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With Kell gone, and no one left to see, Holland sagged back against the nearest tree, the icy surface of its side like cold steel against his spine. He let himself sink, lowering his tired body to the dead earth.
A gentle breeze blew through the barren grove, a whispering almost like a voice. Holland closed his eyes and imagined he could hear the rustle of leaves. He remembered the legends - the dreams - of a magician strong enough to breath air back into the world’s starved lungs, to quicken a dying heart. The telling of the story ran through his life as far as his memories could go. First whispered by his mother when she hadn’t yet been that far gone. Continued by his brother when he could not sleep at night. Reminded of them by Talya in their tiny home. Referred to whenever he had talked with Vortalis about rebuilding their city.
For as long as Holland could remember, that was all he’d wanted.
And for as long as Holland could remember, he had wanted the magician to be him.
Even before the darkness bloomed across his eye, branding him with the mark of power, which had made him a target, a challenge, a king, he’d wanted it to be him.
In Kell’s world they believed that magic chose people. And despite scoffing at them he had always believed that he was Antari for a reason.
They also believed in balance. And that magic was an equal. A companion. A friend.
A notion so so foreign to his world. How could he not have scoffed at Kell for believing it?
Everyone knew that magic had to be dominated. Everyone knew that Black London had fallen because they had been too weak. Because they had magic let control them. At least all of White London had known.
More. More. More. It was still easy to hear Osarons echo in his mind. But Osaron wasn’t the magic. It had only been a piece of magic. Now gone.
He had felt it briefly then. Fighting side by side with Kell. Sharing his magic with him and Delilah. Had felt what partnership in magic was like.
Around him the woods seemed to whisper, shapeless sounds that threaded into words just out of his reach.
What if…
What if Kell was right?
And what if closing the doors between the worlds had nothing to do with the magic bleeding out of his world?
What if Red London knew the answer? And had told him? And he just hadn’t listen?
What if all the stories were not about strength?
They were old stories. Told hundreds of years again and again again, from one person to the next. In a world where strength became the ultimate goal everyone raced for. No one would have imagined fixing anything without strength. Without power. Without magic.
And here he was. Holland Vosjik, the White London Antari, without it all.
Because magic had given him nothing but pain.
But that was not true.
It hadn’t been the magic.
It had been the people.
The tree was beginning to warm against his back, and Holland knew in a distant way, that he was never getting up. But here, at the end of a life’s distance he had walked, he finally understood.
The reason magic was bleeding out of his world.
Fearing the same fate as Black London they had entrapped it. Had bound magic to obey them. Had made it spring to their command. Not its mind, but its body.
And in response the magic hat grown bitter. Had withdrawn into itself. Had wanted to see them all dead.
A silent laugh escaped Hollands lips.
They said Antari were the closest to magic. Pieces of magic themselves.
They did now know how true that was for him.
He could feel himself dying. As his world was dying. Without magic it could not survive. As he could not survive.
It ends, he thought - no fear, only relief, and sadness. His heart slowed, winding down like a music box, a season at its end. The rustle of leaves in his ears was getting louder.
Forming words that almost sounded like Vortalis voice. A memory long past.
„Listen to me, Holland“, Vortalis had said. „Of all the ways to die, only a fool choses pride.“
And there, with his last breath, Holland did the one thing he could never have pictured himself doing. Because no one in White London would ever do it. Least of all him.
„Please“, he whispered to the magic. Neither as its master, nor its slave. But as a friend. „Please, come back.“
The last air left Holland’s lungs.
And then, at last, the world breathed in.
Because it had never been about strength.
But about trust.