. (siri) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-03-11 13:04:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !complete, !log, peony min, siri d'albis |
Who: Peony & Siri
What: Peony attempts to control the uncontrollable.
Where: The Tower grounds
When: Tuesday afternoon
Rating: PG-ish
Status: Complete
The element did not obey her command, she could wield it and aim it — a solid blow, but it lacked something. From this perspective, casting Osmose had come much easier to her alongside the other spells she spent her time obsessively working on and perfecting. Water was supposed to flow and yet it refused to yield to her touch, slipping between her fingers in the most frustrating of ways. Councilor Peony Min, was renowned for her exquisite elemental control - something that Siri appreciated but did not desire for herself. Logic dictated that she sought out the older Black Mage and her help. After all, that was why she was in Emillion: to learn. Without that she might as well have stayed back in Kerwon. (Though no, she had no wish to leave this place for now). On Tuesday, outside the tower at their appointed place, Siri waited for Peony; her eyes were fixed skywards, watching the subtle changes spring was bringing to the weather. The increased sun, warmer winds — the frozen ground giving way to renewal. Peony arrived in the garden just as the distant cathedral bells chimed the hour. It was a warm day, the sun mild and the breeze slight, though the councilor still appeared in a thick woolen dress and a large shawl wrapped about her person. The lack of cloak was concession enough to the change in the weather. She saw her intended student standing still on one of the paths, looking up into the sky, and smiled softly. She did not doubt that the other woman was curious about the strange choice of venue -- Peony had discovered that Siri D’Albis was curious often, for all that her way of speaking and interacting with those around her was a bit unconventional. It did not worry Peony, nor did it particularly confuse her; in matters of magic, she understood Siri well enough. Her fellow black mage had power at her command, but she had not been trained in the way Peony had -- strength was her focus over control. For a battle mage, it would not appear to make much difference, but Peony’s own thoughts on this matter were not consistent with that line of thinking. In magic, as in so many martial disciplines, control always mattered. She would not alter Siri’s philosophy if the other mage did not wish to change her way of thinking, of course. But she thought that the problem they were addressing today would succumb to her methods where throwing raw strength at it had failed. She said none of these things only offered a nod of her head, and a polite, “Good afternoon, Siri. I hope you have not been waiting long. Shall we walk?” Unconventional was a way of thinking about it, but Siri had come here to learn — other methods were to be studied carefully and respected. Between Siri and Peony were vast difference in views, but their magic flowed in similar ways through them, despite their difference in wielding. Siri could admire Peony’s control, but control was not something Siri had in any sphere of her life: visions, her decisions, even her arrival in Emillion had not been in her control. Now she had found Cian who set a firm bind around her and instilled control. She was a loaded gun, point it well. “Good afternoon, Councilor.” A quick shake of the head and then a nod as she allowed Peony to take the lead, “Are you feeling better?” Polite talk, respectful, which she could manage now and again when dealing with those in a position of authority. “Yes, thank you for asking.” She was still tired and became winded easily, but fortunately, they could walk slowly, and the improvement in the weather would aid in her recovery as well. “I hope you are also well?” Peony did not often speak directly; here, too, she began the lesson not with a discussion of magicks but instead of the weather. “It is nice that the snow is beginning to melt, now. I have always preferred spring to winter. It seems we are not the only ones to take advantage of the thaw.” Indeed, there were others in the garden -- a pair of scholars giggling on a bench, a few Tower employees kneeling at the edge of a flowerbed, which was all bare black earth this time of year. They walked further, past the area where the groundskeepers were working and into a section of the garden where Peony knew herbs would grow, later in the year. The earth was already turned and tilled and planted, no seedlings sprouting, but it would be a matter of time. They could be helped along in the course of magical study, Peony knew -- with Earth, even with Haste -- and she had brought Siri here for a purpose akin to that one. They had met before, in casting rooms. The explosions of Water created by the other mage were violent and powerful, but they were also wild. Water was not Peony’s strongest element, but she knew that at its core, it could and should be gentle. “Have you ever planted a garden?” she asked. “I’ve a number of things that I grow in my kitchen. I find it is a soothing use of time.” Siri followed at her Peony’s pace, keeping slightly behind but not lingering as the other mage led the way. Though she was not sure what they were doing here, making conversation about the weather; patience was key, and she had some patience (not as limitless as Peony’s apparent calm) just sufficient enough for the tasks ahead. “Never, in Kerwon we didn’t — I remember the wild flowers around Ric’s home, they grew from spring to summer, faded in autumn. Winter is soothing, calm, quiet.” Siri tried to answer the questions, taken aback by the sudden tranquility the Councilor exhibited. “I hope you will indulge me, then,” Peony said, her voice still soothing and soft. She found a likely area and stopped, looking down at the dark earth below in its neat rows, seedlings still hidden. “I think that today, we ought to help the gardeners. We have the capacity to do so with relative ease; we may save their backs from buckets and hoses.” She stepped closer, stretching her arm out over the soil. The incantation was no more than a whisper, and the flow of water from her hand, when it came, no more than a gentle sprinkle. “Water,” she said, when she had finished the row, “does not have to drown. As with all the elements, it has many facets -- and many uses. The seedlings below are small, still fragile. Too much will kill them, and today, this spell is not for destruction.” She repeated the feat, walking up the next planted row, before continuing. “It may seem somewhat strange, but if you will attempt to repeat this, at this potency, I believe it may assist.” Curious as to what was being done, Siri paid rapt attention to the instructions given by Peony; there was merit behind her logic and there was nothing but admiration at the sheer control had over the spell. If only water were that easy to master for her. It came with a bump, a turn, shattered in her hands or it burst forth — she could summon it, aim it and hit. So much latent anger behind each casting she did. Raw power without true control, it always came from someone else — an extension. “I understand.” Siri took her own row and extended her fingers — “Water.” but it lacked conviction and refused to follow her command. There was no easy way to master this element apparently, lodged in her lungs and she spread out her hands frowning in concentration. The magic was there, it was just too much. Surging without much warning, her next cast of water smashed the ground and covered her in damp dirt. Peony watched, knowing the moment before it happened what would occur -- it was this way sometimes, with those who were particularly powerful. In the moments following the explosion of water, one of the gardeners approached at a jog, carrying a towel; Peony took it from him and offered it wordlessly to Siri before asking the man quietly, “Might I trouble you for a packet of sage seeds?” The marker at the edge of the row told her well enough what had been drowned. While he went to fetch it, Peony concentrated, casting Earth; she pushed the dirt back into some semblance of order, though of course she could not know where the seeds had landed; they would have to start the planting again. “Do not worry,” she said, seeing that the younger mage appeared partially dry, if not clean (they would both have dirty hands by the end of the afternoon, regardless). “That is a common occurrence. You are pushing it through rather than letting it come; you should be less like a lightning rod standing alone against a storm and more like the stones edging a stream, allowing it to go on its way, but in a direction of your choosing. There is no need for power here, only relaxation. Try it again.” Siri looked perplexed for a moment, not sure exactly what had happened beyond the fact that the task asked of her had not been accomplished. The towel was taken, fingers brushing Peony’s and expecting a jolt of something — nothing but a steady silence; Siri did a double-take barely suppressing the urge to grasp Peony’s arm and check once more. Drying her face, toweling her hair briefly, she was as dry as possible for the moment. Relaxation made sense, not one of her states — to relax an anchor was needed, the steady beat of Rictor’s heart, the pressure of Caspar’s hand on her shoulder. Without those she couldn’t relax without falling. The younger mage gave Peony a look that betrayed more despair than intended. “I can’t relax.” Peony’s look was sympathetic, but she did not back away from the idea, instead saying, soft but firm, “You can.” She knew very little of Siri’s circumstances -- only what had been written by her home guild -- but she understood enough to know that mental clarity came at a different price for all. For Siri, that price might appear astronomically high, but this, too, was a key lesson worth learning. She lifted her hand, stopping centimeters from the other mage’s forehead, where her distress was written plain and easy to read. “May I?” Apprehension hammered at her insides when Peony lifted her hand, she didn’t feel balance in this moment — just water, deep, drowning, sinking — it got everywhere. Siren songs. Fins. Scales. A small nod. “Close your eyes,” Peony said. Her fingers smoothed down the center of the other woman’s forehead, as if to even out furrows, as she had done with the earth. “Focus on your breathing. In. Out. Feel the air enter your lungs, then flow out. Do not think about what you cannot do. Simply breathe.” It was not a lesson in meditation, in the strictest sense, but it came to the same thing, in the end. Both hands came to rest gently on the other woman’s shoulders, feeling for lingering tension, hoping that her instructions, deceptively simple as they were, would prove constructive. Instructions were easily followed, Siri was listening (she always tried to listen) but she was never alone inside her head. Every breath was echoed by others, feeling the warmth, humid sighs against the back of her neck. Siri tensed, shook her head, eyes still closed. “You can’t make silent was will not be silent, they’re here, breathing with me.” The prophet muttered; it was unstable, shaky ground. Peony was focus, calm and they rebelled against that — she could not be stitched against Peony’s side, becoming part of the other. Too calm, it was too calm. There was something in the ground, it shifted beneath their boots: worms, scorpions, ash, tangled vines and broken remains. Siri found it hard to breathe and she clasped Peony’s arms like a lifeline, fingers unintentionally bruising. End it, end it, end it. Peony could feel the struggle which was occurring, although she did not know its form; when hands clasped around her arms with painful intensity, she did not pull back. Her own breathing was still slow and steady, the cadence she was trying (and presently failing) to impart. One breath, two. She did not ask to be released, waiting for Siri to make that choice herself. “I did not ask you to strive for silence,” she reminded. If there was any strain from the fingers gripping her arms like twin vices, it barely showed. “Only for focus.” Swallowing gulps of water until her lungs burned, Siri coughed — gasped for air, allowing Peony’s words to guide her. Instructions, simple, to the letter, could be followed. “Focus, on who? They’re not here. Cas is gone, and Ric where is he?” He grip slacked a little but Siri did not release Peony. “If it must be a ‘who,’” Peony said, still calm as she waited for the storm to pass, “then you may wish to try focusing on me. It is preferable if you can focus on a ‘what’ instead -- simply the number of seconds it takes to draw breath, then release it again. You needn’t do more than count.” Peony was too calm, too soothing — she was glass beneath her fingertips, slippery and beautiful and cool. “Three, point, one, four, one, five, nine—” Siri continued muttering numbers that had no particular sequence, until she seemed to slump a little, breathing returning to normal. The relaxation was noted -- the numbers seemed to have done more good than harm. “How many digits of the sequence do you know?” Peony asked, her tone almost conversational. She was no arithmetician, but she could follow a conversation -- and if the attempt at meditation had not gone well, at the very least she could attempt to bring Siri out of whatever had gripped her as smoothly as possible. Siri abruptly stopped in mid-count, “I don’t know.” How many? She didn’t even know it was a sequence, they were just in her head; uninvited, just like much knowledge in her head. “Many,” The moment had not lost its grip entirely on her but it was slowly unclenching its fists and allowing her to breathe and straightened up. Hands slid downwards, keeping a light touch on Peony’s arm. An apology was bitten back, this had not been her fault, “Perhaps, it is best to try another day.” “Perhaps.” Peony smoothed her now rumpled sleeves, knowing that the bruises were likely to come in by the end of the day. Fortunately, she rarely wore clothing without sleeves; they would heal soon enough. “You should think about the nature of water, before you try again,” she said, instructor even now. She never saw failures as absolute -- only as steps towards the eventual resolution of a problem. “We do have one final task to complete, however. It will not require magic.” The gardener had stood back, likely watching the tail end of their interaction; perhaps he was simply accustomed to working around the odd denizens of the tower, for he said nothing as he handed over a packet of seeds. Peony smiled slightly as she gestured to the recently flooded earth. “We must set right what we destroyed. Will you assist me?” Truthfully, Siri wanted to go curl up somewhere and lick her wounds of failure and though Peony had asked, it was not a request — not to Siri, it was an order. The black mage gave a brief nod, “Yes, Councilor. I shall put right what I destroyed.” |