Vellum and Vapors: The Scholar’s Three-Month Memories part 3

                                                                               3

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    Headed toward the west wing. The hallway felt long, the mahogany floorboards letting out a low, familiar groan with every step. The storm had finally broken; golden bars of evening light cut across the crimson rug from the tall windows, signaling that the sun was dipping low. Those beams were a ticking clock—I didn’t have much daylight left, and I needed to make progress on my project before the shadows took over.

    As I walked, the smell of Spike’s cooking faded. It was replaced by something dry and cold—the scent of old paper and cedarwood. I reached the heavy oak door at the end of the hall and pushed it open.

    The study was a wide, circular room that felt like a bell jar, keeping the rest of the world out. Bookshelves climbed the walls from floor to ceiling, packed so tight the wood seemed to disappear behind leather and parchment. A brass ladder leaned against the far wall, a thin line of gold in the gloom.

   My desk sat in the middle, a massive slab of walnut that felt as solid as a mountain. It was buried under a mess of half-read books and tangled diagrams. I walked over, the ‘click-clack’ of my shoes sharp against the high ceiling. I set the new supplies down on a rare patch of clear wood. ‘Thud.’ I stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle. This room was a filter; here, the noise in my head usually smoothed out like a lake after a storm.

   I picked up one of the ink bottles. The glass was cool and heavy, smooth like a polished stone. Knowing the evening was slipping away, I pulled out my chair. It gave a rhythmic creak —a sound like a tired sigh. I sat down and began to clear a space, pushing the old papers aside like I was sweeping away the fog of the last three months.

   I unrolled the leather wrap. The new quills lay there like a row of silent, waiting needles. I picked one up. It was light, almost weightless, yet it felt like a solid anchor in my hand.

   I twisted the cap of the ink.

   “Pop”. The scent was sharp and metallic, biting into the air like fresh frost. I dipped the quill, watching the nib drink the dark liquid. I touched it on the parchment, and the ink flowed as smoothly as oil on water. Skriitch.

   The sound was tiny, but in the quiet of the study, it was the only thing that mattered.

    I’d reached out and pulled a heavy brass candlestick toward the center of the desk. Outside, the storm had finally surrendered; the sun began to peek through the clouds, casting long, thin fingers of amber light across the room. It was the tail end of the evening, and those golden bars were retreating toward the windows like a receding tide. I knew I had to hurry; the sun was a fading battery, and I needed its warmth to jumpstart my focus before the night claimed the room.

   I struck a match. The flame bloomed to life, a small, hungry orange spark that smelled of sulfur and heat. I touched it to the wick, and the light expanded into a soft, protective bubble around my workspace. The rest of the study—the towering shelves and the silent brass ladder—drifted into a hazy gloom, leaving the world as nothing more than me, the candle, and the blank page.

   The candle stood like a solitary lighthouse in a sea of ink-colored shadows. I watched the wax begin to soften, a small pool of liquid forming at the base of the flame like a melting clock. It was a silent timer. Spike’s prediction about me finishing in three days hummed in the back of my head, and I knew every drop of light was a second, I couldn’t waste.

   I dipped the quill again, the black ink shimmering under the amber glow like wet tar.

   “Day one,” I whispered. The sound of the nib on the paper is a small, sharp “scratch” that broke the silence. “Let’s see if he’s right.”

   The study became a vacuum, pulling every thought I had into the tip of my quill. The world outside the candle’s amber circle simply ceased to exist. I was moving through the work with rhythmic efficiency, my hand dancing across the vellum like a needle on a record. Spike was right; the ink was perfect. It didn’t snag or bleed; it just flowed, a dark river of logic carving its path through the white expanse of the page.

   I was in the flow now. The “brooding” of the last three months had been a dam, and Spike’s tea had finally cracked it. The equations and observations poured out of me, the Skriitch-scratch of the nib providing a steady, hypnotic heartbeat to the room.

   But then, the ink hit a dry patch on the paper, and the sudden friction jarred me.

   In that brief, sharp silence, the heat of the candle seemed to intensify, mimicking the steam of the bath from earlier. My vision blurred for a split second, and the white parchment was replaced by the memory.

   In the heavy silence of the examination hall, the instructor’s voice cut through my nerves. “Okay, today you will be tested. You will be using your magic on this: the egg.”

   “Huh?” I whispered, leaning in. “An egg?”

   It was unlike anything I had ever seen—royal purple with vibrant green spots. It was massive, far too huge for a bird, yet it felt strangely comfortable to hold with both hands. I wondered where in the world they had found such a thing. Then, the older gentleman in the second seat on the right gave the command: “You’ll be showing your magic by bringing this egg to life.”

   Waa! He wanted me to do what? It was absurd! No one has the power to give rise to life. I walked closer, shaking and sweating in fear. The instructors watched me like hunters. A soldier carried the egg gently to a nest on the desk. I saw my parents looking worried, though their cheering helped a little. I turned to the desk and focused.

   I tried every incantation I knew: “Feachd na beatha” (The force of life) and “Ciar na gaoithe a bheir fuachd” (Whisper of the wind that brings cold). Nothing worked. I felt defeated. Every educator scribbled in their notepads, and I was sure my future was destroyed. But then, a tremor shook the sky. A kaleidoscope of colors glowed everywhere, making my magic go haywire. The surge was too much; I lost consciousness, the last sound being my parents’ worried voices and a sharp, rhythmic crack.

   I was out for five hours. When I finally drifted back to awareness, my head was throbbing. I heard muffled voices.

   “Wak- up,” a cute, female voice said. “No use, he’s still young.”

   In the sterile, heavy quiet of the medical room, the muffled voices of my parents drifted through the fog of my exhaustion, their tones thick with relief and lingering terror. But beneath their familiar murmurs, a sharp, frantic energy cut through the air as a man’s voice—jagged and loud—tore through the doorway.

   ​“The shell…!” He cried, his voice echoing with a panicked urgency that made my ears ring. Though my hearing was still dampened, I could catch the sharp edges of his shouting: “The energy… it’s completely broken! The egg…!”.

   ​I lay there, my eyes feeling as though they were glued shut with lead, my mind spiraling in the dark. Broken? I thought of that massive, purple-speckled egg. Did I destroy it? Was the ‘crack’ I heard the sound of my failure shattering my future.

   ​Then, the cute, female voice from before spoke again, but this time it was pitched high with pure, breathless shock. “It’s not just broken!” She gasped, her voice trembling with an overwhelming surprise that silenced the room. “The readings… they’re off the charts! I have to see it—I must be sure!”

   ​I heard the frantic scuff-shuffle of her shoes against the tile as she turned and bolted from the room; her footsteps fading rapidly down the hall toward the examination chamber.

   ​The man let out a confused shout, following her out, leaving me in a sudden, ringing silence. My parents remained, their hushed whispers of “Dusk” and “our son” acting as a soft lullaby. I wanted to follow that female voice, to see what had caused such a reaction, but my body was an anchor buried in deep sand. Despite the chaos, the exhaustion won. I drifted back into a heavy, dreamless sleep, remaining unconscious for several more hours as the world outside my door transformed forever.

   Egg…? The egg… cracked? My contemplation slowly faded as I slept.

   The heavy, dreamless sleep held me for hours—a thick veil separating me from the frantic energy of the Academy. Eventually, the darkness began to thin. I had been out cold for five hours, and my mind was a tabula rasa, stripped of all recent memory.

    Where am I? I wondered, my surroundings slowly coalescing into focus. My head throbbed with a rhythmic ache, each pulse of blood feeling like a hammer strike against my skull. I could hear voices nearby, but my eyelids felt as though they were sealed shut with lead. My body was an anchor, heavy and unresponsive.

   ​“Can—he—me!?” a voice drifted through the static.

   “Huh? Wha?” I attempted to murmur, but it emerged only as a raspy, broken breath.

   ​The conversation reached me in fragments, sounding as though chunks of sentences had been excised. Then, a female voice spoke—familiar, warm, and laden with a mother’s instinctual dread.

   ​“No use,” she said, her voice wavering. “He’s still unconscious.”

   ​That familiar tone grounded me

   Then I remembered, what a guard said, The egg! I said, waking up with a jolt. Adrenaline surged through me. My eyes snapped open, and without a second thought, I bolted toward the door. I didn’t glance back at my parents; I was a blur of motion driven by pure instinct.

    ​“Son, wait!” My father’s voice boomed from the chair beside the bed, startled by my sudden resurrection.

   ​I didn’t stop. I hit the hallway at full tilt, my heart thrashed against my ribs in a state of frantic anticipation. Behind me, I heard the staccato rhythm of my parents’ footsteps struggling to keep pace.

   ​“Honey! Stop! You’re going to hurt yourself!” my mother cried, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings of the medical wing.

   ​I remained deaf to their pleas. My slippers emitted a loud, rhythmic creak against the floor, but the polished mahogany was so slick I had no traction. Fearing I would lose precious seconds to a fall, I stopped just long enough to kick them off, leaving them abandoned on the rug.

   ​“Cold.” The stone floor of the main hall was freezing, biting into the soles of my feet, yet I ran on. My parents’ calls grew distant as I rounded the corner, driven by a desperate need to witness what I had wrought. I reached the examination room, breathless and shivering, to find the instructors and the Princess standing in wait.

   “...”

   “Huff, Huff.” I tried to stable my breathing. Then, I heard a voice.

    ​“Aahh, we were expecting you. Please, come in.” With a look of quiet amusement, the Princess gestured for me to sit. My legs felt like gelatin. I looked toward the High Bench, specifically at the woman seated in the center. She was a picture of poise, her dark brown hair swept into a severe bun, sharp bangs framing light brown eyes. A Mali Garnet was set perfectly into her forehead, and on the back of her right hand, she bore a distinctive tattoo of her cutie mark: a blue quill and an ornate inkwell. She watched me over the rim of her spectacles, her pen poised over a heavy ledger.

   ​“Now, here is the verdict….” The second male instructor announced. I cringed reflexively. “Y-yes!”

   ​“You’ll be accepted as a student. The magic you displayed today was extraordinary.”

   I breathed a sigh of relief, but the memory of the light and the thunderous noise haunted me. “Uhm… Your Majesty? What was that explosion? I remember nothing after the colors began to glow.”

   ​The Princess offered a soft, knowing smile. “Apparently, you channeled such a massive volume of energy that you didn’t just hatch the egg—the creature grew to nearly nine meters tall. I had to intervene personally to stabilize the magic and rectify the surge.”

   ​A wave of heat rushed to my face. I was mortified; I had turned a prestigious exam into a catastrophe that required the Sovereign herself to intervene. I watched as she gestured toward the nest. “I have since returned him to the traditional size of a baby—no pun intended.”

   “Wh-what?” I looked at her muddled. ​“Do not be ashamed,” the Princess added, sensing my withdrawal. “It proved you possess a latent power we haven’t seen in centuries.”

   ​Power? Not seen in centuries? I stood there, bewildered. My mind couldn’t process the gravity of her words. I didn’t know how to respond, so I pushed the thought aside, focusing on the immediate response. “So… what happened to the... egg?

​“Bring in the newborn!” a professor commanded.

   ​A knight returned, carrying a small bundle. Inside was a small, purple dragon with green scales along his belly and vibrant green eyes. He was a biological enigma. Suddenly, his greenish eyes snapped open, and he sat up in the straw, looking quite curious. We stared at each other in a silent deadlock for fifteen minutes.

   ​“So,” the Princess spoke in a melodic tone that seemed to hum in the air. “Do you have a name for this gift?”

    ​“A name…” I whispered. “A name.”

​I pondered, studying every inch of him—the deep violet of his scales, the soft green ridges on his brow. Finally, the name surfaced.

   ​“Spike,” I declared. “His name shall be Spike.”

   ​The Princess tilted her head, a gentle smile spreading across her face. “Spike, huh? Well, that is a beautiful name.”

   ​Just as the name left my lips, my parents finally burst into the room, red-faced and breathless. They skidded to a halt just in time to hear my proclamation.

   ​“Spike?” My mother whispered, her eyes widening as she looked at me. “Honey, we’re having another baby,” a wave of warmth washing over her.

   ​“Wow!” my father exclaimed, his voice pitched high with adrenaline. “Yes!” he added, clenching his wife’s hand tightly. He was semi-excited, caught between shock and parental pride. 

   Suddenly, a violent flash of light erupted from the nest, blinding everyone once again.

   ​“Aahh!” I cried out, shielding my eyes.

   ​The hall descended into instant chaos. Chairs scraped harshly against the stone, and the clatter of guards’ armor filled the room.

   ​“What’s going on?!” one of the professors shouted, his voice cracking.

   —“Not again!” another yelled, ducking for cover. “Is the energy surging? Brace yourselves!”

   ​The guards unsheathed their swords, expecting another nine-meter-tall behemoth. But as the light receded, the room fell into a stunned, heavy silence.

   ​The dragon was gone. In its place lay a human infant—small, warm, and possessing a tiny, scaly tail and green ridges along his head. He began to cry—a loud, lonely wail. I didn’t wait for permission; I scooped him up and cradled him against my navy vest, swaying until his cries dissolved into soft hiccups.

      ​“Now that this… dragon-born is here,” the Monarch notified me, her gaze lingering on the child. “taking care of him will be your first venture to fulfill.”

      ​My parents stood beside me, beaming. “We’re having a new kid in the home!” they asserted in unison yet again; jumping with joy...​

    Mom. Dad. Not the time. I whine inwardly. I looked down at the tiny baby in my arms. I am a big brother now. I couldn’t dawdle; I had a lifetime of studying ahead of me. “Maybe this won’t be so bad.”

     As I held Spike, the Princess stepped forward, her eyes twinkling with a final surprise. “By the way, Mister Shine,” she said, her voice carrying across the quiet room. “Will you look at your hand?”

     ​Confused, I looked down, shifting Spike to my other arm. My breath hitched. On the back of my hand, a glowing symbol had appeared—a cluster of brilliant stars surrounding a central light.

     ​Excitement exploded in my chest, a heat even brighter than the magic I’d used earlier. I had obtained my cutie mark that day as well.

     The memory ends and I find myself back to the present. The room; darkened— The golden fingers of the sun had long since retreated from the study, leaving the room to the flickering whims of my candle. The "Day One" I had whispered earlier had bled into the early hours of Day Three. My eyes were stinging, and my back felt like the very walnut slab I sat at—stiff, unyielding, and ancient—but the momentum was undeniable.

     ​I looked down at the sprawling landscape of vellum. The diagrams that had been tangled messes forty-eight hours ago were now clean, geometric triumphs, marching across the page like a disciplined phalanx (a far cry from the chaotic scribbles I had produced during my three-month “brooding” phase).

​

     “Almost there,” I muttered, my voice raspy and dry, sounding like the rustle of the very parchment I worked upon. I dipped the quill for what felt like the thousandth time, watching the nib drink. “I’ve been working on this assignment for two days straight now... just one more proof to bridge the gap.”

     ​The mental fog had burned away, replaced by a focus so sharp it felt like a surgical blade. I could see the end of the project—the final “river of logic” was about to meet the sea of completion. I leaned over the desk, my shadow stretching long and thin against the bookshelves (a dark giant mimicking my every move). Outside the circular room, the rest of the West Wing remained held in a breathless silence, but inside, the air felt electric, humming with the static of a breakthrough. Spike had predicted three days; if I could just solidify this last observation on energy stabilization, I would beat his clock by a handful of hours.

   ​I touched the nib to the paper. Skriitch. The sound was tiny, yet it felt as significant as a gavel striking wood. This assignment was more than just a task; it was a tether to my future at the Academy. I worked with rhythmic efficiency, my hand dancing across the vellum like a needle on a record, carving out truths from the silence of the room. 

                                                                              4

   I was hunched so low over the walnut slab that my nose nearly brushed the drying ink. My quill moved with a frantic, stuttering pace—'shhh-shhh-shhh'—as I wove the final threads of the energy stabilization theory together.

    ​Skrii-itch. The nib hit the final period with a definitive, sharp bite into the vellum. It was done.

   ​I remained motionless for a heartbeat, my hand still gripping the quill like a lifeline. Then, the tension that had been coiled in my spine for forty-eight hours snapped.

   ​“Nnn-ghh…”

   ​I threw my arms back, letting out a long, guttural groan that vibrated through the circular room. Crrr-ack! Pop! My vertebrae protested the sudden movement with a series of sharp, rhythmic snaps that sounded like dry kindling breaking underfoot. I leaned back until the chair gave its familiar, tired sigh—a melodic "creeeaak"—and stared up at the high, shadowed ceiling.

   My eyes felt like they had been rubbed with sand (a side effect of staring at flickering candlelight for two days straight), and my fingers were permanently curved into the shape of the quill’s barrel. I looked down at the finished stack of parchment. It sat there, a thick, formidable pile of logic and sweat that shimmered under the dying amber glow of the candle.

   ​I set the quill down on the desk with a soft clack. I felt hollowed out, yet strangely buoyant, as if the weight of the last three months had been physically transferred onto the paper. The “brooding” was no longer a shadow over my head; it was a ghost captured in ink.

   ​Finally, I rubbed my face with my ink-stained palms, let out a huff of exhausted laughter, and whispered into the gloom:

   ​“Take that, Spike. Two hours to spare.” I vocalized with exhilaration.

◇◇◇◇

   ​A sharp, rhythmic knock-knock-knock echoed through the circular study, causing the heavy oak door to rattle in its frame. I didn’t even lift my head from the walnut desk; my neck felt as rigid as a rusted hinge—a natural consequence of my forty-eight-hour vigil.

   ​“You may come in,” I croaked, my voice sounding like dry leaves skittering across a stone pavement.

    ​The door gave a slow, melodic creeeak as it swung open. Spike stepped in, the flickering candlelight catching the green ridges on his brow. He leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, wearing a characteristically snarky expression (a trait he had perfected since the day he hatched).

    ​“So,” he began, his voice dripping with playful condescension, “how is the ‘brooding’ phase progressing? Are you still stuck on page one, or did you at least manage to write your name at the top.

I didn’t offer a verbal retort. Instead, a slow, deliberate smirk spread across my face—the kind of expression that usually preceded a significant magical breakthrough. I shifted my weight, causing my chair to emit a sharp pop, and with a dramatic flourish, I lifted a massive, formidable stack of vellum from the desk.

Thump! The sound was heavy and immensely satisfying. It wasn’t just a few sheets; it was a behemoth of an assignment, nearly eighty pages of dense geometric proofs and refined magical theory. Spike’s smirk didn’t just fade—it vanished. His eyes darted to the pile, then back to my smug face.

“Two hours to spare, Spike,” I whispered, the stinging in my eyes replaced by a glowing sense of victory.