13. A Bruise in Another World #2
Gods’ patience. Tansy would have been a menace in Wymond. Warmth spreads through Seren like steam from a kettle. A subtle, introspective feeling.
“Your parents’ hatred?” Nevander asks, inexplicably intent.
Seren shrugs. “They always knew I wasn’t their son.”
Nevander’s jaw tightens. But before he replies, Primrose rumbles, That’s enough.
The warmth fades. It had come from her.
“What were you doing?” Seren asks, shivering. Exposed. He hadn’t meant to say that much.
Assessing. Primrose’s ears prick forward. Her eyes are dark and endless. You have a great talent. I see some rudimentary practice in centering. Recent. Nevander did well, considering his limitations.
Nevander appears unbothered by the insult. “I’m no teacher, but Seren is a capable student.”
Perhaps fae can exaggerate, if not lie. The praise still helps.
We shall see, Primrose says. May I guide you?
“Yes,” Seren says, confused. He’s been clear about wanting to learn—
Force barges into him. Seren collapses onto his hands. He barely feels the rug, too consumed with rivers of power. They rush between his bones. Primrose’s voice growls from the depths of his heart. Your magic feels like this.
Seren’s vision blurs as his inner awareness sharpens. Sight-touch-taste-knowing shows him tangles of golden substance. Rivers. Threads. Chains. Promises and bargains to be. Within yet beyond the bounds of his body.
This is his magic.
A paw-like force seizes his awareness, pointing him at the places where the rivers catch on each other. Threads fray. Chains break through his skin, bleeding promises.
It should feel like this instead, Primrose says, and grasps a starry core Seren hadn’t seen.
Now that she has it, he sees nothing else.
With one fluid movement, she twists the core into a new position.
All the rivers-threads-chains-promises shake, then settle into a new pattern.
The right pattern. Not a pattern at all, but an ever-changing dance.
Open your heart thus, Primrose instructs, her voice now a whispering breeze.
She plucks a thread, and the outside world hums louder.
A clear and distant song of joy, anger, annoyance, boredom.
Primrose guides Seren into the next river.
The distant emotions cut off. And close it thus. Do you understand?
“Yes,” Seren says, astounded that it’s true. Knowing how the actions should feel, he can recreate them. He’s never felt so comfortable in himself.
Nevander is correct, Primrose says, and releases Seren’s awareness. You are capable.
Seren gasps back into the present moment. His nails dig into the luxurious rug, and his fine shirt sticks to his back with sweat. His chest heaves with exertion, even though he hasn’t moved.
He’s whole. He no longer frays at the seams. If Tansy sauntered back in, Seren would feel none of his sharp emotions—unless on purpose.
Nevander drops beside him. “Are you hurt?” he demands, hand falling to Seren’s back.
Seren has to catch his breath before answering. He feels exhausted, his body strange and raw beneath Nevander’s touch. Even more strange when Nevander lets go. But right. This is right.
“I’m not hurt,” Seren says, sitting back. “I just expected more meditation. Not whatever that was.”
Primrose’s ursine face is hard to read, but she exudes smugness. Nevander taught you the method for children. You are a prince. You must not just control your empathy, but use it.
Seren doesn’t want to use it. Except when he opens his mouth, he can’t muster the words. So that must be a lie.
“Thank you,” he says instead.
How well-mannered, Primrose rumbles. Quite unlike young Tansy.
That’s the second time she’s called Tansy young. “He’s the same age as me,” Seren points out.
And yet he’s younger of heart. Perhaps I spoiled him. Primrose lumbers to her feet. I would have liked to watch you grow as well. In lieu of lost years, what more do you wish to learn today?
Melancholy strikes, a dagger from within.
There’s no magical trick to shutting out his own emotions.
The bear’s words resonate with the life Seren lost before he was old enough to know it.
He could have grown up in a palace with wonderful libraries.
A queen for a mother, a bear for a teacher, and his stern, winged guardian.
Seren gets his feet beneath him, debating whether his shaky knees will let him stand. When Nevander offers a hand, Seren shoves aside pride and melancholy both, and allows Nevander to help him up.
“I want to learn everything,” Seren says, facing the great bear.
“I feel like I’ve been thrust into a journeyman’s test, and I haven’t even started the apprenticeship.
I’m missing too much about this place and its people.
My people, supposedly. We were just in a room where every wall was painted a different season, but I’ve only heard about the Summer realm. ”
Nevander squeezes his hand as if in reassurance.
Insightful. Primrose rears up on her hind legs. Petals scatter and vanish and grow. That is too much to tell at once. Shall I show you instead?
“Yes,” Seren agrees without thinking.
“Wait,” Nevander snaps, too late.
Seren’s vision darkens for an instant. Like the entire world blinks, then blooms into a flowering meadow. A riot of pink and green and lavender, the blossoms so bright Seren has to squint. Birdsong dances on the delicate breeze.
And Seren’s hand hangs empty at his side. He’s alone.