The Bane of Light

Private Lessons

" An autumn whisper between the maples kept urging me: Die with me."
- Anna Akhmatova, Song of the Last Meeting

∞

I stayed in bed for the next week. Not because I was avoiding Paris, though the uncomfortable interaction was a benefactor towards my self-inflicted quarantine. I slept and slept and slept. It was predicted, seeing that necromancy sessions could not, or as I proved should not, be completed alone. I had extorted and strained myself, and now my body was reaping the consequences.

People came and left, most of which I ignored at the door. I had planned to stay another week, until I got a warning notice from Rowena. Magic exhaustion was a viable excuse for missing class, as long as I kept up with my school work, but I was not allowed to miss my private lessons with Rowena. I had missed one, and she warned me that I would get a violation if I missed two in a row.

Though my feeling had somewhat come back, sickness decided it would be the perfect time to sweep in and knock me off my feet again, while I was crippled from magical fevers. I was unwell. As I always seemed to be this time of year.

As the colder, winter months rolled in,  through the form of heavy, grey storm clouds and  howling, biting winds, illness proved to be my constant companion. It was true that I hated the heat, unable to stand any form of humidity, but I also hated the cold. I hated the feel of the constant, uncomfortable chill that followed me all throughout the winter, no matter the amount of clothing I bundled onto myself. I hated the feel of numb fingers and burning skin, frostbite slithering under my scarves and layers of cashmere. I hated the feel of soggy clothing from the snow, and constantly having to watch out for icy pathways. I hated winter in general. It was a nuisance.

I tightened my scarf around my face as another wind rammed against me, forcing my stride to falter. Sensitive to the changing seasons, I felt horrid, but couldn't risk missing my tutoring with Rowena. And besides, I was used to it anyways. I was a fussy, sickly child. I still am, considering the way I still haven't grown out of my peculiarities and difficult personality. I was even worse to deal with as a child, though.

All throughout my childhood, I was plagued with illnesses. Nothing serious of course, seeing that my mother had me thrown at healer every single time I fell ill. I was always underweight, my knobby, bruised limbs failing to properly maintain my body weight. I couldn't exerisize or run, constantly lacking energy and tiring easily. My face in pictures was always sour, pale with a sickly grey tint as my small mouth was pursed in a thin line. My eyes were always bruised, the dark, heavy shadows underneath reflecting my insomnia. I could not sleep, my mother eventually resorting to pumping me with sleeping pills and dream elixirs. That went over splendidly. 

The family healer claimed it was because my magical signature was not conscious yet, and that I would get better once I began using my magic. But the family healer was a horrid doctor, and an even worse person, corrupt and greedy in his practice. He told my mother what she wanted to hear, and signed off on any treatment my mother deemed necessary. Maybe If he was a genuine healer, who practiced medicine on a base of merit besides how much my mother payed him, his diagnoses might have actually been useful.

They weren't. At all. I'm still too bony, too morbidly pale  to look healthy, my face refusing to retain any color, with my appetite still difficult, and my temper still short. Sensitive to the slightest change, my capricious mood shifts quickly, making my personality very hot-and-cold. Yes, I was indeed quite unbearable, but at least I had the self-awareness to know so. Unlike some of the blockheads my age. Unlike Paris.

Speak of the devil, Paris was sprinting towards me. I had done a concise job on avoiding him these past few days, by remaining barricaded in my room. I did not have the energy nor the temperament to deal with him at the moment. Paris' feet pounded on the stone of the courtyard, the puddles from the rain splattering as he came near. As he neared, he took care to slow down, as to not splash me.