The Last Philosopher: Part One

(Self) mocking and pity

The oldest living sorcerer on Huom jerked awake. The motion tweaked his back again, shooting pain down his legs. As sleep drifted in, like a delightful numbing fog, the Darkness of his nightmares had sucker-punched him with his own guts. The midwinter season was usually his favourite. When the lazy sun hardly came up at all, he could justify napping his days away.

Your favourite part of any day is the one where you play at being dead, but sure, the sun's the lazy one, the ancient sorcerer's ambition thought.

"Well, sleep is like death with benefits," he answered his multi-thoughts cheerily.

And you think that's a good excuse?

"I do not need an excuse, I'm one of the five headmasters!"

But who knows what you could be, if you only applied yourself a bit?

Swindled by his own ambition, a few self-pitying groans brought his aching back rolling out of bed. The head of Dalmicir magick looked a sorry sight as he shuffled to his rocking-chair, bent over in his purple ceremonial pyjamas.

Like many nights before, he would spend this one gazing through his penthouse's balcony doors. If nothing else, it gave him ample opportunity to blame the city below for his troubles.

The dusty windowsills crammed full of books blocked the apartment's panoramic view, partly on purpose, since he had little interest in seeing the other four towers of magick. Also, watching the deserted streets inside Pentakl's city-wall only made him miserable.

We've disliked this austere capital from the moment we saw it, his scorn thought. It's like the first council built it out of nothing but sharp corners for stubbing pinkies on.

His contempt had grown strong over the centuries. Even so, this was their only city, and the centre of power in the sorcerer nation. The place where he was stuck fighting a losing battle against self-imposed sleeplessness. It was months now since he'd had the pleasure of playing dead for more than a few minutes before being rudely awakened by the Darkness, and still his ambition wouldn't leave him alone.

Normally, he would have gotten a shuteye-potion from the Macbiar school. But that wasn't an option this time, because with the kind of nightmares he was having, he preferred to sleep as little as possible. Also, asking Noertdel for help came with an inappropriate price in smugness.

"It's like he's only happy when condescending to a patient." Lyeasrakardsul mumbled into his tobacco-stained beard.

Rubbing his black eyes until he saw stars, he tried to remember his dream. But all that came to him was the bed-wetting fear of the Darkness.

Minutes turned to hours while he swayed in his rocking-chair, his sleep deprived stare fixed on the stars. The far-off view towards the mountains was one of the few things he liked about the penthouse. Watching those peaks through the door windows, he could almost convince himself he was above it all. The rocker was normally his favourite place to think while dipping his mind into obscure texts. But he was too tired to read. Even so, dog-eared books surrounded him in tall, precarious stacks.

"I should get the moron to tidy this up," he said, lifting one caterpillar-like eyebrow.

But instead of calling for his PA, his bloodshot eyes looked for the snow-covered peaks, but midwinter night had blanketed north Empris. The nation that had only one redeeming feature, according to other nations on the continent, that it was as far away as possible from any of them. Because sorcerers as a people were held in high disregard.

He could have stayed in bed to do his wallowing, but the round, frilly thing was uncomfortable. To his annoyance, the bed, like all provided furniture, only got more useless the higher his rank in magick became.

Of course, you know the reason for the fancy furniture, his vanity coaxed.

"I know! We have to maintain the image of status and power."

Exactly! his inner sorcerer roared. It has to look right, just like this penthouse apartment.

Unofficially, he would've preferred a more age-appropriate room on the bottom floor. Struggling up and down this forty-meter tower was a pain in more than just his joints. Still, he could never convince his pride that it wasn't worth some suffering. Even his name was a representation of the city's snobbery.

"Lye-as-rak-ard-sul," he said, frowning with each syllable. "Why did I choose such a long, stupid name? Over seven centuries, and I have barely gotten the hang of how it's pronounced."

You know why, his self-doubt mocked. Like every sorcling discharged from Xefef's mandatory grades, you were allowed to choose your new name. And you went ahead and chose something as pretentious as possible.

"So? I couldn't go around calling myself Lug any more, could I?" Shame bloomed on his wrinkled cheeks as he stroked his long beard like a security blanket. Because the truth was, he missed that simple Kor name.

Sucking on his yellow teeth with a loud smack, he tried to stop his multi-thoughts from running away with him. If these extra musings would work on being a bit less condescending, then perhaps someday, in the very distant future, he could learn to take his own advice.

But right now, there were other things to worry about. He needed to metaphorically poke his big nose into things that weren't his to poke. Hopefully, he could sniff out a way to shift the problems on his plate onto the other schools' plates — a strategy that had always worked for him before.

The Darkness has been a real jolt to our system, a rare moment of self-awareness thought.

On top of this obsidian-stone tower, he had believed himself beyond the reach of things like defecating fear. But for the last few months, the comfort of his three personal items was all he'd had to keep him going. In a self-soothing habit, he slapped the rocking-chair's sturdy armrest three times. It had been his first personal item. A perk of his second promotion to professor, for their first move up to apprentice sorcerers only got more stress.

"It took me centuries to get all three, and I'm not even sure why we are not allowed to own things."

Stop whining, his reflection in the window thought at him. There is work to be done.

The Pentakl accent rang in his head, even his extra musings always sounded like they were talking down to someone.