Prospero blinks at him, and then laughs, drily and without a great deal of humor.
"That bothers you? 'Tis naught, Master Jamison, no more than Ariel himself: a thing of air and little more. When our agreement was made, when he bound his will to mine, then the collar took shape. 'Twas none of my doing. In truth, I think it to be Ariel's. It is an outward symbol of our bargain, the accidents of the spell. It only has such substance as he gives it."
He strokes a finger down the polished wood of his staff.
"How would you have framed this bargain, sir? I find that I too am curious."
"His previous mistress was a witch that he refused to serve, and in anger she pegged him within a cloven pine. Mayhap her intent was to one day set him free, but I doubt it myself; Sycorax was never spoken of as merciful. She died ere she could release the spirit, and there Ariel remained, imprisoned, tormented, as near despair as any of his kind may be, I'll warrant -- for a dozen years. On landing on the isle I heard his groans, and coming then into my power as I did tell you, I loosed him from his hell."
Matt thinks back to spells he's cast, spirits he's summoned and sent on.
"I haven't tried to break down somebody's leftover magic ... or curse," he says. Vampires and werewolves and ghosts, all that stuff is in some ways refreshingly quotidian-- if you don't get too far into the communities, that is, where there are other issues.
"But, if it were me ... I'd extract a promise from them not to do me any harm, or my daughter if I had one, and replenish my energy in some other way."
Matt, despite his own irritation, looks vaguely sheepish for a moment in the quirk of his lips. "And-- pretend that didn't sound corny. It's a real question."
Perhaps it's the pull of power that comes when Prospero holds the staff just so -- perhaps it's his rising anger. The result is the same either way.
A gust of wind blasts over Matt and Prospero's table, whipping at their hair and clothes and putting Matt's magical artifacts in danger of blowing away.
And for whatever reason, it's that sound, and not the sight of an irate sorcerer clutching a magical weapon, that causes Matt to think oh, shit.
He realizes he might have just made things very, very bad for Ariel in the pursuit of an intellectual point.
(Even if he knows that's not all he's after-- still, it's that realization alone that keeps him from reacting with real anger to the allegations of boyish idealist unawareness of harshness whatever.)
"Hi," Matt says to the wind, hands darting out to grab for his herbs. They're the most susceptible to being blown away.
Prospero blinks at him, and then laughs, drily and without a great deal of humor.
"That bothers you? 'Tis naught, Master Jamison, no more than Ariel himself: a thing of air and little more. When our agreement was made, when he bound his will to mine, then the collar took shape. 'Twas none of my doing. In truth, I think it to be Ariel's. It is an outward symbol of our bargain, the accidents of the spell. It only has such substance as he gives it."
He strokes a finger down the polished wood of his staff.
"How would you have framed this bargain, sir? I find that I too am curious."
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It's been over a year, and it was only a month and change, and at that phrasing Matt still needs a second to breathe.
So what about those hurts that leave scars?
"You know, I've heard that argument before," he says, quietly but quite politely.
"And I find it a little bankrupt."
A pause. He doesn't look away.
"But bargains, right. Refresh my memory, what's the situation? I guess I could go off Ariel, but I wouldn't be getting both viewpoints that way."
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"His previous mistress was a witch that he refused to serve, and in anger she pegged him within a cloven pine. Mayhap her intent was to one day set him free, but I doubt it myself; Sycorax was never spoken of as merciful. She died ere she could release the spirit, and there Ariel remained, imprisoned, tormented, as near despair as any of his kind may be, I'll warrant -- for a dozen years. On landing on the isle I heard his groans, and coming then into my power as I did tell you, I loosed him from his hell."
Dry: "Was this ill-done, sir?"
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"That wasn't. I don't think."
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"And would you have me go unrepaid? For such a magic does not come without its price. Dealings with such spirits never do."
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"I haven't tried to break down somebody's leftover magic ... or curse," he says. Vampires and werewolves and ghosts, all that stuff is in some ways refreshingly quotidian-- if you don't get too far into the communities, that is, where there are other issues.
"But, if it were me ... I'd extract a promise from them not to do me any harm, or my daughter if I had one, and replenish my energy in some other way."
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"You have much to learn, sir, if you think you may trust the promises of such creatures without strong enforcements."
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The emphasis on you is slight but discernible.
"Because when I make a contract, it holds."
(History shows that it's when he doesn't bother to try that he runs into trouble.)
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"Far fewer things than you may think are trustworthy," Prospero says, his tone growing sharper by the word.
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Matt, despite his own irritation, looks vaguely sheepish for a moment in the quirk of his lips. "And-- pretend that didn't sound corny. It's a real question."
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"Suffice it to say that I trust that which has proven itself to me."
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"Your principles all seem pretty personal."
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His grip tightens on his staff.
"I will not be judged by a mere boy too full of youthful ideals to comprehend the harshness of the world."
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A gust of wind blasts over Matt and Prospero's table, whipping at their hair and clothes and putting Matt's magical artifacts in danger of blowing away.
"Master?"
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He realizes he might have just made things very, very bad for Ariel in the pursuit of an intellectual point.
(Even if he knows that's not all he's after-- still, it's that realization alone that keeps him from reacting with real anger to the allegations of boyish idealist unawareness of harshness whatever.)
"Hi," Matt says to the wind, hands darting out to grab for his herbs. They're the most susceptible to being blown away.
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"Master?" Ariel repeats. "Didst call your Ariel?"
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