Tutelage

With weak knees, Targan climbs down the stairs of his tower. He tucks his fingers into his material pouch, twisting a thin strand of silver between the digits, and thinking. Sending is such a simple spell. For one as deeply versed in the arcane as he is - as they are, it requires only the slightest exertion, but hesitation halts the motions before they can even begin to form.

It has been so long since he has spared a thought on Aleron, and he is not so naive as to believe that a friendship as old as theirs is free of shadows. Especially with the company they used to keep. Perhaps he should not have been stunned into silence when the tiefling girl revealed Aleron’s plans, though surprise had gripped him all the same.

His thoughts became heavy enough for his eyebrows to drop into a frown and for his nose to wrinkle. In Aleron’s grand design gears are starting to turn, the actors are taking positions, the curtain about to be drawn, while Targan remains in the tower, paralyzed. 

He stops. His hand rests on the cold stone at his side, his fingers still on the lined fabric of the pouch hanging from his belt.

Time is such a duplicitous concept. While some try to hold onto the thin stream of sand running through their hourglass, the moments granted to them fleeting and shortlived, others stand on an endless beach, where every single grain of sand equals an eternity. He has been an observer for so long, unbound to  the relentless flow of time, an entity forever adjacent to it. Like Aleron, he had thought, like all of them. Fathers who had existed, as centuries unraveled like delicate threads of a tapestry, woven and unwoven by hands of mortals. Time for them had turned into a subtle rhythm, and lost all sense of urgency. It doesn’t hurry, it doesn’t delay. It simply is. 

Though now he wonders if he is the only one, if Aleron had ever abided by the same rules, if the strands of fate tied around their fingers still remain the same. 

At the bottom of the staircase, a deep sigh escapes Targan. He pushes the wooden door open to reveal another one of his libraries. Warm candlelight greets him as his mind wanders through catalogues of books, scrolls and scriptures found within these shelves, languidly remembering that some have not been categorized correctly yet, but there has always been more time. The knowledge and magic held within his tower, always a boundless reservoir of potential waiting to be tamed, to be explored and bended, but never to be wielded. The mere thought or consideration now leaves him hollowed. It’s better to leave magic within its predictable regularity, to leave its limits defined, otherwise it be turned into power. Power, capable of corrupting even those whose intentions are most noble.

In this world, nothing but a mechanism of repeating cycles, he had witnessed too many individuals rise, believing themselves to be eternal, only to collapse under the weight of their own vanity, their remnants scattered forever like dust of forgotten stars. It isn’t his duty to intervene, so he thought. He could no longer imagine himself as a steward of knowledge, no longer to share nor guide. Perhaps it is a lack of arrogance to doubt he might yet alter the course of history, perhaps he even fears to remain a participant, even through his isolation, for his actions to still be a variable in the equation of fate. 

It would require a force akin to a cataclysm to unwind these thoughts from the depths of his mind. The vision the girl had shown him swirls to the forefront of his thoughts, and he wonders how many more calls to attention, to act, he will continue to disregard. 

Between the endless rows of shelves he catches a glance of the first. The human man has dozed off at one of the tables scattered throughout the library - places once meant for quiet study, now nothing more than relics. 

Unused for so long, they almost appear to be surrounded by an air of displacement, like they no longer belong. This might as well have been the reason the man could surrender to sleep so easily, his thoughts swallowed by the profound silence and solitude of this place.

His round glasses have slipped from his elegant nose, nestled between his cheek and an arm sure to leave an imprint on his skin. Light blue hair curls softly around his face, cupping his jaw in gentle waves and his lips apart slightly in his sleep, though no noise escapes.

Leomaris, he had introduced himself with a cocky smile the first time he appeared before Targan’s tower - magehunter. His shoulders squared with the confidence of one who has gotten starved of any true challenge, and Targan, dulled by centuries of boredom, had allowed it. 

Unable to resist the spark of curiosity the man had awakened in him when his hands danced in familiar movement and expertise, Targan had indulged in their arcane exchange. But the disappointment had followed, settling in truly when the younger mage knelt before him in defeat, the spark extinguished almost as quickly as it had been lit. 

It took a few days for Leomaris to swallow his hurt pride and return before Targan. Deeply humbled and appearing lost in a frustrated mind he asked for tutelage. Let it be recorded as another odity in a long span of the ordinary that Targan had opened the doors of his tower to the first student in centuries. 

He hovers over the sleeping man, his eyes drifting to the scattered scrolls beneath his arms, covered in notes hastily scribbled around ink stains. Then over to the books placed dutifully beyond the reach of any potential spill or mishap. A rare glimmer of approval softens his gaze and for a moment Targan reaches out a hand, contemplating waking the man, stills by hesitation. After a brief thought, he withdrew, letting the moment pass as he silently moved on. 

Over the course of the next few days Targan continues his observations, carefully detaching his curiosity from the weight of his expectations. He watches as Leomaris reveals an undeniable passion for the arcane, approaching each spell with deliberate intent to understand the weave and the essence of magic itself, traces arcane patterns and ritual circles with reverence, as though each incantation held a new discovery.  

While the young mage still carries himself with the same air of arrogance, and a sharpness in his gaze revealing confidence that knew not to cross the borders to recklessness, there was something more. Pride lingers, as it should, but it is not empty. There is an intensity to be found in Leomaris’ pursuit, a drive that goes beyond mere skill, someone who no longer saw magic as a simple tool, but as an art to be perfected.

Targan’s approval grew over the span of the next few weeks while Leomaris continued his studies. 

Until one evening, Targan finds himself lounging on a balcony watching as the stars draw their patterns over the sky and hears the soft rustle of a page being turned at his side. 

He had invited Leomaris to sit with him, as they tend to do after a period of study - an opportunity for Leomaris to discuss theories, ask questions and exchange insights. They have settled into comfortable silence, polite and undisturbed, Targan watches as Leomaris’ eyes continue to scan the pages. The stillness of the moment allows curiosity to stir once again within Targan, simmering quietly. 

“Why do you remain?” he asks, his tone deliberately flat. 

Leomaris blinks at him. Raising an eyebrow in contemplation he places his thumb on the page he was reading and closes the book. Targan, after all, valued undivided attention during their conversations and had little patience for polite, but empty, pleasantries. Leomaris had come to understand this well, yet, when giving answers, he knew he was granted all the time necessary to consider his response thoughtfully. 

“The world got bigger,” he begins “I…diminished, became smaller. Reached for a flame far too fierce for my hands to tame.” 

Targan observed as the small smile on Leomaris’ face became sad but the hunger for a challenge in his eyes remained. 

“Bit off a piece far too big for me to chew.” Leomaris continues with a short wave of his hand towards Targan and chuckles. “Somewhere along the way, I lost myself. Where else should I begin searching, if not at the beginning?” 

Targan nods. Leomaris leans into the backrest of his chair and lays his free hand on the stack of books at his side. “Studying, the arcane, books - these are my anchors. If I can understand the mechanisms that shape this new world, perhaps I can finally see where I belong within it. Perhaps this time, I can keep a friend from straying to a place where I can no longer reach them and maybe, just maybe, I will be able to find someone lost.” 

A breeze reaches the balcony, the horizon slowly warming with the first rays of sunlight.  

“Take heed of my words, Leomaris. Humility and purpose are often neglected as we ascend to greater wisdom and deeper understanding. Hold them close, remember them for what I will tell you, for what I have to teach you; the world will only become bigger.”