don't look away

[tsubame]

I was doing Emyrs/Nghia spin-offs to entertain myself, as I so often do, and ended up with a pair of characters not really like either of them. But I really like them, and they occasionally show up in my head, which is really rather welcome because at least they have antics and senses of humor and things like that. Emrys is a rather more permanent presence, and he just makes sarcastic comments. In any case, Majo inspired me (I'm sure she didn't mean to) to actually write down one of their story-bits that have been lurking in my head for some months now. And so I have.

Ah, self indulgence.


The cyclone of magics drew to a single blue-white point, pulsed once, then faded away. The village headman slowly raised his head from the protective circle of his arms as the wind subsided and died. Not subsided- it lingered around the mage, a playful breeze that toyed with the tasseled ends of his long sleeves and tugged strands of dark hair free from their binding before it slid with the merest hint of dust in a spiral around his forearm and disappeared.

'That was . . .' he started, but the mage held up a hand, and he felt the words stop in his throat.

'The working is not finished,' his voice was strangely quiet, hushed, as if he were afraid of waking someone. But who . . . ?

The headman looked beyond the mage, over his high shoulder, and gasped. There was something there where the gryphon had stood a mere moment before, a lean, huddled shape- not something, someone-

And then he couldn't see anything, because the mage in his enveloping robes blocked his view entirely. All he could hear was a quiet stream of musical syllables, and the mage's back as he leaned over whatever-it-was on the ground.

And then, silence.

After a minute had passed, the headman gathered his courage and climbed back to his feet, hesitantly approaching where the mage knelt, still. 'What-' his breath caught as he looked over the mage's shoulder. A man, all bare and a strange tawny color from head to foot. And on one lean shoulder a strange, jagged and branching burn, as if lightning had come to earth. 'That- that's the gryphon!'

'Essentially, yes,' the mage agreed, his voice sounding slightly tired as he rose to his feet. 'I must say that I'm-'

'How did you do that?' the headman demanded, hearing his voice go up the extra octave and unable to stop it. 'That's impossible, that's-' a hoarse moan brought his panicked gaze back to the clean, vulnerable and entirely human shape that lay on the uneven stone at the mouth of the cave.

'Hush! You must not break-' the mage grabbed the headman's arm as he rushed past him, his sharpened hoe halted in mid-swing, and sent him tumbling back into the dirt. 'What do you think you're doing?'

The headman struggled to sit up, still clutching the hoe. 'He's not dead! You said that you would kill him, he's not dead!'

'No.' The mage's voice was sharp. 'I said that I would take care of your gryphon problem. I never said that I would kill him.'

'But . . .' the headman stood again, but stayed in place when his eyes caught in the steely grey of the mage's. 'But the gryphon . . .'

'I have taken care of the problem. If you are dissatisfied with my solution . . .' the mage smiled, an expression distinctly lacking in humor. 'Feel free to take it up with your lord the Earl. I'm certain he'd be fascinated to know of a genuine holy well in his territory. And you can also explain to him of how your particular little village managed to attract the attention of a gryphon in the first place, so that he can adjust your taxes accordingly. Yes, why don't you do that?'

The headman dropped his eyes, unable to meet that too-clear gaze, and lowered his hoe.

'I'm glad we understand each other.' The mage gestured, and his silent servant came forward, soft-footed, and lifted the former gryphon in his arms.

'What will you do with it?' the headman asked, subdued. 'Gryphons are beasts, killers, monsters no matter what their shape. It's their brutal nature, they cannot-'

'It is not your concern!' The mage walked past the headman, followed by the serving man. The headman felt his eyes riveted on the limp head that lay limply against the servant's shoulder, proud and somehow fierce even in unconsciousness. As if any moment he would stir, and that fringe of golden eyelash would lift, and once again he would be staring into those terrible, feral eyes. Even more frightening, he would be forced to face the bizarre feeling that had struck him in that single moment of contact, an absolute conviction that a vast intelligence lurked behind that brightness. As he jerked his gaze away, his eyes caught on a glint of reflective heat, the matrix of a mandala stamped on a golden collar that circled the gryphon's neck.

He stood for a long time among the torn-up earth beside the clear-running stream before he shouldered his hoe and began the walk back to his house in the village.

note to self: come up with a new look for the mage. At this point he looks far too much like Clow Reed, and it's just disturbing.