jamie
01-02-2026, 07:33 PM
jamie
The child feels, and has felt, that his mother’s interest in Beyza has overshadowed whatever interest she may have had in himself and his sister. Because Beyza is more special, because her magic is so clearly more powerful. She is a radiant thing. She is like the sun and the rest of them merely orbit around her. And he’s sorry for all the times he has turned his face from her, grimacing against her light. But it hurts and that’s not his fault. The shadows gather around him, even now, leaning close in an effort to protect him from her shine. (This darkness belongs to the adult Reaper, his magic unwilling to let him suffer whether he’s aware of it or not.)
He blinks those big, yellow eyes at her. He wants to crawl across this floor to her on his knees. He wants to beg her to understand. They are dark things, they cannot understand her light. The only way the shadow-magician knows how to appreciate the light is by trying to control it. Or so he believes. Because he cannot fault his mother her darkness. Because his allegiance lies with her, though the magician standing before him now is his friend.
His friend.
Livinia’s friend.
He remembers how Beyza had given his sister teeth sharp enough to feed her. How his sister had smiled! That had not been so long ago now, had it? Weeks, maybe. Months at most.
But Beyza is unswayed by his pleading. This is no gift. He is confused. Deeply. It occurs to him then that he must have underestimated her, they all must have. His mother must have been the only one who knew the truth about exactly how powerful the white magician is.
He whines, turns his face away from her burning. He can feel the heat of it on his shadow-skin. He shrieks, retreating, curling in on himself. Shuffling to the rear of the cave. But the light reaches him even here and he whimpers, turning to face the wall. He calls upon the shadows but they cannot reach him, feeble as he is. He draws in a desperate, rasping breath.
“Beyza!” he cries, his aching knees buckling. “I’m sorry, Beyza.”
He blinks those big, yellow eyes at her. He wants to crawl across this floor to her on his knees. He wants to beg her to understand. They are dark things, they cannot understand her light. The only way the shadow-magician knows how to appreciate the light is by trying to control it. Or so he believes. Because he cannot fault his mother her darkness. Because his allegiance lies with her, though the magician standing before him now is his friend.
His friend.
Livinia’s friend.
He remembers how Beyza had given his sister teeth sharp enough to feed her. How his sister had smiled! That had not been so long ago now, had it? Weeks, maybe. Months at most.
But Beyza is unswayed by his pleading. This is no gift. He is confused. Deeply. It occurs to him then that he must have underestimated her, they all must have. His mother must have been the only one who knew the truth about exactly how powerful the white magician is.
He whines, turns his face away from her burning. He can feel the heat of it on his shadow-skin. He shrieks, retreating, curling in on himself. Shuffling to the rear of the cave. But the light reaches him even here and he whimpers, turning to face the wall. He calls upon the shadows but they cannot reach him, feeble as he is. He draws in a desperate, rasping breath.
“Beyza!” he cries, his aching knees buckling. “I’m sorry, Beyza.”
so darkness i became
