The Virtues' Magecraft

Page 52: Lullaby For Suffering

Gabriel ran his finger through the hole in his black necktie and pulled. A sigh left his lips at that same second that his tie unraveled, becoming nothing more than a strip of cloth that dangled from his neck.

"I didn't mean anything by it, Miss Voltaire," he spat out with his sigh.

"It was still disrespectful," she responded. "The dead deserve more than your impatient comments."

"I know, I know, I just-" Another sigh left his lips as he sat down in an ornate chair of thick, pastel-colored cloth. "I don't think there's a point of having a funeral without the deceased's body. If anything, that's disrespectful."

Voltaire smiled at Gabriel. She was an elderly woman of coffee-colored skin with fine dark eyes and even darker hair. She looked older than Archibald, and stood at a foot shorter than both him and Gabriel. And yet, her hair was only sprinkled with thin grey hairs, much unlike Archibald's silver hair of blond turned grey.

She had witnessed Gabriel Archibald grow and change as a person, over the past, over all sixteen years of the prodigy's life. Voltaire always knew this boy was destined for greatness. She and Charles had always invested everything they could into his development as a magician and a person.

But there was still a lot to work on, it seemed. After all, his only problem was his lousy personality, which stood in complete contrast with his almost perfect appearance.

His skin was clear and pale, just as he had mid-length hair of burnished gold that flowed with almost every step, and a pair of pale blue eyes that glistened like crystal waters.

To practically anyone who didn't really know him, Gabriel looked like a painting. To anyone who did know him... Well, that perfect image of his appearance was destroyed with more than half of the sentences he spoke. He was the disillusion of his own image.

"I suppose that's simply where we disagree, Gabriel," she responded.

And her thin smile remained on her lips. "Could you make me some tea, please?" Voltaire asked.

Gabriel's head drooped over. He wanted to groan, but that would only lead to Voltaire making a comment about it. He pressed his hands against his knees and forced himself onto his feet.

They were in Voltaire's apartment. 'So why do I have to make tea?' he asked himself. 'And what's with everyone liking tea nowadays?'

He walked over to the kitchen, opening the white cabinet doors that covered the walls and searching for the tea. He pulled out a box of bags in the corner and sat it down onto the countertop.

The tea kettle already sat on the stove, made of silver steel and filled with dried leaves as Gabriel poured a brown bag into it.

Gabriel placed his hand over the open pot and took in a sharp breath. Water burst forth and cascaded down from his palm, flowing into the pot. And without so much as a word, he turned on the stove.

"Did you just use your magic to produce that water?" Voltaire asked, her eyebrows furrowed and her face strained in a confused distaste.

"What?" Gabriel asked. "It's gonna boil, anyway."

She sighed. "Fair enough," she spat out.

Gabriel turned and pressed his back against the granite counter. "So, yeah," he said, continuing conversation.  "Where even is Uncle Charles, anyway? I thought he was supposed to be done for the day after the funeral."

"Well... He's currently getting shouted at by a counselor of the Association. Or maybe even a bureaucrat. It's been happening since your return from Vanaheim."