Chapter 46 - Active Misery

As I finish the book I find my fingers tracing the intricate diagrams of runes and glyphs. 

Despite the dry tone of the book I did manage to learn some things about written magic that might lend credence to my theory. 

Written spells must operate around the idea of balance, symmetry is the most rudimentary way of facilitating this but it also notes that asymmetrical designs can be just as stable. 

Their balance is found in the careful counter-weighting of different glyphs and the specific properties of the material they’re inscribed upon.

If the same logic is applied to my theory on mana sickness it could be the case that there is some sort of mana imbalance causing the issues in the monsters.

Ultimately though, the book has less substance than the book I read on visualisation magic. 

I do vaguely remember Clovis saying something about it being a fairly new area of magic so maybe that’s why it was so concise?

But it could just be that Clovis just doesn’t care for a more in-depth guide on written magic as she finds little use for it - she didn’t seem as passionate about it when she was teaching it. 

Regardless, the scroll she attached is even less helpful to my overarching goal, as it’s just a simple catalogue of common concept runes and their meanings: 'Light' ‘Earth' 'Water’...  

I found no evidence or insight into my idea about ambient mana. 

As I close the book, the front door creaks open. 

Clovis steps inside, and the fragile bubble of my intellectual enthusiasm pops instantly. She looks like a banshee, pale and haggardly. She carries an empty satchel, and her movements are heavy, each step seeming to cost her a piece of her dwindling energy.

She must be here to check on Orville’s condition. She walks past me without a word, heading straight for the hallway. I hear the soft murmur of her voice from his room, a professional calm that I know is a carefully constructed performance.

After a brief pause she emerges, her face even grimmer than before. As she shifts past the table, her eyes seem to catch on to my scattered notes.

“What’s those notes for?” she asks, but her tone is flat, devoid of any genuine curiosity.

My own excitement is not diminished despite how Clovis asked the question. “I was just thinking about some questions I could ask that might give me a little more insight on the limits of ma-”

“Shikara,” she cuts me off, “I don’t have the energy for this.”

The words sting more than a shout would have. 

She runs a hand through her disheveled hair, “Orville’s fever is worse and there are still a dozen villagers who are bed bound.” She looks at me, and for the first time, I see the cracks in her composure. I see the terrified young woman beneath the infallible healer.

“We are trying to survive the next twenty-four hours. We are dealing with the ‘what is’ not the ‘what ifs’.” She doesn’t wait for my reply. She just turns and walks out, leaving me in a silence that feels louder and more accusing than her anger ever did. 

The thrill of my discovery curdles in my stomach. She’s right. While I’m playing with abstract ideas, people are suffering. My curiosity feels like a selfish, useless thing. 

I look down at my notes, and the words just seem like meaningless scribbles. Dejected, I retreat to the quiet of my room.

Several days pass in a blur of routine.

I help where I can, carrying water, fetching supplies, changing bandages in the infirmary when Clovis is too busy. My one working arm only allows me to do so much. 

I perform my tasks with silent diligence. I push my theories to the back of my mind, as they begin to feel like a source of shame rather than excitement. I thought this life would be different but I can’t seem to escape my duty as a shift worker.  

It’s necessary work of course , but it feels like a cage of monotony. My brief, exhilarating encounter with my new life snatched away as I am once again caught up in a web of self-pity and grief. 

The village is a hive of determined, fearful activity. However, despite this atmosphere I can’t shake the feeling that I could be doing more important work. 

But without my ability to cast magic I am completely stalled.

I can’t go to Clovis. I tell myself I’m giving her space, but the truth is, I’m afraid of being a further burden. 

She looks more fragile each day. I can’t be the one to break her.

I see her flitting between the infirmary and the homes of the wounded. There are no more lessons, no more shared moments of discovery. The door to her cottage, once my gateway to a new world, is now just another door I walk past on my way to my next menial chore.

The connection we were starting to build has been severed by the crisis, and I feel its absence in my arm, broken and in a state of disrepair.