Chapter 52 - Colour to the Blind
“Step forward.”
He strode into the room casually, the ceremonial sword—a simple affair of straight iron with an unadorned hilt—held at his side. He tried not to grip it too tightly. Proceeding between the small sea of courtiers that had gathered for the spectacle, he approached the enthroned king. Five paces from the throne, he bowed his hooded head and knelt upon a knee, balancing the sword across his other one.
“Why have you come, Swordbearer?” Johan asked. Handy kept his head low, but he knew who’d be upon the dais beside his king.
“I have come to abdicate my duty,” Handy answered, simply and clearly, loud enough for his voice to be carried across the room.
“Why have you decided to do such?” Johan continued.
“I no longer feel fit to bear the responsibilities of my august office.” His voice was level, but his face, had anyone seen it, was grim.
“What has caused this change of heart?”
“Upon reflection, my extended absence from my duties and dereliction of my obligations,” Handy began, pausing but a moment. “It is neither right nor good that I hold onto this office for longer than has already come to pass, my king.”
He looked up slightly, seeing the stony expression on Johan’s face. He could not tell if he had made a cut. To his right and left were other members of note of the court. Being a formal affair, it was only fitting. He was a touch surprised to see Princess Katherine off to the left, who looked a bit concerned.
He would also feel the same in her position if he found himself standing right beside the High King of all Griffonia, who was watching the proceedings with interest.
“And do I have your word that, should I accept your abdication, you will never again claim the authority it wields, either for good or for ill, and never seek to deceive otherwise?”
“I swear.”
“I say again, do you swear?” Johan asked, a claw pointed down at him.
“I swear,” Handy repeated.
“Thricefold, do you swear?”
“Thricefold do I solemnly swear,” he answered, finishing the oath of renunciation. “My lord.”
“Then on your head be it should you break your vow,” the king announced, choosing to ignore the change in tone. He lifted a claw; Handy took note of the ceremonial mace he had once seen in the claws of Johan’s father across his lap, obscured by the formal robes. “I ask you now to relinquish custody of my sword, which had been entrusted to your care.”
A courtier stood forward from off to the side. Handy didn’t know his name and couldn’t be bothered to look up at him as he passed the sheathed blade to the griffon. The servant brought it to his king, bowed his head, and offered it. Johan took and placed it across his lap beside the mace.
“Then, Sir Handy, Baron Haywatch, in recognition for your service to this kingdom, let no more be said of this day. I ask you to return to your lands in peace until the Crown calls upon you again.”
‘Yeah, right. Asks,’ Handy thought to himself as he bowed his head once more before rising. He briefly let his eyes glance over the assembled griffons arranged around the dais. Some he recognised: the members of the king’s council, Shortbeak, the High Feather, and others beside, a few knights, the princess, her irksome silent guardian, and the High King. What he didn’t like were a few of the nobles currently standing in the gathering. More than a few looked smug or otherwise happy at his disgrace.
Politics. He didn’t care—let them have whatever they thought this would get them. Just as he thought that, he let his eyes linger on them warningly, just a moment longer than was polite. Gratifyingly, he saw some of their smiles waver. He turned and left the court, the assembled chattering heads murmuring as he past. Doubtless Johan would have noticed the evil glances he gave the current court favourites. He was probably frowning at him behind his back.
Right now, as far as Handy was concerned, he could go fuck himself.
--=--
Crimson shuffled her hooves in uncertainty whilst Jacques scratched the back of his neck and looked like he’d really rather be anywhere else on such a cold morning. That, and he was still a tad hungover from the night before. Klipwing rapped his claw tips on the board he held in his claws, eyes darting from one person to another. Handy, who was now standing in the midst of them, had one arm crossed to support the other while he rested his mouth on his right hand. He’d been like that for a full twenty minutes, just standing there, staring in utter silence.
“Crimson,” he said suddenly, causing the gathered group to jump slightly.
“Y-Yes master?” she answered.
“Why is there a hole in the ground where my guildhall used to be?”
“I… I uhm…” She looked back at the ramshackle buildings, the roughly put-together wooden foundation, and flooring to cover the crater. “There was an… alchemical accident while I was away… S-Sorry, Master.”
“Sorry for what?” Handy looked down at her with both eyebrows raised.
“Uh, I mean, for not being here. You entrusted the guild to my care and I… let this happen.”
“...Y’know, I’m pretty sure being kidnapped by changelings is a good excuse. This wasn’t your fault.” Klipwing gasped at that before Handy waved him off. “I’ll tell you the story later, just… Why haven’t I heard about this?”
“Uhm, I believe I can answer that.” Klipwing cleared his throat. “The incident happened before you returned.”
“And?”
“Well, after it was concluded that everygriffon was accounted for—” Handy harrumphed at that. “…and there was no further threat to the city either of fire or alchemical poisoning, there wasn’t really much more to do other than let the guild sort out their affairs… and figure out how to make their contract obligations.”
“...How many did we lose?” Handy asked, his voice level.
“Well, the local hospital is outsourcing its alchemical remedies to supplement its medicines. The potioneers guild in town had a mutually beneficial arrangement in sourcing alchemically altered ingredients and material from the guild in exchange; several breweries in neighbouring towns—”
“Wait, I thought alchemy was potion making?”
“It's more complicated than that, Master. Alchemists can make concoctions that seem like potions, but actual potions are a vastly more varied and specialized art form with a vast array of applications above and beyond the transmutatory nature of alchemy.” Handy stared blankly at Crimson for a minute and then, at a loss, looked to Jacques.
“It's the difference between beer and wine, mon ami.”
“Ah.” Handy nodded, still not understanding, but appreciating that it was a difference in kind, not degree. “Continue.”
“The Glassblower’s guild, the local cobblers, the leatherworks, numerous granaries, private transactions, the Crown…”
“We had an arrangement with the Crown?” Crimson shrugged while Klipwing tapped his beak in thought.
“Not that unusual. Anygriffon purchasing anything with the royal purse for whatever reason is basically considered to be acting for the Crown.”
“Hmm, right. So I take it our guild is, as of this moment, not making any money?” Handy asked, tapping his foot irritably. Crimson nodded. “And nobody told me things were this bad as soon as I got back because…?”
“W-Well, I wanted to, but I was warned by a knight that the news might… be rather upsetting, giving your current state.” Handy gave him a level look, and Klipwing tried his best not to shrink too much at the glowing eyes boring into his skull.
“And this knight wouldn’t happen to be Tanismore by any chance?” He directed the question to Jacques, who smiled sheepishly and shrugged. Handy rubbed the bridge of his nose, breathing hard. “You opted to get me drunk to avoid me finding out?”
“Eh, it worked, no?”
“That’s not—” Handy began, but the words wouldn’t come. He turned and pointed accusingly in the general direction of Crimson, who lifted her foreleg defensively to her chest, then to Klipwing, who tried not to shrink too much behind his little board. He shook furiously in silence before rubbing his face with both hands and finally, with a breathy sigh, stood still. Letting his hands rub down his face, he turned to look up into the white sky.
“...Fine.”
“Uhm… what?” Klipwing asked.
“It’s fine. Really. Do what you feel is best.” He looked down and over to what remained of the guildhall. There was a hollow cast to his face; his voice sounded defeated. “Was there anything else?”
“Uhh,” Klipwing hurriedly looked through his pages. “No, not really. I mean, other than several management details, this was… the only point of… some concern.” He chose his words carefully, looking up at Handy’s face. He noticed no change from before, though the glow of his eyes seemed… duller somehow.
“Mm.” Handy looked around once more, but did not face any of them. “Well, I guess I’ll be going home then.” He walked off down the hill back to the city, taking the leftmost path.
“You mean the castle?” Jacques asked, following after him.
“No.” Handy paid no attention to the sparse amount of griffons on the streets of Skymount this winter’s morn. Jacques twisted his face up at him.
“Then where?”
“My estate. I’ll retire there for now.”
“But it's still morning,” Jacques said. Handy squinted at the sky, nodding.
“So it is.” He then proceeded to continue on his way. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.” Jacques slowed as he watched Handy continue on. He glanced back at the others, but found no support there, and gave Handy a worried look.
Handy walked the entire way to his estate as if in a fugue. He passed through the city, the outskirts, the fort, then the granaries and fields, on towards the outlying hamlets. He was at once aware and unaware of everything around him. He paid no mind, other than to watch where he stepped to avoid tripping, or plunging his foot into an icy puddle or worse beside, and to avoid actively running into anyone of course. Otherwise, his mind was blank and his thoughts static, empty.
It was almost with vague surprise that he found himself stopped at the foot of a small, isolated manor house. It was his own, having come with the land. He had only visited it once before when doing a tour of his lands and the dwelling places of his serfs and tenants, but he had never gone inside. It was in rather poor state. A half wood, half stone construction, the brickwork was moss-ridden and pockmarked, as if someone had taken a large chisel to it and idly chipped away in random places to pass the time. The wood was ancient and weak-looking; most of the windows were shuttered. The chimneys, of which there were many, were stained in the manner of houses that had once been the home of many a burning hearth, but whose time had more than a century been in the passing.
It would also do for now. It was far away from everything, and it was his. He could worry about its wounded state when he was of a mind to. Staying in his properties within the city would mean being warmer and having easier access to food, but it’d be noisy. He’d be fine out here. He opened the door and entered the barren interior. The walls were, surprisingly, covered in wooden half-panelling, the remainder with wallpaper. Rare, from Handy’s reckoning, as most nobles preferred paint, or otherwise naked stonework. It must have been a different fashion back then.
Sure enough, most rooms had a fireplace, even the smallest of the guest rooms. A shame, Handy thought, given he would not be lighting any of them, but they were nice to have, all the while. The floors in some rooms would certainly need replacing. Everything creaked as he moved, and cobwebs and dead insects littered everything. Most of the furniture had long since been moth-eaten, leaving half-exposed skeletons, and he most certainly could see himself purchasing a new bed in the near future.
‘No, rather I should commission one built,’ he thought. ‘No sense putting up with size restrictions when I don't have to.’ Everything except a rather plain, old grandfather clock was in some state of destruction or disrepair. It would take a lot of work to fix the place up.
‘Yes, a lot of work. For another time, I think,’ he decided, pushing it all out of his mind. It was cold, to be sure, but not as much as outside. He’d had worse. It’d do for now; he could rest here. Sure, eventually he would buy a new bed, but he could just forego sleeping in the master bedroom for now and make do with one of the interior rooms. Perhaps the cellar? He had a cellar, but had yet to go down there. He’d need a light, and that would require lighting a fire, which would be intolerable. He could activate his phone, but that might play a song, and that would be bothersome.
He elected to instead go to the kitchen, passing through the dining room, which was conspicuously absent of a table, and learning his pantry was empty.
‘Of course it would be,’ he thought. ‘I have yet to fill it.’ He looked over the stone and wood worktops, to an old black iron stove, and realised how very old this all was. He remembered he had not seen a toilet or bathroom anywhere in the building. That meant several things. One was that indoor plumbing was, relatively speaking, a recent invention for both common man and noble to enjoy alike, which was interesting. Most importantly was that whatever sewage and waste system Skymount had, his manor lacked access. That meant no running water for a sink either.
‘Which means my serfs don't have much better out here. Hmm.’ The thought felt like it should trouble him, but he couldn’t summon up the energy to care. No water meant he’d need to take from the well. Not a problem in itself… but perhaps later. Perhaps he’d make some tea while he tho—
Wait, no, that would require boiling the water, which would require fire. Hmm. Well, perhaps he could cook something in— no, still running into the same problem there. Now that he thought about it, one way or the other he’d had other people providing his food for him or otherwise eating things cold for a while now. Cooking, it turned out, was not a safe practice for him in this age before the invention of the microwave. Well, he was a baron. He could just hire a few servants. That would mean sharing his house with other people, though, so fuck that.
Maybe I’ll just make a sandwich…’
“Master?” Handy jumped at the noise. Turning, he saw Crimson, her black cloak flecked with snow. She was looking at him with a worried expression. He hadn’t even heard her come in. “Is… everything alright?”
He looked at her for a moment as if he didn’t understand the question, before shaking his head and pushing himself off of the counter he was leaning on.
“Yes. Yes, of course. Why?”
“You made us concerned.” She was giving the decrepit house around her some very strange looks. “Are you really staying here?”
“I plan to. Is there something you need?”
“No, it’s just…” She glanced from one dust-strewn decrepit room in the hallway to the other, and then back to Handy. There seemed to be a touch of fear in her eyes. Handy couldn’t for the life of him think why. “I… I think you shouldn’t.”
“What? Why? It is my house.”
“It reminds me of how the Mistress lives.”
“...What?” Crimson scuffed the floor with a hoof.
“When you didn’t react back on the hill. Your voice sounded… sounded dead. Like hers.” Oh. Oh. Handy rubbed his face for a bit and tried to shake the cobwebs that had been forming on his brain.
“Crimson, I am not turning into anything like the Mistress is. I don’t even know what she’s like. You’ve never told me before.”
“But—”
“People take strange moods, Crimson. It happens.” He recalled the mare’s complete lack of interaction with other people that wasn’t either subservience or barely restrained sociopathy. “It doesn’t mean I’m going to be like her or treat you like…” He trailed off, looking at the anxious look in his mage’s face and thought better of himself. He looked out the shuttered window and realised that he wasn’t going to be doing anything for the foreseeable future, so why not make the most of it. “Okay, look, this is long overdue. There’s some chairs in the growling room. I think it's time you and I talked.”
“...Growling room?”
“Yes, I don’t know why it's called that either. It was on the sign next to the door.”
--=--
They talked for a long time.
Crimson, understandably enough, was reluctant to talk about her time under the Mistress, and Handy had to reassure her many times that he was not angry with her, nor was he interrogating her. It was strange, he thought. She had enough power to seriously threaten him, perhaps kill him, at any time she chose, yet didn’t. That one day in Canterlot when she was weak and frightened, and he had coerced her into his service, had been enough to change how she looked at him. It had not, as he found out, how she viewed the world around her. He surmised she had been broken and had been a slave, but it was not until he actually sat down and talked to her that he understood how correct that was.
Crimson could not recall a time when she was not in service to the Mistress, ever since she was a foal. He asked about her parents, but she could not recall. He said that it should not be surprising since she had been so young when she had been taken. That was when she corrected him. She could not recall entire years of her life, up to and including when she got her cutie mark.
Handy, still ignorant of the mark’s significance to ponies, nonetheless knew it had something to do with a rite of passage, given every pony above a certain age he saw had one, but those younger did not. Maybe it was like a pony Confirmation or some other rite signifying that a child has reached the age of reason. For her not to remember that was a big deal.
It was then that he was informed of the true, terrible cost of old magic, and suddenly, a great many things began to make sense.
“It costs us memories.”
“What? How?” Handy asked. Crimson shuffled in a seat that seemed far too big for her.
“When… Whenever we first learn how to read the script, we recite a specific spell.”
“What spell?”
“Well, I call it a spell, but there isn’t really… Well, there's no real spell being cast.”
“Crimson, I’m not following you. Start at the beginning. When you learn to read the script, what do you say?”
“I can’t remember the exact wording,” she began, looking distinctly uncomfortable with the memory. “I only know because I recall other members of the Mistress’ council reciting them when they were inducted.”
“You do not recall your own?” She gave him a guilty look, and he was left wondering exactly how many of her early years had been ‘forgotten’.
“Time is fleeting, time is shallow,” she began, “or I think that’s how it began. What’s mine is yours to keep, but lost once claimed. If not found again, then I will reap what is mine as is owed to me, and take from you what has been borrowed that cannot be given back.”
“... That sounds more like a riddle than anything.”
“There was more to it than that. I can’t really recall.”
“So who exactly is the other person this… riddle-oath involves? The Mistress?”
“What do you mean?”
“It sounds like a recitation between the warlock and whoever they are ‘borrowing’ the power from.”
“Oh. Well no, it’s not the Mistress, or at least I don’t think so. They were always saying it when looking at a parchment with the script written on it. And after saying it, and spitting blood, they could read the script. We all can.” Handy perked up at that.
“I’m sorry, what? Spitting blood?”
“Yes. Before they say it, they always pierce their tongues.”
“...And then spit their blood onto the magical script of foul magic?”
“Uhm, yes?” Crimson asked.
“Is blood magic common?”
“What? No, the blood is just symbolic. There’s nothing magic about it.”
“...I think you’ve known me long enough to know that isn’t true,” Handy said, thinking about the implications involved. An oath, a ritual, blood-letting and signing thereof to gain power… It seemed archaic somehow, like something from another age. How could Crimson of all people think the blood-letting was unimportant? “You’ve never used blood before in your magic?”
“Nopony has,” she said, shaking her head. “I mean, there’ve been attempts and theories, but there’s nothing to it. I’ve never heard of anypony using it in old magic, not even the Mistress.” Handy scoffed.
“Right, okay, maybe it was only symbolism,” he said, thinking it was anything but. Handy knew nothing of magic academically, but blood was literally the source of his own power, so obviously there were a lot of clever pony wizards out in the world who were clearly missing something. Hell, the thestrals alone should be proof enough there was something magic to it, but if Crimson said there had been nothing but failed attempts, maybe there really was some missing piece to the puzzle. “Go on.”
“Well, after we learn to read, there’s nothing much to it.” Handy just looked at her. “What?”
“What do you mean there’s nothing to it?”
“I mean there’s nothing to it. We speak the script and the spells activate. It’s why Thunder could cast spells despite being a relatively unlearned earth pony.”
“Who?” Handy asked. Crimson gave him a queer look.
“Thunder, the one who attacked the tournament?”
“Oh, so that’s who it was… Wait, was that the one I fought in Manehatten?”
“You do not know?”
“I do not recall the specifics,” Handy said, frowning. “I know I faced a warlock at the tournament. I found old magic at Blackport. I spent months hiding from, searching for, and chasing this phantom enemy all the way to Manehatten, yet I can’t remember a thing about him for the life of me... other than he is now supposedly in the custody of the Equestrians. He was an earth pony too.”
“Was he white? Blueish white?” Crimson asked.
“I think so.”
“Then that is Thunder,” she confirmed impassively, her stoic expression readopted upon learning of him. Handy guessed she did not regard the council member fondly. “That is the cost of using old magic.”
“That you forget yourself?” Handy asked. She nodded.
“When you use an old magic spell, you do not need to learn it, you do not even need to know the simplest elements of magical theory. You merely read and recite what you know, in thought or in word, and the spell activates.”
“And this is not at all how normal magic works?”
“Not without understanding the forces you’re working with, no. However, once you use the spell, you will have completely forgotten the very words you spoke not a moment before, no matter how long you spent learning.”
“...Why does that sound familiar?” Handy asked himself.
“What?”
“Nothing, go on.”
“Well, it starts small.” She tugged at the hem of her heavy woollen cloak and worried away at it between her two forehooves, looking down at the floor. “Moments, minutes, hours, days. You have a limited time. You have to relearn the spell you had just used as fast as possible. The more powerful and complex, the more of… of you is lost for every second it takes to rememorize the spell.” She glanced at the grandfather clock in the hallway. “It starts with your earliest memory and works up from there.”
“Okay,” Handy said, digesting the horrifying implications this brought to light. “But why then do I not remember Thunder? Why doesn’t anyone?”
“Because he has been forgotten.”
“Yes, he lost his memories because of the old magic compact. I don’t know how, but you explained that.”
“No, I mean he has been forgotten,” she said, looking down at the ground.
“By me?”
“By everypony.”
“...Are you telling me that old magic could affect me at a distance like that?”
“No, it’s… It’s hard to explain. I don’t even think the Mistress fully understands it,” Crimson explained. Handy noticed she was still very uncomfortable explaining this, but he persisted, any sympathy he had crushed under the new, horrifying possibility his mind could be affected somehow by someone else’s folly.
“Crimson, I need you to explain to me, as best you can, how a person can be ‘forgotten’.”
“When… When you lose parts of yourself, you really do lose yourself. As in you are lost to history.”
“How?” Handy snapped.
“I don't know, Master! I swear it!” She held up her hooves defensively. Handy forced himself to be calm.
“Right, right, okay. So, lost to history—what does that actually mean?”
“I-It means the world forgets who you were. It’s difficult but… say you kept a diary,” she proposed.
“Alright…”
“Now, say you wrote all your thoughts for every year of your life in it. When you are forgotten, or part of you was forgotten, more and more of the words written within the diary would… disappear.”
“That’s… how?”
“It is something to do with the compact, the source of the magic. It is called old for a reason, for it is older than this world. Or so Mistress always said.”
“So it can rewrite its history?”
“No, it can't,” Crimson said. “However, it can make history forget you. If you had a son or a daughter, they would forget they ever had a father. Reason would tell them they had one, but they simply would not know who you were, even if you had been with them all their lives. History books pertaining to you would have the words disappear from their pages, but the effects of the things you did would still have happened. Paintings will fade, statues will erode, people who knew you will forget your face. The more of your history you forget, the more history forgets you—it’s like a curse. It’s why you can’t remember who Thunder is, yet I can.” She paused for a moment. “It’s why you struggled to remember me when we met in Canterlot that day.”
Handy’s eyes widened slightly at that revelation. He opened his mouth to speak, but, thinking better of it, bit back his question. It took him a moment to digest the implications. He sat back for a moment and thought about it seriously. Old magic users said something that sounded very oath-like, but at the same time conditional, as if making a bargain with someone. They practiced a bloodletting ritual to do so, so clearly not just any chump with an arcane education could do what they do. The power was a gift from… something. Finally, it was sealed in the warlock’s own blood, and it cost them portions of their very selves if they did not adhere to the rules of the deal. It was like a pact or… or a covenant.
“Fuck me…” Handy cursed when the thought came to him. “I had only been making that up. I had no idea that was actually possible… Well, there was the deer, but this doesn’t seem the same thing.”
“What?” Crimson asked, ears perked and curious at her master’s musing. He disregarded her question.
“Crimson, you don’t know the source of your magic? Truly?”
“N-No, why?”
“So you don’t know exactly where your memories go when they are taken from you?” he continued, making notes in his head.
“No,” she answered, curious where he was going with this.
“And when it finally catches up to you in the end, when you’re finally out of power and you’ve lost yourself completely… What happens then?”
“Well… then I guess you’re forgotten entirely by the world around you. You lose your power and your gifts.” Handy paused.
“Gifts?” he asked. “What gifts could be worth that price?”
“Well, you get to live forever.” Crimson looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. “Your dreams are protected from any outside interference, and a few other things. I know the Mistress is far, far older than she seems.” Handy suddenly had so many more questions.
“So you’re immortal?” She shook her head.
“Not yet. Only the Mistress is, I think. I haven’t heard of any mage who used old magic living long enough to find out.” She paused for a moment. “Except maybe the dragon— Meranax I think her name was. She seemed to know the Mistress from when she was young, but then again she is a dragon so…”
“And what’s this about dreams?”
“Oh. Well, it prevents anypony from spying on you whilst you sleep.”
“...That’s possible?”
“Yes. Though the number of suspects is… very small.”
“Okay, bear with me for a moment. Are you saying there are ponies out there that can read minds?”
“No,” she answered quickly. Handy just rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“But you just said that there were people who could.”
“I did not. I said there are those who can spy on your dreams.”
“But how is that possible? Dreams only exist in your head,” Handy insisted, now VERY alarmed at what he was learning. If there was one thing he considered utterly sacrosanct, it was his thoughts. To think someone could violate them…
“That… isn’t strictly true,” Crimson answered, this time biting her lip. “It isn’t strictly considered a school of magic, and if it were not for Princess Luna being so well-known for visiting ponies in their dreams, it’d be dismissed as superstition. Though she herself considers it more of an art, if what I have read is true.”
“Are you telling me,” Handy said very softly, “that at any time the Equestrian Princesses can spy on me while I sleep?”
“Well, I am not aware of what limitations the art has, but theoretically? Yes.”
“How?” he demanded. She raised a placating hoof.
“I don’t know how. Nopony knows how she does it. The only thing we really understand is that, somehow, when we dream, we are connected to something. Someplace else. Ponies like Luna can traverse that place consciously, visiting pony after pony whilst they dream.”
“Connected to someplace—what? Seriously?” Handy said incredulously. “That’s preposterous.”
“How do you know?” Crimson asked, cocking her head slightly.
“In my world, we know what causes dreams. The study of the brain and how it works has entire fields of dedicated sciences to it. There are chemicals in the brain that causes you to have dreams, and nightmares. It can be affected by your health, your diet, and other things. It is nothing more than just that: vivid hallucinations while you sleep.”
“So it is impossible that this chemical effect in your brain could have anything to do with your consciousness reaching beyond your physical body?” she asked, hoof to her chin, brow furrowed. Handy had to admit he was impressed. He didn’t expect her to just roll with what he told her.
“Yes,” he answered at last.
“Then how is it you find it so hard to believe that blood has no known magical application?”
“We—” Handy drew up short as he considered her question. “Well, that’s not the same thing. One is a substance with magical use, and the other is the proposition that we can reach into another world with just our subconscious minds. It's a difference in kind, not degree.”
“Yes but why is blood magical, as you insist?” Crimson asked. She was giving him a look he had not seen before, as if appraising him somehow.
“I have no idea,” Handy was forced to admit.
“Then how then can you say these chemicals in one’s brain, if I am to understand your human sciences are correct, Master, also have no magical application? That the sapient mind does not tap into something else when it is mostly dead to the outside, physical world.”
“The idea is preposterous!”
“Indulge me,” she insisted. Handy grimaced, but continued.
“To presuppose a person can, remotely, access some other plane of existence with nothing but their mind would entail being able to do so all the time, waking or sleeping,” Handy began. “If we can’t do so when we’re awake, even after God only knows how many centuries of civilization and people being fascinated by the visions they see when they are sleeping, spurring investigation into the matter, why should we assume we actually do so when we’re unconscious?
“And unlike my world,” Handy continued, “here you have access to magic, arcane studies and methods we humans imagine to be mere fantasy, yet can you access this ‘dream realm’ from the waking world?” he challenged. Crimson simply looked contemplative.
“So, if I were to take your reasoning as granted,” Crimson replied, now sounding very different from the worried girl she was before, more in her element, “you would find the presupposition that a princess half a continent away could read your mind remotely through some kind of mental powers as being plausible. However, the supposition that that same princess, through means yet unknown to us, is able to access the realm of dreams which every sapient supposedly has a connection to, and visit an individual's dreams by that means, is deemed implausible?”
“I did not say that.”
“Yet the fact remains that it is proven, as much as it can possibly be proven, that Luna does visit ponies’ dreams,” Crimson barrelled on. “It has been tested even, visiting one pony in one city, and then another in another city, and relay information between the two that neither could know without speaking to the other.”
“How do you know this?” Handy asked.
“Mistress used me primarily to do research, and she was obsessed with ensuring her dreams were protected,” Crimson answered simply. “I’ve had a lot of time to consider this problem, Master. But my question remains: do you consider the supposition of the dream realm as still preposterous?”
“It just seems so… I don’t know, unnecessary?”
“By what standard?” she challenged.
“I guess… Well, perhaps I may have to concede I just don’t know enough to make an accurate call on the matter. Just seems so strange that this could actually be possible.”
“Do humans dream?” Crimson asked.
“Of course we do.”
“Why?”
“...What do you mean why?” Handy asked, genuinely puzzled by the question.
“Why do humans dream? Why do any of us? You say in your world you have discovered the chemicals that cause dreams, correct?” she said, not even challenging Handy’s claim.
“Yes,” he answered.
“So they know, for a fact, that these chemicals cause the dreams, am I correct in assuming this?”
“Yes, as best as we can be sure,” he replied.
“And not the other way around?” she asked.
“That the chemical release is a result of the dream?” Handy scoffed. “Well, that’s just… That doesn’t make any sense.”
“And dreams make sense?” she asked. Handy gave her a disappointed look.
“Dreams are chaotic by nature. Hell, we don't even remember most of them upon waking. The specific chemicals, and I can't recall which one does what, are needed for the brain to even imagine them in the first place.”
“And you have no one in your world who considers dreams to be, in some sense, real?” she asked, genuinely curious.
“Well yes, we do, but they are pretty much, to a man, fraudsters, mentally disturbed, and liars,” Handy replied sternly.
“Then dreams are chaotic by nature, do not make sense, are the results of chemical activity in the brain with no significance whatsoever?”
“Correct.”
“So there is nothing more to the stories, emotions, images, and thoughts that come to a pony when they dream?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why are they even necessary?” she asked.
“I honestly don’t know. One of the theories I heard is it helps a person manage and analyse everything they did the day before.”
“So the brain releases chemicals to conjure vivid hallucinations to help a pony cope with their daily experiences, whereupon waking they’ll have completely forgotten about everything they just tried to subconsciously figure out in the vast majority of the cases?”
“Well… more or less, yes,” Handy answered.
“Then, putting aside the question about what good it does mentally, why do they even need to be in the form of stories?”
“Well, that’s just how people interpret the world around them. As a story.”
“Yes, but why?” she insisted.
“What do you mean why? If it were not in a story, the dreamer couldn’t understand it,” he said, but seemed to realise he had made some kind of mistake.
“So dreams are nothing but the nonsensical result of a chemical reaction with no meaning, and help a pony apply meaning and understanding to the previous day’s events that they will promptly forget about upon waking up again? Oh, and a magical pony princess can enter said nonsensical, entirely internalized, meaningless figment of subconscious imagination and talk to the pony as if they were awake?” Handy was quiet for a moment.
“Well, when you say it like that, it sounds kind of ridiculous,” he admitted. She gave him a small smile, and he let out a breath, conceding that he’d need to give the issue more thought. Perhaps their brains and human brains just operated differently? He certainly had no dreams since coming to this world. “...Well, I am suddenly very glad I no longer dream then,” Handy said after a moment of silence as he contemplated the new information, leaning back in the ancient chair which creaked alarmingly, the sound echoing off the barren walls and empty bookcases of the growling room.
“...What?” Crimson asked, suddenly concerned. Handy looked back over to her.
“Yeah, ever since you brought me to this world, I can’t dream. Not that I dreamt much back home either, mind you, but it happened from time to time.” Crimson looked guilty. “What?”
“Uhm… do… do you feel like you’ve only blinked each time you go to sleep? Like no time has passed?” Handy narrowed his eyes at her.
“That was oddly specific, but yes. That has basically been my lot in life as of late.”
“And it’s been like this since you’ve been brought here? You’re sure nothing else?” she asked, now returning to worrying away at the hem of her cloak.
“Crimson, what are you getting at?” he asked suspiciously. She seemed to swallow before answering.
“Um, well, remember when I said old magic could protect your dreams from being spied upon?”
“Yes?” he asked, now leaning slightly forward.
“W-Well, that’s how I, personally, know the connection to the dream realm exists, at least partially. Simply being exposed to old magic is enough to weaken your link, but you can create specific spells to—”
“Crimson,” Handy interrupted, “the point, if you please.”
“...I think when I was performing the ritual to summon you here, I used quite a lot of old magic as well.”
“Didn’t you say you used the thuamatic winds?”
“Yes, but of course I was using old magic as well to help boost the power, to help control the flow. The veil is torrential, like a sea at storm. I needed—”
“Crimson.”
“Right, right… I think I may have inadvertently exposed you to far too much old magic than is… recommended for somepony not initiated in the art.” Handy was silent for a time.
“So, basically it’s your fault I can’t dream?” She seemed to shrink slightly beneath her voluminous hood.
“S-Sorry, Master,” she managed to squeak out. Handy simply stared at her for a time.
“I will be honest, I am not sure how to feel about this,” he admitted. She seemed to shrink further. Honestly, he really didn’t. On the one hand, if everything Crimson had insisted was true was actually correct, technically she just landed him with a disability. Shitty, true, but on the other hand, how many nights was he grateful for the inability to dream? And if it is true that the Equestrian princesses, especially Luna, could actually traverse people’s dreams, including his own presumably, was it not a blessing in disguise?
He got up and walked towards the window, thinking. He squinted at the pale morning light that managed to pierce the veil of snow above them.
“So, the Mistress. Tell me what you know about her, as much as you can.”
And so, while he thought, he listened to Crimson explain to him everything she knew about the Mistress. That, it seemed, was depressingly little. Crimson’s life story could easily be summed up as Harry Potter if the little bastard never moved out from under the staircase but still had to put up with wizard bullshit.
She cooked, she cleaned, she did the donkey work for the Mistress, and often lived in fear of her ‘experiments’. She would not be drawn on what those experiments actually entailed. Rarely, she would deign to teach Crimson anything new, and often only before sending her out on missions to retrieve this artefact or make such-and-such a pony not be a problem anymore. Sidestepping the issue of cold blooded murders for the time being, he pressed the issue of where the Mistress was, only to be met with the disappointing shake of her little red head.
One did not come to the Mistress it seemed—she brought you to her. It was always some remote location Crimson had to return to, and never the same one twice. There she’d contact the Mistress and be brought to her through whatever method of translocation old magic allowed, which Crimson had unfortunately never been taught. He also learned that the Mistress never allowed herself to be seen in the light, and didn’t seem to have trouble moving about her decrepit crypt of a home in utter darkness. Also, everything was partially decayed, destroyed, and covered in thick layers of dust and dead insects.
Handy suddenly had a better appreciation for why Crimson was worried when he said he’d be staying in the manor house.
Next up was the little rogue’s gallery Handy had made his personal mission to murder. Thunder, apparently, was accounted for, now feckless and harmless to everyone around him. There was the dragon, Meranax—fun times to be had with her, he was certain—and the youngest member of the council, a diamond dog named Chopper, she having been there when the dog had been inducted into the Mistress’ tightly controlled circle of magi. There were others, but she couldn’t recall them.
There was no way to tell what powers they had either. The Mistress never gave two people the same degree of power and access to knowledge. It was something, but it was frustratingly little, and Handy said as much, eliciting yet another unnecessary apology from Crimson.
Finally, there was the question of what, precisely, was the Mistress’ interest in him of all people, to which Crimson answered, immediately and simply:
“She owns you.”
“Excuse you?” he said disbelievingly, turning around. She simply nodded.
“She owns me. She considers you her property because you were brought here by her will.”
“Well now, that’s just… wow. There’s arrogance, and then there’s that,” he said as he stood there. He let out a breath as, after finally coming to a decision, he looked Crimson squarely in the eyes. “Crimson, I need to ask you to do something for me.”
“I… Of course, Master. What is it?”
“I need you to teach me magic.” She cocked her head to the side.
“Don’t you already know how to use magic?”
“No.”
“But—”
“Yes yes, vampire powers are all—very well and good, but I don’t understand how I am using them the way I do. It like a centipede that doesn’t think about how it coordinates so many legs or a fish doesn’t think about how it swims.” He moved back to his seat which, once again, threatened to collapse, judging by the sound it made. “I don’t know how I am doing it, only that I can. And if I am really, truly going to defeat the Mistress and find my way back home, I doubt I am going to get much farther than I have without at least some rudimentary understanding of magic.”
“I-If you’re asking me to teach you old magic, Master, I… I’d rather no—”
“What? Oh. Oh no, oh God no, no no. I don’t want any of that.” Handy waved her off quickly. “Way too high of a price. No, just give me the basics of ordinary magic, how everyone else uses it.”
“The basics, Master?”
“Well, you don’t teach a child to read by hitting them over the head with the Illyad, as amusing as that would be, so let’s start with the ABCs,” Handy said. “Now, instruct me as you would a foal. How does one understand the magic in the world around them? Much less use it?”
“I… I uh. Hm.” She gave the problem some serious thought. “To be honest, Master, I am not sure if I am the best pony to do this.”
“Well, right now, you’re all I have. I’m not asking you to turn me into a wizard overnight, just help me to understand.”
“Okay…” Crimson mused a bit more to herself. “Right, first I need you to focus upon your extremities.”
“Alright...”
“Now I want you to imagine pulling in the air around you like a great big gulp of air.” Handy just looked at her. She gestured for him to do it, so he obediently sucked in a lungful of air.
“No no no, not like that!” Handy exhaled. “I don’t mean an actual breath. I mean try to breathe through your extremities.”
“...My fingers can’t breathe, Crimson.”
“That’s not what I meant!” Crimson insisted. “I was trying to approach it as I’d teach an earth pony to get in touch with their magic through their hooves. I mean, you said humans don’t have magic, right?”
“Yes, as far as I know.” ‘And common sense tells me, at least.’
“Right, but that’s not the same thing as not being able to use magic.” Handy gestured for her to keep going. “Griffons, typically, aren’t naturally able to wield magic like we unicorns can. However, there is precious little difference between them and, say, pegasi. Both can fly naturally, or at least mostly, but both rely on using their wings to channel magic to help them fly.”
“So how much of it is natural strength and how much is magic?” Handy asked, curious.
“Depends on the griffon. Some griffons are so naturally gifted that they could probably fly for limited spans under their own strength alone, but it’d tax them and they could not go far.” Handy had often wondered at just how flying creatures in this world actually got off the fucking ground, never mind actually flew.
So, if they used their wings to help channel magic to help them stay aloft, putting aside the million other questions that raised, let alone the ‘why’ of it all, why on earth would their wings even need to be feathered? You could just stick two unicorn horns onto the sides of a pony and have them levitate everywhere, couldn’t you? Or was there more to it than that? He shook his head and shelved the questions for later. What mattered right now was the fact that everything she said indicated specific means of creatures already having body parts designed to channel or otherwise make use of magic.
“That still leaves us with the same problem,” he began. “Have magic, using magic—the difference still doesn’t matter. Unlike pegasi, griffons or earth ponies, humans don’t have body parts designed to channel magic through. I don’t have any frame of reference.”
“Yet you still can use magic,” she said simply.
“How can you know?”
“For starters, you’re alive,” she said drolly. “One of the fundamental constants of magic is that only living things can ever truly, consciously utilise it. Oh sure, you can have things like magically-infused ore or plants.” Crimson levitated broken pieces of woods in front of her, seemingly busying herself with the distraction as she lectured. “But that’s about the same as having rock retaining heat, or a plant gaining different characteristics because of the soil it’s grown in over generations. It’s not the same as drawing the metal from the stone, or dye from flowers.”
“So magic is connected to life then?” Handy asked, arms crossed.
“Yes, to an extent, but less so in that it is dependent on life and more that living things can use it. And unlike breathing, it’s optional.” She broke the wooden pieces apart and had them circling around after each other in the air. “Before the study of magic was formalised, mages were a superstitious class, dependent wholly on the fickle winds of magic, whose power waxed and waned. Otherwise, they’d rely on natural stores of magic where power seemed to gather or, rather, sink, such as crystals, stones, sacred groves. Between then and now, it's the difference between striking a match and lighting a campfire, and setting the whole house on fire to keep warm. They had little control over their powers, and once attuned to the winds, they were often unpredictable, dangerous. It was not unheard of that a mage would surge with power and kill himself, involuntarily… and whoever was standing next to them at the time.”
“...Well, that is less than desireable.” She nodded.
“That is why I am certain, disregarding talent or skill, you would be able to use magic even in spite of you coming from another world.” She continued to break the pieces of wood further and reassembled them to form… something. “Putting aside your transformation, when you came to this world, did you suffer any adverse effects? Illnesses? Weakness?”
“I had a raging headache, but then again, I did just get torn through the wail—”
“The veil.”
“Yes, that,” Handy continued. “But other than that, no, I didn’t really feel any worse for wear. Why?”
“Well, if as you say there is no magic in your world, then I imagine if magic, which is all around you even as we speak, was in any way disagreeable with you, it would weaken you somewhat, no?” she asked. “A fish cannot survive outside of water for long; a bird cannot swim the depths without eventually drowning. If your world was so antithetical to it and your race has been there since its beginning, then should you not have suffered terrible because of magic? It is alien to you, is it not?”
“Okay, I concede the point.” Handy sighed to himself. “But just because it does not harm me by its nature does not mean I can wield it.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not, but if you couldn’t before, which I doubt, you certainly can now. I confess I do not know much about your powers, Master, but the mere fact you have and can use them, even without understanding them fully, indicate that you are using magic.”
“Obviously, I just don’t know how.” He ran a hand over his hair. “I was merely curious as to why you simply assumed I could, even if I were not the creature I now am. If living creatures can use magic by virtue of their being alive, then I take it that it has something to do with a living person’s reason that makes it so?”
“That is certainly one theory, Master.” Crimson agreed happily. The wooden piece she had made took the shape of a little four-legged… something. Pony? Handy assumed it was a pony. Crimson’s horn glowed red and she muttered a few words, and the little thing seemed to glow with light from within. The little wooden automaton then walked in circles, much to Handy’s bemusement. “But it has its detractors. After all, there are many a dumb beast in the woods of the world with magic all their own.”
“And do they have this because it is bred into them, like plants or infused ores, or do they have magic in the sense that a person ‘has’ magic?” Handy asked. Crimson smiled again.
“Nopony knows!” she said happily. It was a refreshing change from her usual gloomy disposition, Handy idly mused. “But they’ll fight over it. I… haven’t had a chance to follow up on the current theories.”
“Right, fine. So I have magic. I don’t know how I am using it.”
“It is not that uncommon. Do you think pegasi understood how they were using magic the whole time they’ve been flying? I would argue most still don’t, merely taking their flight lessons as children as granted and thinking their ability no more odd than that of the swallow or the eagle.” Handy watched her as she idly played with the little magic doll she had made and noted how oddly happy she was right now.
“So. Then how would you train someone not naturally physically inclined to be a mage, like unicorns are, to use magic?”
“Well that's what I was trying to do in the first place. I’d think to try to teach somepony like a unicorn, or griffon, or pegasus to get more familiar with magic around them, broaden their own horizons, by helping them to channel it through powers they are already familiar with.”
“So try to get an earth pony to feel magic through his hooves, or a pegasus with his wings?”
“Correct. I was hoping to teach you by using powers you’re already familiar with.” Handy frowned.
“Crimson, my powers as a vampire are almost exclusively predatory. I don’t think this is the right route to go down,” he explained, placing his hands on his knees.
“Oh. Hmm. So you don’t want to practice—”
“No, Crimson,” Handy admonished. Crimson, looking suitably abashed, rubbed the back of her head.
“I was just suggesting, Master. It’d probably be easiest.”
“Yes, well. Let’s try to avoid that shall we? Any other ideas?”
“W-Well, it's hard but… I suppose. It's hard to explain the concepts without you first getting a true understanding of the magic around you.”
“Try it anyway,” Handy suggested, not unkindly. Crimson’s brow furrowed.
“Okay, let’s start with the basics. You’ll need, just for the simplest spells, to get yourself a focus.”
“A focus?”
“Like a staff, or something like that. Something to focus your magic with.” She gestured to her horn. “They are not long and pointy for no reason.”
“Okay, say I got something to focus my magic through.” Handy contemplated his hands, wondering if he could probably use a spear for the job. “Then what?”
“Well, then you utilise the Cornisuleps principle, channelling the magic through your sinews both through the focus and then back out of the focus simultaneously, creating a perfect Gryt loop. Simple basic principles of the Crystalline method,” Crimson explained helpfully. Handy stared at her dumbly.
“Crimson?”
“Yes, Master?”
“How do I draw magic into an inanimate object in the first place, when I couldn’t just do that through my own skin in the first place?”
“Oh, well, the Conisuleps principle requires you to project the magic into the focus at the same time.”
“You mean I am enchanting the focus as I am doing this?” Handy asked, clearly not grasping the principles.
“No, projection is not that difficult, and you already have magic inside of you, if not by virtue of being born with it, then by virtue of literally being soaked in it since you got here.” He poked the side of his head in frustration.
“Okay, step back a moment. I think we’re going to need to get even more basic here. Okay, how do I project magic, and how is that any different from just using magic like you do?”
“No, you’re thinking about this wrong. It is not the same thing. Look, I think projection is the wrong term.”
“Then what is the right term?” Handy muttered, slumping down on his chair.
“I suppose… feeling is more appropriate. Wood is often receptive— it’s why most wizards use wooden staves. You see griffon mages use them all the time.”
“Okay, how do I feel my magic going into the wooden staff? Do I just… will it to be or something?” he asked, gesturing to the little doll Crimson had ceased animating.
“No, well, okay, yes in a way you have to concentrate on it internally.”
“Well what does THAT mean?” Handy asked, slightly exasperated.
“...Maybe I should be more basic.”
“Please do.”
“Well when you move your arm, are you thinking about it?” she asked, pointing at his arm.
“No,” he answered, now suddenly very conscious of his arm.
“Same principle.”
“Okay, see… no it’s not… I cannot will something I don’t really know I have on an instinctual level.”
“But, you do…?” Crimson asked, confused. Handy had to stop himself and realise that, yes, in fact he kind of did but not in the way she thought she did. Probably.
“Alright, okay, is there any way you can make this any more basic?” he asked. Crimson sighed.
“Magic is a part of you, like the air you breathe. It's a part of living; you have to think about this as if it was something you’ve always had, like the blood in your veins.”
“So it's generated by life?” Handy ventured.
“No, it’s from the same source of life, ultimately. Hence why it's a part of everypony when life began.”
“And when, pray tell, did life begin?” Handy asked, not frustrated. Crimson looked at him stupidly for a moment, cocked her head to the side for a moment, and then sighed.
“When a mommy pony and a daddy pony love each other very much…”
--=--
She angrily kicked over a stone and watched as it plopped into the small lake, whose ice water had been broken by some industrious fisher, hoping against hope for a winter catch. She allowed herself to collapse onto the light covering of snow that had gathered upon the shoreline, letting her heavy cloak drape over her like a blanket, blowing an errant lock of hair away from her face and then stared at the offending follicles as they defiantly reasserted their position right in front of her sight and tickled her muzzle.
She snorted and just lay there, beneath the dubious cover of the skeletal tree above her as she looked out over the wintry landscape. She had been wandering the Haywatch Estate, trying to work out how exactly she was going to teach Master what he wanted to know. Old magic was its own set of problems, and he had no interest in learning that after she made it clear to him the costs involved, so she could disregard that. That did nothing to alleviate the problem of actually helping him understand magic conceptually.
He was like a foal who had never learned to walk, not because there was anything wrong with his legs, just the concept was alien to him. Somehow. She pondered the problem for a long time, watching the snow fall gently on the frozen lake, idly counting the little houses dotting the countryside around her. It was a conundrum. He had magic powers, in the sense that pegasi could fly with its wings or an earth pony could subconsciously encourage the growth and health of plant life, but he did not know how he was using them. It was like trying to teach colour theory to a stallion who had been blind from birth, all the while he was busily sketching out a castle with charcoal.
She lifted a leg and let it fall onto a small mound of snow with a floof, and continued to watch the snow fall. She paid attention as one snowflake fell into the exposed water and melted away nearly instantly. Frowning, she closed her eyes. There, under her hood and cloak, she could neither see the snow fall, nor feel it, therefore she was not aware of it or any of the natural reactions snow caused when it came into contact with something warmer than it.
‘Is that what it’s like to be him?’ she wondered, watching the snow more closely. To be ignorant of everything around her, unaware of what was happening, what was there as plain as the weather might as well not be happening at all as far as he was concerned. ‘If I could never open my eyes by myself, I wouldn’t know it was snowing until I dumbly tripped, or my cloak was torn from me.’
They had spent several full days trying to help him understand the theory. It frustrated her how much of her understanding of the basic concepts of magic and the principles of crystalline theory required an assumed, axiomatic experience of magic on some level. She had acquired several books on the matter of educating children, but noticed how each of them was tailored to a specific species’ own experiences. Griffon, minotaur, the pony races, all of which were geared to helping members of each race eventually go on to understand magic more completely, beyond their natural capabilities. It seemed that unless they could find a way to tailor a new method specifically for humans, Master’s ambition to understand magic was lost.
’It’s not as if I could just hold his eyes open, she snorted. However, the idea struck something within her. Why couldn’t she help him see? Was there anything stopping her? She did not know how, true, but what was stopping her from finding out? She thought deeply on the matter for some time, at some point getting up from her position and circling the small lake, taking care not to slip on the frozen stream that come spring would empty meltwater into the lake’s thirsty gullet. Occasionally she lifted a stone and fired it at the lake to break more of the ice.
It was on one of her sojourns revolving around the lake that she almost stepped on the frozen stream and caught herself. She looked down at her almost misplaced hoof and frowned lightly. That would have been embarrassing, being sent careening down to the lake and end up covered in freezing cold water. She almost went on before stopping, looking at her hoof again. She stared at it, turning it this way and that, her eyes darting all over its surface before, like a flash of lightning, inspiration hit her and her eyes went wide.
She knew how she could help him see.
With a flurry of snow, the little mage thundered across the open fields and over shallow hills, barrelling towards the main road towards one of the small hamlets dotting the estates. She followed the now increasingly well-trod path up and over a large hill to the manor. When word spread that the baron was now residing there, many of his tenants and serfs had come to him for this reason or another in the previous few days. Indeed, she came upon a few talking to Master at his doorstep.
“Please, reconsider, Milord,” the older of the two griffons asked. “I ask not for my sake, but for the security of my family.”
“I understand,” Handy replied, “but I am not willing to create more serfs. You should value the freedom you have and not seek to tie yourselves to the land.”
“Please, Lord, can you at least help us with the winter fuel? It has been a bad harvest year.”
“I already promised I would see you all fed and warmed for the winter, worry not. I will not distinguish between clansworn and tenant with my duties.” Handy’s face was grim. “Now go, I will take some griffons with me when I go to distribute the supplies, you have my word.”
The griffons looked sad, but nonetheless said their gratitude before flying off back home. Crimson had slowed, waiting for Master to finish his talk before approaching the house. He gave her a light smile.
“A bit late today, Crimson. Something the matter?” he asked. She shook her head. “No books either?”
“I think we’ll try something different for today, Master,” she said happily. Handy gave her a curious look but said nothing as she walked past him and into the house. It was still a drab, decrepit wreck of a place, but an attempt to clean the place had obviously been made. One of the first things Master had purchased for the house was a broom. She was surprised he did it himself, but wasn’t complaining for not being put to the task herself.
She went into one of the side rooms, this one long and narrow with nothing but a low, round table halfway between the far window and the door. Crimson situated herself on the far side that faced the door and waited for Handy to enter. She gestured for him to approach the table when he finally closed the outside door and entered. Handy complied and stood before the table, looking around as if expecting something.
“Hold out your hands, Master,” Crimson instructed. Handy did so.
“Wait, we’re trying this again? he asked.
“Just trust me. I think I may have figured something out. Close your eyes.” He raised an eyebrow at her before shrugging slightly and closing his eyes. “Now, I want you to imagine an empty white space, like a field of snow. Clear your mind of everything.”
She gave him a few moments to settle himself and to clear his head. Noticing the crease in his brow relent, she then proceeded.
“Now, I want you to focus on the beat of your heart, the sound of your blood pumping in your ears, and try, just try, to imagine it flowing all the way out to the ends of your fingers and back to your body, in a circuit.”
“Okay…” he said unsurely. She stood up and walked over beside him.
“Now, like I said before, I want you to focus, as if you were reaching out beyond your skin.”
“Crimson—”
“Humour me, Master. Just imagine yourself, as if you could draw it into you, like soil drawing in water,” she instructed. Then her horn lit up.
From Handy’s perspective, his hands and all the way up to his elbows suddenly felt very warm. He almost opened his eyes before Crimson admonished him.
“Ah, no, don’t lose focus.”
“What are you doing?”
“Never you mind.” Crimson held his forearms in her magical grip. Something felt off about his left arm, but she paid it no mind as she continued focusing on her magical grip. She waited and waited, hoping her hunch was right.
There. There it was—that’s what she was looking for. It was like running one’s hoof over cloth and feeling all the loose threads detaching themselves and blowing in the wind. This was where it was difficult, untested waters. Do it wrong and she was back to the drawing board. What was worse, he could end up not being able to use magic beyond the abilities he already had. Still, it was worth the chance. Using her own magic, she connected Handy to the magic in the air around him, like a seamstress would weave one coloured thread to another to make a pattern. She took Handy’s projection of the magic already within him as little and, as clumsy as it was and guided it, like one would a blind stallion, let it grasp naturally onto the flowing ethers of magical energy. Just to complete the process, she let go.
Handy was jerked back out of his reverie with a shout as he felt a sudden surge of heat rush through him, up his arms, and back into his chest. Like a rolling wave, it struck him with an almost physical force. His entire body felt flushed, his skin prickled as if he had been shocked with electricity, and the hairs of his arms stood on end. He felt light-headed, dizzy, and struggled to maintain his balance, falling back a few steps as his senses reeled from the overload. Every ounce of his being felt alive with energy, almost burning. He had to grab hold of the doorframe before he fell back through it into the hallway.
“Master!?” Crimson called out, alarmed. Handy breathed heavily as he rode out the aftershock of the onrush of magic. It came twice, then three times again, each time less severe than the last, and he felt the warmth collate in his chest, now keenly aware of his own heartbeat. He slowly opened his eyes and flexed his free hand in front of his face. Every joint felt stiff with rictus, as if jarred in place. Slowly, oh so slowly, the numb feeling went away, and he could again feel himself again.
And there was something else too. The world seemed somehow clearer to him, the air more pure and refreshing, the colours all the more vibrant. It was not a substantial difference in kind, truth be told, but it was like he just wasn’t paying attention before and the world was suddenly lit up and brought to his attention.
What was more, he could feel it now. He could feel the magic in the air around him. He was tempted to reach out, to project like Crimson had said and try to draw it in again. It was like the temptation to make a hole in a dam just to drink a trickle of water—he feared he’d burst it and it would flood into him again.
“I… Is that.... W-Wow,” Handy managed whilst Crimson looked relieved. She walked over to him and looked up.
“How do you feel?”
“Like I took a shot of whiskey,” Handy replied honestly, “and the whiskey was lightning.”
“...I don’t drink, so I’ll have to take your word for it, Master,” Crimson replied. “That was a successful test.”
“You mean you didn’t know it’d work?” Handy asked incredulously.
“Honestly? No. You’re an unknown element. I just was hit with inspiration and decided it was worth a try.”
“...Please don’t do that too often.”
“I promise nothing.” What worried Handy the most was that it was entirely deadpan and that she was probably entirely serious.
“So… what’s next?” Handy asked, still wondering at the sheer power just… hanging in the air around him. Reason told him that it was probably just his inexperience, but it felt like he was surrounded by a viscous vat of electrified water. The raw power around him honestly scared him a little, and he wondered what was stopping someone from just sucking it all in and laying waste to everything around him.
“It’s not as much as you think,” Crimson said, almost reading Handy’s mind. Handy blinked and looked around, noticing Crimson had disappeared somewhere while he was busy wondering at the world around him, seeing it in a new light.
“What?”
“The magic. It may seem like a lot, it really isn’t,” she said, coming back in the front door and, to Handy’s chagrin, tracking snow everywhere. “I just realised it may seem pretty overwhelming if you haven’t been consciously aware of it before. What you are feeling is just the remnants of the thaumatic winds. You won’t be relying on that for your magic.”
“I won’t?”
“Unless you’re desperate, stupid, or somehow run out of magic of your own? No, you won’t be.” She dumped a small pack full of stones onto the table in the narrow room again.
“So...what’re those for?” Handy asked. Crimson lifted up a small rock and smiled at him.
“Well, have you ever heard of stoning?” she asked.
Handy desperately hoped she meant something entirely different from what immediately came to mind.
Unfortunately for him, he was only half right.
LVL UP!
Squishy Wizard - Rank 1
I am so, so, so, so sorry for how long this took, even though it's only a filler chapter.
[20:45:07] Galloglasses: it occurs to me we never actually see humans learning magic in HiEs
[20:45:27] Galloglasses: its always they're immune because they're from earth, or they get it from transformations or only use artefacts
[20:45:47] JBL: Or they're the fucking Displaced and come with it equipped
[20:46:17] Galloglasses: that too
[20:48:59] JBL: so.... the Princess are of the belief that Handy has no magical powers?
[20:49:21] Galloglasses: they're of the belief he isn't a skilled mage, he obviously has powers now
[20:50:02] JBL: Handy will be able to channel his power and make potatoes fall upon the skulls of his enemies
[20:50:11] Galloglasses: that he will.
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'A foals first steps into the world of magic'
By Crimson, detailing her training of an unusual creature called Handy.
Info dump Hoo!
Handy's getting a kid, folks!
Yay! More chepters plwees
6993103 ... JBL, a word if you will, please.
Handy shall defeat the princesses with his potatoes.
He shall raze the Earth of all this magic bullshit, and once he has finished, he shall go fishing.
Handy will then go make some fish and chips.
A new day, a new chapter.
As always keep up your work!
orig03.deviantart.net/8e1a/f/2014/170/8/2/potato_wizard_by_swirrow-d7n0okz.png
6993190 WHY IS THERE A PICTURE OF THAT
6993103
6993110
Oh my....
So it sounds like old magic users are actually making a contract signed in blood with a demon, paid with the users memories and history.
Ah, yes. I needed this tonight. Thank you, Handyman.
6993223 Pay no mind to JBL, we were discussing how Handy could represent himself at court effectively without actually being there himself. I had a brainfart and said I'd rectify the issue in the next chapter after giving a suggestion of how it could normally be done.
JBL, being mischievous as he is, felt fit to post a segment of the conversation entirely without context. Handy isn't going to be getting a kid any time soon.
How long until he realizes he can use his hammer as a focus? I'm guessing six of seven chapters. He's kinda thick sometimes.
6993237
I was guessing it was something not along the line of a kid... Takei doesn't translate well to text.
ooooooooo yeeeeesssssssss welcome to handy land popilation 1 the rest is dead by my coold hands XD
6993237
Child confirmed for future.
6993277 cdn-img.fimfiction.net/user/56xl-1454766793-101115-256
6993219 The question to not ask is 'why is there a r34 of that?'
Thanks for the update!!
Nice chapter, although the Shortbeak levels where a bit low...
6993309
So Applejack's the mother? Did not see that coming.
(Sorry, couldn't help it.)
Holy shit, I was right.
Handy is a wizard.
All my jokes and needlings come to fruition!
6993509 You are a very silly person. Of course Applejack isn't the mother. The very idea is simply preposterous!
Applejack is the father.
Potatoes for the Drunk God!
Great chapter. It is nice to see Handy enjoying a bit of domestic life and getting himself in order before the next series of big events.
Dude you're alive!
Also I hope you're alright
When do we get a decoration montage? Will it be on the griffin equivalent of Better Homes and Gardens?
What horrors await when Handy has a child with a griffin?
Will there be enough potatoes to last the winter?
With wizard Handy, the answer will be both 'yes' and 'oh God what have we done?'.
And then Handy became a spell sword!
Er...except with a hammer, instead of a sword.
Woo-hoo finally he's getting something for the slowly depleting dependency of his armor.
Handy moves into his own hovel, making a lot of his subjects very conflicted between them thinking he is only there because he is thumbing at them, oh look at teh slum we all live in, others beleiving a nobe shouldnt be anywhere near such a place, etc.
Meanwhile one of the alchemists is trying to make sure the guild removal experiemnt is noted down so it can be used for removal of other buildings in the future, and Handy knows this, somewhere, but hasnt called them out on it yet.
Lets see how many ways he thinks up to abuse his stones. One hot, one cold, instant fogbank etc.
6993539
Oops, you're right.
So Handy is now a wizard vampire that lives in a run down old house.
When does he start eating children?
Also:
Oh my
Oh my
Maximum Unf
Also, might be a plot hole here, or not, but Crimson states earlier in the chapter that she couldn't recall the dragon's name, then tells Handy it later.
Simple slip of the mind or?
6993103 Dude, spoilers!
He's gonna get pelted with rocks, isn't he?
Is he forgetting that he channelled the spirit of Thor while fighting some changelings?
The old "SINK OR SWIM BOY!" lesson plan. Almost always works. Never gets old.
Now that he's learning magic, it may be time for Handy to go full vampire lord on everyone's asses.
Look on in fear and admiration of the GREAT POTATO!!!!!!1one!
The real question is, how long before Handy starts throwing around fireballs?
Halfway through writing this I remembered his pyrophobia.
Handman, you god damned monster. Do you know what you've just created? Instead of walking to get food, he could just, summon it! Oh the inhumanity!
I giggled when Crimson started teaching Handy about mommy's and daddy's XD
>Tfw you realize you just read a chapter about education
You son of a bitch you tricked me.
Also
33.media.tumblr.com/53b67ef10d67676f26f200084f889756/tumblr_inline_n19fe8biPy1sa2x8c.gif
Don't look at me
Best human getting magic in any fic I've read on here, 11/10!!!!
Hahaha,hahahahaahaahaaa,HAHAHA,HAHAHAHAHA.
FINALLY TIME TO START REREADING THE STORY AGAIN
I really want to see Handy rain potatoes down onto the princesses now.
Also Handyman, are you finally admitting you are a wizard? hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm?
I always like to think that a HiE, magic would act like vacuum. All magic trying to fill the one space that there is no magic at all.
So obligatory "Your a wizard Handy" aside nice to see Crimson getting more character and some healthy interaction.
First WHEEEE! this story is back! Second, we got some baroning, fingers crossed we git more. I really like the intense action, the political intrigue, but watching Handy just dracula-in around doing baron shit scratches an itch I didn't even know I had.
Aw shit, you have no idea how hyped I am for Handy getting magical abilities. Even if the only magical abilities he has until he progresses further is chucking small rocks at people with his mind.
6994803 As soon as he completes Crimson's lesson of stopping said rocks.
Best way to teach magic?
Throw violence at em til they get it.
Basically religion.
Crimson has some pleasurable memories of her Master's feeding!
Crimson is cute. She amuses me and makes me want to hug 'er. Her playing with the doll she made made me squeal. Happy Crimson is best (Protector Crimson is second.)
I hope Shortbeak gets in on this training action. Whenever both she and Handy are together, giggling ensues.
Loving it. Keep up the good work.