Diary of a Dying Star: Talisman

Overall, Phantom preferred to travel light.

That was, outside obvious necessity. When one spent weeks at a time traversing on foot, through difficult terrain, practical bag management often meant the difference between a light sprain or an early grave. Especially in warfare. Finding the balance between packing too much to lug around or too little to get yourself out of a tricky situation was one gained through experience- of which he had unfortunate bounty- and something he’d grown very good at it. For the majority of trips, all he’d require was a single backpack and a sleeping mat.

 

But even when he didn’t have to, Phantom found he didn’t like to have too many things on his person or in his possession. It felt like a waste- having too many things. ‘Clutter’ he called it, ‘spacial noise”, too much- too difficult to keep track of and too much effort to clean. As such he only ever owned that which he actually needed, to the point of obsession. Much to the chagrin of his comrades, most of all poor Feyn, who often urged him to keep ‘nice things’. Like trinkets from their adventure or nicer clothes. Phantom kept two sets of pants, two sweaters- one dusty, torn coat and one pair of actually decent boots which he treated like gold. Everything else in his possession could be packed into a single large suitcase which he kept under his bed in his quarters.

It wasn’t that he hated materialism or possessed no sentimentality… just that, well, most of his things went missing anyway.

The wastes were kind to no one, least of all him- a magically inclined but pathetically weak doll. When the Beasts were not out to kill him and his friends, it felt like the land itself was. Treacherous cliffs of slate, murky lakes hidden beneath rolls of thick grass, lightless, saw-toothed caves. Great plateaus- stretching for hundreds of kilometres- of dust. Dust and sand and biting, whispering wind.

It simply wasn’t possible to travel so far without losing a couple things. Important things. Meaningful things. Things he’d rather leave at home, where he didn’t have to worry about his bag falling into the maw of some demon.

 

Well, except for one thing. One item he owned which he never left without, a companion as dear to him as any of his party members. Practically a part of him.

His spell book.

 

It was a thick, leather-bound thing, a tome with a certain old, banged-up, charisma to it. The edges were buffed beige, the pages had yellowed and it always smelled a little shelf-y. It was embroidered- with a single large, scraggly purple ‘P’ on the front.

He loved it.

 

It was the first thing that was ever ‘his’.  A gift. A symbol of his status- trusted confidant of the Knight Feyn- and his talent. His sorcery.

Phantom could not fight, not to save his life- but he could use magic and he could use it well. Even as a boy it came to him naturally. While Feyn fought to control her abilities, ruthlessly drilled to tame the shining power inside her, Phantom simply cast. Wielded magic as simply as breathing.

He consumed his coarse material with such vigour that the tutors his Majesty assigned to him could not keep up. His enthusiasm for alchemy and the other sciences burned like a star. On the battlefield Phantom was a spooked, clumsy boy but in the library, in the court, in academics, he excelled.

His hard work would not go unappreciated, for when he passed the last of his trails he was named The Lodestar. Greatest sorcerer in the kingdom. Highest of the mage court.

For the first time in his life, Phantom felt like he mattered. Like he could make a difference. Like he could fight this war.

 

And it all started that late afternoon, when his Majesty, the Elven King, pulled young Phantom aside and said “I have something for you.”

 

He looked up at his lordship and tugged his sleeves over his hands. “Y-yes?. His majesty’s robe parted and out stretched  a lone, long palm in which he held a brown rectangle- a book. It felt heavy in his small palms, a weight that, even then, had felt comforting. It was nondescript with no edging or details, aside from a single ‘P’ embroidered on the cover. The stitching was amateur at best, actually ugly at worst. Two double lines of unequal purple thread crossed in such a way that a clear attempt at calligraphy had been made. Like one of those swirly, obsequious capital letters found at the beginning of an old fairy-tale. Like exactly the kind of thing Feyn would try to make. “She thought it was a good idea to put your initial on, so it doesn’t get lost.” The King said and there was this soft, fond smile on his face that did funny things to Phantom’s chest, that made him stand taller- made him want to earn what he’d been given.

“I’ve seen your talents my boy and I want you to invest in them. I want you study to here and become a mage.”

 

Mage. Magic-caster. It felt right. Like a missing puzzle piece finally slotted into place.

 

King Merikh placed a hand upon young Phantom’s shoulder. He felt it ripple down his arm- elven magic, his majesty’s own unique signature, pulsing like a wave. Shimmering like rain on a pond. “Would you like that?”

The notion of hesitance did not even exist to him when Phantom answered;

 

”Yes, your Majesty.”