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The pine twisted. Physical pain was an animalistic feeling, and Ariel was no animal, he was pure elemental fury, and somehow it still hurt.
Screaming was no use: no one could hear it save beings of magic: taunting spirits, gods too busy to notice or care, and Sycorax herself. Despite the fact that Ariel knew this, he still screamed, as any weak vessel would.
“I am a being of power.”
He was weak. However he chose to put it, his magic was trapped as he was, and all the devils in the world couldn’t set him free from this type of spell. He was the tree, as he was water, or he was air, or he was anything else, but this time he simply could not change back to what he truly was: and that was Ariel, slave of Sycorax and no greater power than that.
He did what he could: he made the wood of the pine bend as it would in the wind, he made the roots writhe and stir the earth, he carved words in the bark (auxilio, auxilio, auxilio, auxilio) he screamed to all powers higher than he, but he couldn’t move, and he couldn’t be released.
And then, at some late hour, filled with silence but for the crashing of waves and the moaning of the spirit himself, he felt the power of the spell loosen.
“Sycorax is dead.”
And then there was crying: not that of Caliban, though his mother was dead (but if a monster like he should know of that as immediately as Ariel did, perhaps whoever killed her should be worried), but of some other, some being not cursed with magic, something pure. It was a human child, that which had not seen the likes of evil nor the corruption of good, and Ariel stopped screaming.
The trespasser was a man, sloshed with the salt-water bleariness of the ocean and standing in the moonlight with a baby daughter borne of naught but goodness, and he was beautiful.
Ariel called out to him, expecting nothing, as none had worked on any other, but this man was not a spirit nor beast and it was worth trying: it was his last hope now that the witch who had cast the spell was gone herself, and he had no wishes to stay a pine forever.
The man turned.
He was one of magic, more powerful than Sycorax herself, and Ariel would have knelt and wept if he was not bound by the charm.
Exposed in the moonlight, the man showed signs of distress and near death: a lean cheek, a ragged breath, a gashed wound, a torn shirt, all seeming like nothing compared to the sorrowful expression on his face. He had come here by sea, and storm, and struggle, having nothing but his power with him, and if not for the girl, he surely would have died of loneliness, or suicide, rather, Ariel was sure of it.
But the man was still looking at the tree.
Ariel called out once more, using all his remaining power to summon up something, anything.
“Allow this man to pity me.”
And the pine writhed, and the branches turned thorny, and the writings in the bark grew monstrous (AUXILIO, AUXILIO, AUXILIO, AUXILIO), and if trees could show anguish, this one did, and Ariel screamed.
The man set down the child and used his art, and by all demons and gods, it was beautiful, and Ariel relished in the flow of power, coursing through his form like liquid ambrosia. The sky opened up and let loose its wrath on the charm of that witch, that vile witch who had trapped him and taken away his freedom and his beauty and his gracefulness and his magic and -
It was gone as soon as it began, and Ariel was tossed to the ground like a piece of wreckage from the sea, spit in front of the man, and on his knees, crying.
“Thank you.”
The man nodded, and then Ariel stood, in his human form, tossed him his signature sinful smile, and disappeared into thin air.
“Come back, spirit.”
His voice was like honey, slow and dripping with something that Ariel didn’t recognise, no, this was not a human emotion. It tugged at his heart and pulled him back into the brisk night air in a way that was sickeningly familiar.
“No,” he said, mostly to himself, but the man heard it.
He was trapped again, a servant to this man.
“I thought you were freeing me.”
“I can put you back.”
If that’s how it was, then there was no other option but to agree.
“What would you have me do?”
“Keep us alive. Food, water, shelter.”
“There is Caliban for that.”
“Caliban?”
“The witch’s child.”
“But has he fire?”
“No.”
“Have you fire?”
Ariel smirked.
“I am the fire, if you so wish it,” he paused. “Master.”
“Then, spirit, I will free thee when you have done us worthy service.”
It couldn’t be that difficult.
-
He had come back from hours of service, and he had done his task without flaw, he had flamed, he had soared, he had burned the ship with fire of his own art and doused it back again with waves of the sea, he had called forth lightning and thunder worthy of a god, he had made a man believe that all the devils were upon him. And yet, he was not granted his liberty, and it was not righteous of Prospero to deny it, and he was touched with anger, which he hated feeling as he hated hell.
“I prithee, remember I have done thee worthy service, told thee no lies, made thee no mistakings, served without or grudge or grumblings. Thou didst promise to bate me a full year.”
He said it with bite, lashing out at the sorcerer, because it had been long enough, and he was tired of being bound to the man, left to do nothing but serve his every command, and despite every “dainty Ariel” and every pet name tossed at him with sincerity, he was enraged, and though anger was meant for humans, an emotion too rash and rough for those meant to be strong, Ariel was filled with it.
The man stood there, perhaps in shock, perhaps in remorse, but whatever it was, Ariel didn’t know, for he shook it off in less than an instant and stared at the spirit, his eyes boring into the other with nothing less than rage.
“Dost thou forget from what a torment I did free thee?”
It came like a slap in the face. No more loving words, no more “I shall free thee,” no, Ariel had done something wrong, and he would regret it.
“No!” Ariel recoiled, for he had not forgotten, and he would not forget.
And then his master did all but send him back to the days that he had been tortured, he could feel the pine twist in his heart, or so it seemed, and he wept.
But it was not the pine that caused the agony in the spirit, it was emotion more powerful than any, an emotion not meant for any that was not made of pure flesh and blood, for those who do not understand emotion cannot bear it. It was love.
And it was this that made Ariel sit up and give Prospero a glance that was an apology in itself.
“Pardon, master, I will be correspondent to command, and do my spiriting gently.”
And Prospero promised him his freedom.
And Ariel believed him.
-
It was over. The seas were calm. Prospero was finished, and so was he. He had drowned his book, buried his staff, and now he was to be set free, as if he was some magical thing that was simply a tool used to cause the storm, and he could simply be gone from him, just like that.
Prospero was human now, they no longer shared magic, they no longer shared equal power, but Ariel felt weaker than he ever had, and he wished to be back in the clutches of the witch’s pine rather than to receive this damned torment that was saying goodbye.
And yet, this is what he had wanted. He had wanted to leave Prospero all along, and now that he was to be released, it was torture to even turn from the man.
“My Ariel, chick, that is thy charge.”
No. No. No.
“Then to the elements, be free, and fare thou well.”
The man nodded and Ariel turned and walked into the spray of the sea without so much as a reply, hoping to melt into seafoam, hoping to become anything but himself: to turn to ash, to flames, to clouds, to dust. If he turned back he would surely never want to leave, and if he never left, he would be a servant as he was before, trapped not by magic bindings but by emotional ones.
He knew Prospero could still see him, for though he was no longer a being of magic, Ariel hadn’t disappeared, not yet.
“Please you, draw near,” came the same syrupy voice that had tugged him back before, and Ariel turned back to see Prospero standing much closer.
Drawing a shaky, airy breath, Ariel pressed his lips to Prospero’s, his wings flaring in the water. They stayed there for what seemed like ages, longer than he had been bound, longer than he had been in existence, but then Prospero pulled back to take a breath, as humans do, and Ariel stepped into the waves himself, letting the ocean wrap its way into his form.
Prospero gave him a final glance.
Ariel bowed, giving him that same mischievous smile as when they first made, and then vanished into salt water, leaving nothing but the smell of the ocean after a storm in the air, and the taste of seawater on his lips.
The ocean rushed. Emotional pain was an humanly feeling, and Ariel was no human, he was pure elemental fury, and somehow it still hurt.