L. J. Amber
patreon
TEWWBAD Chapter 7
🕑 Added 2025-01-28 15:14:07 +0000 UTCCHAPTER 7 – Seeing and Believing
On the day of Saphienne’s twelfth birthday she had risen with the dawn, bathing herself while her mother still slept. As the first light of day shone through the windows of her family home she brushed out and tied back her then brown hair, put on freshly cleaned clothes, and made herself a simple breakfast of wholegrain breads and mulberries. She thought about eating the strawberries that belonged to her mother, but they were not in abundance so early in the year, and so left them in the pantry.
…Only to come back a moment later and take just one, which she ate with relish. It was her birthday, after all.
Before she went out she climbed the stairs and checked on her mother, finding she was awake and sat up in bed. Saphienne backed away, hoping to slip out unnoticed.
“Saphienne?”
Halfway down the hall, she rolled her eyes, and turned back around. “I’m going out to the library. I won’t be back for dinner.” Then she hastened to the stairs, not wanting to spend any more time with her mother than she had to.
“Wait, Saphienne.” She heard her mother standing up, the bells and other shiny baubles that hung from the frame of her bed jingling. “It’s your birthday!”
This made Saphienne pause halfway down the stairs, surprised that her mother had remembered. She hesitated. “I’ll still be twelve tomorrow.”
“But I have a gift for you!”
No child can resist the allure of their own curiosity. Knowing that she was going to be disappointed, but needing to experience it all the same, the young elf retraced her steps and entered her mother’s room, finding that she had slipped into one of her silken robes and was curled on the bottom of her grand bed — and had smoothed out the covers and pillows, for once. Her mother was smiling, looking both mischievous and pleased with herself, which set Saphienne on edge.
“…What did you get me?” Saphienne asked, her question reluctant.
“You don’t need to be so nervous,” her mother teased her, and reached for the chest by the foot of the bed. “I put a lot of thought into this.”
Saphienne doubted it. And yet, her mother produced what was obviously a book, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a ribbon in the same ocean green as her mother’s now smiling eyes. Dubiously, Saphienne accepted the gift, carefully loosening the wrapping so as not to tear the paper.
“Happy birthday, Saphienne.”
The book was one she had read before — many times. “‘The Girl and the Gulls,’” Saphienne repeated aloud, and found herself smiling despite knowing better.
“Open it.”
Inside the cover, before the title page, her mother had left a message. Saphienne read it aloud with amazement. “‘Saphienne, may this always remind you of how much I love you. Happy birthday.’” She ran her fingertip over the untidy calligraphy, and paused against the signature beneath the inscription.
For once, her mother said nothing, only watched with pleasure.
Eventually, Saphienne met her gaze. “This is my favourite book. How did you know?”
“Oh, I asked Filaurel,” she answered. “I wanted to get you something to mark the occasion, now that you’re no longer a baby. Does this earn me a hug?”
Dutifully, Saphienne let herself be embraced, feeling very conflicted to be in her mother’s arms.
Who held her there, and whispered. “I know you’ve had a difficult year. You’ve been very preoccupied ever since… you started at the library. I want us to be closer than we are. You’re a good girl, Saphienne.”
Saphienne pulled away, looking at her feet. “Thank you. You’re…” She trailed off into silence, unsure how to return the compliment.
“You don’t need to say anything.”
Nodding, the girl turned away from her mother. “I should get to the library.”
“Oh, but what about the second part of your gift?”
This time, when she looked back, her excitement was less tempered. “There’s more?”
This time, her mother slid along the bed and reached under her pillow, withdrawing a polished, dark gemstone that reflected the light in flecks of violet and blue. It was set within an elaborately wrought circle of silver, large enough to be held with both hands, within which the gemstone could be spun about its axis. “You’ve seen this before, haven’t you?”
Saphienne had, almost every day. It was her mother’s most prized possession; she spent hours of her life gazing into it. “It’s your toy.”
“Be honest: have you ever used it? When I wasn’t home?”
She shook her head. “You don’t go out much. And you said it wasn’t for children.”
“I suppose I don't. And it isn’t.” Her long fingers traced the ring. “…Well, not without an adult to watch. But I think you’re old enough to use it once in a while, and you’ve been working so hard with Filaurel, and it’s been a difficult year for you.” She lifted it in both hands, and held it up so Saphienne could see. “Would you like to try?”
Saphienne was just old enough to have a terrible sense of foreboding. Alas, no child can resist the allure of her own curiosity. She nodded, and let her mother move her to sit back on the bed, propped up against the pillows.
The book was placed on her lap. “You’ll want to read this while you use it.”
Saphienne was mystified. “What does it do?”
“It’s called a fascinator.”
“…A kind of hat?”
“What? No.” Her mother rolled her eyes. “Where in the world did you read that? No, a fascinator isn’t a hat. A fascinator is made with magic.” As she spoke, she turned the crystal so that it flipped over within the ring, where it began to glow with an ethereal, seductive light, tinting the room in shades of rippling pink. “I can’t really explain. Just look at it, and relax. Let your mind rest.”
Saphienne felt scared, but despite all that had happened she still trusted her mother not to let her be hurt, at least not physically, and so took reassurance from her smile. As the fascinator was set beside her on the bed, she looked deeply into it, feeling its light penetrating beneath her skin, into her bones, curling around her thoughts until it settled in her like a fine mist, then a thickening fog.
“Read your book, Saphienne.”
The fascinator had not made her suggestible, but she listened all the same, and ran her eyes across the first line of the story…
Then gasped.
What had been her mother’s bedroom became the shore from the tale, the gentle crashing of the waves against a pebbled beach, the roaring of the small stones as the water withdrew and left only vanishing foam. Gulls circled overhead, calling, and the scent of salt was in the air, the bright sun warming her skin. Yet the bedroom was still there, only transfigured, the shining baubles around the bed made luminous by the haze within her mind, their reflections amplifying the vividness of the pure, miraculous light.
“How does this work?” she asked.
Her mother was beside her, glamorous, wreathed in fey-like charisma. “You picture whatever you want to, and the fascinator makes it feel real. You can daydream with it, or you can use stories. Go on: read more. I’ll watch you.”
And so Saphienne did, reading the stories within the book as though for the very first time. They were about a young elf who lived with her mother beside the sea, and about the adventures they went on together, as well as the short lives of the gulls who lived around them. The stories were meant for children younger than her, but she had always been comforted by them.
This time, they did more than comfort her. When Saphienne read about the girl, she felt as though she were the girl, and could feel every single emotion described within the book, from the simple joy as she learned to swim to the sadness as she found the bones of a gull high on the cliffs. Every triumph, every heartache, every fragile moment was magnified beyond what she felt in daily life, became realer to Saphienne than her own feelings.
And most beautiful of all: she felt the girl’s love for her mother, and the love of that mother for her daughter in turn. And saddest of all: that was the first time Saphienne had ever really felt such feelings reciprocated, for she had never truly known her mother’s unconditional love.
Throughout, her mother remained near. Her presence ran through the story, and without her mother really intending or realising, Saphienne projected onto her what she felt from the fascinator, nourishing their relationship by what she took from the book.
Saphienne was a very fast reader, usually, but that day she slowed to a crawl. Hours passed, though it felt as though time were racing.
When she closed the book her mother was by the window, and came over to flip the fascinator, dimming its light. Saphienne returned to herself slowly, grinning from ear to ear, her eyes sparkling with emotions she couldn’t even try to name. “That was…”
“It’s really quite fun, isn’t it?”
“I love you.”
“Oh, Saphienne.” Her mother leant down and kissed her cheek, slightly surprised when Saphienne slid her arms around her and held her tight. “I love you too. I knew we’d find something in common.”
When they parted, her mother returned to the window, collecting the glass of rosy wine she had been drinking from. An open bottle was beside it, and another, emptied, sat on the floor. She brought the rest of the wine with the glass as she returned to the bed, sitting up beside Saphienne. “You’ve had enough for today. Maybe you can try it again, in a few days. When you’re grown, we can see about getting you one of your own.”
Contented, Saphienne snuggled against her. “I’d like that.”
“Good girl. Now, you should go play.” She reached for the fascinator. “Your friends will be wondering where you’ve been all day.”
Tempted to look at the gemstone as it began to glow again, Saphienne instead glanced to the window, surprised to see the sun was setting. The red light shone was met by a renewed pink glow, which she dutifully turned away from, moving to the door.
There, she hovered. “I love you, mother.”
Her mother did not reply, a small smile on her lips as she gazed upon the enchanting gemstone.
“…Mother? I said I love you.”
“Hm? Oh, I love you too. Run along now.”
“Can I stay with you a little longer? I won’t look at it.”
There was no answer.
Hugging the book to her chest, which suddenly ached, Saphienne left the room, and exited her family home.
* * *
Her twelfth birthday did not end there. Saphienne set out for the library, moving through the village as though dazed, the world around her seeming lifeless and dull compared to the dream she had just lived. And the further she walked, the greyer everything became, and the more the pain in her chest grew, becoming sharp as she surmounted the steps and pushed open the door to see Filaurel.
“Happy birthday Saphienne,” Filaurel grinned. “I didn’t think you were coming today. You should practice your calligraphy.”
“Yes,” Saphienne answered, walking past Filaurel’s desk and toward the windowsill where she usually wrote.
“Have you had a good birthday?”
“…Yes.”
As usual, Filaurel had laid out what she needed to practice. Unexpectedly, the calligraphy set that Saphienne normally used had been replaced with a fine, white oak box, laid open to reveal a greater array of pens and nibs and inks than she usually had access to. Saphienne could only stare.
Filaurel was by her side. “A gift for you. You’ve worked so diligently, I thought you should have a set of your own, so you can–”
Saphienne was shaking, tears silently spilling down her cheeks.
“Saphienne?” Filaurel turned her, held her, felt the resistance in her to being held. “Saphienne, what’s the matter? Did something happen?”
“No.” She meant it, yet as soon as she said it, she knew she was lying.
“Do you need to sit down? Or do you want to go home?”
“Home?” Saphienne looked up sharply.
And then, overwhelmed by her own question, she broke down into sobs, her tears spilling onto Filaurel, who lifted her to sit on her lap by the window, cradling her there and waving off latecomers to the library — the books would wait.
* * *
Saphienne never told Filaurel the whole of it. She couldn’t have explained it, even if she had wanted to. Many years would pass before she knew enough of herself to realise what it was that had happened, why the fascinator brought only misery.
For Filaurel, it was enough to know that Saphienne had been traumatised by the magical device. It was one of the only times Saphienne ever saw her truly angry, and part of her was afraid that the librarian might hurt her mother. She begged her not to, and Filaurel said that she wouldn’t, nor would she say anything.
“Your mother was irresponsible.” Filaurel hesitated. “…Your mother is irresponsible, Saphienne.”
“She doesn’t love me.”
Filaurel squeezed her hand so tightly it slightly hurt, and Saphienne was glad for the touch. “Your mother loves you as best she can. She clearly just doesn’t know how to love someone, what love actually means.”
Inwardly, Saphienne felt a pang of grief, and swallowed fresh tears as she thought about Kylantha — how she had been surrendered by her own mother. Then she felt guilt, for her own mother was not so bad in comparison.
…But, would she have been, had Saphienne been a half-elf?
Filaurel stroked her hair. “You shouldn’t go hom– back to that house, tonight.”
“Can I stay with you? In your home?”
There, the librarian looked uneasy. “…We’ll stay together. Here, in the library. I’ll fetch you a cake.”
“We’re not supposed to eat in here.”
“Saphienne, sod the rules for once.”
The casual contempt for the rules with which she spoke made the girl gasp, and then laugh nervously. “What does that mean? To ‘sod’ something?”
“It’s… well.” Filaurel’s cheeks had turned red. “It’s a human expression. One you shouldn’t use. And I shouldn’t explain to you, until you’re older.”
“Is it related to grass?”
“Right now, I really wish it was. But no. And don’t ask. I promise you, I’ll explain it when you’re old enough to learn.”
“…Is it a human profanity?”
“If I say yes, will that encourage you to use it?”
Saphienne thought it over. “I won’t use it. Not until I understand it.”
Her mentor tilted her head, lips twisting. “That, I do believe. So yes, and thank you for your promise. You’re a good girl. Now, let’s– oh, Saphienne, don’t cry! Come here. All is well. All will be well.”
* * *
What felt like a lifetime later, when Saphienne crouched in the magical glade conjured by the wizard Almon, those were the memories behind her eyes when she was asked what magic she most vividly remembered.
The day with the fascinator was, of course, not the only act of magic Saphienne had witnessed. Not all of her exposure to magic had been so meaningful, so beautifully horrendous. In the aftermath, Filaurel had done much to ensure Saphienne would have a balanced view of things, especially when the librarian began to suspect that she had the disposition and necessary intelligence for wizardry.
But that was what Saphienne knew magic to be, then. She wasn’t afraid of it, but nor was she overawed by its wonders.
And she knew better than to share such a delicate and personal memory. Not to people she hardly knew. Certainly not to Almon.
“I remember when I watched Eletha sing to metal for the first time,” she said instead. “The way it flowed under her touch, how it answered her voice. She shaped it into jewellery so skilfully, and she made it look so simple, which was beautiful.”
Celaena raised her eyebrows. “Craft magic? That barely counts as magic.”
Almon interjected. “Yet it is magic, and magic used well. That almost all elves can employ it without understanding the Great Art does not lessen what it fundamentally is, and whatever awe it provokes should be acknowledged as fair.”
Saphienne hadn’t expected that from the wizard. She supposed that some things were sacred to him, worthy of respect, even if he showed little respect for her. She kept her eyes on the vibrant flowers that his magic had grown. “I learned the songs, but I’ve not used them much. I found them difficult.”
“Continuing in the spirit of fairness,” Almon added, “I will admit that I have no talent for them either. Though they are magical, they are as different from wizardry as the invocations of the faithful.”
Iolas stood up. “So they’re not transferrable skills?”
“Not to my understanding.” The wizard gestured around them, to the faintly blue, glowing stars that hung above the conjured blossoms. “Wonders such as these require an entirely different grasp on reality.”
A thought had been lurking in Saphienne’s head; his words drew it into focus. Reaching down, she uprooted one of the flowers, hearing Celaena tut in disapproval at the casual act of destruction. Superficially, it looked like lavender, except it wasn’t growing from a shrub, and the leaves on the stem were rounded, rather than pointed. It was also, she realised, slightly the wrong hue.
She climbed to her feet slowly, casting a critical gaze over the other plants. “None of this is real.”
Almon turned away from Iolas, a little too quickly. “What did you say?”
Staring at the flower in her hand, Saphienne repeated herself, to herself. “None of this is real.”
In full sight of the others, she waved her hand through the flower.
With a flicker of blue light, the grand illusion wavered, became transparent, and then collapsed entirely, leaving the elves stood once more upon a field of snow.
