The Sins of the Son

The Sins of the Son

                The village was quiet and slow moving. None were outside the confines of their homes and the sun was sinking low in the sky, painting it a soft orange and red. The buildings were small and far apart, separated by small fields of various growing foods or pastures for horses, cows, or goats. The only signs that the village was inhabited was the swirling puffs of smoke that rose from the chimneys of various self-built cottages. Mason breathed it all in, immersing himself in his magic and the magic that imprinted itself throughout the village. There were few in the village born with magic, but it was weak and its wielders were young. But there were also veteran sorcerers whose magic was preened to their individual liking and their signatures pulsed with such a strength that gave Mason a high stronger than the one he’d had only hours ago.

                Mason glanced briefly at his sister and judged her magic. It had been so strong, so raw with power, when she’d come to his rescue but the minute she’d come to her senses and was in control again, Meyrin barely showed any magical signature at all. It was disappointing. Mason would’ve been glad to have taken that type of power for himself. He wondered what kind of high that would’ve been. But his sister was once again weak and pitiful and pathetic. He scowled in disgust.

                How could someone so feeble be given such immense powers? When would Meyrin ever use them for anything useful if she ever could learn control? Mason remembered the few times she tried to use her magic and something and someone was always hurt whenever she so much as tapped her core. She and her magic was useless to him if no one could control the damn thing. She and her magic wasn’t worth his life.

                Mason dragged Meyrin through the pathways of the Center and towards their home. Mother would be making dinner while she cleaned up the kitchen and set the small wooden table that barely seated three, let alone four. After their father’s death, their mother had been quick to re-marry. It would forever be a decision that Mason will hate her for.

                The old, elm-wood front door was barely hanging in place as Mason yanked it open and pushed Meyrin through the door first. Meyrin stumbled but quickly picked herself up and hurried to find their mother or their step-father. She narrowly missed the broom that swept the floor with glowing kelp-green colored hands upon the long handle. It kicked up small clouds of dust and dirt and Mason listened to the small rocks that scraped against the hardwood flooring. The sound sliced through Mason’s sensitive ears and pierced his mind. He glared at the broom as his still-hot, freshly stoked magic flared up, causing the thin wood to splinter and burst.

                His smile was one of childlike glee, Meyrin observed from behind a corner wall. Yet it was twisted and there was that gleam in his eyes that was so unlike the Mason she knew. Meyrin continued to watch as Mason raised a hand and aimed it at their mother’s new vase, a gift from the children their mother taught. Meyrin stared in horror as Mason made that too crack and shatter. The pieces of clay shot away from each other with such force that they turned to dust when they crashed into the walls. And Mason laughed. He looked like a child who’d gotten exactly what he wanted the morning of his birthday. Meyrin couldn’t help but think it was wrong. So wrong. Everything about Mason was now off. His laugh, his smile. Even his eyes were different. The edges of his eyes glowed red, blood red, and it seemed the color was snaking its way slowly towards his pupil in a way that made the magic seem alive, with its own emotions and wants.