[story] noblesse oblige
author: mellish (scratchmist)
artist: scribblish
email: scratchmist [at] yahoo.com
The spell is intricate and delicate and not at all easy on the tongue, and it isn’t the sort that you’re allowed to mess up. The first time you tried it, the cat turned green. The second time, a flowerpot exploded, and there’s still a dent in the wall where a piece of clay struck. The third time, Master Ivory got a huge boil on his chin - he forces you to work on the most complicated salve as cure, while he agonizes over his reflection in the mirror.
He tells you he has a ball to attend that night - that the ladies at court will be horrified by that monstrosity on his chin, not to mention by how badly the swollen redness will stand out against the new crimson robes he’s bought. “I certainly hope you’re sorry, Aidan! You could’ve at least told me you were practicing!”
You bow your head while mashing the frog legs, more to hide your laughter than to show respect, but by now you’ve gotten used to his vanity. It’s been a while since he took you in as his apprentice. Your parents offered him all their livestock so that he wouldn’t take you - what did the strange man with long robes and longer hair want with their only son? - but he told them you showed the great Promise, and that you needed to be taught properly.
You didn’t want to go with the girly mister, but in the end, you had to. He was going to teach you magic free of charge, and your mother couldn’t say no to the thought of her only son amounting to something more than a merchant - or maybe he had enchanted them, you aren’t really sure.
The first night you spent at his house was a cold one. He had always lived alone, apparently, and he wasn’t very thoughtful - Narcissus that he was, his first thought just always seemed to be for himself. You were the country-bred farm boy; you didn’t know how to speak to nobles, let alone magic ones. He forgot to lay out a bed for you - you slept on the floor with the tablecloth as a blanket, wondering how to ask him for proper bedding.
The next morning you woke up to find he had left for somewhere unknown (the palace, you learned later - the king had summoned him for one of his truth serums), although he had tacked instructions on the front door. You studied the spells quietly until he came home, theatrically shrieking that a stranger was in his house. Then he remembered that he had taken you on. You reintroduced yourself while he inspected the work you had finished.
“Aidan. I like that name,” he said.
“Thank you, sir,” you answered, bobbing courteously.
He told you to call him Master, or Master Ivory. Then you somehow, shyly, told him you needed a bed. “Of course, of course,” he said, and made dinner and forgot all about it. It was another two days before he remembered to actually spell together some firewood to make a flimsy bed - and another two before he duplicated the tablecloth and stretched it to make an actual blanket.
You weren’t sure if you minded, or if you were simply awed that someone could be so scatterbrained - the greatest mage of the realm walked into walls at least once a day, and tripped over his own feet. It didn’t stop him from crying hysterically when your first potion backfired and resulted in half of his hair burning. You put it out with water before it caught on anything else, but when he fled to his beloved mirror and inspected the mess, he was inconsolable.
You felt genuinely sorry, and you knew you would be punished. He had banished you to the corner for lesser things, when he remembered to, at least - causing him to chip a nail when he caught a dropped specimen, that sort of thing. You didn’t exactly have a good relationship - you didn’t feel anything for the funny man with long lashes, except for the innate sort of respect which his face commanded. He treated you oddly, buying you things like dolls when he knew you were a boy (“I would have liked to play with these pretty things when I was a child”), and he often said that he really didn’t know how deal with children. Mostly he just bossed you around.
When you burned his hair, he stood, and the room shook with an almost audible roar of anger. You ducked your head and wondered if there was some sort of remedy to make hair grow faster. He moved slowly to a kitchen drawer, from which he plucked out a long, sharp knife - you panicked, and backed into the wall, as he loomed over you and waved it back and forth. Eventually, he swished the knife down - and cut off the rest of his hair, until it was cropped against the back of his neck.
“Look what you made me do, you silly boy,” he sighed, and then he cleaned away the mess in the room with two swishes of his sleeves.
You grew to like him after that. Or maybe the fact that he no longer looked so much like a girl with a man’s voice made it easier for you to accept him as your teacher. Sometimes you wondered what exactly your great Promise was, although you knew it was important and magical. As far as lessons went, though, you did nothing remarkable. It made you rather wary when you met other magical students, who scoffed at you for getting the best possible teacher when you had neither the best pay nor the best abilities.
“What exactly is the Promise I’m supposed to show, Master?” You asked him once.
“That’s a secret,” he answered, although he looked sad as he said it.
You finish boiling the beetle juice and mixing it with the frog legs and powdered leaves, and you stand and offer him the substance. He looks at it with surprise, then asks you to place it on a table. Surprised, you do as he says, watching him out of the corner of your eye. He puts a slender finger on the incriminating growth on his chin, and it shrinks away to nothing.
“Is it gone?” He asks, although it is plain as anything that the boil has left.
“Master,” you say, not without a little irritation, “If you could do that anyway, why ask me to make the salve?”
“I would use it, but I run the risk of another botched spell, and it’s a good deal harder to get rid of two boils than one,” he sniffs, although there is a glint of humor in his eyes. “Mostly it was to give you practice.” He really is much better now that you are growing up, or maybe you’re both just familiar with each other by now. He allows you to visit your parents these days, although he forbade you vehemently before.
You help him change into his robes, carefully. His hair has grown out since that first ruined spell - it reaches halfway down his back now - and you comb it out with the precision of practice.
“I hope you have a good time at the ball,” you say respectfully, as he inspects himself for the third time in front of the mirror.
He turns to you and smiles. “What spell was that you were practicing?”
You look down, embarrassed, as you answer with a lie. He laughs and tells you to try it some other time - and then he’s gone, in the blink of an eye, teleporting himself to the newest party so that he can get fawned on by the ladies. You let a breath loose once he’s left, and try it one last time. It was long ago, but you still want to pay him back somehow, and beauty is his favorite currency.
The next morning there are a lot of leftover cuttings to use for spells, and he giggles while he reminds you that naturally is still the best way to grow hair.
the end
artist: scribblish
email: scratchmist [at] yahoo.com
The spell is intricate and delicate and not at all easy on the tongue, and it isn’t the sort that you’re allowed to mess up. The first time you tried it, the cat turned green. The second time, a flowerpot exploded, and there’s still a dent in the wall where a piece of clay struck. The third time, Master Ivory got a huge boil on his chin - he forces you to work on the most complicated salve as cure, while he agonizes over his reflection in the mirror.
He tells you he has a ball to attend that night - that the ladies at court will be horrified by that monstrosity on his chin, not to mention by how badly the swollen redness will stand out against the new crimson robes he’s bought. “I certainly hope you’re sorry, Aidan! You could’ve at least told me you were practicing!”
You bow your head while mashing the frog legs, more to hide your laughter than to show respect, but by now you’ve gotten used to his vanity. It’s been a while since he took you in as his apprentice. Your parents offered him all their livestock so that he wouldn’t take you - what did the strange man with long robes and longer hair want with their only son? - but he told them you showed the great Promise, and that you needed to be taught properly.
You didn’t want to go with the girly mister, but in the end, you had to. He was going to teach you magic free of charge, and your mother couldn’t say no to the thought of her only son amounting to something more than a merchant - or maybe he had enchanted them, you aren’t really sure.
The first night you spent at his house was a cold one. He had always lived alone, apparently, and he wasn’t very thoughtful - Narcissus that he was, his first thought just always seemed to be for himself. You were the country-bred farm boy; you didn’t know how to speak to nobles, let alone magic ones. He forgot to lay out a bed for you - you slept on the floor with the tablecloth as a blanket, wondering how to ask him for proper bedding.
The next morning you woke up to find he had left for somewhere unknown (the palace, you learned later - the king had summoned him for one of his truth serums), although he had tacked instructions on the front door. You studied the spells quietly until he came home, theatrically shrieking that a stranger was in his house. Then he remembered that he had taken you on. You reintroduced yourself while he inspected the work you had finished.
“Aidan. I like that name,” he said.
“Thank you, sir,” you answered, bobbing courteously.
He told you to call him Master, or Master Ivory. Then you somehow, shyly, told him you needed a bed. “Of course, of course,” he said, and made dinner and forgot all about it. It was another two days before he remembered to actually spell together some firewood to make a flimsy bed - and another two before he duplicated the tablecloth and stretched it to make an actual blanket.
You weren’t sure if you minded, or if you were simply awed that someone could be so scatterbrained - the greatest mage of the realm walked into walls at least once a day, and tripped over his own feet. It didn’t stop him from crying hysterically when your first potion backfired and resulted in half of his hair burning. You put it out with water before it caught on anything else, but when he fled to his beloved mirror and inspected the mess, he was inconsolable.
You felt genuinely sorry, and you knew you would be punished. He had banished you to the corner for lesser things, when he remembered to, at least - causing him to chip a nail when he caught a dropped specimen, that sort of thing. You didn’t exactly have a good relationship - you didn’t feel anything for the funny man with long lashes, except for the innate sort of respect which his face commanded. He treated you oddly, buying you things like dolls when he knew you were a boy (“I would have liked to play with these pretty things when I was a child”), and he often said that he really didn’t know how deal with children. Mostly he just bossed you around.
When you burned his hair, he stood, and the room shook with an almost audible roar of anger. You ducked your head and wondered if there was some sort of remedy to make hair grow faster. He moved slowly to a kitchen drawer, from which he plucked out a long, sharp knife - you panicked, and backed into the wall, as he loomed over you and waved it back and forth. Eventually, he swished the knife down - and cut off the rest of his hair, until it was cropped against the back of his neck.
“Look what you made me do, you silly boy,” he sighed, and then he cleaned away the mess in the room with two swishes of his sleeves.
You grew to like him after that. Or maybe the fact that he no longer looked so much like a girl with a man’s voice made it easier for you to accept him as your teacher. Sometimes you wondered what exactly your great Promise was, although you knew it was important and magical. As far as lessons went, though, you did nothing remarkable. It made you rather wary when you met other magical students, who scoffed at you for getting the best possible teacher when you had neither the best pay nor the best abilities.
“What exactly is the Promise I’m supposed to show, Master?” You asked him once.
“That’s a secret,” he answered, although he looked sad as he said it.
You finish boiling the beetle juice and mixing it with the frog legs and powdered leaves, and you stand and offer him the substance. He looks at it with surprise, then asks you to place it on a table. Surprised, you do as he says, watching him out of the corner of your eye. He puts a slender finger on the incriminating growth on his chin, and it shrinks away to nothing.
“Is it gone?” He asks, although it is plain as anything that the boil has left.
“Master,” you say, not without a little irritation, “If you could do that anyway, why ask me to make the salve?”
“I would use it, but I run the risk of another botched spell, and it’s a good deal harder to get rid of two boils than one,” he sniffs, although there is a glint of humor in his eyes. “Mostly it was to give you practice.” He really is much better now that you are growing up, or maybe you’re both just familiar with each other by now. He allows you to visit your parents these days, although he forbade you vehemently before.
You help him change into his robes, carefully. His hair has grown out since that first ruined spell - it reaches halfway down his back now - and you comb it out with the precision of practice.
“I hope you have a good time at the ball,” you say respectfully, as he inspects himself for the third time in front of the mirror.
He turns to you and smiles. “What spell was that you were practicing?”
You look down, embarrassed, as you answer with a lie. He laughs and tells you to try it some other time - and then he’s gone, in the blink of an eye, teleporting himself to the newest party so that he can get fawned on by the ladies. You let a breath loose once he’s left, and try it one last time. It was long ago, but you still want to pay him back somehow, and beauty is his favorite currency.
The next morning there are a lot of leftover cuttings to use for spells, and he giggles while he reminds you that naturally is still the best way to grow hair.
the end