Of Ash and Dust (on pause)

Chapter Three: Memories

Years ago, a timid young fae stepped with wobbly knees onto the Windhelm Castle grounds. To the surprise of his entire village, he'd passed the tests for detecting innate magic with flying colors. Most fae lose their innate magic by the time they can speak. Soon after, a letter was delivered to his mother from the Windhelm Magic Academy: he was being offered a chance to train under the region's Master mage, Bramble Honeyweather.

A gangly youth with arms and legs too long for his torso, his schoolmates had never thought much of him. What would they think of him now? Training under the queen's very own Master Mage! Maybe he'd be the next! He was the first young mage to be offered such an apprenticeship from Master Honeyweather.

He imagined their snide smirks wiped from their faces, replaced by jealousy and reverence. Their cruel jabs at his awkward mannerisms would be replaced with their own nervous stuttering the next time he saw them. These thoughts gave him the courage to hold his head high and march across the courtyard.

He, Finch Floravale, would finally prove his worth.

*****

"You need to practice harder," Master Honeyweather scolded. "Young mages of the city master these techniques by age twenty. You're ten years behind."

"Then why did you choose me?" an exhausted Finch asked resentfully, "Why not just choose one of them?"

"You passed nine of the eleven innate magic tests, something we haven't seen for generations. I, myself, only passed seven. None of the other fae we've tested have shown half the potential that you have."

Pride swelled within the young fae's chest, and he grasped the crystal orb in his hands, focusing intently. All he needed to do was produce the image of the princess. Scrying was a basic skill that any fae could do with the assistance of Dust. He just needed to do it with his own magic.

He stared into the orb, waiting for something, anything to appear in the dark mist. After a few moments, only the swirling smoke remained. Closing his eyes, he fought back the urge to give up. He bit his lip in frustration and opened his eyes, glaring into the orb.

"Perhaps," Honeyweather placed a hand on his shoulder, "we start with summoning the image of someone you're more familiar with. You've only known the princess for a few months. Try conjuring the image of your mother."

Finch closed his eyes. The gray mist instantly began to swirl faster inside the orb, turning to a pink color before his mother's careworn face came through. She was smiling, talking to someone. It was as if she were talking to him, but he could hear no sound.

"Am I seeing her through someone else's eyes?" he asked his master.

"You could be," he nodded, "Sometimes we scry through the eyes of animals, sometimes other fae. Many times the image comes to us from a mirror in the room with the subject."

"If I practice more, will I be able to hear her?" he held the orb up closer to his face. He longed to hear his mother's voice.

"It's not likely," Master Honeyweather told him, "But it's not impossible."

Finch stood tall, pulling his shoulders back.

"Someday I will," he promised.

*****

Finch sat solemnly outside his chambers, gripping a large crystal sphere in both hands.

"Mother," he whispered, and the mist instantly turned a deep purple before swirling away to reveal both his mother and father, asleep in their bed. In the silence of the corridor, Finch could just make out the sounds of his father's snores.