A Drop of Magic

It all began with a single drop.

A drop that would change everything in a world where nothing seemed to change.

It fell by chance, a mere matter of disregard that let the magic loose. It landed by chance, too. Of all the planets in all of the solar systems in the cosmos it chose this one. Amongst the mass of spiralling life and chaos, star dust, fire and rock it fell to this one planet.

A war torn world inhabited by man and beast, a world where the once mighty creatures with magic flooding their veins had all been slain and were now barely kept alive in forgotten mythology. Man had become complacent in their safety and their hunger never quietened, a constantly rumbling, cawing out from their bones needing more.

So cities grew and fell and the nation’s were thrown into a perpetual feast of discord, a harmony known by none apart from the rich, but they were all the more gluttonous. And as they lounged in their towers, casting metal soldiers across the board like a game, they revelled in the wars that amassed across the globe.

One drop falling down from the edge of the universe, glistening with potential as it captured the light of the thousands of stars that is passed. One drop to change it all.

Contained by the gods, who sat back much like the lord’s and kings below, like disinterested children with an old toy, the magic of life swirled like a tide in the heart of the universe.

Lawfrey, lord of the watch, lay on his golden throne gorged on berries, cheese and wine. His magic usually contained the universal life, it is what they had channelled to create the life below all those millennia ago. But as the alcohol, enough to drain an ocean, laced his senses paired with the sweet taste of disinterest and boredom, he was taken by sleep. A sleep that brought on thunderous snores that would shake a mountain and as his golden chalice rolled atop the floor, the wine that spilled would have been enough to change the tides. As he snored and as the wine spilled, flooding the tiled floor below he slept, lounging upon his golden throne.

Who knows for how long he slept, or truly the amount of which he had consumed. He was lithe and wry, once. The Gods were all so much more, once. But it was during this slumber that like the moon, his magic waned and the seals on the trapped tides of life weakened. Just enough for them to taste freedom. Just enough for a single drop to escape. He did not know the error of his ways, for, how could a God have made a mistake? Also, he did not remember taking the nap, disillusion clouded his memory. Were he to actually know what happened, were he to actually be truthful, why would he be honest to Orrin, God of Gods?

It spilled over the edge. The magic that was once contained surged, fuelled by freedom. And it spilled over the edge of its ancient container. It didn’t move in any spectacular manner, no, it just slid like condensation on glass. Calm and patient. But what it did, now that was spectacular. The old Gods of creation had turned their backs on the universe spiralling below, they had become bored of the insolence of the life they had created. As they observed from their tower above they grew lazy, slumbering monoliths of unparalleled power now complacent in their charge. They did not care, nor were they conscious of the power they wielded.

The planets below knew little of the drop, just as they knew little of the Gods indifference to their lives. An indifference that had been growing over millennia. Some still worshipped the old Gods, others professed to follow the workings of newer deities whilst most severed ties to all when their prayers weren’t answered. Little did they know that this droplet of magic, a mere spec of spray released from the churning tide of life at the core of the universe, would change everything.

Just like man, the Gods knew not of this droplet, there would have been a time that their magic was as closely guarded as the realms they had created. But their children no longer accepted their creators as exactly that. So, the tide surged and that single drop made it over the edge of the Realm of God’s. Trickling its way down to a war ravaged planet where the realm of man rarely saw eye to eye and would often resolve disagreements with shield and blade.

As kingdoms grew and fell, the lands never knew rest as the needs of man were never satiated. More people meant more resources and fewer places to get them. No one knew why all the lords of all the lands couldn’t ever find peace. If anyone were to ask they were never around long enough to do anything about it. Some kingdoms were lucky with their resources and hoarded then accordingly, King Ishra in the south was famed for halls upon halls of gold, but gold does not feed your people. Whilst King Erack housed halls of armies, his lands mapping the mighty mountains in the North, not bountiful in crops or gold but their hardened steel of sword and will made them the most formidable force on the land.

All kings and kingdoms had their accolades, their provincial prowess, refined like an arrow head over centuries and generations of perfecting the art of draining their lands and making it benefit them the most. Some manned the seas, others were blessed with fertile lands and some, like King Erack, had to fight to carve out their place in the world. War was common here and the lord’s did not wish to relinquish any of their lands or resources for the sake of peace. Yes, they traded, but one thing they never dealt in was the currency of trust and honour.

The Gods saw this happening generations before it was so heavily rooted in the people’s lives, decisions made by men who rarely left their temples and towers filtering down to govern the lives of the people below. And when the attention of man left the gods for other sources of power, the Gods also turned their back. Respect is earned in this world. And the Gods lost interest in only being asked to help one kingdom win a war against another, whilst being asked exactly the same from both nations. Only to be scorned when the war was not won. They also did not approve of the lands, the people suffered greatly in the wars, but the lands were what truly bore the scar of human hunger and desire.

Lawfrey, a once proud and noble God, lord of the gate and of the journey, guardian to all, left his golden sword and shield behind and instead found freedom from his boredom at the bottom of his cup. Over the years his muscles bloated and sagged and instead of donning the golden star seed armour which no longer fit him, Lawfrey lounged in loose cotton robes, the shelf his belly made often piled with crumbs and wine stains, just like his unruly beard which had once glimmered like threads of gold and now lay limp, dull as lead.

The world forgot them, the people below no longer knew of the great God Lawfrey, guardian and protector, no, Lawfrey had been forgotten and if he were ever remembered now it was in a toast over the feasting table. “Lawfrey!” the men would cheer as their wine and beer would spill over from thrusting cups. He used to get excited that the realm of man had called his name once more. He knew better now, and even suspected that they knew not of him or his name, just of the drink in their cup and the celebration at hand. A once mighty God, now a mere word used in a toast. Lawfrey would spit on the world, if he were sober enough to aim.

Outside of the towering keeps and walled cities were the humble farmlands, unprotected and unaligned, the people here felt little need to involve themselves with anything that wasn’t the weather, harvest of the current tradable value for their goods. As differing nations would wage wars the value of their coin, or the crop, would fluctuate just like the changing moon. So it was important to be as fluid and resilient as nature, trading was not easy but they were safe, to some degree. All of the cities needed space to grow, but very few actually new how to farm. They were far too busy marring the lands with their battlefields and training more young men to fight.

Maeve knew not of this world, she was born and raised on her parents farm in the back end of nowhere. She knew lots of the land, the seasons, the stars and the Moon. Tending to crops came easy to her, an inherited prowess refined through teachings from her first steps. But as she sat at that rickety wooden table with the cup of water staring back at her, she was able to gaze deep into her olive eyes and wondered,

“Is this what my life is to be?”

For a moment she thought the water could give her answers or at least just take her away to somewhere else but she had no such luck, not even a quiver or a ripple. With a sigh, she shook her golden hair and made to the door. The days were long and steady, they were in the deep of summer and the crops were about to be ready to harvest, “just a few more days of sun” her father would profess over the evening stew, “best hope we don’t get any rain.” Some nights she would mock him, mouthing his recitations as she swirled the contents of yet another strew around the chiselled wooden bowl. Their last pottery bowl broke not too many days ago, so she took her hand to some wood and whittled some bowls. They were crude, shallow and not as smooth as she had liked. But it was her first attempt and her hands were still sore from the splinters, so they would do for now. Other nights the shadows cast upon his face told her to eat her stew and let him mumble to himself about the weather and jobs that needed doing in time for harvest. It was on those nights she missed her mum the most.

Every year seemed to be the same. As if it were pre-determined, scripted and written by a bored author who had lost all interest in creativity or adventure. So, they worked the land, making sure nothing had dried out too much or been overwatered, they were tasked with maintaining the balance so the crops would flourish and they would make decent coin this harvest. Perhaps they could even fix the hole in the roof that in the winter would leak and welcome in all sorts of pigeons and other creatures with the promise of sanctuary from the rain and cold. Maeve didn’t overly mind the hole, it would let her see the stars of the night whilst she lay in her bed, dreaming of what else there could be. For the most part, she didn’t mind the pigeons in the winter either, after her mother passed, it was easy to get lonely here.

But the work kept her busy, even more so now it was just the two of them. No, she didn’t mind the star window or the animal company, but by god she hated the cold and the rain. So hopefully, this year, they would earn enough to finally fix the roof, and maybe buy some bowls. If nothing else, that was a dream, she supposed. And year on year, the only adventure that would grace their lives would be about what would break next and how she would fix it whilst her father would stress over how little coin they had. The same script drawling on. That said, she did hope it didn’t rain and that it did indeed stay sunny. It would be awful for their crops to perish now, she really wanted some new bowls.

“Maeve! Come!” her father’s voice boomed from the neighbouring field where the pigs tried their best to escape on a far too regular basis. At least it was more exciting than tending to the crops who somehow seemed intent on killing themselves. So, she discarded the hand trowel and made for the pig sty. With a quick jog over to her bellowing dad she was greeted with a very unstable Johnathan struggling to herd the giant, squealing pigs whilst also struggling to keep his balance in the thick grey mud. “The fence!” a strained order mixed with panting exasperation. In one hand he held the broken timber, the other outstretched and flapping, like a goal keeper defending one too many balls.

“Right, yes!” Maeve snapped herself away from laughing at the scene before her and rushed over to her sprawling father and enclosing pigs. The pigs were practically maddened by the concept of freedom and we're fixated on the broken fence before them. Picking up the hammer with a familiar ease, Maeve propped the end of the railing whilst holding a nail all with one hand, a skill indeed, especially under the pressure of an increasingly urgent father and frantic pigs. With a skilful accuracy and strength, she drove the hammer down and clanked the nail in with a few deft strikes. After a dash to the other end of the railing, freeing it from a very muddy and disgruntled father, she drove in three more nails to secure it in place. “Done.” Triumphant and satisfied with her work, Maeve dusted off her hands with a smugness that was enhanced by her very proud, very restrained dad who was now perfectly dishevelled and disgruntled. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up” with a laugh she walked him back to the house.

That night she lay in her straw bed, staring up through the hole to see the stars twinkling away at themselves. She was weary from the day for sure, the pigs had continued to be restless, just like the horses in the stables. Her dad was in a mood for the rest of the day as well, farming was always her mother’s forte... No, Jonathan was more tailored for mathematics, paperwork and organisation. He had learnt to work the farm when he met Meredith all those years ago but it was her passion, the animals and plants just listened to her. And now... Well, now they have a hole in the roof and a crop field that wants to kill itself. Maeve tried ever so hard to pick up her mother’s mantel these past years and threw herself into the farm as she thought was right. And yet she could never shake the feeling that if her mum had whittled those bowls, they’d have been perfect.

Losing his wife had truly taken its toll on Johnathan, the once proud man who would run the trading and accounting side if the farm now donned an unruly beard that smothered his face, eyes of dull emerald peering out, framed by the mass of brown curls and ever-growing wrinkles. In the earlier years, Maeve often thought about how his eyes or smile didn’t sparkle like they used to. She was used to it now, and had accepted that no matter what she did her love could not change the loss that lived in his heart. A lodger that took up too much space and demanded a heavy tax. Sometimes, he could not keep up with the payments.

So she lay there, gazing and longing. The stars captured in her eyes, captivating her with their light. She often pondered about how they just were. Nothing more, nothing less, just glowing, indifferent to her or the world and glowing regardless. Musing over how they’d never know just how much the people below depended on them. How can someone be so dependent on something that is so indifferent? No, Maeve knew not of this world. For how is a star any different to the wooden bowl for her stew or the coin they need for the roof? All indifferent to her and yet oh so important. Perhaps if she were more important, more interesting...

For a while she wondered about how the animals on the farm were particularly riled today, but she had spent enough energy that day soothing the egos and emotions of riled creatures, her father included. So she lay there, fighting back the sleep to see the stars for just one more moment.

And there it was. Maeve rubbed her eyes in disbelief as she’d seen it through heavy lids. But it was still there, carving it’s way through the sky, burning bright against the night. It lasted too long to be a shooting star so must have been something else, but what? She bolted up in bed, holding back a gasp at the beauty of It’s icy blue trail and glistening star like head.

With a rush and silent urgency, Maeve flew from her bed and wrapped her cloak around the fading cotton night dress. Scuffling on some shoes, she snuck out, determined to not wake her snoring father, murmuring in his dreams. A sigh of relief, the door closed behind her and it was still there slicing through the sky. Mesmerised by the falling star, fixated by its beauty, Maeve walked without thinking and was soon knee deep in their hay field, the ocean of grass swaying in the breeze, painted silver from the moonless, starlit sky.

“What are you?” her words felt like they were spoken by a stranger as she continued to move forwards, following the call of the cosmos. The grass kissed her hands as she waded through the field. The arcing comet seemed to gain speed as it carved through the sky, burning bright like ignited magnesium. The siren call of the falling star called Maeve with a sweet lullaby, dulling her senses so all she could see, feel and be was this spectral radiance. Icy blue, it reminded her of her mother’s eyes, pale and yet deep, like the oceans in the south she had been told about, “Positively tropical” her mum would chirp. It was if her dear mother was there now, walking with her, a hand on her back guiding Maeve towards this star. As it got closer, the world around her lit up in the same blue radiance. She kept walking, unconsciously traversing fences and avoiding ruts in the field. Like a ghost, the gentle breeze lifting her cloak, Maeve practically floated across the land, cast in that glowing blue like a sapphire caught in the light. Soon the other stars were devoured by the light of this comet, as if day had taken back the night. In the back of her mind, Maeve could hear the rushing of water, the churning of waves and the roiling of a storm, but she thought nothing of it other than moving towards the light, like a moth to the flame.

She thought not of what she was doing. She did not consider the depth of the night or the chill of the wind. She did not think of the length she had walked, nor did she think of the farm she had left behind. Maeve knew not of the land she now trod, who’s crops they were or how much time was left until dawn. All she knew now was the call of the star that fell and the call of her mother, her smile and her love beckoning and welcoming. Maeve had climbed a hill, a stone had waited for her there, solid and cool. The granite shone with the light of the star, the quartz glistening like ice as it grew out of the ground below, moss clinging to the rough surface offering a soft reprieve from the harsh tor. Maeve did not know if she was out of breath from the climb but a phantom memory of her mother bringing her here played out before her, ghosts of the past reliving the story, spectral light shining out, rippling like she was underwater. The stone welcomed her with a curious familiarity, Maeve did not rightly remember being here, but the stone remembered her just as her hand remembered it. From here, she looked up to see the star in stark clarity, the world below dissolving away. As the star fell, lighting the night, it was not just the world below that dissolved away, it was as if Maeve herself faded into the background. Time slowed and she did not if she was breathing, or in fact if she could breathe. In that endless moment, Maeve became formless, within the single beat of a heart, the star boomed into a radiant flash before welcoming the night once more. Within that flash Maeve’s mind flooded with light, a rushing tide sweeping her away before she too welcomed the darkness of night.

Maeve knew not of what happened next as within that heartbeat, within that flash she lost all sense of self and the dark which reclaimed the night also consumed her body and mind.