Disclaimer: The following document fragment is presented from an in-character perspective, it should not be taken as the truth of the setting.
Context: Mages are, in the end, human. The story of a mage is the story of a person, only superficially distinct from the story of any other human. In this text, we see excerpts from the life of a mage, retold in an autobiography spanning nearly 150 years. Memories of childhood, personal accomplishments and tragedies.
I was ten when my father first took me to the Tower in my dreams. We sailed to it on a white boat, dressed in soft, white robes. In the distance, I could hear the thundering roar of the waterfalls that fell off the edge of the world, where the Tower stood, jutting out into the void.
My father was a stern man, but our relationship was not without love. During the time we spent in the Tower I could feel both very clearly. My education was thorough, his expectations were high, but he never blamed me for failing. Only urged me to try again and again… and over time, I failed less. My father would always say. “Valerian, if you would never fail, why would we train? Remember that we come here so you can fail so that when you must not, you will not.”
Thinking back to it from so many years later, I miss the Tower. I miss my father and our battles of wit and philosophy. The games we played there together, his lessons. He was a great man. And I hope my own son and daughters think of me the same, though it is not my right to say that. Perhaps as you read this from the future, you already know the answer. Maybe you have read an autobiography penned by my blood, and they reminisce of the Tower much the same as I do.
Being only twelve, I confided in my closest friend that I can perform magic. It was quite a shock to me to have him laugh in my face. I spoke with my mother about it afterwards, and she reminded me of the Masks and why I should have known what the outcome would be. It was true, and I must say that in retrospect, I cannot recall what I expected.
Maybe I hoped that he too was like us. That we spent time together hiding the same secret from each other. But no, that was not the case. After that, our relationship deteriorated, though I do not think that conversation was the cause. Over time we grow closer to those around us, and over time we grow apart.
Nonetheless, I always found our circumstances to be constricting. There were people in my life I could not open up to. It was difficult to become close to people when you couldn’t freely discuss your work and interests. I think that perhaps is why our kind is so insular. Among our own, we could always speak openly about these topics of uttermost importance. About our magna opera, the books we read, the places we travelled, the people and beings we met along the way. But it took me a few more years to really understand this.
Back then, I just sat broodingly with my mother drinking honey-sweetened tea, brewed from herbs that did not grow upon this world.
This led to the first time I came close to death, twenty years of research without an incident came to an end, so suddenly. There was no long, dramatic prelude to this disaster, and there was no one to blame. It was just an accident.
The creature was fast and nimble. I think the being just wanted out. Perhaps it felt trapped, we have never had any indication it possessed any higher intelligence. Fight-or-flight instinct, perhaps?
A few of my colleagues died. A few… I should say, two. Silviya Kovachev and Yanis Papadopoulos. But mentioning them like this, by name, is what turns a simple retelling of these events into the tragedy that it was.
I ended up in the hospital. My arm had to be amputated to save my life. It was so mutilated that there was no chance to save it anyway. But I thought to myself, even there. One arm is a small price to pay to hold onto life. The human body can take a lot and keep going. Or rather, the human mind as well. But death, that poses an absolute finality, and I am glad my family did not experience it.
Finally, at the age of a hundred and thirteen, I stood in the Vatican, presenting my magnum opus to the Archmage and representatives from various families and institutions. I knew the names of all present, and I knew part of them intimately.
My great work had cost me my arm, my eye and the feeling in half of my face, something that would no doubt affect my hand as well, had it not been removed before. More than that, it cost me time I could spend otherwise. Here, when my great work was completed, for the first time, I looked back at it and wondered, was it worth it. Should I have spent that time among my friends and family? I do not think that I denied them my presence when they required it, rather, after a century of life, I’ve come to see my priorities differently.
The presentation was but a formality. A show put on to make me feel as if I have accomplished more than I had. I received a beautifully sculpted wand, decorated with my favourite gemstone. It now hangs over the fireplace in my home. To this day, as I write this, it was not used once during a ritual.
At the end of the week, I returned to my home, to my wife, my children and their children. And even the children of my children’s children. It wholly felt better than being there, in the Vatican. And so, for a long time, I immersed myself in the presence of my loved ones.
Esoteric Musings... 