The Long Retreat No. 23

Sif, though—the girl had nowhere to go, as far as he knew, and he had no need to look to his skills to see how that story ended. The world was an unkind place to those with nothing and no one. He turned the problem over in his mind for fully half a mile. He could do something. It was a drastic move, and not altogether in keeping the rules which bound magiker, but the latter difficulty had never stopped him, and the former only required the girl’s say-so.

“Sif,” he said.

She took a double-time step to walk next to him. “Falthejn Arnarsson,” she replied.

“What do you know of the workings of the world?” he asked.

She shrugged expansively.

Falthejn smiled. “I’ll start from the beginning. We live in a world of magic. This much is obvious. I can see into the future. Others wield fire, lightning, or water, or steel themselves to catch a sword in their bare hands, or travel many days’ journey in the blink of an eye.” Sif listened, but was silent. When Falthejn paused, she looked up expectantly. He went on. “There is another kind of magic, though, the magic on which the world is built. Look.” He held out his arm, and framed a portion of his outer tunic’s sleeve with two fingers.

“It’s green,” Sif observed.

“Yes. Think of the green as the world you see with your eyes. What else is it?” Falthejn gave her a moment to think.

This entry was posted in The Long Retreat, Writing. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply