Panacea

     “It’s the least I can do after what I did to Rohane…” Kayla had said, looking particularly guilty while she rubbed absentmindedly at her star-clad cloak. “If something good comes out of that awful time, even better.”

     At first, Velm was reluctant to work with her, but once he saw her raw talent and genuine passion, he relented.

     Rohane never opened up about what happened in his potion-induced nightmares, only saying that he was glad to escape them. At first, Velm felt a twinge of annoyance from his friend’s secrecy, but quickly chastised himself. It wasn’t as if he told Rohane about his run-in with Drew, the roguish, split-coloured Xweetok thief that inadvertently caused a long, jagged scar to trail down Velm’s left shoulder. At least it wasn’t his dominant hand, he told himself whenever his left triceps spasmed from overuse. If not for his accident in the field, both he and Mipsy might have been back in time for Rohane’s Tri-National Summit keynote speech, but based on the response, it worked to great success—not that he had any doubt. Whenever his boss worked up the courage to stand up on stage, he was always impressed. Why anyone with such a talent for leadership would have crippling stage fright Velm never understood, but at least he was getting past it—to a degree, anyway.

     Velm took a lute-shaped stamp and dabbed it onto an ink pad. After he pressed it onto the first page, he blew on it until it was dry.

     Now that his documents were in order, all he had to do was—

     Knock, knock.

     “Yes?” Called Velm as he bound the papers with twine.

     “Do you…” It came from a familiar bass voice. “Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

     Velm put his project down on the desk. “Sure, come on in!”

     Despite the warmth in Velm’s voice, the door opened slowly, hesitantly. A Darigan Eyrie with pony-tailed purple and black hair and a well-combed mane stuck his head into the room. When a few seconds passed without a word, Velm made a motion to usher him in before nudging the door open.

     “I don’t bite, Serian, I promise.”

     The Eyrie took a step inside. “Of course, Velm, I apologize. I was just anticipating the inevitable, is all.”

     “Inevitable?” The red Techo scoffed as he shook his head in disbelief. “What do you mean inevitable?”

     “I’m used to hearing screams the moment I enter a room.” Serian rubbed his ears as if they’d been hit with a fog horn too many times to count. “More than once my presence has startled someone off of their chair, including just last week when I was sent to investigate a trade disagreement.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, open-minded academics only constitute a small part of the population…”

     Velm’s nose wrinkled. “That’s so rude of them. Why would anyone act like that?”

     Serian blinked a few times as if looking for a modicum of sarcasm from the bard, but when his question seemed sincere, he simply gestured his right hand in a circle that encompassed most of his body.

     The Techo rose a brow. “I mean, your fashion choice is a bit odd, I admit, but I—”

     “Does the fact that I’m a Darigan really not bother you at all?” There was the slightest twitch at the corner of his beak. As it so happened, he was wearing a metal pin in the shape of a crooked tree—his sister found it amongst their mother’s old things. Neither of them knew what it meant… but it was hers.

     “No?”

     “…Seriously?”

     “Yes. Are you…” he hesitated, “expecting a different answer?”

     “I…” Serian closed the door with a gentle push. “I guess not, no. Just wanted to make sure.”

     Serian was wearing a light black cardigan over his purple tunic to catch the slightest of spring chills. When Velm offered to take the cardigan, the Darigan took it off and hung it himself. It matched well with Velm’s heavy black overcoat, a garment edged with golden glyph designs. Between this, a white robe, sandals, and an embellished magical staff, the Techo caught plenty of attention on his afternoon walks.

     “I’m from a place the locals named the ‘Lost Desert’—not that we call it that—and three of my closest friends hail from all over Neopia, so I’m not one to judge someone for where they’re from. And to be completely honest,” Velm lowered his voice and leant towards Serian’s ear, “I feel nothing but empathy for the Citadel. You all have been through so much since your orb was taken.”

     The Darigan couldn’t help his surprise. It wasn’t every day that someone showed more than a dutiful obligation towards Citadel aid—or pity, at the best of times. “I… yes, we certainly have.”

     “Which is why I’m co-heading a project with a few of the Citadel’s best and brightest to distribute new medicines and potions to the masses. We’d like to improve the lives of the Neopians living there.” He pointed to the bound document on the table. “This draft is one of many ideas—and there are more to come—but… enough of my rambles, I have a guest.” Velm pulled out the wooden chair and gave it a pat. “Come, have a seat. And before you say it, I don’t mind standing—been sitting here for hours.”

     Serian did as such, although his tail twisted this way and that from above the floor.

     “Alright,” the Techo continued as he poured Serian a glass of water from a wooden pitcher. Meanwhile, Serian clicked his talons together, a nervous habit that had become more apparent in recent years. “What can I do for you today, friend?”

     The Darigan took hold of the cup and swirled the liquid around. His icy blue eyes then flicked up to meet Velm’s gaze. “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

     “Something… musical?” Velm sang as he gestured to his recently cleaned lute. A hand-painted sign with the name ‘Lucy’ hung from the instrument’s body. When the Eyrie frowned in response, he continued, sweeping his arm across his body and wiggling his fingers dramatically, “Or something maaaagical?”

     With a curl of his thumb, a small wisp of blue flame appeared above the Eyrie’s hand. It hovered for a few seconds, bouncing weightlessly in the air before flickering away in a puff of smoke.

     Velm let out a soft ‘huh,’ his dramatic flair all but faded. “Serian, you know magic?”

     The Eyrie shifted uncomfortably before crossing his arms. “I wouldn’t say I ‘know’ magic so much as it’s within me, a part of my…” his ears fell back and his voice cracked, “bloodline.”

     “How interesting…” the Techo stroked his chin as he began to pace the room. Well over a thousand stories poured through his mind as he made the occasional hum. Serian watched in silence, trying to remain his composure while a growing amount of his fur fluttered to the ground from stress. “The only thing I’ve heard is that Darigan nobility sometimes—”

     “From my mother’s side.”

     Velm stopped in his tracks. “And she’s from…?”

     Usually, Neopians assumed his parentage. It was a relief to see someone ask first. He loosened his grip upon his arms—just slightly.

     “The Haunted Woods.”

     “Oh?”

     “… Yeah.”

     “Which part?”

     The question caught Serian off guard. He made a prolonged “uhhh…” before following that up with, “there are parts?” Then promptly smacked his forehand with his palm. “Stupid question, sorry.”

     “Not at all, no need to apologize.” The Techo smiled sadly. “I’ve adventured around much of the Woods with my friends and have bardic knowledge from songs and stories.” He snapped his fingers. “Actually!” within a few seconds, he was face-deep in a book that came from the second highest shelf of his enormous bookcase; even Lisha would be impressed, Serian was sure if it. From behind the grapefruit-sized tome, Velm asked, “don’t you have a sister?”

     Serian had been watching the bard go about his train of thought, utterly fascinated. It took until Velm waved a hand in front of his face that the Darigan snapped out of it. “Uhh, yes. Yes, I do. Marielle. Same mother, different father.”

     “If that’s the case… I think I can help you find out more about your family. But oh,” he hesitated, suddenly realizing his own enthusiasm, “if you’re okay with it, of course. I tend to get a bit carried away…”

     Serian clicked his tongue against the roof of his beak.

     “Actually, Velm, that would be…” at this point, the Darigan remembered how his eyes, the mood rings that they were, would surely be showing his emotions full front right now. Choking back his thoughts before he crumbled, he swallowed hard. “Yes, thank you.”

     A cold hand rest on Serian’s shoulder before giving it a gentle squeeze. “It’s a storyteller’s duty to make sure that no one is ever forgotten, that every story is told from beginning to end…” he took a deep breath. “So, your mother was magic?”

     Serian balanced his head on his left fist and stared out the window. His ponytail slid against his cheek. “That’s what I heard, yes.”

     “And…” Velm’s voice was gentle. “You want to learn magic, too?”

     The Eyrie laughed lightly, but in a sort of way that seemed more concerned than happy. “I suppose I do.”

     “I take it you came to me for a reason—Mipsy’s the magical powerhouse around here, as you know—and there are a good number of talented mages in town.”

     “Indeed. But given your friendship with Sir Rohane, I knew you were a Techo of integrity. Plus, your reputation is spotless…” Feeling embarrassed, he scratched at his cheek. “So, er, I made a point of coming to you first.”

     “Oh, stop, you’ll only make me blush.” Velm swatted away the compliment with a playful wave. “I could say the same things about you, Mr Rival.”

     Serian smirked until a thought crossed his mind that stole away his joy. With a flick of his right wrist, a small flame floated above the Eyrie’s hand once more, this time lighting his face from below in a mystical blue. “You say that, but you probably know who I am—or who I was, anyway.”

     Velm’s gaze travelled back to a pile of scrolls, some of them labelled in purple and black. “I’ve heard a lot of things about a lot of Neopians, Serian. And what I’ve learned through those tales is that Neopians, if they want to, have the capacity to change… and that’s exactly what you did.”

     A single squeeze extinguished the flame.

     “If you know that much about me, then you know why I can’t—why I should never—have this sort of magical power in my grasp. Not when—not when I—”

     “You can’t blame yourself anymore, Serian. Times have changed.”

     “Even so, I did so many horrible things, Velm...” His vision blurred as he spoke. “I thought I was being just when I—” he couldn’t bear to finish. “I thought that only the powerful deserved to—"

      “But now you use your sword to protect others instead of hurting them.”

     The Darigan’s chest was rising and falling in shallow bursts. “But what if Lisha’s right? That I have all this innate magical ability? That I’m some mage’s son? What if I hurt—”

     “Then you become their shield and you defend those around you.”

     He pressed his forehead into his hands. “But what if I falter, like Kass did, to the allure of power? What if I fall to my old ways?”

      “Then you’ll have your friends and allies to bring you back. Every time, every time we’ll be right there,” Velm gave the Darigan as tight hug that he, for once, did not fight, “right by your side.”

     The cup was refilled with water three, four, five times, as Serian wept in silence. When the tears had dried, tiredness crept in. He found himself drifting off while Velm played a peaceful tune on his beloved lute…

     Serian awoke some hours later with a Babaa wool blanket draped across his shoulders. The table felt soft… a pillow had been propped against his face, he realized. Velm was busily scribbling down notes on the edge of the table for what appeared to be another potion, a green one that looked like liquid pine sap. He was sitting on a crate, a makeshift chair of sorts while Serian slept.

     The quill stopped moving. “How are you feeling?”

     “Fine,” Serian lied, before standing up to pop and crack his aching muscles. “Chains and daggers, I can’t believe I used to camp on the ground like it was nothing. Now just sleeping the wrong way makes me—” he winced—"sore.”

     “Here, let me help with that.” Velm placed his right hand directly on the Eyrie’s back. “Heal” A glow of ethereal light poured from the Techo’s core and spread like lightning from his fingertips to Serian’s body. Within moments, every bit of pain had subsided. Serian spun his arms around for good measure and could scarcely feel the slightest of pops.

     “You really are amazing, Velm.”

     “Thanks, but there’s always more to learn,” he gestured to the books in front of them, “and one day, I’ll read them all.” Serian chuckled, which had the Techo elbowing him playfully, “surprised to see I’m a voracious reader, are you?”

     “Not at all. A good bard knows all the best tales…”

     The two chatted for a bit, a major departure from the Eyrie’s usual emotional distance from all but a select few. He spoke of his recent visit to the Citadel, of the plans that Lord Darigan had to help the land recover from Kass’ authoritarian rule. When the topic of magic came up again, Velm hopped off his crate and took a firm hold of his healer’s staff. When he held it out towards Serian, the Eyrie hesitated.

     “Take one finger and let it touch the silver handle. You should feel a pulse of energy flow from your body and into the staff.”

     Half-way to reaching it, Serian pulled back. “Are you sure it’s safe for me to—”

     Velm nudged the staff forward and it made contact with the Eyrie’s pointer finger. Immediately, it felt as if a tide was pulling energy towards the instrument. He jerked away.

     “—what was that?”

     “The staff helps to focus magic into a narrow point. It condenses ambient energy, creating powerful spells of defense, healing, and mesmerization. And apparently, in your case… makes your eyes glow.” As soon as he said this, Serian’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. “Man, that would’ve come in handy when we were adventuring in those dark caves. Much better than stumbling over one another.” He lowered his voice to a grumble, “and boy, was Mipsy great at stepping on my tail…”

     “Wait.” A flash of concern rose across Serian’s face. “They’re glowing again?”

      “Again, huh?” Velm chortled at that. “This something that happens to you often?”

     Panic crept into his voice. “Er, that is, I—”

     “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

     Serian’s shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.”

     “No problem, Bright-eyes—”

     A light tap came to Velm’s shoulder. “You’re not calling me that.”

     “Fine, fine,” he flung his hand into the air with a dramatic flair, “Boss never liked my nicknames, either—and here I thought ‘Singing Swordsman’ was catchy, but, er back to business.” Velm picked up his finished project and slid his index finger across the top, wincing slightly. “I am your patient. Use a healing spell on my finger.”

     The Eyrie’s lower mandible hung, and for a second, time seemed to stand still. “Wait, what? Like, right now?”

     “Mmhm. Below your sternum, you should feel this pulsing warmth deep inside. Feel that warmth. That’s your magic.”

     Serian took a sharp breath. “And how do I control it?”

     Velm shook his head. “Magic isn’t about control, it’s about letting it move freely, giving it an avenue to grow. Healing magic takes your energy and transfers it to someone else.”

     His voice dropped to a whisper. “But what if there’s too much?”

     “If the spell is more powerful than their ailment, it won’t cause harm. The extra energy dissipates into the air.” Glancing back, he saw Serian’s tail quiver. “You aren’t going to hurt me, I promise you… and believe me, I’ve survived some pretty crazy stuff—last time I checked, you’re not a forty-foot tall, four-armed Draik with an attitude problem.” At least this succeeded in a half-hearted smile. “So, are you ready to try?”

     Despite the firm nod of his student, Velm noticed that the Eyrie had taken a step back. With the gentlest of touch, Velm placed his uninjured hand on Serian’s arm and led it forward. “Imagine a breeze pushing the healing energy from your core to my hand.” There was the slightest bit of resistance when Velm placed Serian’s hand on top of his own. “Focus your gaze on my finger. Take a deep breath and push the energy as if you’re moving water, and when you’re ready… say the word ‘heal.’”

     Whenever Serian was scared—although he denied it vehemently—Lisha told him that his eyes would turn bright blue… and it surely would be like this now. All through his life, Serian cursed his eyes, cursed the thing that made him stand out. The feature that branded him as a “half-thing.” Half-Darigan. They did not think he could hear their taunts, their vitriolic words, but words… had a habit of echoing from within the ancient citadel walls.

     “It’s okay to be scared.”

     Serian bit down hard with his beak. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

     “And I’m saying…” Velm looked him dead in the eyes. “You won’t.”

     Without thinking, Serian clenched his talons and gripped tight. “H-heal.”

     A bright wave of energy moved from his sternum, to his shoulder, to his arm, to his wrist…

     Light faded, returning the room to its normal brightness.

     “Did it… did it w—”

     Serian released his hand in an instant, his face growing pale. There were five dark red spots from where his talons gripped that stood in stark contrast to Velm’s bright red scales. Despite the bard’s smile, he couldn’t help but show the inklings of pain.

     “No worries, friend. It looks like the spell didn’t connect, but I’m—”

     “Hurt. By me.” He pulled his talons into a ball and gripped his hand tightly against his body. Each step he took brought him further and further away. “I hurt you. I—” The crate’s edge caught his heel. He careened back and landed squarely on his tail. “OW!”

     The moment Serian shouted, Velm winced. With the grace of a practiced hero, he spun the staff from its resting place and imbued enough magic to make Serian’s fur stand on end.

     “Panacea!”

     Waves of magic filled the room and comforted them like a soothing balm. Moments later, any evidence of pain floated away.

     When Velm reached out his hand to the fallen Eyrie, he recoiled in defense as a look of terror flashed across his features.

     There came a few seconds of awkward silence before Velm spoke. “That’s… a new one.”

     It took a few seconds for Serian to notice. Sliding across his left am was a glowing arc. Semi-translucent with a slight hum, it resembled Hissi scales. He gave it a precautionary touch—it felt solid.

     “… a shield.”

     “Yeah,” Velm bent in closer to inspect it while Serian grew increasingly uncomfortable, “you could call it that, but I think ‘arm-our’ has a bit more pizazz, don’t you think?”

     “Hah.” Serian blew a few strands of purple hair out of his vision. Between the fall and his fussing, the ponytail had grown messy. “Not calling it that.”

     “Everybody’s a critic,” Velm winked before suddenly becoming more serious, “… and you, Serian, just cast your first defensive spell.”

     Wordlessly, Serian moved his arm from side to side, watching the shield conform to every twist, turn, or angle without losing its shape.

     “If I can cast shields, then I could protect others.” A flash of realization washed over Serian’s features. “And then only I would have to deal with the magic.” Dusting himself off, he found his footing once more. “Velm, I’d like you to throw something at me—the largest thing you have.”

     The bard squinted. “That has ‘meathead idea’ written all over it…”

     “Please, Velm. I need to know if this works.”

     A rumbling grunt was all the approval that he needed. From the side of the door was a metal doorstop in the shape of a Meridellian emblem. Velm took a long look at the metal object in his hand and shook his head as if to say, ‘I can’t believe you talked me into this…’ before lobbing it towards the Eyrie.

     The shield held for about a second before bursting apart… and the doorstop landed square on his left boot.

     The way he hopped up and down, you could have sworn Serian invented a new barn dance. It took two of Velm’s strongest healing spells and an ice pack before the swelling finally went down. Even then, the foot did not completely heal for a few weeks… and it took some creative lies to make a somewhat believable cover story.

     Every day that the Eyrie could make the trip, he walked to his sister’s shop and brought back a bouquet of flowers and a comically large apology card. After the second day, Velm insisted that it was not necessary—that he was the one who should be apologizing—but the Darigan would not stop until he felt his guilt was satisfied.

     And between all of that… he met with Velm bi-weekly to hone his shielding skill. To grow and shape it as a tool of defense.

     Eventually… he told Rohane. His one and only “eternal rival,” despite the fact that Rohane would smirk when he heard the line. The knight eagerly agreed to spar with practice weapons against the shield, and would barrage him until the magic would break. Each time, it felt just a little more stable, a little stronger. Once it could hold its shape under significant force, it was paired with his jeweled sword.

     As each blow deflected off of the shield, he could not help but feel warmth inside… something almost familiar, even.

     “Ready for a break?” asked Velm between his sparring sessions, offering a big pitcher of lemonade and brownies for the ‘mighty meatheads.’ It was a warm, sunny day, and both swordsmen had worked up a sweat.

     Rohane rolled his eyes as he took a long swig. “I refuse to respond to that, Velm.”

     The bard’s eyebrows bounced mischievously. “See? Told ya, Serian.” He paused. “Aaaand Boss is glaring at me again.”

     Watching these two squabbling friends made Serian snort. One day, he hoped that he could find a Neopian that could push his buttons in such a way… although, Jeran was getting there.

     “Feeling better, friend?” asked Velm as he cleaned up the snacks.

     “I feel…” For the first time in a long while, Serian genuinely smiled. A bright ray of light covered his face, making it glow in the afternoon light. He gripped the shield’s translucent strap he made to support the spell’s weight. “I feel like I’m finally learning who I am.”

     The End.