#76 - Magic

Sometimes, when the others believe she is deep in her Art, they will not look at her. They will sit with her and physically watch what she is doing, but they will never look and see.

            It is a matter of politeness; of honour. The others all have their own Items, and they know how it is to be one with the Art. Even though they are each merely one of many, six in a line that will grow past their very imaginings, still, the Items are always only your own, and no one should disturb that knowledge.

            So it is that sometimes Isis must feel guilt for deceiving them. Although she may close her eyes and focus on her Item, it is not the Art she explores. The Art is a method to protect the empire; a dark and glorious path that serves the Light. The Art is for the Pharaoh.

            No, Isis does not serve the Pharaoh in these moments. She serves only herself, her own heart. Though she may feel guilt for betraying the trust of the others, she has and will do it a thousand times over, until it can no longer be done. She is not just a Servant, a priest of the Highest Order. She is a woman, and she will admit that she cares for the others more deeply than a priest may be allowed. That, and that alone, gives her reason to do what she does.

            Her Item must surely agree, for why else would it allow her to search the hearts of the others? Why else would it tell her that they too feel more than a mere priest should? Through its power, she explores the future and marvels over the past that once was.

            She will never tell them so, but she knows the others far more than she should. Her Item has shown her the proud farm boy, the child raised for the sole purpose of serving the Light, the lost orphan who would willingly rescue a witch. She knows of the man who could have been Pharaoh, but instead threw himself into the Darkness.

            She has seen their paths, and though it saddens her to know they will not reach their destination, she is happy to see they will always be joined. They may change, but they will have their hearts. The proud farm boy will become a warrior, draped in green and holding a foreigner’s sword high. The true priest will remain so, and he will link himself with the Items to reach a higher plain. She sees the orphan will grow to command not just one empire but two, and she sees his content with this, even as she mourns his loneliness.

            She fears the Dark man, but trusts – can only trust – that the Light will always be with him, even if he would not have it so.

            She will not explore her own future, but she has seen glimpses of it in the others. She sees herself in cold blue eyes, and hopes that she will always be able to watch him, to tease him, to remind him that he is only human. Sometimes she sees a blank gaze and knows her confidence with him will extend beyond their deaths. She is happy for this.

            But then, there is Mahaado, and she can feel only pain in her heart, even as she knows of his contentment.

            She has seen his past, but not only in her Art. She remembers training with him, hating him for being so more adept at magic than her. She remembers the jealousy she felt watching the Prince meet Mahaado’s gaze, and the horror she experienced when hearing Mahaado speak with him so easily. More than once, she heard them happily arguing, as she was not close enough to do with anyone.

            Those days of heated jealousy are long past, and she now remembers those moments fondly. It is the moments she does not remember, the ones she has seen in Mahaado’s heart, that cause her pain.

            Mahaado does not remember much from his youth. His magic is too strong, it infuses every part of his body and mind, and he can only recall those moments that are truly important. She sometimes thinks he is too hard on his students because of it – he cannot remember his own training, and so feels only exasperation when they cannot grasp concepts he has forgotten struggling with himself. Few students last long under Mahaado’s tutelage, and that is how he prefers it. With only Mana remaining, who forced herself into all their lives and refuses to ever be forgotten, Mahaado may focus his attention solely on his calling.

            He does not remember training with Isis; those long hours spent amongst the dusty tomes, the glares exchanged over their dinners, their shared frustration when neither of them could master any form of weaponry. He does not remember sneaking away from banquets together, talking until dawn, or the way they would both blush and pull back if their hands ever touched. He does not even remember that one night they spent in the Pharaoh’s garden, shocked at their own audacity but staying just to be alone together. These things are not important to him. He knows only that she is important, in the same way that the others are.

            She knows that this is a good thing. His power is more important than their past. Mahaado is everything a High Priest should be, for he does not allow himself personal luxuries such as emotion or memories.

            She knows this. Yet it does sadden her that when she looks into his heart, all she sees is his magic, and his duty. When she ventures into his past, all she sees is Mana, and his Prince. A princeling, reaching up to pick an apple for a friend, his eyes so soft and voice so gentle. Mahaado remembers that smile, which never wavered when a servant would look at it, those kind eyes that would not narrow when they were met. But even more clearly, more vividly, he remembers those eyes going firm and sharp as they refused to be avoided.

            “Is my blood not the same as yours?”

            No, Prince, it is not, Mahaado wanted so desperately to say, but one cannot correct the Sun for shining, and so he could only listen as the prince spoke of a future where he was not above anyone. Mahaado was forced to listen to the Prince’s dreams of a peaceful world where everyone was equal, and only skill and strength could allow anyone to rise above. He was forced to hear the strength in that gentle voice, the anger that drove it, the hope that held it strong. He was forced to believe in it.

            Mahaado does not see what Isis knows, and so he does not know that the Prince will be forced into his world, not create it. Isis will not tell him, for she knows…

            It saddens her, but she knows there is little else for Mahaado. There is his magic, and his prince (forever his prince, forever that young boy that picked an apple and sucked out poison), and his duty to help create that beautiful, equal world.

            She cannot change him, she cannot help him. She cannot even be with him, because no matter how she feels, for Mahaado there is only his prince. Mana may force her way into his attention, but she is just as easily removed from it. Isis may take up a moment of his time, may dream and wish for him to one day remember, but he never will. She will always just be another member of the order, not a childhood friend or even a woman.

            His path stretches so far, and she can see it so clearly. It is not broken – he will move directly from this life to the next, and that one will continue on so much longer than her own path. But it is always the same… he will never have more.

            “Is my blood not the same as yours?”

            No, she tells herself, as she comes out of her Art. Kalim notices and looks up, smiling at her welcome return, but she cannot return it. Mahaado is not the same as they. He is above them, beyond them. He is everything a High Priest should be, and nothing like a man.

            He will serve the Light even when it becomes Dark, for there is no difference in his heart. There is only his prince, only the Pharaoh that will not be.

            Perhaps – no, she knows, even if she would wish it otherwise – that is how it must be.

            Everything is for the Pharaoh.