mag·ic

and the gods said — may this be a gift from us to you, you who are holy and whole

It was always colder in the summertime, when the rain came to drown all in its path — for summer was cruel, bringing life to starved beasts that called themselves “human”, breeding flowers out of the cracks in concrete only so the changing of seasons could take it away, reminding them of the relentless drought — and yet, they lived in the hope of seeing it again, of enduring the dry spell and the wildfire, only so they could see the cycle begin anew.

Two years.

For two years, he waited by the sea without giving up hope, and when the Star rose above this nameless city destroying all but his prayers, morning wouldn’t come, and one day, he showed up.

“Samuel.”

His name sounded right coming from the Sorcerer’s lips, as if he had been waiting for it for forever — and maybe he was; he was his darling shadow in a sense, and as Samuel went, so did the Sorcerer, following him into the dark — for they were the same, just barely over twenty summers and with eyes lost in the distance.

But still, it didn’t change the fact Samuel could not stare at the Sorcerer for much longer.

“Samuel da Costa Mendes,” he whispered, glancing at his shoes.

“It suits you.”

Samuel looked up, staring at the gloved hand that extended from the darkness, waiting patiently for him to take it — then his radius, ulna, humerus, attached to the scapular and clavicle, clad in muscle and blood vessels and dark skin, and he couldn’t help but sigh — at least now he had the comfort of some company.

“Not many people say that,” Samuel replied with a joyless smirk, but the Sorcerer shook his head reassuringly with the faintest shadow of a smile on his face — and that too, felt right.

“They are mistaken,” the man assured him, but that was not a human being he was dealing with, and when it came to people like Samuel, sorcerers were inherently untrustworthy people — for he was a sinner, and that was a saint pure in its hollowness.

So he couldn’t let his name go without a price, no matter how high.

“I don’t recall you telling me your name,” he retorted, and the Sorcerer blinked as if surprised by the gall — for names held power, and names held secrets: it was no mystery why the magicians of old hid their names under unwritable titles, and it was only natural as their rightful heirs that the name given to sorcerers became an enigma, and mayhap the biggest secret of them all.

Samuel never said that their deal would come cheap, after all.

“I don’t…” the man shook his head slowly, and there was a moment of hesitation while he considered their deal, wondering if he should surrender to the trap — for he could walk away at any instant, but now that undelivered exchange bound him to Samuel — so patiently, as if convincing himself to not argue, he took a deep breath, closing the distance between the two of them, cupping his face and tilting Samuel’s chin up so he could better fulfil his unspoken promise. “Lázaro,” he said, no louder than the wind, making sure no one else would hear. “‘Tis Lázaro.”

“And nothing else?” he asked, feeling his breath get caught in his throat while his heartbeat drummed loudly against his ears.

“And nothing else.”

Samuel whispered it slowly and carefully, like it was a spell, and perhaps it was; theirs was an unfair trade, for the Sorcerer’s truth was worth so much more than his, but at least now the face had a name.

Lázaro.

It was unfair that his name was beautiful.

The storm came, as they knew it would, but they didn’t run away.

Samuel pulled up his hood, covering his face, and unbothered, they walked having only each other and the rain that assailed their bodies as company as the harbor became increasingly empty — for the Source was the lifeblood of Sete, and without it, that sprawling city had no reason to be. Such was the lonely truth; at the eastmost island of the Federation, a single wayward city rose above the horizon as if made of papier-mâché, and nobody ever left, nobody never came — a static world that operated like a clockwork heart, pumping the blood of the abyss into the iron veins of the Isles so the race of men could keep on living in this world, even after the Sun and their forefathers were long gone.

But the man in front of him was a wrench thrown in the machine, a ghost that suddenly appeared in that closed system, only to go away with the morning breeze and show up again both unexpectedly and predictably every night, and as they reached the streets that stretched on forever, the people hurriedly passed by not unlike dead leaves in a river, and Samuel looked at Lázaro expectantly — for it was time for goodbyes.

“Samuel,” he said again, and once again, Samuel saw that shadow of a smile cross his face before he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing back his round glass frames. “You are a mystery to me, and yet—” and yet, he wasn’t — Samuel knew, for they knew it to be true, knew the little things about each other, about their little habits and mannerisms. So they were both left with incomplete truths about each other, trying to stitch together a coherent whole out of bits and pieces that didn’t fit, but that somehow did, and both wondered how they ended up in that mess — for what bloomed that day more than one year ago when they first crossed paths wasn’t friendship or a flower, but a respect for each other’s self-imposed loneliness, even if in name only. 

“What shall I do with you?” the Sorcerer wondered out loud, turning his sight from Samuel to the heavens above as the fake sun rose over Sete and parted way between the clouds like a drop of water falling towards the everstill heavens. “You are not the sort of person to do as they are told, are you?”

“I…”

He couldn’t argue against that. Not really.

Reaching, yearning and forcing itself to reach out, that hand found its way to his, intertwining Lázaro’s fingers with Samuel’s, and despite the layers of leather that separated the two of them, Samuel felt the sheer electricity of the thunderstorm running through him as he was oh so gently tugged back by that bridge between them, being stopped in his tracks. “Hear me, just this one time,” Lázaro said, begging, and it was tempting to give in to that person, for he never asked for anything in exchange for his silent company. “The dead should be left well alone.” 

Lighting struck, and for a second, the world was a white blind.

Cold shock and anger sunk deep into his stomach. “What—” Oh, how he wanted to retort, to throw caution to wind so it would be dragged away with him by the storm, for there was no way, no way she was dead, she was simply— she…— “What do you know about me—”

“Please,” Lázaro said as that bridge between them grew ever thinner, both of them being dragged apart by a whirlwind made of the nameless and the faceless. “But… if you are to seek me, we can talk about everything, and then…”

And then, the wind blew him away, and Samuel was alone.