Rooftop Reimancy [Flashback] (Wrenmae)

[Kit Rowan]

508 AV, Season of Summer, Day 13 Kit moved with the crowd for a while, aiming for no place in particular and never disappointed. She felt very small and insignificant bustled around as she was, but though Kit would have hated it any other day, this one she was warily grateful for. She hugged her book—her father's book, but he was dead and that made it hers—close to her body, under her cloak. No one peered in her direction, and no one asked the questions. Kit wondered if she'd have the courage, today. Her eyes scanned the buildings; some with sharp, edged roofs and slanted shingles, some square, some a mangled mismatch between the two. The houses did not get along; each built in a different time by a different master. The old stood beside the young, shuffled from place to place by the magics that made this city Ionu's. She studied them as she passed. People liked to think that the children who climbed on rooftops could ferret their way up walls with no foothold, with no real anchor, and while Kit had seen some who could by and large they were wrong. The key was looking for the easiest way, and taking it. Giddy, Kit slipped away from the crowd and down an alley. She did not climb; not at first. Kit stood by quartet of barrels, lifted one—it was hard even though it was empty, because she was small, and her body was not made for lifting—and placed on top of the barrel beside it. She shifted another into place, and them climbed on top of the first one, and climbed on top of the second one, and then jumped, just high enough for her free hand to reach the lip of the roof. It was enough, for her at least. Kit pushed her foot against the wall, and shoved off as she pulled up, and the force of it gave her all the leverage she needed. Kit tossed her copy of the Treval Codex to the side for a moment and, both hands free, pulled herself the rest of the way up. It was not, Kit knew, the highest building. But it was high enough for her, and that was all that mattered. She sat in the middle of the flat roof and opened her father's book. Her favorite parts had always been the stories, and before she died Kit had managed to make him read them to her. Most of them. Sometimes she came up and opened the book, murmured the stories to herself and imagined the voice was her father's or her mother's. But not today. Would she be brave today? Kit hated the essays. She had skimmed them, or skipped them, never comprehended them. But as she slipped through it one day something had caught her eye. She pulled out the little sheet of discarded parchment that she'd used as a bookmark, and her eyes found the proper spot on the page. '. . . Given proper focus and control, the manipulator of the Res can influence the element already existing in the world . . .' Kit read that sentence again, and again, and again, though she knew exactly what it meant. Will I be brave? She wondered. Will I be brave? Will I? Kit lifted her hand and turned to face it, but that was no proof. She had done it many times before, and put down her hand, and shoved it into her pocket. But this time she really did use the Res. It was like stretching a muscle she had forgotten about long ago; weak and achy, and yet so refreshing. She licked her lips, and a transparent green liquid rose from her fingers, rose and condensed into a ball just above the center of her palm. So I will be brave, she thought, as though it was someone else sitting on a rooftop in the middle of the city of illusions, trying to manipulate the elements. That's good to know.

[Wrenmae]

Bouncing along a tide of strangers, Wrenmae sampled the local catch of foreigners with his eyes. Most did not glance back, too caught up with Alvadas to know that part of it looked back at them. Marked faces, black eyes, furry forms, and confident swaggers filled the normally populated area. Smiling, more to himself than anyone in particular, the storyteller paused in his travels just to stare, to unabashedly seep with the culture. Alvadas was as much their town as it was his, even the residents lost at times in a city dedicated to perspective...to illusion.

The past five years ran together, a blur of confusion and unexpected fortune from the harrowing night in the mountains. By generosity he had been given a home, and now as he walked among the strange and the common alike, he felt removed. Even with his looks, a blessing that only seemed to grow with each passing day, and his natural charisma and attitude, people distrusted the boy. Around him, people grew ill, paling and falling to symptoms greater than they had experienced before. Playmates vanished along with a hundred shut doors, leering eyes watching his progress with marked suspicion. Even in a city dedicated to mystery, the harmful secrets seemed to alienate more than attract.

Still, to grieve for his reputation would be to simply sit idle, to waste away without purpose nor cause. Vayt may have touched him, may have breathed a plague upon him, but Wrenmae had begged him for it. Unknowing, naive then, he still agreed to be a carrier in exchange for his life. Would another child make the same choice at the expense of his siblings?

Within the boiling war of conscience, a chorus screamed to relive that day, to die.

Maybe that's why he remained here, letting the people grow to hate him, perhaps rise against him.

He was only 15...and such fatalistic thoughts...

It was only the sight of Kit, wriggling up the wall from the alley, that gave the storyteller pause. She was an acrobatic creature of simple grace and unrivaled tenacity. Related only in adoption, she had been a constant companion to the young storyteller through his early life.

Her father had passed, a stronger man with a scholarly air. While Wrenmae mourned for his death, he could not feel for the man in the way his niece might. The man had been a distant figure, and Wrenmae too young or foolish to hear his lessons, at least then.

Now that he was gone, it seemed all the more of a waste.

He scuttled after her, leaping as best he could from the tops of the barrels for the ledge. His first attempt was an overestimation of the height. He leaped higher than he should have, slamming his arms against the side of the building (With surprisingly little sound) gripping the edge madly as his feet scrabbled at the wall. She sat up there on the roof, marveling at her open hand, spinning her fingers idly as a book lay beside her. Gripping at the wall, forcing his screaming muscles to leverage him to the height he needed, Wrenmae kicked his feet against the unyielding stone as though attempting to destroy it. No foothold, no friction, he played a dangerous game above the alleyway, and gave real thought to the probability of falling.

"K-Kit!" he called out to her, both arms gripping tenuously at the lip of the roof, "A...A little help please!"

[Kit Rowan]

Kit turned toward her unknown caller, momentarily shocked. That momentary loss of focus was enough for him to lose control of the small bit of power he'd called up; it imploded on itself with a small pop sound, releasing a sudden burst of air in all directions that was barely strong enough to stir Kit's hair. She sat up straight, startled, eyes wild. Kit was more than disturbed; her ceremony had broken down, all the regular experiments ruined. Wandering, climbing, experimenting, leaving. She wanted to do nothing so much as hop down from the building with her book and run as hard as she could down the ever-changing streets of Alvadas. She would have too, if she hadn't recognized the voice. "Wren?" She asked, suddenly wary in a different way. It would be heartwarming to think that she was a good niece to her adopted uncle, that she never entertained doubts and trusted him wholly. It would be touching, but it would be a lie. He had come out of nowhere, young, abandoned in the mountains almost before she was old enough to remember him ever not being there. And then . . . people got sick. And yet, he was family of a sort. She stood and meandered over to the edge of the building, where his voice was coming from. Kit squatted down and crossed her arms, smiling. It was more fun to see him dangling there than she'd admit. Not that she could blame him, of course. Not everyone could be as good as she was. "Alright," she knelt down and grabbed ahold of both his wrists. "You're too big, I can't pull you up by myself. You need to push off the wall while I pull. On three." "One," she said, biting down on her lower lip. She braced herself and took a deep breath. "Two." "And three!" She said, and pulled.

[Wrenmae]

"Too big? That's not something I get everyday." Grinning, Wrenmae grunted against the exertion of hanging and did his best to hold his own. He wasn't built to sustain physical activity for so long, less now that he was under the scrutiny of Alvadas. When the elderly grew ill, few took notice. Concerned relatives gathered at their bedsides and tutted over the unfortunate progress of fate. Even when the adults began to grow ill with sicknesses greater than they had experienced before, there was still no reason to doubt.

It was the children, the children were what pushed the eye of suspicion onto him.

It was really only a matter of time. At first the younger Wrenmae had no idea Vayt had marked him in such a way. There was only the celebration of life in those early days, the growth toward something more handsome and important than he might have before. Too young to understand consequences and the words he had spoken, nor the ones Vayt had returned, it wasn't until recently that he began to understand the gravity of things.

No one would go near him, people shied away from touching him, scowled at him, hated him. He did not grow sick, did not grow weak, instead he seemed to mock the growing epidemics with his vibrant vitality. Now, more then ever, he was an outsider and stranger in his own adoptive city.

That notion, that gnawing realization in his mind had haunted him, turned his world into a shattered nothingness of half smiles and twisted faces. He smiled because no one would smile for him, not without frowning in their eyes. There was no purpose in despair, in desolation. He had done the unthinkable once, and if he did not live to the best of his ability, it would have all been worthless.

Vayt or not, Wrenmae had told himself to face the world and tell a story even the gods would sit in rapt attendance for...and now he worked toward that end.

Of course that end was hardly as important now as was his current predicament. Kit grasped both his arms, her own small body straining against his slightly larger mass. Kicking against the side of the wall again, focusing as best he could to grab some height in his struggles, Kit pulled Wrenmae onto the roof. He nearly rolled over her, and a poor Uncle he'd be to knock his niece over in her own rescue attempt.

Picking himself off the ground he laughed, winking at her "Heyo Kit, playing on rooftops now? Bad Uncle I'd be if I wasn't watching out for you up here."

Holding a hand over his knee, a knee now pushing blood through his fingers in a steady pulse, he shook his head and sighed, looking up at the sky. "I just wish I was half the climber you were."

[Kit Rowan]

It was harder than she'd guessed, and Kit had guessed that it would be hard. The angle was all weird; Kit pushed her feet against the lip of the roof, giving herself some leverage, but even then it was an awkward pull, and Wren was bigger than she was. He was a growing boy, she had scarcely begun to grow, and the difference between the two was obvious. Her arms strained, and she gritted her teeth, pulled with all her might, and bit by bit she felt him rising. Her straining snarl became a smile and she tugged away with all her strength. . . . And then he was over, nearly sprawled on top of her, and Kit was gulping in air and wriggled her way away from him. "You're a bad uncle!" she laughed, still giddy from the effort, staring at the sky as the clouds twisted into a colorful spiral above them. I love this city, she thought, and breathed a quiet sigh. "You were just saved by your niece." She pushed herself up onto her knees. "I know you do," she said, but the sharp joy of action was gone from her voice. She remembered where she was, and what she'd been doing. The hand that had called the Res from inside her scratched against her leg, and she caught herself biting down on her lip. Djed was not a thing good people did, Kit knew. It was a thing for the mad, for the dangerous, for the people whose ambitions devoured them. She was not a wizard; though her father had been one. She was a magician's daughter, and had her father's gift. But it was a curse too. Kit had thought that she had been safe, but Wren had found her. Did he see? She eyed him. "Were you following me around?" Kit asked, and there was an edge to her voice. "How did you find me up here?"

[Wrenmae]

Wiping back his hair with the back of his hand, Wrenmae tried to keep up his grin. Kit was a smart girl, and her willful nature had landed her into no small amount of trouble here in Alvadas. Of course she didn't have the ire and suspicion of the folk like Wrenmae, but she was a performer at heart and an acrobatic one at that. No acrobat started turning flips so she had to deal with the long road of falling till she got there...and the world around her dealt with it as well.

Her face was strained in suspicion, a common side effect of talking to the storyteller. Wrenmae, as always, felt at a loss to be put so plainly on the spot. He hadn't an idea what to say or do that would alleviate suspicion. He wasn't this way by choice, or...rather, he was...but he did not choose to be the way he was. Every part of him wanted to be as normal as the rest of them...well...semi normal. The tricks his mind played on the weak or the foolish branded him a magus by trade, and a plaguer by purpose.

It was a bad combination.

At the least, he had a guilt ridden heart to stalwartly defend against any temptation to take his gifts down a darker road.

Still, with her father gone, Wrenmae had tried to step up as a sort of parental figure. He didn't do well, barely able to keep up with Kit at all, but he tried. To his credit he gave it his all. Distance when he could to provide her some reprieve from his gnosis and when the situation demanded it, lessons...or at least some sort of idea as to lesson.

It didn't matter.

"No, no!" He assured her, hands upturned and penitent, "I just saw you scaling a roof by the alley, figured I'd see what was so important."

He wanted to know.

Of course he did, inquisitive boy, secrets were as golden grains of sand dropped like rain from the clouds...he would grasp them all if he could but found most slipping just barely through his fingers.

So he pushed at her, piercing her aura with his own as gently as one might prick a bubble floating on the brook. Hypnotism was an art hardly well refined, more something that came naturally. When one strove so hard to be liked or respected, somehow Hypnotism resonated through his Djed, sending his mind along with it.

He touched her own mind, not reading it, just feeling the flow of emotion...the harsh prickle of suspicion. To that he soothed, using his eyes to telegraph messages of trust and peace, or being open and frank with the only one left who may truly know her. It was a soft thing, like allowing a curling snake to warmly coil around her neck and whisper slithering messages into her ear. The imagery was almost enough to throw him off, but he kept up the concentration.

"I don't know what you were doing up here," he started, frowning, "But I would hope you'd trust me enough to tell me a bit about it at least..."

[Kit Rowan]

Wren had seen incorrectly, or rather, he had been watching the surface and not seen the currents beneath. Kit's suspicion was a guard, a defense, a wall. As Wren spoke Kit realized how cruel she was being; of course he followed her, she was his niece. He was family, she swayed, eyes touching Wren's, and understood what she'd done wrong. Suspicion where none was deserved. Worse, suspicion of family. The wall came down. Magic was for the mad and the soon-to-be mad. Aunt Summer had told stories about mages in Syliras, burning down homes, summoning dark things, and Kit listened well to stories. Wizards hurt people, they killed people, they used people. She was not a wizard, but she was a wizard's daughter, with a wizard's gift and a wizard's book. Kit didn't want Wren to think she would go mad. She averted her eyes, and barely kept from wringing her hands. "Nothing," she said. He was family, she was supposed to trust family. But this was her secret, and she needed to keep a secret. But the urge clung to her. Trust. Tell. Honest. She put a hand to her forehead, and said "Nothing." Her eyes shot to the side, toward where she had left the Treval Codex, still open to the page on Reimancy. She wanted to run and grab it but he felt terrible about hiding thing from Wren. "I," she said. "I was reading a book." Technically it was even true.

[Wrenmae]

The ripples of her emotions strove against Wrenmae's influence. It was really a wonder how much Hypnotism spoke to the devious nature within the boy. A betrayer and murderer, he could not begrudge the people of Alvadas from distrusting him. Although they had no basis to know that information, somehow there was justification in how they acted. Unable to blame them, he could not bring himself to hate them.

Instead he just...learned to suggest.

Just suggestion.

But it was a slippery slope. When he began, he told himself he would never use it on those he knew...it was not long before circumstances made it easier to phase out that rule.

From there it was practice.

Overgiving...it was a word he learned from Seidaku, and one that haunted his every efforts. Already he dreamed, psychotic half imagined madness that plucked the deeper essences of his being and twisted at his conscience. Was he mad? Perhaps. He had made a deal with Vayt, but that was before he knew how terrible it could have been...right?

Deep down, he knew that the child he had been knew just as he knew now the ramifications of his actions. People who had treated him with nothing but kindness were repaid in kind with death. In saving himself, he had damned them.

All of them.

It was hard to shake off the thoughts, shadowy figures that loomed at the corners of his vision. The more he pushed against Kit's emotions, playing with the repeating mantra of trust and opening that he desired, the closer he pushed his own mind into a surreal tailspin.

Her answer was non-committal, resisting his influence. Was there anger? Perhaps, a little frustration for an act he should not have committed regardless.

Stepping around her, his eyes made contact with the book...hers? Her father's? Curiosity compelled him to move quickly, eyes marking the language of the page even as the wind played at turning the page.

Picking it up, spine still open and the pages fluttering in the wind, he turned to Kit with confusion on his face. The designs in the book, brief glances at the terminology and descriptions...magic?

Kit?

"Reimancy," he read from the pages "Control of the elements from within...what is this Kit?"

His voice had dropped, glee slipping out of his tone like a rock sinking in water. Magic was alright for him, somehow alright despite its dangers...but he was walking with unpunished feet for a crime that haunted his nightmares. What business did his niece have with the world of the mad?

He remembered her hand, staring at it as though transfixed, the brief moment of shock and fear in her eyes at his arrival.

No.

"You...certainly you aren't practicing magic...are you?"

[Kit Rowan]

Ah, but no, it was too late. Kit stood, moved to take up the book before Wren could reach it. But she couldn't. She was transfixed; her routine was broken. Her secrecy was broken. No one was supposed to find her, no one no one. Someone did, she thought, and her shoulders shook. A choked sound escaped from her throat. For Kit, laughter and tears were the same. But they were slow, closer to sobs than real laughter. Gods, but Wren knew. He had seen, he had guessed. He knew! She wanted to lie but Kit knew it would do no good. She'd been caught red-handed, I should have let you fall, she thought, shut her eyes and stared at the ground. When she had first learned, after she had been initiated, her father had taught Kit her gestures. They were, he had explained, entirely ornamental. A mental aid to an act that rarely needed helping. Still, she could do precious little without them. Kit closed both her hands into fists, a gesture that she had taught herself to mean liquid. She brought them together. She flexed the old muscle again, and felt the Res oozing from her palms. She kept it afloat but did not move it, pulled her hands apart and let the little droplets of ethereal green rotate by themselves in the air. They seemed to swallow the light of the sun into themselves, and gleam brighter for it. Kit was crying. "Yes," she whispered, still not looking at Wren. She extended four fingers on her right hand to the side, which meant go there, fast while her other hand formed a cup and shook. Become wind. The Res became air, barely a breeze across the rooftop. Kit looked miserable. "Just this, though. I can't do any other kinds." There was a quiet plea in her voice. Don't hate me, she hoped. Or if you do hate me, don't tell.

[Wrenmae]

Her emotions rampaged over his expectations, overwhelming his sense of confidence. Often he lost sight of people, of their personalities or secrets. Hypnotism was a universal key, opening doors whether they should remain shut or not. Too often he found himself opening all doors he found, eager for the feeling of power, of control. Now he looked in on a fragile psyche warped by fear and years of the same misgivings he had.

He should not have turned this key.

Part of him wanted desperately to apologize, to kneel on the roof and reveal his own magic. That part of him was quickly repressed under familiar terror. Without Kit, everyone he had counted as family would be gone from him. If he told her this truth, his truth...she would hate him. What kind of a monster used magic on his own niece?

He could still feel the breeze, though it had passed. It resonated against his conscience, spreading thin fingers of guilt into his thoughts, shattering his convictions.

"I..." but the words did not come, Gods! Could not come! A tongue of wit and blathering in any time but now. Why oh why had his mind deserted him at so crucial a moment?

He turned away from her.

A thousand thoughts leaped through his mind, scratching at each other like wild rats as they rose for supremacy. Jump from the roof? Reveal his abilities? Tell her she should stop? Ask her to teach him? Change the subject entirely? Clenching his fingers into fists he turned to her again and crossed the distance between them quickly. His head was down, eyes an unfocused miasma of doubt and inner torment. She was most of what he had left, and even in this moment he could not be honest with her.

Up came his arms, reaching across her defenses to pull her against his own thin body.

"It's alright, it's alright, it's alright," he whispered near her ear, holding her sorrow against his own in hopes they would merge into one, melt and retreat back into himself and leave her haughty again. "Don't worry, don't worry, it's beautiful...amazing."

His mouth said the words, the words she needed to hear.

But his eyes roiled in panic, staring where she could not see them...and they knew the truth.