Of Whispers and Daggers ✓ [TLRQ #2]

Chapter 6.2 - Aster

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The bedroom is dark, cool, and comfortable. The hearth crackles softly, the mattress cradles my frame, and a down comforter wraps around me. I've slept well here almost every night for seven straight years. But tonight, my mind won't settle.

Growling, I shove out of bed. This is not the time to be sleeping poorly. I march to my desk. If I were going to be unable to sleep, why couldn't that have been before I left Draó, when nothing but fear of the future weighed down my shoulders? I lean forward on the desk.

"That would be too easy, of course." My voice is thick and too loud. "No—if I'm going to be unable to sleep, it has to be at a time when my performance affects people's lives!" My open palm slams against the wood. The noise startles me out of my tirade, and I sink into my chair, feeling ridiculous.

Old Mage Ciester once wrote that frustration was nothing but people avoiding dealing with bigger problems. Primarily regarded for his treatise on the connection between human emotion and magic, the title 'Mage' is honorary. The man could hardly cast, but he studied the art like no one else. The dishonor of masculinity wasn't nearly so strong four hundred years ago. If he lived today, he would have to take on a female pseudonym to publish, and no one would consider bestowing him a title.

I've always admired his work, though, both magical and philosophical. I related to him on a level I can't with other authors, but Agraund thought me foolish for pouring over the writings of a man that could cast even less than I.

Ciester's words in my mind, I push up and murmur, "So what am I avoiding?" My eyes find Jacqueline's on the rug.

In the silence, I walk over and kneel beside her. When I was little, I thought if I kept her around for long enough, her power would seep into me. The corner of my lips lift bittersweetly at the childish logic. Only hard work and talent can create a powerful Second Son, and I've always heard that it's better to lack the first than the second.

My fingers brush the fibers beneath me. Though this image holds no magic, it has always held comfort for me. I can't help but remember the stolen moments I spent as a child simply lying here, careful not to cover the Lady, dreaming of the day I would be powerful like Agraund, like the Mages of old, or like the first Second Son, Prince Xíeme.

"How I used to idolize you, Xíeme." I laugh softly. I once told Agraund that I wanted to grow up to be just like the great Prince. He only smiled at me and said, Then come practice, Aster.

"I've never forgotten that, Uncle. Honest." The back of my eyes burn. My next words are barely more than a whisper. "I hope you hadn't given up on me. Just because we agreed I was more expendable, I—" I swallow, but the lump that's suddenly grown in my throat doesn't budge.

I drop my head. "I never meant to fail you."

I know what he'd say if he were here—I wish he were because he'd certainly do a better job with this mess than I am—and I can almost hear it.