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Mitile has been having the same dream for as long as he can remember.
Oh, of course, it comes and goes, intercalated with others - images of colors and flashes of intense feelings, illusions of his mind that swirl out his grasp once he’s awake again. But they are pale and dull in comparison to the one that visits him from time to time, the timeless companion that his own head has conjured for him.
There’s a woman in that dream.
There’s a woman, and Mitile knows who she is. He had memorized her features before he even learned his first word, he recognizes the green of her eyes and the exact shade of her hair, even if the curve of her smile is different - mysterious and sly and almost wild all at once, a dangerous mix that makes him feel lost and dizzy. And yet, something is wrong. Because she’s so much like Rutile, so shouldn’t she smile like him, warm and bright like the sun itself?
Shouldn’t she look more like a mother and less like a witch?
She seems unfazed by the tumultuous thoughts that assault him. Doesn’t even look at him, even if Mitile’s heart leaps in his chest every single time.
He was scared at first. Now, he accepts the dream as it is - the only remnant of a mother he never knew. And he walks to her, steps calm and gaze fixed on her face, her eyes full of life, cheeks colored a soft red tone.
She talks. She talks all the time, but Mitile never hears anything, for he can not dream of a voice he has never known, as much as he yearns for it. So he contents himself with the little comfort that her movements offer, watches as she plays with a deck, slender fingers rearranging the cards in swift movements.
Mitile sits down in front of her, hands over his lap as he waits, knowing what’s to come, and counts the seconds before she draws a card from the deck. That’s the moment she finally looks at him, even if her eyes seem to go far beyond his figure, slightly unfocused.
She places the card over the table. And Mitile doesn’t even need to look at it to know that it’s The Moon.
It always is, after all.
It’s been four months, two weeks, and four days since he last went home.
Mitile misses it, in a way that makes his heart clench. He misses the smell of their little house (paper and ink from Rutile’s drawings, herbs from Mitile’s studies, old wood and fresh flowers), misses the little window beside his bed, misses his friends and his neighbours and his old daily happenings.
It’s not that he doesn’t like what they have now. Mitile knows what they’re doing is important, knows that they are ( he is) saving the world. Or at least, trying to. It is hard to forget the fact that he’s the weakest one, even if not the least experienced.
Riquet says they’re going to grow powerful together. It’d be easier to believe if Mitile could see any advance in his own magic.
Sometimes he considers it unfair, and then expends most of the day feeling terrible for the jealousy that crawls at the back of his neck, a constant reminder of the fact that he’s not as much of a good person as he tries to seem.
But Mitile is a wizard, and he understands the weight words can have (they are heavy on his tongue and burn in the pit of his throat, sometimes). So he congratulates Riquet on his advances, and means it. He says he’s proud of his own work, and means it too. The amenity of the comments melt like sugar on his mouth.
He laughs when the Sage asks him if he feels bad about it, and says that it’s perfectly fine. He’ll grow stronger with time.
That one is a lie. It tastes sour.
The thing is: it's easy to feel nostalgic. To think about a time when there weren’t such strong wizards around him, when there was no pressure about his pace of learning, when the fact that he’s not enough couldn’t endanger someone. And Mitile stays awake at night, silently mouthing his spell once and again. Ortonik Sealsispilce , not even a whisper in the dark. Ortonik Sealsispilce, Ortonik Sealsispilce, four, five, ten, twenty times, waiting for it to roll naturally from his tongue. It never does.
The first time he said to Doctor Figaro that the spell seemed a bit difficult to chant, Mitile was trying to make grass turn green in the middle of summer, when there was too little water for it to grow strong. He remembers the smell of the dry soil, the sheep’s pasturing nearby, the heated breeze.
Dr. Figaro had smiled, calm and warm, a lifetime of memories in the curve of his lips as he patted Mitile’s head. When he spoke, his tone was that of a patient teacher. “I think we should stick with this one, Mitile.”
The next time the idea had crossed Mitile’s mind, his tongue was bleeding, and Riquet was trembling by his side as the intense rotten stench from the living dead hit him like a hammer. And he had thought, Mother in heaven, please, please-
Help.
Sometimes, Mitile wishes he could touch her.
Maybe he can. The hard truth is that he has never dared to try, just in case she disappears. Because this ghost - this illusion without a voice but with a smile full of life - is the only thing he has left. So he sits down, looks at her with an intensity that matches the force of the sun. Her movements are always delicate but hasty, and he wonders if this is how she taught Rutile too. If her hands were at least a little impatient as she corrected his posture over the broom.
She draws a card from the deck. Mitile takes in a deep breath. There’s no window in this little room of his dreams, but somehow he feels as if the Great Calamity is shining upon them.
She looks at the card. Snow and White had said that they had the same fire, once. Y our brother might look a bit more like her , words pronounced in unison, and Mitile’s chest had swollen with an uncomfortable mix of pride and shame when White added But you have the same light behind your eyes. The same kind of ambition, right? And then Snow, almost singing, Will you eat any mana stone you find in your way, I wonder~?
Mitile had snapped that his mother was not like that. She was not. Chiletta was sweet, and kind-hearted, and Dr. Figaro always says that she could light up any room with only the sheer force of her good intentions.
The witch before him places the card upon the table with the same wild smile he has come to know. Mitile trembles.
(He can’t help but wonder if lies taste sour for Doctor Figaro, too.)
It’s been four months, two weeks, and five days since he last went home when Rutile says they should make a visit.
“One of my first students invited me to their brother’s wedding,” he announces, and sounds incredibly proud, as if it was some academic achievement. Mitile can’t help but smile. “And we should probably clean a bit. Everything will be covered in dust by now.” He turns to him then, and blinks. Rutile has a special charm to him, some intrinsic warmth that makes everyone feel bubbly and untroubled. Mitile wonders if this is part of his magic, or just a natural talent. “Will you help me, Mitile?”
“Of course I will!” he agrees, always a bit too happy to be of use. He doesn’t even pause for a second before adding, “Can I invite Riquet, too?”
He knows the answer before Rutile opens his mouth, of course. His brother smiles and reaches a hand to ruffle his hair in an affectionate gesture.
“I’m sure that Lenno and Doctor Figaro would love to come back home with us, too.” He says, and then there’s a little pause. “As long as the Sage doesn’t need our help with anything.”
That’s the closest anyone can get to a yes in the headquarters, honestly. Mitile can’t help but beam.
Mitile takes a certain kind of pride in presenting his hometown to others.
The emotion bubbles inside his chest, making him feel cozy and jolly. The exhaustion from the long trip seems to be washed away by the wave of excitement, leaving a smile plastered to his face.
They arrive at sunset, when people are coming back home. The light of the sun spills orange over the green fields, filtering through the mountains and giving the whole scene an almost otherworldly aura. Some kids have spotted them already, and they’re already waiting beside Rutile and Mitile’s home, jumping in place. By the time they land, there’s a small crowd waiting for them.
Riquet seems to be thrilled, even when Mitile understands that their little village might seem small in comparison to the wonders they’ve visited as the Sage’s wizards. Akira is there with them too, and one of their neighbours calls them by name, earning a soft smack from his wife as she hurriedly whispers about respect. A little girl reaches for Lennox’s hand, asking about his methods for raising sheeps in order to take care of her first lamb. Doctor Figaro is surrounded by people, and Rutile is already showing drawings of their adventures to some old students of his.
Mitile takes in a deep breath. The air tastes like grass and sun and childhood, and he can’t help the smile that spreads through his face as he turns to Riquet, whose eyes are shining.
“The South is a really peaceful place.” he says. Mitile’s heart jumps at that, swelling with pride. Riquet’s hands travel to his chest in a gesture that Mitile has grown accustomed to. “I pray for it to keep bringing solace to the hearts of the wounded.”
Mitile blinks once, then twice. He’s about to say that his village is not supposed to be a haven but a home, but that’s the moment one of his friends chooses to jump over his back with a loud screech of joy, and Mitile’s thought get lost between laughs and introductions.
Later, when they’re trying to fit Riquet and Akira in their little house, Mitile thinks about it again. Wonders why his friend chose those exact words, why they sit in his own ribcage as an undeniable truth, why they scared him as much as they comforted him.
His home is a very small village in the South.
His home is in the fields where Lenno’s sheeps graze. His home is in the small clinic filled by the strong smell of herbs where Doctor Figaro works. His home is the small house made of wood that his parents built together after getting married.
And Mitile likes all of it, with a boyish innocence that overlooks what existed before it all came to be, the war and the blood and the loneliness.
“Mitile,” his brother says, and he turns to him, startled. Rutile smiles. “Can you go get some blankets while I cook? I’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.”
Mitile immediately frowns, almost affronted.
“I can sleep on the couch!” and the only reason why he doesn’t add I’m not a kid anymore it’s because Bradley laughed at him last time, saying that only a child would say that.
“But don’t you prefer to sleep with Riquet?” Rutile’s voice is the one he uses when he knows he’s right. It makes Mitile’s scowl deepen. “It’ll be like a sleepover! You can take the couch when one of my acquaintances comes over.” He offers a hand, then, in a pacifying motion. “Deal?”
Mitile huffs, but he accepts his brother’s compromise by interlacing their little fingers. It’s a promise, but an unspoken one - gestures are never as dangerous as words.
“There should be some spare blankets in Father and Mother’s old wardrobe.”
A soft smile tugs at his lips when Rutile winks at him, and Mitile goes in search of the blankets. There are light noises coming from the kitchen, metal colliding as they get out pots and pans. Mitile can hear Riquet trying to explain how Nero makes his omelettes, and the Sage says something about how rice was made back in their world. It makes the whole atmosphere feel lively and domestic, and nostalgia pulls at his heartstrings. It’s easy to love the mansion, but Mitile still misses this - when Lennox and Doctor Figaro would come at night to help them cook, when he lived in a place familiar enough to walk to his bed with his eyes closed, when everything felt carefree and small and manageable.
Mitile opens the door to his parents’ room.
He sneezes and wonders how so much dust can settle in the same place. The whole house had become a mite shelter after they left, but Mitile had expected Rutile’s spell to lift every speck of powder from their furniture.
He sighs. Whispers Ortonik Sealsispilce, his tongue twisting and curling in that difficult way he’s becoming accustomed to. He advances towards the aged trunk at the back of the room and opens the heavy lid with both hands.
Three moths fly away from its interior, right into Mitile’s nose, and he lets the cover fall back with a thud at the feeling of their wings against his skin. He stumbles back a couple of steps, shaking both hands in front of his face. Ughughugh .
Mitile’s back collides against a shelf. He turns in horror as books no one has touched for years tremble a bit. A marked picture falls, and he grabs it with a yelp.
Another object drops from between the thick spines. It hits Mitile right at the crown of his head, and then continues its way down to his feet.
Mitile can feel his blood freeze as he looks at the tarot cards scattered on the floor.
After that, Mitile feels like a puppet controlled by higher forces, like a mere spectator of his own movements. He reunites the cards, puts them in the small box they spilled from, and hides that in his coat. His tongue is dry and heavy as he whispers his spell to fix the blankets from the trunk, fingers stiff and muscles tense.
He doesn’t remember much of the dinner, not Akira’s curiosity about their daily life in the village, not Riquet’s beaming at the traditionals sweets that Lennox offers to him, not Doctor Figaro’s quiet worry at his state. The cards feel heavy in his inner pocket, a constant reminder of the dreams he has been trying to evade. The tarot seems to have a pulse of its own, and it’s deafening.
Mitile excuses himself early that night, and his wandering steps take him to his mother’s room again.
He stops for just a second before entering.
The Great Calamity’s light is filtering through the curtains, and Mitile still doesn’t feel like himself when he pulls them open, allowing the moon to bathe his face, creating shadows against the walls. He breathes in slowly.
The cards are real. Mitile’s fingers travel to his pocket, hesitant, and caress the cloth that still covers the deck. The cards are real, and he can’t help but wonder if he saw them as a child and assimilated its existence into his dreams, or if it’s something else.
He sits beside the window and lets his head fall back. Mitile is not used to living in the orbit of his own worries, and he usually lets himself get distracted fairly easy, if only because it makes it simpler to get back up and try again. Now, however, it’s as if he’s being dragged by gravity.
The cards are real.
Mitile looks at the Great Calamity and thinks of his mother. Of the Moon. Of the dreams. Of Doctor Figaro.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to fight the uneasiness that blooms in his chest and branches out to his whole body.
He can’t pinpoint the exact moment he falls asleep.
There’s a witch. There’s a witch, and Mitile knows because he’s looking at her and through her at the same time, in that curious way a dream can have to break the basic laws of the universe. And Mitile - who’s at the same time everywhere and nowhere - can feel and see how her hands move as she plays with the deck.
She’s a witch.
She’s not a mother. Not quite. Not yet. But she yearns for it, in love with a man and the village he belongs to, in love with the South in a way she would have never suspected.
She crosses her legs, and the green skirt made of wool weights down her movements. She’s accustomed to light dresses that hug against her skin, and somehow Mitile knows this, too.
“If you try something…” she says, and her voice sounds like Mitile’s to his ears, even when he knows it’s not supposed to. It should be silky. It should be the melodious tone of a grown woman, and not the high pitched one of a boy.
“I would never dare.”
Mitile doesn’t need her to look at him to know who he is. She does anyway.
Doctor Figaro is smiling, but she knows it doesn’t really reach his eyes. Like a street human magician that uses sleight of hand to get away with his tricks. Real magic is not always necessary when you know how to weave an illusion.
“Can’t a man look for a place to belong, dear Chiletta?”
The witch places a card in front of him.
Doctor Figaro looks down at the Hanged Man, and he forms a despricating smile.
Mitile wakes up because someone is touching his arm.
His eyes open wide, surprised, and he takes a gulp of air, almost as if he was drowning. For a second, he wonders if he’s still in the dream, staring into Doctor Figaro’s eyes. His pulse picks up, and some ancient instinct buried deep inside of him makes him tense.
“Doctor Figaro?” He asks, and forces himself to not think about how there’s a familiar fondness in those bicolored eyes. It’s a hard task, when Doctor Figaro’s smile is the same he was wearing as he helped Mitile up into his broom once more after another failed attempt at flying.
“What are you doing here, Mitile? Shouldn’t you be sleeping in your own room?”
Mitile can feel the blood rushing through his veins, his own heartbeat palpitating in his ears. Doctor Figaro looks the same as always, reliable and kind. But he has a secret. He has a secret, and always dodges the question when Mitile asks about it. He has a secret, and looked so void of real emotions in his dream, so unlike him-
“Doctor Figaro” Mitile asks, voice flat. “Do you love us?”
He stills, frozen in surprise for a second, and then there’s a smile spreading through his lips. Mitile doesn’t look too deep into his eyes, because he’s afraid of what he might find.
“Of course I do, Mitile.” and his smile curves around his name like it did with his mother’s. Placating. Practiced. “Did you have a nightmare?”
(Riquet prayed for their village to keep healing the hearts of the wounded.)
Sweetness spreads through Mitile’s mouth at Doctor Figaro’s usual affection, and it can almost conceal the taste of the lie.
“I feel better now, Doctor Figaro.” he says. Forces out a smile.
The Moon has escaped from his grasp at some point, and it lays down on the floor. Mitile can’t even remember when he took it out in the first place. He bends down to take it, and doesn’t spare a last look at it before he slides it in the middle of the deck. Doctor Figaro’s attentive glance follows his movements.
Mitile thinks about putting the cards back in their original place, but a fierce feeling of protectiveness bubbles on his chest at the idea. Somehow, they belong to him. Not Rutile. Not this empty, cold room. To him, the second son of the woman who once read them. This is the legacy of a witch and a mother. He settles for slipping them back in his pocket.
“It was just a nightmare,” he says.
He manages not to wince at the sour flavor on his tongue.