Chapter Text
They say that when the last of the truly powerful noble houses, those they called the Sundered, fell centuries ago, Professor Occtis Threadneedle had been there. One does not speak of his condition, of course, it would be terribly impolite, but it is a known quantity; the fact that a man who looks no older than twenty had been around to see it all through was not surprising to any within the Penteveral given that widely-known piece of information. And the stories themselves - awesome and terrifying and so incongruent with the unassuming, mild-mannered Professor who will discuss the simplest of wizard magics as if it is the first time he’s heard of them despite the vast wealth of knowledge accumulated over his hundreds of years, offers reasonably generous but not excessively permissive extra credit, stares at the floor when spoken to unexpectedly yet still delivers in-demand special history lectures on the very things he has experienced.
The lecture he will not give is written in the history books and known to any half-serious student anyway. Occtis had torn through the House of Tachonis, taken their legions of undead and made them his own to command, ripped through and unmade all seven siblings with piercing waves of black energy, matching them blow for blow, and shackled the mind of that doomed House’s last Lord Premier and pinned him in place long enough for a golden knight to tear his throat to pieces. Distant relatives, sycophants, servants, vassals all fell alongside them. They say Occtis was one of them, once. That seems to matter less and less as history goes on. Simply a historical fact, a footnote. They don’t say what exactly drove him to the Rebellion’s side. He will not say either. It is known at the Penteveral that one should not ask. No matter the causes, the result was simply true annihilation, wrought upon them by the last Tachonis that was and will ever be born.
Some three-hundred-odd years after the slaughter, Professor Threadneedle sits in his office and marks papers, recently back from one of his usual sweeps of the Underworld. In the hall just outside hangs a portrait of an old dwarven woman, all smile lines and glimmering jewellery and vibrant colours, a life well-lived. Murray Mag’nesson, who loved this school best, reads the curled golden inscription. The office itself is just slightly larger than it looks from the outside, darkly and plainly decorated, mostly a utilitarian space. A stout desk and cabinet carved out of ebony, antique pieces, their silver handles slightly tarnished, faded grey wallpaper mostly covered by similarly-tarnished metal shelves stuffed full with artefacts. A small staircase descending from one corner of the room - a magical decoration, for the Penteveral staff offices are single rooms; this is the gateway to Threadneedle’s Trove, which lies outside of the city and outside of this realm. He could have concealed the passage entirely, but he does not need to.
Any student will notice the shrine behind the desk, a six-foot archway of vines and jasmine and iron tangling together to frame a portrait of an orc woman, smaller than that of the late Bursar Mag’nesson, her expression defiant and knowing yet warm. A keen-eyed student will notice the tiny figurines suspended above even the highest of the shelves. A manuscript, a shield, juggling skittles, a lyre, clustered together. A sun, a demi-gauntlet with a blade attached and a gemstone the very same shade of green as the one that shines out of the Bursar’s grin in the hall.
Over the years several Lloys have passed through this office and waved hello to their great-grand-(etc.)-aunt. One has even stayed; just this afternoon, Professor Valya Lloy, the descendant of one of the Eastern Lloys who returned to Dol-Makjar once Occtis Threadneedle and his allies had swept House Tachonis and their ilk away, has directed a struggling undergraduate up to Occtis’s office to discuss a transfer to a necromancer’s programme of study; it had been what she wanted all along but her family had protested so, the girl explains, feeling as if she is vomiting out a tidal wave of embarrassing words, oversharing so. The undead professor is impassive as he speaks, a glint of understanding in his sickly green eyes.
(Yes, Occtis knows what can come of simply approaching magic differently from one’s family, and he also knows the taboo that necromancy brings along with it, even understands the fear. What was wrought upon House Tachonis was momentous and certainly a necessary triumph, but it was horrifying, destructive and twisted, some of the measures even cruel; he knows that, he must continue to exist with it.)
She listens to his assurances that she can make up some missing credit, he will speak to the Dean, and with her foot gently pets Pincushion, the odd patchwork creature that without fail moves from frightening curiosity to accepted part of the scenery to beloved campus pet for any creature who spends significant time within the Penteveral.
A soft knock at the door. A brief scowl on Threadneedle’s face at the interruption, and then the first real, genuine smile the student has ever seen from the man her whole two years here. (What a pittance - how petty and weak her problems must seem, she thinks).
The visitor is tall and elven, dressed in long, flowing forest-green robes, her face partially obscured by a veil embroidered with jasmine. The student takes great care not to gawk; elves are rare in Dol-Makjar, and she never expected to see one stroll into her school as if it was nothing.
“I do hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Vaelus! And, um, a bit, but-”
“It’s okay.” the student mumbles, awed at what could be a millennium of life in the room before her, unsure of how to react, what she could possibly even say other than an acquiescence.
“I won’t be long.” The elven woman lays an envelope on the desk, patterned with shimmering filigree, its wax seal imprinted with an outline of a mask, vaguely familiar to the student and instantly known to Occtis. “Bolaire sends their regards, and requests your presence at the grand opening of the Museum of Druidcraft.”
“He did not have to send you on a trivial errand. There’s spells, or if this-” Occtis flicks at the envelope. “Was necessary, he surely could have travelled here himself.”
“Occtis,” says the elven woman, gently but firmly. “I wanted to see you; it really is so easy to let the years slip away when-”
“Let’s have dinner.” the Professor offers, with a sharp, stiff nod of the head. “You know where I’ll be.”
The woman returns his nod and sails out of the room, leaving the scent of florals and incense in her wake.
“My apologies.” Occtis returns his attention to the student sat across from him, struck dumb in her seat. “She is an old - never mind. Where were we? Right, next year, your academic transcript. I hope you’ve brought it with you.”
They finish their discussion and the student hurries away, slightly flustered. Mostly thinking about the future of her academic career, much-brightened by this meeting, and then of the story she could relate to friends. She must tell Taldin about the real-life ancient elf she has seen.
But if this student had been of a nosier disposition, she might have stayed and peered through the small glass pane on Professor Threadneedle’s door, watched him abandon his marking and study the envelope with a mournful gaze and slumped shoulders, stand and pace about the room before coming to a stop at the shrine, one hand clutching the plants and metal of the arch as a child clutches his mother’s hand, looking up at the portrait of Thaisha Lloy. It is a rare undergraduate of the Penteveral - certainly, this student was not one of them - currently skilful enough to hear him speak with that picture.
You would have loved to attend, wouldn’t you? It wasn’t your time either. Why didn’t you let me make you stay?