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.
"Nay," says Prospero, his gaze still fixed on Matt. He holds out a hand, palm up; a moment later flame dances above his fingers as Ariel darts to perch there.
"But glad I am to have thee here, my chick. I have been having much talk with Master Jamison, of thy acquaintance."
Matt wonders if his metaphorical hackles are rising, or if that's just the electric atmosphere.
"I think I spent all my cool points," he informs Ariel without much expression.
He reaches to rescue a white candle from the edge of the table. His hand, holding it, hovers for a moment over his bag.
In the end, he sets it down on the tabletop, but moves to put away his books, slipping them into his bag among his laptop case and a jumble of notebooks.
He rises, dropping his hand. The flame stays in place in the air, flickering uncertainly.
"But I think, my Ariel, that thou shouldst not. Who knows what entrapments two such trusting creatures might weave each for the other? And I would be loath to see you trapped sans hope of freedom yet again."
He keeps his voice from getting too high on the last syllable by dint of much effort, but the very solid beginnings of both panic and confusion threaten to undo his hard work.
"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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"Nay," says Prospero, his gaze still fixed on Matt. He holds out a hand, palm up; a moment later flame dances above his fingers as Ariel darts to perch there.
"But glad I am to have thee here, my chick. I have been having much talk with Master Jamison, of thy acquaintance."
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"I think I spent all my cool points," he informs Ariel without much expression.
He reaches to rescue a white candle from the edge of the table. His hand, holding it, hovers for a moment over his bag.
In the end, he sets it down on the tabletop, but moves to put away his books, slipping them into his bag among his laptop case and a jumble of notebooks.
Reply
"And perhaps," Prospero continues steadily, "we shall speak again."
He rises, dropping his hand. The flame stays in place in the air, flickering uncertainly.
"But I think, my Ariel, that thou shouldst not. Who knows what entrapments two such trusting creatures might weave each for the other? And I would be loath to see you trapped sans hope of freedom yet again."
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He keeps his voice from getting too high on the last syllable by dint of much effort, but the very solid beginnings of both panic and confusion threaten to undo his hard work.
Reply
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