Dating : Eiroú upon the mists

An apple, bright red, with a crisp shell and pale white inside. He saw it in his mind’s eye, sitting on the table in front of him, youth and life, dazzling in contrast with the dead wooden table beneath it. He could reach out and grab it, feel it’s cold smoothness against his own gruff hands. The condensation gathering, the light reflecting, it’s shadow falling behind it, and then he lost it. The picture, so perfect, so indistinguishable from reality, faded, and died. The apple, however perfect it had been was lost. His inner view closed to him, and remaining was only the ancient wooden planks, no apple to be seen.

He forced his fist down on the table in frustration, letting a single angry note hang in the air as the material vibrated. A soft ‘fuck’ left his lips as he in frustration slowly arose from the low stool he had been sitting on. Muscles tensing and propelling him upward, he mentally kicked himself as he noted the sensation, that was not helping. His minded needed to be clean, pure, at all times, at least when he wasn’t practicing, or rather attempting to practice, magic. Countless hours of drilling and lessons went through his mind as he contemplated yet another day of failure. He had been told never to expect it, to always be surprised by it’s arrival, as to not grow contempt with his inability. Yet here he stood, 25 years old, head aching and hand throbbing, unable to conjure even the simplest fruit, contempt.

He had been 8 when the mages had taken him, from his own home and led him to Eiroú upon the mists. There on the edge of the world, in a city of carved stone, he had been taught the arts mystical. Ancient men and women had chanted to him, repeated their prayers, burnt their incense, and spoken the holy words, and yet, nothing. At first, he had not noticed anything wrong, but the weight of shame grew every day, little by little, barely noticeable but unyielding. He knew that one day, after yet another failure, he would go to that white sea of mist and never return. This was not because of his tutors, no, they were kind, understand, if a bit anxious, he was the one they were waiting for, and he was sure taking his time.

Suicide had always been an option he knew, it would be painless, just a single step into the white void, and they would claim him as their own. But he could not do that to his tutors, he could not bare to see their faces contort into disappointment again. This was why he remained in the lonely cloister upon the walls of Eiroú disappointing them every day.

He interrupted his own misery to carefully tread over a collapsed set of stairs and slowly hoist himself over the abyssal drop to the ground below. The monastery was collapsing around him, the ancient stones tired on waiting for him to succeed. He took another careful step and gripped tight to the wall, nudging himself closer to safety.

***

He was again seated in front of the pulpet, planted on the uneven stool, hand by his sides, preparing. Around him, stood 6 figures, 3 men, 3 women, ancient. Grey and withering, their last hope a failure, they somberly watched him fail again. He could not bear it, his hands were trembling, his eyes watering, his emotions flared.

A hand was placed on his shoulder, large and rough, like well worn leather:

“Come now boy, don’t overthink it, never make it more than it is, an apple is but an apple, a pen but a pen. Nothing monumental about it..”

The old man spoke hesitantly, his voice rough and low, unable to summon the growls of its younger days.

The man stood slightly straighter from the comment, if it was shame or inspiration not even he was sure of. But one thing was certain, giving up was not an option. The eyes continued to burn into him, like 12 hot coals sitting on his skin. Nothing was different, nothing had changed, but there he sat, and he began, already knowing the outcome.

Muscles strained and the relaxed, eyes opened and closed, breathing accelerated and then slowed, the third eye opened. Before him he saw the apple, once again, simple and unnerving. He began to picture it, working out every detail, from flavor and smell to molecular structure and light reflection. He held each aspect of the fruit in his mind, slowly creating the perfect replication in his mind. The taste even slowly entered his mouth, its smell filled his nostrils, but he continued. Ideal forms of the fruit continued to spiral within his mind, the every one more perfect than the ones before it.

Nothing snapped, he did not feel a rush of force, he did not sense a tether breaking, no. He slowly opened his eyes again, hours after they closed, his body stiff and in pain from the lack of movement, the table before him, occupied. A single, bright red, beautiful, real apple sat there. He smiled, around him he heard laughs and excited chatter, smiling faces and loving words being spoken. He relaxed his posture, let his back slump, dropping his guard. A slow sense of joy came over him, the pleasure of success filling his body, years of doubt being lifted. His smile broadened at the thought, tomorrow he would enter the mists, and take his own life.