Chasing Fire, Wasting Flowers

20260511

Written for Bradley Ramsey’s “Halls Of Pandemonium”, Day 11.

Charles strode into the library with the cocky assurance of a master wizard, confident that if his favourite seat wasn’t empty, it would be abandoned for him. And sure enough, the mundane clerks and students took one look at his robes and crackling aura and politely made way.
Except for one. Sat at the table Charles used, which got a pleasant amount of light without ever suffering glare in your eyes. Bent over a slim volume, apparently oblivious to the world. Tsk.
Well, there was technically enough space. Galling though it was to be ignored by a pleb. So Charles set down his notebooks and instruments - not trying to be quiet, nor limiting how much of the table he took up - and set to work.
Before long the bookwheel was full and his notes were growing rapidly. Aha! Yes, if you then added a laevo rune to the chain… his quill skipped across the page, the runes gently glowing - then fizzled out.
What?
Ugh.
Charles straightened up with a sigh and grabbed his jact box. A pinch of turquoise powder onto the back of his hand, a quick sniff, and that familiar fizzing sensation meant mental clarity would soon resume.
In the meantime he rolled his neck, trying to work out knots he hadn’t even noticed forming - and caught the expression of the intruder at his table. Now, plebs eyeing a jact box was commonplace. It was, after all, a highly controlled and prestigious substance. Only wizards in the direct employ of the crown were permitted to use it.
Which meant people’s expressions were always admiring, intimidated, or envious. But this fool, just for a moment, had given the box a look of disgust. Worse than that, Charles was certain there’d been a flicker of pity.
How dare he? How could anyone pity a high-ranking wizard?? Charles hadn’t felt so insulted since he aged out of hazing. The man’s intrusion upon Charles’s work was suddenly intolerable.
That did leave the question of what to do. Charles had never had to tell someone to move. It would require breaking the hush. And actually issuing an order felt… gauche? He found himself stumbling over the concept.
Before he figured out what to do, the man looked up again, this time meeting Charles’s gaze. He closed the book he was reading, and for a moment Charles thought the fool had taken the hint and was leaving.
But no. He folded his hands on the table and, in a soft tone suitable for a library which still managed to cut deep, said “Believe me, I understand why you’re doing this to yourself. And I know for a fact it’s killing you. The sooner you’re off that soul-eating concoction, the happier you’ll be.”
Charles let out a startled, incredulous bark of laughter. Not worried about noise, particularly in the face of such nonsense. There were no other wizards present anyway.
The man’s expression flickered. Resigned. Sour. Pitying. That set Charles’s blood boiling again.
So he sneered “As if you’d have any idea of the marvel jact is!”
“No?” The man peeled his eyelids wide open with his fingers, revealing the tell-tale blue veins. It was often described as “watershot”, bloodshot eyes stained by the jact.
What?? Charles gawped, then squinted hard, focusing his Sight. No, the man had no aura at all, scant trace even for a pleb. Then how would he have-
“Yes, I’m not a wizard… anymore.” The man gave a thin, bitter smile. “I told you, I know exactly why you’re doing this. They scoop you up young and tell you you’re gifted. Groom you to think you’re special, and valuable, and they hold you in high regard. Until you’ll happily juggle fire for them, and ignore how your hands scream.”
“They give you that-” his gaze flicked to the jact box, his lip twisting, “-telling you that it lets you push beyond your limits. What they won’t tell you is, it doesn’t remove the limits. It just stops you feeling your body’s warnings. Casting jact-boosted is like… like walking on broken bones and being too numb to realise.”
“And then…” He pushed his hood back a little, revealing grey, dull, patchy hair which looked entirely out of place given how young his face was. “Once you’ve broken your soul… broken your mind… broken everything they can get out of you… they find another wide-eyed fool to replace you. Did you ever notice how many of your seniors have heart attacks? Strokes? Mental breakdowns?”
Charles frowned. He didn’t remember anything about - oh, wait, maybe someone had, but it’s wasn’t like… except now he was casting his mind back, there did seem to be a lot of fuzzy memories of finding out someone had suddenly taken severely ill. Still, that didn’t mean…
“I’m the only one I know who survived.” The man continued, his voice still soft and even. “I think I just broke easier. Hadn’t given them everything yet. So I was thrown out on the street instead of in a grave.”
“Please.” His expression turned pleading. “Try going off it for a week. Just one week. You’ll have trouble focusing at first - it is good for focus. But once it’s out of your system, you’ll realise you only thought you were thinking clearer. It’s like waking up from an endless fog.”
“Don’t be ridiculous - the royal alchemists would have noticed if-”
“Oh, they have.” A grimace flickered across the man’s face.
Before Charles wrapped his head around this possibly treasonous statement, the other man had stood. “Good luck, friend. I hope you try quitting. Once your head’s clear you can rediscover what living feels like. Have you noticed it’s spring?”
“Uh…” Charles unconsciously squinted at the window. But only stone was visible from here.
“Fresh growth. Flowers everywhere. Enjoy them while you can - the flowers people leave on your grave are for them, more than you.”
Then he was gone. Leaving Charles staring blankly through a slim volume of poetry.

Prompt was “Write a piece inspired by a music track of your choosing.”

[I picked "Flowers For The Grave", by Normandie]