𝕸𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖈 𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖘𝖘 𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖘 𝖆𝖙 𝖉𝖚𝖘𝖐
The most magical time for us Tomairsitkiz's. While the Laritiones prefer their classes at dawn when the sun is shining through the clouds and their magic is the most compatible with the Otherworld. We are the opposite. Our magic boils under the heat of the stars, gazing at us from the heavens above.
While most kids skip their classes during the day, when it is time for Magic class, everybody is there. Especially if you are powerful.
The air around the school now is thick with the scent of mythical mysteries.
Every person in their dorms stirred at the same time every day, feeling their power grow underneath their flesh.
As one, we all jump out of our cots, our feet pulling us to class. Our magic propels us to follow the herds. As one, all Tomairsitkiz's walk out into the hallway, some without shirts, some still in their pajamas, not that it matters. We crowd the hallways in a straight line, but when we go down the stairs, the more powerful students stand at the front of our glob, the weak go in the back.
Like every day, I am leading the way. My feet shuffle as they try to make their way to class.
Every day at dusk my magic awakes, boiling inside my veins. My body tingling with the force of it. Magic may be desired, but every wanted thing comes with a burden. And magic is one of the largest burdens anyone should have to deal with.
And like every day, my magic whispers sweet encouragement to prick my finger, to give Otherworld its price in order for my magic to be free. Just one tiny droplet of green ooze and my power can erupt from me and poof! Burden no more.
But like every day, my magic is lying. It is still a burden, because now I have to control the interesting force, and once the class is done, the magic once again returns.
I loath magic class, I loath how every single day I have to lead the class to our damnable classroom, I hate the feel of my power whooshing past me; I hate when everything I try to do is subsided by my magic; I hate everything about this burden I have to carry.
That is the only good thing about being picked for Prince. Your magic slowly leaves you, and you are free once more from your burden at last.
Sometimes I just imagine what the princes must feel like, waltzing around marble castles rebuilt almost every week, every single day a major portion of their burden lifted from their shoulders, landing on the Queen's instead. Sometimes I wish a queen would take my magic, but then I also want to live a life. I want to find a person with the same flower as mine; I want to find my mate and live with her forever. I want to keep my essence and give it only to my wife through small acts of love.
But there is no hope for me, I can only dream the impossible and hope it manifests. My life is like glue, everybody always prefers me over the tape, but they never ask if I am strong enough for the burdens laying on my shoulders that I never asked for. They never ask if I think it is an honor to always be picked, they make their own opinions, and they have no empathy for those who have them as well. That is all Fae, whether they are Tomairsitkiz, or Laritione, Bwardipuginin, or even Encantados, they don't care about you; they care about their own image. Their own opinions.
You are nothing but a piece of gum on the street, annoying and unneeded. Probably an accident and somebody only put you there because you are nothing anymore, even though originally you were bursting with flavor. But as you grow older, your light dims, and your hope that once thrived cannot accompany you; now people don't need you anymore. You are useless. You are a nobody to those who still have that light, and they race your darkness to the end of the tunnel till you have to retreat to the end. Until you fall off.
And that is the end of your sanity, and nobody misses you until you are already off the coast and reaching your destination of insanity. And even then, barely anybody misses you, the only time they ever do is when you die, and even then, very few shed tears over you. Especially if you are a prince.
All of us students crowd the door into Magic class because the teacher is not yet here.
Mr. Gallio is almost never on time to begin with, thus he doesn't really blame kids if they are as well, which usually the weaker kids who do not have as much power are. Their power does not stir as it does mine, and it almost never wakes them up on time. I envy those kids.
We all enter the class as the door is abruptly thrown open, one student behind me using his magic ahead of time, though magic is forbidden if not used in the classroom. It is dangerous.
We will all know who opened the door by tomorrow. The bloodstain on the floor will be indicator enough, and our headmaster has an impeccable sense of smell. Like a hound. He will trace the smear back to the student who pricked their finger.
We all take our seats, fidgeting and shifting every millisecond, our magic coaxing sweet nothings in our ears. Tempting us to unleash it and let our power spin out of control, but we keep it on a tight leash, at least until Mr. Gallio comes back.
Right when the thoughts cross my mind, he walks in. Mr. Gallio is a balding man, probably in his late four-thousands. Almost an ancient.
His black fading beard almost reaches his shoulders.
He has a cup of milk in his hand, a necessary start of every class, he always says. While in most classes, the teacher has herb-tea, or maybe coffee, Mr. Gallio has milk.
Saeva knows why, but he is almost cranky if he doesn't have a mug before every class.
"Okay, hello class." He says before he takes a tentative sip of his drink. "I don't need to take attendance," He surveys the room, taking in every person and that is not absent, which is the entire class.
We all shift in our seats, ready to let our magic envelop us whole. Ready to let our magic overthrow us. Ready to let an otherworldly ability cease control over our conscience.
"Thanatos," He calls out, searching for my face amidst the rest of the class. He ushers me over to him, and I shuffle my way to the front of the class. My power choking me. "Now," He hands me a thin needle, one that would be used for weaving instead of training. "You will be the first one to control your powers today," Mr. Gallio says.
I take a deep breath. We have been learning how to control our magic for quite some time now, and it gets easier every time. Yet the struggle is reigning in your instinct and honing into your mental capacity is harder than one would think, especially the greater your power.
As I prick my finger, a bubble of green ooze popping out of my bright purple veins, I watch as it falls to the ground. When I hear the drop of blood hit the ground with a thump, I only have a few milliseconds to gather my mind and thoughts. My feet fly off the ground, and I close my eyes for better concentration.
I relax a bit as my magic overtakes me, my body no longer mine. I give myself over to my Fae side, instincts and malicious thoughts clouding my dark mind. I try to get into control, struggling with my other-self. After a while, I give in. I lurch forward as the shadows reach out to me, their talons scraping my flesh, and after a moment my skin lay in tatters. Dark purple veins the only thing visible.
When my shadow overtakes me, it makes me think of an orange. How you peel the skin back, yet no juice falls until you prick the actual fruit itself.
No green ooze leaks out of my body, only my dark desires. Only my wish to end this foolish monarchy and every immortal feud there is.
All of my dark macabre wishes coat my bones and leftover sinew until I am nothing less than the embodiment of darkness. I feel the hair on my head fan above me, and my body stretches until I am as flat as the wall behind me. The shadows clutter around me, leaving their posts beside their Fae masters.
Their voices are not wholly voices, but rather whispers of memories. Shadows don't talk, but they tell you through a series of images stolen from their masters. I listen to everyone, honing in on which classmates they are speaking about and which are innocent. Very few are innocent. In fact, I would even dare say that not one person in this room is innocent.
Then one image pops up, an image of a girl with fiery red locks and shortly arched ears. I whip around to the shadow that spoke, and -after many minutes of coaxing- the shadow finally releases a series of images of this same girl.
Her skin is light green and very pale. The shadow of one student -Murk- draws me over, giving me close-ups on the girl.
A seer shadow, as we call them, comes up to me next. An image of a girl with the same curly hair and bright eyes clouding my vision. Only this time, she has a crown. A crown made of thorns, indicating that she is an Heir in Training. The shadow gives me another image, this time the girl, Viviendel. My mind screeches as I look closer; she is staring at a flower. A flower that is yellow yet white, and I want to get a closer look, but a sharp pain cuts through my facade.
My knees crash on the hard ground of the classroom, Mr. Gallio in front of me. Terror in his eyes, yet no sign of panic on his features.
"Are you okay?" He asks rushingly.
I nod, looking down at my arm to take in the small puncture hole now being surrounded by a black cloud. Silver.
I couldn't control my magic, so he pricked me with a silver needle. He sends a few students out the door to get a few pieces of moss to stop the flow of silver from my veins. A headache rams into my mind with the force of a million silver needles, and I almost forget about the flower that looked dangerously like my own.
Vividendel is not a name that is familiar to any of the heirs, at least none that I know of.
And I know almost all of them, I will have to marry at least one. Might as well know an enemy before becoming fiances.
I cough, the sound echoing through the room. "Who is Viviendel?" I ask the teacher, but before he can answer, two of the kids from earlier rush in to put moss on my ever-spreading silver cloud. The pain instantly subsides, and only a small remnant of my headache remains. After a few moments, I take the moss off my bicep. The green now stained black from soaking up the silver residue in my veins.
"Can I try again?" I ask, eager to know more about this girl, and why she has that flower.