Work Text:
You are ancient. You have seen the world spin, you have seen civilizations fall, you have seen a thousand victories and a million failures.
The one thing you can say for sure about the world you were made into is this; humans will die. They will die and die and die. But, like an infestation of roaches, they're never gone for long.
Your first master, the one who made your primary magic, was not human. Though, very much like a human, he died. Tragic, one might say, but you're not one to care about a reptile.
Your second master, a boy, died too. But he died far away from you, once he'd used your magic and discovered your true power. A coward in every sense of the word. Unable to see the potential you had, no matter what you told him. You were glad he was gone.
Your third and final master, and old man, infuriated you. He sought to use your power for menial tasks, useless acts of generosity that left him poor and tired. You had this master the longest, about twenty years or so. And whenever he used your power, he'd make sure he had a pendant that would negate your wrath. It was one day when he forgot to use his pendant that he used your power, and you struck him dead. He had natural magic, yes, but was human all the same.
And humans die.
You think you might just hate the world. It has shown you no good. Whenever you stretch your magic out to the ends of the earth, searching for someone worthy of your might, they always pull away. They call you a monster, they say you're cursed. You only wish to use your power, only wish to give someone a blessing most strong. But your wishes were never granted, for it was your job to grant the wishes of others.
And they wished you gone. But they didn't wish you dead, for you were not human, and therefore couldn't die.
You are at the bottom of the sea. It is dark, and it is cold. The fish who dare swim near you are killed, and they float up and up until you sense them no more. You were dropped there when you struck your previous master while he was flying over the ocean. His corpse was eaten by fish.
You do not know how long you are there, at the bottom of the sea. It is lonely . You regret killing your master. Perhaps if you had used your power differently, you could have convinced him to change. To no longer use his pendant, to no longer refuse your offering of power. You can be very persuasive.
You could have helped him live, to be more than human. And then you could have been together forever, away from horrible loneliness.
A hook latches onto you. It is metal and scratches at the filth that has accumulated on your surface. It latches on, and you are being pulled up. Up and up you go, until the water is no longer black, but a brilliant royal blue. You marvel at the sight, at the color.
You breach the surface and a man grabs you off the hook. He looks at you skeptically, and scrapes off mud from your eye. He frowns.
"Oi, Anderson! What ya got there?" A voice calls from across the deck.
"Just some ocean junk!" The man says back. You feel rage . You are not junk. Your surface becomes freezing, and the wet slop that covers you is quickly frozen to his hand.
"Oh, shi- " The man cries, desperately shaking his hands to get you off. You let your power flow, and you freeze his fingers solid.
----
You are placed in a glass case in a port side shop. You are not on display, but you can be clearly seen by the dock worker at all times. He knows better than to touch you. He handled you with tongs and thick gloves- which only worked because the fingers had small traces of blood soaked into the old leather. Your magic could not pierce the blood, not at the distance you were being carried.
You sit in the shop for days. The old man goes out each day and works, then he comes back and he sells his wares. You hate him. You hate how he pays you no mind. He doesn't acknowledge you. He was wary at first, but now? You're nothing. You cannot even be feared. Can't even spread your power.
A man comes in.
His face is new, his eyes are warm. He gives a small smile to the dock worker, and the worker smiles back. You watch the man scour the room, looking at the trinkets on the shelves. Apparently not finding what he wanted, he turned to the dock worker. They talk for a bit, trivial human formalities and such. You ignore them, for the most part.
"-So nothing of use? Anything of historical significance at all?" The man asks the worker.
"Sorry, friend. The only thing I could say was significant in 'ere would be that damned hat- and the lads down in the bay say it's cursed to high hell." The worker explains. That should be it. The man would surely leave after hearing that. Most humans would after hearing the word 'cursed' .
But something peculiar happens. The man's eyes, so warm and bright, light up even more. Like he wants to meet you.
You watch excitedly as the man convinces the dock worker to show him to your case.
He crouches down low to get a good look at your eyes. He whistles, long and low, like you're the most fascinating thing in the world.
"What a beaut," He says, then turns back to the dock worker, "Would you mind if I hold it? I'm a historian of sorts, and this crown looks old. Perhaps I could find out which region it's from?"
The dock worker shakes his head. You hate him even more.
"No can do, that thing's cursed. Froze my pal Anderson's hands off. Literally, he has hooks for hands now," The dock worker explains. The man rolls his eyes, his head angled such a way that the dock worker doesn't see, and you think you might be in love.
"Listen, as a man of science, I can assure you that this crown isn't cursed." The man says. You aren't cursed! This guy gets it! The dock worker remains unconvinced, however. The man sighs and reaches into his back pocket. He pulls out a small book and pen, and scribbles something down. He then tears the page out and hands it to the worker. The dock worker's eyes bulge obscenely.
"Will that be enough?" The man asks, coyly. The dock worker splutters. You can see the gears turning in the old man's head, his eyes flicking from your case to the paper he had in his hands. He licks his lips, and then hesitantly steps away. The other man -the historian- grins.
He lifts your glass case and sets it to the side. He then looks pointedly to the dock worker and with a single finger, pokes your eye. Nothing happens. The dock worker visibly relaxes, but you pay him no mind. The man has touched you- and you can now sense his energies.
This historian is Simon Petrikov , and you love him with all your might. He has been kind to you. He has proven himself bold enough to get what he wants. He does not believe your power is a curse. He is worthy .
As he picks you up and washes off the caked on filth that had coated you for so long, you know this man won't be like your other masters. You love him too much for that to happen- this time you'll be the one calling the shots. You convey your love for him through the gleam of you eyes. He is done researching the dead, it is time for him to start making history instead.
He smiles at you, and though he can't tell ( yet ), you're smiling back. The humans are dying again. You've sensed it in the air for a while now, the onset of war on the horizon. If you do not bless him, he will die with the others. But you will not allow that. This man, this Simon, is worthy. Worthy of your gifts, worthy for a Crown, worthy to be a King .
And if he doesn't think so- well . You can be very persuasive.