Destined To Die

Chapter 2 - The Wind Returns

-2-

-The Wind Returns-

Rain poured down around the small shack, thunder rumbling in the distance. The old healer sat back lazily in his chair, holding a small orange mushroom in hand and studying its surface. Plain and unassuming as it may look, he knew better than to judge a book by its cover. Galerina Marginata, more commonly known as the Autumn Skullcap, or the Funeral Bell mushroom. There was a long list of nasty symptoms for the poisonous fungus, truly a horrendous way to die.

The low volume of late-night television played in the background, all merging together into an amorphous drone that was his only company this night. Yes, this would be an excellent start to helping his student detect and neutralise toxins. He gave a small smile, putting the mushroom back inside a small terrarium with great care. He poured a small amount of his energy into it, enough to regenerate the mycelia he'd disrupted by pulling it from its home, before leaning back in his chair to think.

The girl was a natural talent, anyone could see that. He was concerned. Whoever she was, wherever she had come from, her family had strong blood. Inborn power like that didn't just come from nowhere. He'd seen something like it before, heard a hundred cautionary tales, and they all went the same. The son of a powerful witch, arrogant in his natural talent, would reach beyond their means and overlook some minor error. They did magic, but they didn't understand magic. Not well enough, at least. Often, the oversights in the spells they cast led to an endless cascade of energy consumption, underestimating the cost, and the cost of that cost, and so on. After that, a flood of power shattered the soul like an old piece of crockery, or left the body mangled beyond repair. Sometimes both if they were particularly unlucky or foolhardy.

But the girl was different. She didn't have the arrogance so often seen with someone accustomed to power. Ambition yes, but she was patient, careful, often asking questions on the mechanics of things before he would even prompt her. She was a rare find, and a privilege to teach, but there were still many questions.

The wind howled outside, picking up as the rain beat down. He closed his eyes slowly, listening to the whisper of the trees, the muttering of the earth. Everything spoke; if one had the ears to listen.

"Someone is coming," they said in a collection of tiny voices, barely audible over the howling, "He walks with the wind, he comes with the storm."

His eyes opened, turning off the television with a flick of his hand. Reaching out for a gnarled staff with that same hand, skin dotted with liver spots and wrinkles, he pushed himself to his feet. Surely enough, within seconds he heard soft footfalls at his door as the wind swiftly died.

"Come in," he called, walking over a tiny section of the bench and turning on the kettle, fetching two mismatched mugs.

He didn't turn as the door opened, placing a teabag in each of the mugs. One was slightly cracked, thin lines running down the porcelain. That one was his favourite.

"Do you take sugar with your tea?" he asked the stranger, barely noting as a figure approached from his side, "What brings you to my door on a night like this?"

"I'm looking for someone."

The words were crisp, a sharp tone to them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a glint of steel.

"So that's a no to the sugar, then?"

"Japanese, speaks with an American accent. Madeline Fujiwara. I'm told you're acquainted."

It wasn't a question.

The teacher said nothing, taking the kettle and pouring a generous amount into each cup, then walking to the small wooden table nearby. He dunked the teabag in and out of the water several times, setting the other cup on the far side of the table for the stranger before taking a seat.