How could he use it? Icol extended his arms forward, but none of the elements expunged from his palms. Not even the gas came forth. If he did have magic, he certainly didn't know how to use it. A step on the wood caused him to look up. His mother was in the doorway, looking half concerned and half joyful. "Oh, Icol." She began saying. "You're finally awake." "Finally? How long was I asleep Mother?" Icol replied. "Three days, ever since your father... well.." Obviously the subject was not something she approved of. Icol did not doubt that his parents had fought about it as well. "Where is father?" He asked. He needed to talk to him, to ask him about this whole situation. His mother told him that he was off somewhere, but he would return soon enough. And when he did, his mother had been told to relay, his training would begin.