“What was so important about the fireplace roaring?”
Jarl’s about ready to collapse. He’s been running for more than 24 hours now and really needs at least a nap.
But he can’t rest.
Not yet. There’s too much to ask, too much to do, too much to check. Áesta went pale as Bobby spoke of Red and even more so as Manus became suspicious of her story surrounding the fireplace. Something’s wrong: something that Jarl is completely missing because he doesn’t know enough about magic—probably.
And Jarl really doesn’t like it.
Áesta and Manus glance at each other. There’s something on their faces that tell Jarl he’s hit a sore spot. Guilt, he thinks. They KNOW, he realizes. And they aren’t TELLING him, he scowls.
“Talk; NOW.”
Manus is the first to break. Jarl isn’t surprised as the magician’s shoulders slump and he gives a defeated sigh. Áesta doesn’t really look shocked either—just wary. “Daemons are… elementals, for lack of better phrasing.”
The priest frowns, confused; he’s heard Manus use that word before—with himself: “Like magic?”
“Magic is just a form of energy. It’s energy being manipulated—controlled—to do things.” Manus chuckles, “It’s like science just… different.”
Jarl slowly nods, remembering all the times their apothecary friend—whom is by no means a magician—likened the craft to his own in the past: there’s just too much overlap for Hagen to NOT understand it.
“There’re three different tiers or levels of elements—the first of which you already know: the primaries. These are your standard water, fire, wind, earth.”
The holy man nods more readily this time, “Yes, they’re the basic building blocks of everything, including spells, and you, yourself, are wind—right?” which he’s certain is true because history bares the proof.
Another push is had by the witch, this one much rougher due to the magic held within it.
Probably wasting his energy, Manus sends the little image to the rage-blind daemon with a gentle push.
A gust of wind flings Jarl into his bedroom wall, despite the fact that his window is closed, as Manus growls.
Manus nods while also shaking his hand: that’s a kinda yes. “After the primaries are the secondaries which’re really just combinations of the first set. For example: water and wind make storms which can lead to snow and a mastery of ice. That’s… kinda where I’m at…” The mage fidgets with his nails, the decorations of which have begun to come off. “Some call me the Snow Witch.”
Jarl smirks slightly, amused, “Cute.”
The mage perks up a bit, preening, “I know, right?”
~
“But what’s this got to do with the kidnapper—with Red?”
“Right,” Manus sighs. He thinks for a moment before nodding to himself, seeming to be preparing some speech. He probably is. “There’s a third tier called the tertiary elements which basically houses light and dark. These are the hardest and most difficult elements to get to as they’re the most powerful and fundamental.”
“Shouldn’t that mean they’re at the first level then?”
“In terms of grandeur, yes,” Manus agrees, nodding. “Everything boils down to darkness and light: to energy and the absence of it; to radiation and absorption; to stars and space. But I’m sure you can agree that Earth isn’t a star—nor is it space. There’s a middle, there, between the two extremes; and the very first mages figured out how to use that middle ground to get to the much more powerful far ground.”
“So, the tiers are really just a reflection of how you learn, not the actual state of things.”
“Exactly.” The witch half of Witch Doctor smiles sneakily, “It’s rather like how your faith puts your God at the source but makes him also the highest and hardest point to get to.”
“Ah…” Jarl nods, fully understanding that: he’s one of the closest humans to God, as a priest, after all, and yet he’s also still not the closest (That’s the Pope.) and it’s still taken him YEARS to get even this close.
It makes sense.
~
“Daemons follow a similar tiering system—except they’re born of darkness.”
Jarl frowns. Assuming this is the result of them being from Hell, however, he eventually nods.
Áesta says nothing.
“Generally, humans approach the tiers from the perspective of light. We sort of understand things via light. Daemons approach it from the other side—from the dark—and that gives them a different perspective.”
The priest slowly nods again; but then complains, “Still don’t understand what this has to do with the fire.”
“Simple: light versus dark; stars versus space; radiation versus absorption.” Manus snaps his fingers and produces a tiny flame on the tip of his index. He then moves his hand towards Áesta.
The flame gets brighter.
“Daemons are of the Dark; they absorb—or agitate—energy which forces the source to generate more: unlike magicians, they don’t invoke so much as incite; so, whoever Red is, they’re most certainly a daemon.”
~
“A daemon’s affect can be on more than just a fireplace—obviously—they can affect storms or people, making it one of the reasons religions everywhere think daemonic beings of any kind stirrup trouble.”
It’s now just passed 8 AM and Shantown’s morning mass is probably long over by now. He’s missed 5 in total, if he’s counting the ones he didn’t go to even while he was IN the parish (he was just too busy with Áesta), and can’t help but farther appreciate the chance he got to give a mass at Father George’s church.
He’ll have to thank the man again before he leaves.
But, before that, he needs sleep. He needs to be ready for what more is to come—in their earthly travels and their Axis Mundi ones. He needs to prepare himself for finding Jasey and those responsible for taking him.
He also just needs to recharge and process everything during his rest.
After all: it turns out that he’s not just working with a daemon but now facing one, too. Doubly.
Jarl tries not to raise an eyebrow as Áesta silently crawls into bed with him again.
Manus is raiding the breakfast bar at the moment, gathering some things for them (or at least Jarl) to eat later, too, and the priest had kind of expected the daemon to go along with him—if only to have some fun. Áesta seems to really enjoy being with people—with humans—and not to hurt them either (like Jarl feared).
Rather, he seems to enjoy being with them as they’re happy and having fun.
Like they’d been at Cunning’s Bar. Áesta had essentially sat there and absorbed all the joy and happiness radiating from the drunks—that Jarl had been so ready to dismiss. It hits the holy man that he’d been assuming the whole time that Áesta was relishing in the horrible history of the place or the lecherous looks he’d been receiving all night and morning—but no: while Áesta may have been stirring up trouble in that bar, that’s not what was feeding him; it was the laughter and the friendship and the little-bit-more-than-that-ship clearly happening between Bobby Overalls and Bar Keep while everyone had a good time.
Jarl had been wrong—so wrong and judgemental when he wasn’t to be judging at all.
But that was it. Surely he isn’t wrong about Áesta having eaten his fill in the bar.
He shouldn’t be hungry now.
Right?
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