The Great War: Chapter 37
Unexpected yet magical things can happen when faced with life or death
“Ready to go topside?”
“Aye.”
Mathew allows himself to be hauled to his feet by the shadowed figure of Lorn, his grip warm against Mathew’s cold skin.
“Right, c’mon,” Lorn whispers eagerly. He quickly makes his way down the narrow pathway between sleeping sailors, his footsteps practically nonexistent as he moves. But Mathew stands at the foot of his own blanket a moment longer, his eyes straying to his bag of personal effects. He can just barely make out his empty scabbard, softly lit by a strange, ethereal glow coming from his mother’s crystal necklace. The shard of ice has sat at the bottom of his bag ever since he boarded the ship. He hardly paid it much mind. Has it always been able to glow like this? He doesn’t even remember.
As he stands transfixed by the odd glow, the urge to grab his parent’s items grows strong inside his chest. The darkness of the room feels like it’s practically pressing against his body, pushing him in their direction first, unwilling to let him leave if he doesn’t do as it wishes. Or maybe he’s just being overly anxious.
“Mathew!” Lorn’s angry hisses at him, making his ears prickle.
“Right…” Mathew mutters back. But before he moves his feet, he caves and reaches down and retrieves the two items from his bag. Holding the scabbard and necklace in his hands, he’s able to calm himself down ever so slightly, and the oppressiveness of the shadows feels to lift from his body. And while the little ice crystal continues to glow in his palm, it appears not to actually be giving off any light at all, no halo of blue illuminating his fingers as they wrap around it.
But there lingers in the air another sensation, the sensation of being watched. The sort of watching that makes the hairs on his arms and legs stand completely straight. And these aren’t just any old eyes peering at him, but some sort of large, unexplainable presence that sickens him to the very core of his being. He takes a quick look around the dark sleeping quarters to find… nothing of note, besides Lorn’s wavering figure as he sways in anxious impatience.
Finally, he joins Lorn by the front wall of the sleeping quarters.
“Stars above, mate!” Mathew is lightly scolded.
Mathew fumbles with his scabbard’s clasp as the two make their way through the sleeping quarters, heading towards the room’s single exit. As they emerge from the room into the hallway, he slips the necklace over his head to free up his other hand, shoving the cold crystal underneath his shirt.
Their pathway lit by lamplight, Mathew and Lorn sneak their way through the halls of the massive Island Destroyer, heading for the nearest staircase. While the boards creak and groan under their weight, the rumbling of the waves and the ship’s rocking easily mask their footsteps.
It’s almost shocking how empty the halls are. Do the Guardians not perform nightly patrols of the decks? His heart jumps at every corner and doorway he passes, fully expecting for there to be Guardians waiting to catch them, so much so that after it doesn’t take long for it to feel like his heart was about ready to burst from his paranoia. And it doesn’t help that he still feels like he’s being watched intently.
Paranoia… on a ship. He shakes his head in an attempt to rid himself of the thought. He wanted to be here. Sailing is his dream. And the sooner he can get his magic under control, assuming what Lorn is going to show him actually works, then maybe the paranoia will simply go away.
The pair finally manage to make it to the stairs and scales them on their hands and feet, staying low and distributing their weight as best they can to avoid making any unwanted loud noises. Even with the ship being relatively new, it’s impossible to tightly nail down every individual plank perfectly.
Finally, the cold ocean air blasts Mathew’s face as he emerges on the top deck of the ship. He stands at the top of the stairs for a moment, taking in the sensations of the night, all his prior worries melting away into the background. The breeze is crisp and clear, the tinge of salt enough to make his noise tickle ever so slightly. The endless ocean of bright stars above glow and sparkle, lighting the ship with their majesty as a rich purple scar streaks through them without a care. Slowly, he approaches the side of the ship to stare out at the dark water, the waves reflecting the glowing lights in the sky.
“Magical…” he breathes aloud, leaning on the ship’s railing with a wide smile across his lips. He could stand here and stargaze all night.
“Indeed,” Lorn nods next to him, his eyes also transfixed on the horizon. “Clear nights are always a sight to behold. And who are we to try and rival the beauty of the life-giving light from above?” He cups his hands together, and from them sparks a small flame that flickers in the cool air around it, a small starlight of his own that cuts through the darkness. But he stares at the tiny thing with apathy, even as it waves back at him without care. “Why give the hapless beings the power to create light that rivals the stars, to draw our attention away from the light above already given to us?”
Mathew furrows his brow at the question, the serenity of the nighttime view giving way to unease. Fragmented memories of his childhood surge forward, of his family holding small outdoor fires down by the bay, and his mother created for them massive ice sculptures that perfectly captured the star’s majesty, entrapping their sparkles in crystal prisms. And each time she did it, it was ever so slightly different. Curves would become jagged points and vice versa, each shape unique yet stunning all the same, a compliment to the little lights above them. It was always a performance, and ode to the light that allows them to live and thrive.
A small pang of longing squeezes at his heart, and with it he lets out a heavy exhale.
“I’m not for this sort of discussion, Lorn,” he admits. “What’d ye want to show me?”
Lorn closes his hands, pressing his palms together to extinguish the flame’s life, and gives Mathew an apologetic smile. “I’ve been told I’d make for a great philosopher.”
“Sure,” Mathew replies with an eye roll. The two finally pull away from the ship’s railing, and they stand face-to-face in the starlight.
“What does ye want to do with your magic, then?” Lorn inquires. “Control it? Limit it? Be rid of it completely?”
“Is that possible?” Mathew breathes. “Getting rid of it.”
“Aye, I’ve seen it happen,” Lorn nods. “Is that what ye want?”
“N-No,” Mathew replies instantly. He may detest his magic, but he’s never actually wished to not have it. It’s still a part of his being. “If it can be controlled or limited, though…”
“Aye, that can certainly be done.”
But the confirmation doesn’t make Mathew feel relieved in the slightest. Instead, the phantom stare returns in full force, a sharp chill pressing itself against his back. A second pair of hidden eyes open themselves on Mathew’s face, warm yet imposing all the same, creating a sharp temperature contrast that makes him dreadfully uncomfortable standing still. And yet he can’t bring himself to move, either, rooted to the floorboards in a strange sort of paralysis under the gaze of these two unseen figures.
A blast of hot air radiates from Lorn’s figure, a dull glow of light brightening his body. But this light isn’t a fiery red-orange, but a brilliant, clear white.
A surge of energy floods Mathew’s body, screaming at him to start moving away from whatever is happening before his eyes, yet he is still unable to even twitch his fingers. He’s never wanted to desperately run as far away from a single being like this before.
“You’re not religious, are you?” Lorn asks lightly, seemingly unaffected by the heavy atmosphere. His entire tone has shifted, becoming more confident and sophisticated without a single hint of his sailor accent.
“No,” Mathew answers. No sooner is the single word said, the heat that warms his face intensifies angrily, starting to burn its way into his chest.
But Lorn just claps his hands together, still grinning from ear to ear. “No wonder you appear so agitated. I thought you called upon your Patron of magic, but I see that He came all on His own.
“I pulled a lot of strings to get you here, Mathew. I like you. You did very well at hiding your magic, at least at first, but wizards always reveal themselves in time. None of this is really your fault. It’s just unfortunate that you were born this way.
“Tell me honestly, Mathew, why is a wizard like you working for the Guardians?”
Mathew’s magic swirls inside him in a strong, bitter cold storm in an effort to chase away the intense heat that continues to press aggressively against his body.
His mother and siblings left him. He thinks that the wizards fight a fruitless, one-sided battle for little gain. He’s always wanted to sail on a ship. He wants to prove himself he doesn’t need his magic to be useful.
He has all those reasons at the forefront of his mind, and yet he’s hesitant to answer.
After a long, silent moment, Lorn lets out a small chuckle and shakes his head. “Oh, Mathew…”
“What do you want from me?” Mathew demands.
“Simple, really,” Lorn responds. He holds out a hand to Mathew, and in his palm glows a bright white diamond. “I want you to join us.”
Mathew’s gaze goes from Lorn’s hand to his eyes, breath caught in his throat. Lorn has been a Guardian all this time? How? Weren’t wizards barred from being Guardians?
If ever it’s possible for a genuine smile to turn empty and lifeless in an instant, this is what happens with Lorn’s expression as his mind appears to slip away from his body. “Asandra promises to provide us immunity and complete control of our magic in exchange for joining Her Guardians. We won’t have to fear ever again, for our magic would be used in service of the Light instead of against it, as how it always should have been.
“You’re strong and talented, Mathew. It’d be a shame for all that potential of yours to be thrown away. All you have to do is take my hand, and your magic will never be an issue ever again.”
Mathew looks back down at Lorn’s hand again, at the pulsing diamond in his palm. Become a Guardian? Is that really the solution to his magic troubles? It’s that easy?
The cold at his back rolls over his shoulders and wrists, feeling as it if were trying to pull him away, whereas the heat against his face turns soft and inviting, calling him forward. He’s hopelessly trapped between the divided wills of the Spirits above, all the while indecisive of what he truly wants for himself.
“If I join?” he asks.
“Then you can keep sailing with us on this ship. Maybe you’ll even get to properly fight the enemy.”
“And if I don’t?”
Lorn’s empty smile turns sharply sinister. “By the Lady’s decree, I’m afraid I’d have to execute you.
“We can stand here all night, if you wish, but if by first light you don’t make a decision, you’ll still be executed. So choose your answer wisely and soon.”
Mathew gets a sinking feeling that he’s not actually talking to Lorn anymore. His gaze is distant and glassy, instead filled with the bright will of a being far more powerful than he can ever hope to stand up to. The way he stands perfectly poised, his outstretched arm showing no signs of tiring, is an eerie sight to behold.
And at the same time, his magic swirls with agitation, condensing itself into a condensed ball of raw power as it continues to rage in its usual stormy fashion, begging him to run away. But where would he go? The ship is crawling with Guardians, not to mention that Lorn will be on his tail the very moment he tries to escape. He can’t fight back, for he has no sword nor a proper grasp of his magic to protect himself. There’s no time to get into one of the small boats that hang over the edge of the ship and cut the chord, for he won’t be able to row away fast enough before he’d be besieged by cannonballs and Guardian artillery. And it’s not like he can try and hide somewhere on the ship as a stowaway, either, for he’ll most likely be found in a matter of moments.
If he refuses to join, it’ll be a death sentence. But if he does join… he doesn’t really know what will happen to him after that. What if Asandra breaks Her promise? He’ll be dead either way, but at least he’ll be dead later rather than now.
That’s how he really sees all of this. He’s been a walking dead man the moment the war started. No matter what he decided to do, to enlist with the Guardians or travel to Korodon and aid the wizards, either way, he feels, he’d meet his end one way or the other. It’s all just a matter of time.
Poor Anya. If he perishes, she’d practically be left all alone.
Her tearful face flashes into his mind for just a moment, elated to see him again yet distressed at his decision to sail with the Guardians. And in that moment, his thoughts finally clear.
Maybe that’s my answer…
Finally, he draws a deep breath and looks Lorn right in his eyes, confident in himself and his words.
“I refuse,” he answers at last.
In an instant, the white diamond on Lorn’s palm bursts into hot red flames as Mathew’s body lightens, control handed back to him. The watchful eyes of the Spirits remain in the air, however, but they’re distant and soft with the decision finally made. Mathew springs to the side to avoid being hit by Lorn’s flames as they attempt to seer his face. On instinct, he reaches for his scabbard, knowing full well that it’s empty. His fist closes as if he were wrapping it around a hilt, and pulls in the motion of drawing the sword from its cover. His magic surges forward, swirling in his palm and rushing outwards to form a sparkling blue spike that glints in the starlight, sharp and deadly. If he weren’t in a fight right now, he’d stop to marvel his sudden handiwork.
He raises his weapon at Lorn as he draws a short silver blade from one of his boots, a scowl plastered on his face.
“A shame,” he only hums as fire begins to swirl around his dagger.
The two clash in a flurry of sparks, the fire chipping away at the ice’s edge as the long sword pushes back against the small dagger, dancing across the empty deck. Mathew can just barely keep up with Lorn’s movements. Sparing with his father is much different from an actual fight, even against an opponent that’s more on his level.
The chill of the shadows and the heat of Lorn’s halo of light follow the two as they exchange blows. Every time a new dent appears in Mathew’s icy sword, it’s magically repaired without him even needing to think about it. His magic moves on its own, finally finding a comfortable flow in the throws of combat. Even with his inexperience, Mathew is starting to find the fight quite enjoyable.
But he knows he can’t keep this up for much longer. If Lorn is a Guardian, no doubt that the other Guardians that were supposed to be on patrol are waiting nearby to come to Lorn’s aid in the event of a conflict. Any moment now, he could be swarmed by a small army of well-armored and combat-trained beings.
Mathew is eventually pushed up against the side railing of the ship. Lorn raises his free arm, and a wall of flames blocks any rightward escape as he positions himself to cover a leftward or frontward escape. The only way out for Mathew now is backwards, over the railing and into the cold ocean water below him.
“What a waste of talent,” Lorn sighs irritably. “Just die quickly for me.”
Mathew just levels his sword at Lorn, stalling his approach, as he glances down at the water below him. The fall isn’t that far; he could probably survive if he doesn’t wind up doing a belly flop. But stars only know what creatures might be down there at this time of night. Is it a risk he wants to take?
Anya…
Without much more thinking, Mathew drops his sword and launches himself over the railing. Weightlessness overtakes him as he falls from the top deck, the black water rushing up to meet him.
Once again, running on instinct, Mathew extends his arms beneath him, and his magic surges forward once more, already knowing what to do. Frost shoots from his fingertips, colliding with the water before rushing back up in a tall column of ice. He lifts his legs in front of him quickly, leaving his arms extended, and when he hits the ice he forms a downward slope that he slides along safely, save for an aching behind. He hits the water feet-first, although instead of sinking into it like he was expecting, instead the water freezes underfoot, forming a small platform for him to stand on.
How am I doing all of this? he can’t help but wonder to himself as he takes off running over the water. It’s an awkward stumble-run as he fights against the waves and the current being left in the wake of the traveling Island Destroyer, but step by step he makes it just a little farther away from that accursed ship. He’s surrounded by the cold night on all sides, his ears ringing and heart pounding. Lorn is shouting after him, but he can’t be bothered to listen. He doesn’t even dare to look back, his legs and magic carrying him over the water as fast as he possibly can go. He’ll run until he can’t anymore, and hopefully that’ll leave the Island Destroyer far behind him.
But as for where he’s even going, he is unsure. He has no sense of direction, nor any idea of where on Astria he might be. There are no islands around for him to stop and get his bearings. He’s all alone on the water with his magic, the clothes on his back, an empty scabbard, and a necklace. No map, no food, no water, no civilization.
Well, it’s not like he can go back now.
At some point in time, when time has lost all its meaning and his legs finally collapse beneath him, his magic graciously making for him a sheet of ice to lay on, and he finally surveys his surroundings. The Island Destroyer is gone. So too is any semblance of warmth or even life. But a set of eyes still remain on him, staring down from the night sky, gently and caring. For once, since meeting that wizard prince, Mathew’s magic is calm and sleepy, and so is his aching body.
But at least he’s still alive for now. At least there’s a chance he can still see Anya again.
Anya…
He places a hand on his chest, right where his mother’s shard of ice rests under his shirt. He won’t allow himself to fall victim to the Guardians. Not until he sees his sister again.
Thank you… he has the energy left in him to think as he allows his eyes to close. He can feel the distant gaze smile back at him, if that makes any sense. For it makes sense to him, even as he drifts off to sleep, handing his fate over to the will of the great ocean.