Chapter 8 #3
Hesper ate away as I shifted my attention to a withered flower on the table. It had recently died, but I could sense a spark of life inside.
Focusing on the magic, I began to hum to the flower. After last night, I didn’t know what state my heart and magic would be in. But if I could sing this flower back to life, then maybe my seed idea could work.
I summoned what threads of magic I could, intertwining any hint of them with the flower. The stem gave a tiny shudder.
“Why do you sing to the flower?” Hesper set down her spoon and wiped the stew off of her mouth. She startled me out of focus.
“It’s just how I’ve always done it,” I replied in a clipped tone, trying not to lose what little ground I’d gained with the plant.
“Done what?” she asked.
“It’s how I do magic,” I seethed. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to—”
“Nice singing voice.”
I didn’t say thank you. She didn’t answer the singular question I’d asked her today, yet here she was peppering me with inquiries.
“Is it the same song? Or different every time?” She leaned forward, inspecting the flower and then me.
“It’s different every time.” I leaned away from her, my magic sputtering in and out.
“Does it always work?” she asked, now mere centimeters away from the sad, dead plant.
I shoved the flowerpot away. There was no use in trying to magic it to life and deal with Hesper’s questions at the same time.
“No, Hesper. Not every time. My magic isn’t, well, it doesn’t work like that,” I said.
“How does it work?” she asked. I could tell by the curiosity in her voice that she wasn’t trying to annoy me, but persistent questioning about my magic set me on edge no matter how much Remi magic flowed through my veins.
“I don’t really know, okay?” My words came out breathy as her questions piled one on top of the other.
“You don’t know how your own magic works?” she asked, biting her cheek.
I know that it isn’t my magic. It doesn’t work outside of Moss. I know this quest is doomed. And apart from all of that, my heart muddles it all into a frenzy of magical conundrums, none of which I can parse out.
“It’s not that I don’t know how it works, I just don’t know why it works in the way it does. It’s connected to my feelings and things…” I mumbled.
Hesper stared me down like she knew every secret I harbored, and it pushed me over a precarious ledge.
“Your feelings?” She braced her forearms on the table, looking me up and down as if I were a puzzle she wanted to piece together.
“Yes, my feelings,” I said, exasperated.
“The rosemary bush,” she said, shoveling in another spoonful of stew.
“What about it?” I asked, swirling the last dregs of Remi’s masterpiece in the wooden bowl.
“You were upset last night, and your garden suffered for it,” she said plainly. My heart pinched at the nonchalant way she summarized so easily the thing I hated the most about myself.
I stayed silent, appetite completely squashed.
“Yes, I suppose so,” I said somberly, and Hesper looked earnestly concerned for me. I went on. “When my heart is whole, the magic is at its best. I have to tug at it, and sometimes, I don’t know—”
“It’s all right, Clara.” Hesper reached for my hand and gave it a gentle pat. “It isn’t entirely uncommon for some magics to have a backlash.” I looked down at where her hand rested on mine; she gently pulled away.
“As I was saying…” I pulled the flowerpot close to me once more, diverging away from whatever that was.
“The magic, for whatever reason, is tied to my heart. If it—my heart—is whole, the magic works.” I refocused on the flower, pulling on the thread between the little life that was left inside the pot and me.
“If it is not whole, it’s like magic is emptied out of me.” And it will be gone soon, no matter the state of my heart. The already withered flower stem began to crack, the tiniest hairline fracture running through the poor thing.
Shite.
I had the ability to give life, yes. But I could bring death just as easily.
Always a kernel of shame I carried with me like a brand.
Even during my most triumphant harvests, I’d remind myself that if I didn’t keep my heart safe, I could cause more ruin than anything else.
Moss gave me the good parts of magic; I fought the darker parts of myself.
The ones that so easily came out of me like thorns on a rose.
Hesper watched it all. Whether she’d picked up on the infinitesimal crack that appeared on the stem, I didn’t know. If she did, she didn’t say anything. Her face remained casual, her posture relaxed.
I, on the other hand, unraveled.
Hesper wordlessly pushed my nestleberry latte closer to me. I gladly took a sip, letting the sweet liquid coat my senses. A little bit of caffeine and sugar could do wonders for my mood.
“Do you think you could make that flower grow right now?” she asked cheerily.
I looked at her in utter disdain. “What in the hells do you think I’ve been trying to do this entire Goddess-damned time? But someone kept interrupting me.”
She laughed and shrugged her shoulders.
The truth was, I didn’t know if I could grow the flower right now.
I had a better chance of crumbling it into dust. But Hesper sat in front of me, and I wanted to show her that I could do something.
She’d just spent the morning watching me ruin a bush and grovel for folk to live in my cottage. I wanted to be useful.
So I closed my eyes, grasping onto the anger, the confusion flowing through me and pushing away the dark grief that lingered right next to it.
I pictured the withered flower in my mind and then the magic, like small arrows shooting into it.
Growing it with love would have been better, but anger could do for today.
I could grow nothing with listlessness, but anger was different.
It invigorated, stoking the ever-burning flame I tried to keep tampered down within me.
There was something to latch onto with anger, and while it wasn’t as potent as more positive emotions, it still had a kick.
Sometimes, it was the only way I could reach for my magic and take hold.
I pushed everything I had into firing off those shards of life into the damn thing.
Slowly, achingly slowly, the magic gave just a little.
A small pulse in my chest, like a drop in a pond.
Barely anything, but it was enough. I knew it was enough.
Not to grow my typical harvests, not enough to do anything with Gristle’s seeds, but it was enough to force life back into the minuscule flower in front of me.
I opened my eyes.
A flower. A living flower. A grape hyacinth, in fact. One of my very favorites with its bright purple buds and gentle scent. But this one went from deep purple to raging red right at the very edges, as if my anger colored the very essence of the flower.
I wanted to jump up and down in celebration.
Hesper looked on, her brows knit tightly together.
“Have you ever tried out your magic in other ways?” Her question popped my momentary joy, sending me plummeting down to the depths.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, throwing my hands up in the air. “Is this not enough? Do you want some great show of magic? Because you’re not going to get that from me. Ever. This is all I can give.”
“Clara, I’m saying what you did was remarkable,” she interrupted.
“Oh, thank you,” I said, a little confused.
And a little elated. The magic was there.
My idea could work! I’m sure Hesper had witnessed much more impressive shows of magic, but I’d take what I could get.
She smiled at me, and I decided that I did care about my earlier line of questioning.
“Well, now that I’ve shown you remarkable magic, I think you owe me a little more explanation about your very boring tattoo. ”
Her grin shuttered, and she rubbed at the black band. “I suppose that’s fair.”
Two wins in one day: a little bit of magic, a little bit of nosiness.
“The band represents—”
Before she could say more, we were interrupted.
“YOO-HOO!” a high-pitched voice called out. Goddess help me. I shoved my head into my hands. “Clara, dear! Why do you look so very dreadful?” The screeching crept closer now, and my head could not sink any lower.
I received a sharp poke on my shoulder. And then another. And then another.
“Clara, hello? Are you asleep?” a voice screamed directly into my ear. I yelped at the sound, backing away as far as I could from the she-devil. I pinched the bridge of my nose, my eyes still closed, trying to maintain composure.
“Rennings? Rennings? Hello, RENNINGS? Goddess, where is that gnome?”
“I believe his name is Remi, and he’s a dwarf,” Hesper corrected. Maybe if I kept my eyes closed, neither of them would be able to see me.
“Silly me! Well, whoever and whatever he is needs to get me some food. And fast. I’m absolutely starved. Oh, deary me, he needs to get that dreadful flower off the table, too.”
Sure enough, the flower I’d barely managed to grow lay dead. And not just dead, it had become an ashen version of itself. As if it had been rotting on this very table since before the Elden Wars.
All because of Helda Ninnus.