Chapter Text
The Academy of Alchemy was one of those castles one only heard of in children’s stories. It was enormous, and craggy, hewn from black stone and sporting far too many creaky-looking turrets for its own good. The front doors were grand old oak, with mysterious designs carved into them, and the grounds were vast and filled with herbs of every kind.
It was the largest school in the kingdom of Humeheath, and single most successful producer of licensed alchemists in the whole wide world. As far as the Humeheathians were aware, at any rate.
Each of the teachers were first-rate alchemists, but none was more famous than Ballard the Brilliant. Stories of his alchemical exploits were legendary to the locals, and the old man was constantly being visited by foreign dignitaries for his mystical services. He was a humble man, however, and preferred his work at the school.
“Honing young minds is my passion. I can see nothing more rewarding than filling the world with future generations of clever young alchemists!”
Every year, a select number of third-year students were chosen by Ballard himself to attend his private classes, and learn from his very own textbooks. Such students exhibited above-average talents in alchemy, and were sure to have successful careers after they went out into the world.
At the start of each year, the third-years would wait impatiently for old Ballard to descend from his high tower to hobble amongst their ranks, reaching out to those in which he saw glory.
One of these lucky students was a young woman by the name of Desdemona Mopes. When the old alchemist had stopped before her and placed a wizened old hand on her arm, she’d cracked the largest smile anybody had ever seen on her. Desdemona was a quiet young lady, with a cold, apathetic face and a personality to match. Yet, in the practice of alchemy, an alchemical change seemed to happen in her as well.
“Ms. Mopes, step forwards and begin your synthesis.”
Professor Ballard’s classroom was situated in a tower adjacent to the one he lived in at the school. The surface of the floor lived an ephemeral existence, as students chalked alchemical circles upon it, and the cleaning staff washed them off at the end of every day. At the moment, each student was being tested on their ability to produce Aqua Fortis, a useful and dangerous compound.
Desdemona walked into the centre of the classroom, to the specially prepared receptacle that her acidic brew would soon fill. As she moved, her brown student robes billowed around her in a regal manner, and her thick, long braid swung gracefully back and forth.
There was something etherial about Desdemona. She moved with an almost preternatural grace, and there was something undefinably off in her otherwise lovely features. Her perfectly rosy cheeks and raven hair gave her the look of a fairytale princess. Unfortunately for any hopeful suitors, she didn’t act accordingly.
Desdemona came to a halt before the receptacle. She stooped, and chalked a circle around it.
“Ms. Mopes? What’s this?” croaked Professor Ballard, “One does not need a circle to complete this task…”
“I had an idea, professor,” replied Desdemona, still stooped over her work, “I can increase the effectiveness of the Fortis and produce it more easily by simply multiplying the oil of vitriol— here, just watch.”
She stood up and carefully began adding her ingredients. As she did so, a strange light seemed to flicker in her eyes and a rare smile curled her ruby lips. Alchemy transformed her, enflamed her— it was her passion and her delight.
Professor Ballard simply gave a deep, resigned sigh, and settled in to watch. This was a common occurrence in his classroom. Ever since Desdemona had joined his classes, she’d always insisted on deviating from the source material, experimenting with established methods, and generally being quite the nuisance. She was talented, and learned quickly, but her imagination and enthusiasm often brought her trouble.
Case in point…
“Oh! There it goes…”
Desdemona covered her mouth with a fold of her cloak as the receptacle began to hiss and sputter, belching noxious fumes. In a matter of moments, it had melted into the floor. Desdemona leaned back, planting her hands on her hips.
“…Hm. Maybe a little too intense… There must be something strong enough to hold it…”
“Ms. Mopes.”
Desdemona looked up, hopefully.
“As usual, you’ve proven yourself far too overzealous,” chided the old instructor, “All the ingredients are there, yet your overconfidence spoils the brew… do you understand?”
Desdemona’s face hardened back into a stone mask, her shining blue eyes turning dull.
“Yes, professor,” she mumbled, “Sorry, professor.”
“Please sit down. Mr. Morten, you’re next… Prepare yourself while I ring for the cleaning staff…”
Desdemona swept back to her seat in the half-circle at the back of the class and sat down. She watched without seeing as Professor Ballard went to ring a bell, and Morten shyly shuffled to the centre of the room with his bag.
The worst feeling in the world, she mused, was throwing one’s whole being into one’s passion, only to discover that one was no good at it.
At times, the feeling overwhelmed her, seeping through the broken beakers in her hands and into her robes, leeching like a poison into her heart and suffocating her.
She knew it was foolish– she was only a young woman, after all. All the instructors at The Academy of Alchemy were wizened old men, and those were the younger ones. She had plenty of time to learn and improve. But she couldn’t help but notice how her classmates seemed to excel around her, while she was left behind to sweep up shattered flasks and potion spills. Worst of all, it had been such a struggle just to get to the Academy in the first place.
Desdemona Mopes was the youngest of three sisters born to nobility. Her parents were accomplished magic-users, and favourites of the king of Humeheath. Her childhood had been a privileged one, full of pleasures only those in the king’s inner court could enjoy… but it hadn’t been happy, exactly.
Unlike her older sisters, who were content to learn poetry and music and how to wear a gown just right, Desdemona wanted something… else. She didn’t think less of her family for their pursuits -on the contrary, she often envied them- but she simply wasn’t content with sitting still or playing scales all day. She wanted to build, to create, to invent.
As a child, mechanical contraptions of all kinds fascinated her. She begged her parents on their afternoon strolls to take her to the local tinker’s, to let her see his strange devices and gadgets.
Her parents had not approved.
“A tinker works with his hands. We are nobles; a noble’s hands must never be tarnished.”
Nor had they approved of magic, though that was rather more warranted. As she thought this, Desdemona raised a hand unconsciously to the vibrant pink jewel that hung at her chest. Her mother’s words echoed in her ears.
‘You must never remove this, do you understand, darling? It is the only thing that can keep you safe from yourself…’
So no magic, no machines. But then, of course, she’d discovered alchemy, which existed between those worlds. As she grew into a young woman, she’d begged and wheedled her parents to allow her to go to the Academy of Alchemy. By this time, she’d fully accepted her status as the black sheep of the Mopes family, and used it to her advantage.
‘I’ll be out of your hair,’ she’d implied, ‘My presence will no longer sour your sweet lives— I’ll be happy, you’ll be happy, and in the end, I’ll have something to make you proud with…’
But of course, it seemed as if she’d never be able to keep her secret promise. She simply wasn’t good at alchemy. Day after day, class after class, Professor Ballard’s verdict was always the same.
'Too much, too fast, too strong, too clever by half…'
And no good.
Shaking herself out of her gloomy musings, Desdemona suddenly noticed a funny burning feeling at the back of her neck. She turned her head slightly to see a boy she didn’t recognize staring at her from a few seats down. He was ordinary looking -maybe even a little handsome- with chestnut brown curls and a splash of freckles across his nose. She quickly turned away, satisfied to know the cause of her discomfort and not interested in looking any deeper.
“Ah, Mr. Petrel. This is your first class, I believe?”
Professor Ballard’s voice drew her attention. To her surprise, she saw the boy who’d just been staring stand up with a slight bounce.
“Yes sir,” he said.
“My beloved students, this is Mr. Bertram Petrel,” said professor Ballard, holding a wrinkled old hand out to wave Bertram to the front of the class, “He is rather a special case… As I’m sure you’ve all noticed, Mr. Petrel was not with us at the beginning of the year, nor any previous. He is in fact not a student here, but a simple farm boy from a nearby hamlet. However, his talents are plentiful, and I was very impressed by his appeal.”
The class exploded into whispers.
“What? He’s new? Completely new? Just some random farm boy?!”
“This is ridiculous– how good can he really be?”
“This isn’t fair!”
Ballard shook his bald head and rapped his cane on the stone floor. The whispers died down.
“Now, now, settle down, settle down! You all know that my judgement is sound, and that my instincts are never wrong. All I choose are chosen fairly. Mr. Petrel, would you kindly show the class why I’ve made this special exception for you?”
Bertram nodded.
“Yes sir!”
He walked forwards towards the newly replaced receptacle and began neatly unpacking his ingredients. Desdemona noticed that he put everything in the exact order that Professor Ballard would when he did his demonstrations.
Once Bertram was finished, he began to add ingredients slowly to his receptacle. His hands shook a little, and he kept glancing at the professor as if seeking confirmation. The other students watched haughtily from their seats. What could this farm boy do?
“There, I think that should do it,” said Bertram, stepping back.
Professor Ballard hobbled forwards, and carefully used a small flask attached to a pair of tongs to scoop out some of the solution.
“And there you have it, students,” he cackled, “A perfect sample of Aqua Fortis. Note the distinctive yellowish hue…”
There was a stunned silence as Professor Ballard went on to demonstrate the liquid’s properties. Bertram gave a small bow, almost a nod, and returned to his seat. As he did so, Desdemona was sure she saw his eyes flick to her face, then away. Who on earth was this kid?
She couldn’t help but feel a sense of frustration, like the other students. Here she was, struggling at something she’d been working diligently on for the past three years, and this little upstart pops out of the sticks and shows her up immediately. Yet, at the same time, she had to admire his skill.
The rest of the class passed quickly as the other students tried their hands at producing Aqua Fortis. The reactions were varied, but none so drastic as Desdemona’s. When the class ended, the other students packed up their things and separated into their little groups and cliques.
“I can’t believe this. I’m paying my weight in gold to be here, and that little whelp can just waltz in at any time?”
“He’s talented, though! You saw him get the Fortis right on the first try! And Professor Ballard chose him, just like he chose all of us!”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have to like it…”
“Hey, are you guys going into the village today?”
“To get my robes darned, yeah.”
“I’m going for dinner.”
“Better do all that before it gets too late— there’ve been sightings of Plague Knight again.”
“Plague Knight? I thought they caught him last month!”
“Nope— turned out to be someone transmuted into his likeness. He’s a slippery guy…”
“Yikes. Guess my dinner plans are off…”
“You can eat with me! I’ve got a tonne of stuff stashed in my lodgings!”
“Thanks, but I’d rather have the cafeteria food…”
Desdemona slowly put her powders and books into her bag, vaguely listening to the chatter around her. She didn’t have a clique to be a part of, nor friends to speak to. She didn’t mind it this way, exactly. Not exactly…
“Hey. Nice job with the Fortis, heh.”
Desdemona looked up. Bertram was standing in front of her, smiling, one hand tugging on the strap of his shabby looking bag.
“I’d say you were pretty close to getting something really nice. Just have to tweak it a little bit… Play around with the components just a tad…”
“You don’t say,” replied Desdemona, flatly.
“Don’t bother, new kid,” called one of the nearby students from their group, “Mopey Mopes doesn’t talk to anyone.”
Bertram gave the boy an appraising look.
“You were just before me, weren’t you? …Orson, right?”
The student blinked. Bertram smiled, innocently.
“Your Fortis was more like Aqua Weak-is.”
There was a long silence, before Orson decided to ignore the annoying new kid and go back to chatting with his friends. Bertram turned back to Desdemona.
“As I was saying…”
Desdemona yawned, interrupting Bertram’s attempt to regain his train of thought.
“Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep it in mind.”
She then turned quickly and left the classroom.