Divination is the practice of seeking knowledge of the unknown or future through supernatural or symbolic means. There are hundreds of divination methods used across cultures and time periods, each utilizing different tools, elements, or techniques. Below is a categorized and comprehensive list of various divination practices.
Classical & Symbolic Divination
These methods use symbols, numbers, and abstract concepts to gain insight.
A. Alphabet & Writing-Based Divination
• Abecedarian Divination – Using letters of the alphabet in random patterns for messages.
• Onomancy – Divination through names.
• Graphomancy – Analyzing handwriting for hidden meanings.
• Lexomancy – Opening a book randomly and interpreting the first word or passage seen.
• Spirit Boards(Ouija) - Spirit divination using an alaphet board and planchette to spell out messages.
B. Number-Based Divination
• Numerology – The study of numbers and their mystical meanings.
• Arithmancy – Using numbers associated with names or events to predict outcomes.
• Geomancy – Casting marks on the ground or sand to form patterns for interpretation.
C. Sound & Speech-Based Divination
• Echomancy – Interpreting random or accidental sounds.
• Oinomancy – Using the sounds and bubbles of poured wine for divination.
• Geloscopy - Divination using the sound of someone's laugh.
• Cantiumancy - Drawing messages and predictions through music.
• Phonomancy - Divination through people's voices and speech.
Elemental & Nature-Based Divination
This category includes divination methods that rely on natural elements like fire, water, earth, and air.
A. Fire Divination
• Pyromancy – Divination using flames.
• Capnomancy – Studying smoke patterns.
• Causimomancy – Burning objects and interpreting how they react.
• Spodomancy - Divination using ashes.
• Ceromancy - Interpreting the patterns/shapes in melted candle wax.
B. Water Divination
• Hydromancy – Scrying or divining using water.
• Pegomancy – Studying the movement of sacred wells or springs.
• Aspidomancy – Scrying with whirlpools or moving water.
C. Air & Wind Divination
• Aeromancy – Divination through atmospheric conditions.
• Anemoscopy – Studying wind direction and patterns.
• Chaomancy – Observing air currents and swirling dust or leaves.
D. Earth Divination
• Lithomancy – Casting and reading stones or crystals.
• Geomancy – Reading marks or patterns in soil, sand, or earth.
• Spatalamancy – Divination through cave formations.
• Halomancy - Divination using salts.
• Abocomancy - Divination based on interpretation of the patterns in dirt, silt, sand, or dust.
Animal & Plant-Based Divination
These methods rely on interactions with living things and biological matter.
Oh you know the true hates kiss from the reversed trope list is perfect frenrey material!
(Reverse Tropes Prompt List)
Alvi, you are always so right about all things Frenrey. Here are over 10k words on the subject, in a medieval/fantasy AU, because WHY NOT.
True hate’s kiss (only kissing your enemy can break a curse)
When the doors to the receiving hall burst open, Gordon was ready, his cloak whirling around him as he spun, a hand on his short dagger and his other hand held out in front of his body as a shield. He'd stepped in front of the prince in the same motion, but Tommy was so tall he could peer easily over Gordon's shoulder by levering himself up an inch or so in the Low Throne.
The oak doors boomed as they bounced off the stone walls and swung slowly back, but the messenger had already hurried through and was speaking urgently to one of the guards, two of whom had crossed their spears to bar further entry unless allowed by the prince.
“Do – do you recognize him?” Tommy asked, and Gordon raised a hand – the metal one – struggling to hear the hushed voices faintly echoing through the shocked hall. The farmers who had been asking for permission to dig another canal for a water supply to their fields were just as curious, bobbing out of their bows only to duck their heads again when they saw Gordon looking.
“My lord prince!” The messenger's voice was strident, with tones of a town crier or a bard. “A dragon draws near!”
The farmers gasped and scuttled away from the base of the dais as the messenger strode forward. Definitely bardic, Gordon decided, from his self-important air.
“My lord prince, you must flee the castle,” the messenger said as he drew near the Low Throne. Gordon took one step to the side, but kept his body half in front of Tommy's in case of a surprise attack.
“And why shall – um, why should I flee?” Tommy asked. The worst part was, he was genuinely curious. Gordon could tell. They'd grown up together, Gordon tagging after the princeling as a page and squire until he was picked up by a knight to tour the kingdom before his own knighting, and Tommy couldn't hide the shades of his tone from Gordon, even now.
“Because...” The messenger seemed at a loss. Clearly, he was used to his words having much greater effect. Definitely a bard. “Because it is a dragon, your highness. It has already laid waste to the outlying villages near the river, and now it turns its baleful eye on the castle. You must away!”
“I'm – I'll think about it,” Tommy said, leaning back on the Low Throne. The empty High Throne glittered in the sunlight slanting through the windows above him. “Thank you for the warning,” he added, belatedly. “You're – you've done, um, very well.”
“I'm – is there nothing I could say to convince -” the messenger began, then quailed as Gordon stepped forward and pressed the metal hand to his chest.
“That means scram,” Gordon told him.
The messenger stepped backward down the two steps of the dais, back to floor level, hands raised, eyes fixed on Gordon. “You're him, aren't you? The Free Man, the Silver Hand.”
“We're all free men under Coolatta rule,” Gordon said shortly. Tommy cleared his throat behind him, and Gordon hastily added, “even the women.”
“But you are the Silver Hand, are you not?” The messenger probed. “He who fought the wizard of the North, the Hand of the King sent to sign a peace treaty and he who lost a limb for it, turning the Hand of the King into the prince's Silver Hand?”
“You are a fucking bard,” Gordon growled, “I knew it. Get out!”
“Please,” the bard said, backing toward the doors as the guards advanced warily. “My family lives in Artesia – it's between the river and the castle. As the dragon flies, it will be immolated before the sun sets on the morrow. You who have fought wizards, please -!”
“I didn't fight the damn wizard,” Gordon said, stalking after the bard as he retreated from the dais. “He was a fucking prick and his skeletons cut off my hand, so I left. I don't care what you've heard. Someone like you probably made it up.”
“You – you've fought lots of people, Sir Freeman!” Tommy called, and Gordon waved a hand at him in annoyance. “You're very strong!”
“Tommy -” Gordon shifted his weight to glare over his shoulder. “Your highness, respectfully, shut the fuck up.”
“Okay!” Tommy said brightly, and Gordon turned back and shoved the bard through the doorway and into the hall beyond.
“We're done for the day,” he told the hopeful supplicants waiting in the hallway. “There's a dragon, apparently. Ask the bard, he'd love to tell you.” Then he ushered the farmers and guards out as well and slammed the doors.
“That was harsh, Gordon.” Bubby's voice rang through the stone hall, echoes muffled by the tapestries on the walls. Most of them portrayed Tommy's father's various battles and conquests, the king himself always on the edges of the wall hangings, rather than centered as his forebears liked to be. But these tapestries were woven through with metallic thread, so if the viewer tilted their head just right under the correct light, they could see the delicate spiderweb of connections that shimmered across the tapestry, all leading back to the king. The man wouldn't know 'subtle' if it hit him in his weird blue eyes with a frying pan.
“I think it's good that he's gone!” Dr. Coomer added, the two advisors stepping out of their usual alcove and approaching the Low Throne.
Tommy pulled his legs up and crossed his ankles, pale hose flashing in the afternoon sunlight. “What do you think?” he asked. “Where did the dragon come from, and, um, what does it want?”
Bubby shrugged. “Hell if I know.”
“Bubby, dear, you should consult your augury,” Dr. Coomer suggested.
“The sacred chicken was butchered last week for the chef's meal,” Bubby replied dryly.
“O-oh,” Tommy said, slumping back in the throne. “I thought that luncheon tasted extra holy.”
Gordon sighed, scrubbing his flesh hand over his short beard, nails scratching through the neatly-trimmed hairs. “Go find a dove or something outside, then.”
“Dove are unlucky,” Bubby told him.
“All right – a pigeon, then.”
“Oh, pigeons are fine. I'll go look.”
As Bubby trotted out one of the back doors of the receiving hall, Gordon turned his gaze to his prince. “We should send out scouts, I guess. See for ourselves what's going on.”
“I’ll ask my father,” Tommy said, settling his shoulders against the tall back of the Low Throne and pulling a reflective black disk out of his vest.
Dr. Coomer eyed it reproachfully. “Tommy, you shouldn’t be taking that out of your rooms. You know the enchantment doesn’t last as long if it isn’t anchored to the same place each time.”
“But it – it is anchored to the same place each time,” Tommy replied. “It’s anchored to, um, to me.”
“That’s...not how magic works,” Dr. Coomer said slowly, but he didn’t sound sure of himself.
Tommy raised the mirror-smooth disk of volcanic glass and pressed his fingers around the edges for several seconds before placing it in his lap. “There. He, um, he should get back to us soon.”
“Where is your dad these days?” Gordon asked, scratching at the place where metal met flesh on his wrist.
“Um...I’m not sure,” Tommy said. “Over the mountains, I think.”
“And through the woods?” Gordon snorted.
“To grandmother’s house we go, Gordon!”
“I don’t, um, I don’t have a grandmother,” Tommy said, and Gordon had to reassure him that was normal and fine again for the thousandth time. Tommy didn’t even have a mother. It was best not to ask questions in this kingdom.
The glass disk on Tommy’s lap gave a vibrating buzz like an angry beehive, and colors flashed across its surface, quicker than fish in a stream. He picked it up and frowned at the jet-black surface, poking at a few places around the edge, then groaning and dropping his head against the back of the Low Throne.
“What? What is it?” Gordon asked, alarmed by the reaction.
“My dad says it’s not a dragon,” Tommy said. “It’s –”
“A wyvern,” Bubby’s voice interrupted. He walked back into the receiving hall, his wrists coated in feathers and streaks of blood. “It’s a wyvern, which is much, much worse.”
“Oh, dear,” Dr. Coomer said quietly.
Gordon’s fingers tightened on the knife at his belt. “Why is that worse?”
“Because it means we’re cursed,” Bubby said. “Dragons are easy; they’re just animals. Wyverns are hell.”
* * *
According to Tommy, the king claimed he was on his way back, but it could take weeks of travel – and part of the reason he’d left Tommy in charge was to give him experience running the kingdom on his own. So, here he was, ostensibly on his own, making decisions.
“Put the damn rock down,” Gordon told him, and Tommy guiltily placed the glassy disk flat on the polished pinewood table. They were in the Server Room, whatever that meant – the name was older than Dr. Coomer, but it was the room the monarch and their advisors retreated to in order to strategize. The windows were slits, so there were lamps on the wall and a basket of glow-worms that Bubby would shake to agitate when they needed more light on the maps.
“I – I just don’t understand what it wants,” Tommy said. “Why is it coming here?”
“To know that, we have to find out who it was.” Bubby had a stack of books at his elbow, some of which made strange noises when he cracked their spines. Gordon stayed on the other side of the table. He didn’t trust magic. He’d seen what it could do – and what it couldn’t.
“And then what? Try to talk to them?”
“Hello, Gordon!” Dr. Coomer chirped from the doorway, his arms full of even more books. “If you speak a wyvern's name, you can sometimes recall them to their human shape!”
“What, like werewolves?”
“Don't be silly, Gordon,” Dr. Coomer chuckled, dropping the books onto the table and sitting next to Bubby. “Werewolves aren't real.”
“Y-yeah, everyone knows that,” Tommy said from the head of the table. Gordon turned to glare at him and saw his hand creeping toward the glass disk.
“Ah-ah! No! Leave that alone!” Gordon barked, and Tommy retracted his hand quickly. “You dad will get here when he gets here, and no amount of checking on his progress will change that. Besides,” he added, wheedling, “don't you want to show him you can do this on your own?”
“Not – not really,” Tommy said mournfully. “Not if it's hurting people.”
Dr. Coomer raised his hand and tapped the map of the castle and its surrounding territory. “The last scout said that they only saw some property damage and crop destruction – no lost lives. It's certainly not tearing through villages like that first messenger suggested.”
“Bards,” Gordon scoffed, crossing his arms.
“B-but people need place – houses to live in, and, and, um, food to eat,” Tommy said. “What's – we have to stop it. We have to find out who it is!”
Gordon sighed and tipped his head back. “Why can't we just kill it?”
“It's twelve feet at the shoulder, for one,” Bubby said wryly, flipping pages with a look of deep concentration on his face. “And the damn thing flies. How are you proposing we kill it?”
Gordon shrugged. “The usual? Arrows, lances, javelins? Fire?”
Bubby's head snapped up. “You cannot set fire to a wyvern, you fool! They're full of toxic gases – an eruption would wreak havoc on the land for miles around, with lasting effect for generations. Salting the earth would do less damage!”
Gordon held up both hands, palms out. “Okay, okay, sheesh, I'm sorry,” he said. “So...is it like an inflated bladder-ball? You can't stick it with anything?”
“The neck's fair game,” Bubby replied, going back to his books. “And taking limbs off is fine. Just don't burst the torso.”
“What do we do with it after it's dead, then?”
“Oh, the gases will lose toxicity in a few days as natural decomposition sets in,” Bubby said absently. “After a week it can be butchered and buried, like any poisonous creature.”
“How often are you –” Gordon started slowly, then cut himself off when Dr. Coomer made a violent slashing motion with his hand, still smiling brightly.
“What’s that, Gordon?” Bubby asked, his nose buried in a tome.
“Uh...nothing.” Gordon eyed Dr. Coomer warily. “Just talking to myself.”
“Terrible habit, Gordon,” Dr. Coomer chirped. Gordon slumped in his seat. He couldn’t win with these advisors.
“We – if it was a person, we should try to talk to them, right?” Tommy said. “I don’t – if it’s someone from here, then they’re, um, they’re one of my subjects, and I don’t want to kill any of my own people.”
“Pretty sure it’s not a person anymore,” Gordon muttered.
“Not right now, but they can be again,” Bubby said triumphantly, slapping his palm down flat on a page of one of the heavier books. “I’ve got something here that might work to identify them, but I need supplies.”
Tommy sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bubby, please – please don’t kill any more of the carrier pigeons for – for your augury. The dovecote keeper was, um, very upset.”
Bubby sniffed and straightened his sleeves as he stood, marking his page and heaving the large tome up into his skinny arms. Dr. Coomer stood up as well, as if ready to catch either the book or Bubby, should one outweigh the other.
“I should think that knowledge and prophecy are more important than some racing birds. I only took two, anyway.”
“All right, but – but one of them was a very reliable messenger, so, um, just...please don’t.”
“Fine,” Bubby sighed. “I’ll find one of the falconers to catch wild birds. But if the portents are off, this will be why!” Then he strode from the room – or at least, he tried to stride, but the weight of the book turned it more into a stagger. Gordon would have been worried, but Dr. Coomer hurried out after him, leaving Gordon and Tommy alone with a pile of discarded musty books of magic and a scattered collection of maps.
Tommy turned his gaze up and peered at Gordon for a long moment. “Do you think you can?”
“Do I think I can what?”
“Kill the wyvern.”
Gordon shrugged, his orange cloak settling tight across his shoulders. “I don’t see why not. Some of these new warhorses are rock-solid, and with that height I could lop a wing off, easy.”
“B-but what if that means the person, um, loses their arm if – when they turn back?”
Gordon raised his silver hand, twisting it slightly. “It’s not the end of the world.”
“Oh – s-sorry, Sir Freeman.”
“Don’t call me that,” Gordon sighed. “You of all people...”
“S-sorry, Gordon.”
Gordon put his elbows on the table and placed one hand over the other, glaring down at the maps and scrutinizing the more detailed illustrations of the streets and buildings in the village closest to the wyvern’s last known location. There had to be a way to keep it on the ground long enough to get a blade through the damn thing’s neck. He pondered strategies as Tommy flicked through inventory lists, checking their stored caches of grain and seeds, adding up what they would need to replace the crops that had already been destroyed.
“We do need to know who it is,” Gordon said slowly, leaning forward to trace his finger down a street between two tall buildings. “If we can get it here, and we can get a net large and strong enough, or multiple weighted nets...”
“You could pin it down.” Tommy tilted his head to squint at the street Gordon indicated. “A-and then, if the name thing, um, doesn’t work, then...”
“Then we kill it,” Gordon said, leaning back in his chair. “Easy.”
“Not easy,” Bubby said from the doorway, and Gordon twitched. He hadn’t even heard the key in the lock – but dramatic entrances did seem to be a required aspect of augury. “Skeletons are marching out of the northern woods.”
Tommy stood up abruptly, the legs of his wooden chair screeching on the tiled floor. “The skeleton army? But – but we have a treaty!”
“The treaty may not apply in this case,” Dr. Coomer said carefully, plucking a wayward feather from Bubby’s shoulder. He had another feather caught at the edge of his mustache, which fluttered when he talked. “We never stipulated what was to become of the army if their wizard was...magically incapacitated.”
“Why should that matter?” Gordon snapped, his metal hand aching. “If he blows himself up, that’s not our problem!”
“The wizard of the North didn’t blow himself up,” Bubby said, and Gordon saw Tommy’s eyes widen. The prince had always been the cleverer of the two of them, though he often sought to hide it.
“He’s the wyvern?” Tommy breathed.
“He’s the fucking wyvern,” Bubby confirmed.
Gordon’s limbs felt like ice as he pushed his chair back and stood. “I don’t see why you think this would make the wyvern harder to get rid of,” he told them. “I’ve been dying to kill Benry for years.” Then he pushed past the advisors and stalked out of the Server room, the silver hand hanging like a stone from his wrist.
* * *
Two days later, crouching on the roof of one inn and squinting through bright sunlight at the other, Gordon wished the option of fire hadn’t been taken off the table. A few flaming arrows through the wing membranes would have been much easier than this contrived plan, but this was what they had to work with.
“Sir, what if it doesn't come this way?” The young knight looked sweaty in his armor under the cloth covers they were using as camouflage.
Gordon patted him on the shoulder and shifted to shimmy out from under the covering. “It'll come this way. Don't worry about it.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Gordon grimaced, but let the honorific slide. It was technically true, but he hated to think about it. “Remember to wait for Sir Forzen's signal,” he told the young knights with their bundles of netting. “If you throw the nets too soon, there won't be enough weight. The wyvern could shake them loose, and then we're fucked.”
He ducked out from under the camouflage covering before he heard their reply. Squinting against the sunlight, he waved across the street to where Forzen stood on the opposite inn's roof. Forzen made a gesture at him and ducked under his own camouflage cover, leaving both roofs looking suspiciously lumpy, but hopefully not in a way that would automatically catch the wyvern's eye. Then Gordon slid down to the eaves and dropped with a clatter of armor to the raised wooden walkway below.
No one was there to be startled by his sudden appearance, because he'd already ordered the evacuation of this quarter of the village. He could smell the toxic gases on the wind: scorched metal, burning bogs, some other notes he couldn't name. They hadn't seen the wyvern yet – good, or it would have seen them – but that meant he had no idea where it was, other than “close enough to smell.”
Gordon's nose wrinkled as he hurried to the end of the street where the warhorse was tied up. Alyx, the young stablehand whose father raised the castle's horses, had promised that this was the steadiest destrier they had. Gordon supposed it wasn't the poor horse's fault it had such an unfortunate name. Alyx had apparently been very young at the time.
“All right, Dog, let's go.” He swung up onto the destrier's back, and as promised, the horse barely shifted his hooves under the increase in weight. “Time to find the asshole wizard who's currently an asshole wyvern.”
Dog snorted, but turned obediently under the reins and began to walk down the cross-street toward the edge of the village. Gordon glanced up, eyeing the clouds scudding across the sky, then nudged Dog into a trot. He could still see a sickly iridescent sheen to the edges of the smog overhead, which meant the wyvern was even closer than he'd thought.
They broke out from between the last buildings into open fields, the roadway stretching straight ahead toward the forest. Gordon frowned, squinting at the edge of the woods, where the tree trunks appeared to be moving strangely. He twisted awkwardly in the saddle, his knee bumping the lance that was hooked vertically into a carrying strap near the pommel, the scabbard of the sword at his hip thudding against Dog's flank. The horse flicked his ears back, but didn't pause as Gordon squinted now over his shoulder, beyond the village rooftops to where the castle rose over the surrounding countryside.
From the highest tower, a red pennant flew, and a light flashed from a reflective polished message-mirror, the same signal over and over: ENEMY ENEMY ENEMY ENEMY
Gordon twisted back in the saddle to face forward, reining Dog in to slow him to a walk. The movement at the edge of the wood resolved itself into flashing white curves and columns stacked and piled on top of each other, not leaving the shadow of the trees, but massing more and more each moment.
“Fuck,” Gordon said, as he stared at the skeleton army.
The wind turned suddenly, the scent of silage and scorched stone wafting from Gordon's left. He turned his head to look across the field and saw the wyvern coming in low and fast, its wings nearly hitting the heads of barley on the downbeat. Gordon cursed and spun Dog, the destrier swiveling on his haunches to face the cursed creature, front hooves stomping and ears pricked.
“Well, here goes nothing,” Gordon muttered to the patient horse, before raising his voice. “HEY! I KNOW WHO YOU ARE, ASSHOLE!”
The wyvern dipped one wing and hooked around Gordon, who tapped Dog's flank to make sure the destrier kept his head pointed toward the threat as the wyvern circled them. It did a full circuit, and Gordon got his first good look at the cursed creature.
It looked nothing like the wizard. It looked like a monster, like a dragon warped and twisted, truncated and torn. Its hind legs and tail stretched out behind it, acting like a ship's rudder to help to turn on its massive, bat-like wings. It had a long, sinuous neck and a short, stubby head like a lizard, not at all like a dragon's noble equine snout, and pebbled gray skin instead of overlapping scales. And, most differently from a dragon, it had no forelimbs – only heavily built wing joints with two curved and clawed fingers, which would hold the weight of the front half of its body on the ground.
It was ugly as sin, and Gordon hated it on sight.
He'd been concerned when it started its turn that the wyvern would land on the road between him and the village, but it landed instead on the road between him and the forest, placing its army at its back. Gordon wasn't sure if that answered Bubby's question or not.
“If he remembers who he is, he might seek the help of the skeleton army,” Bubby had told Tommy two days before. “If he can still control them, I don't know what we'll do.”
“He – but he must be in control, right?” Tommy had asked. “Or why would he, um, why would they come here?”
“Could be a time-based homing spell,” Bubby had shrugged. “If it's just that, they won't attack until he tells them to. We'll have to hope he didn't call them, and doesn't remember how to control them.”
Now, the wyvern seemed fully focused on Gordon, even with its army at its back. He was hopeful about that, since the skeletons seemed unwilling or unable to leave the shadow of the woods in the sunlight. He'd seen them move after dark, though, so that meant they had to finish this quickly, one way or another.
“Hello, you ugly bastard,” Gordon growled, hand on his lance. “Do you remember me?”
The wyvern let out a creaky roar and stalked closer to him, its wings folded awkwardly over its spine as it advanced on wingtips and hind legs, tail thrashing behind it.
“Yeah, you don’t know shit.” Gordon unclipped the harness and pulled the lance out of its straps, hefting it thoughtfully. His silver fingers spasmed and he gritted his teeth in response, willing them to behave. The wyvern took another lurching step forward.
“Fuck it,” Gordon muttered, then raised his voice again. “Hey! HEY! BENRY! Does that do anything? BENRY!”
The wyvern reared up, flaring a previously-unseen ruff behind its head, and hissed at him. Dog shifted his weight under Gordon, but the destrier held steady.
“Come on, we know it’s you!” Gordon yelled. “Benry! Wizard of the North! Asshole who cut my fucking hand off!”
The wyvern made another creaky noise, then a sound like a deflating ball. It staggered, stumbling from side to side as it shook its head and made another horrible creaking shriek that pitched up so high that Dog pinned his ears back in response. Gordon winced, but he didn’t have a free hand to plug his own ears with.
This was the moment of truth. If Bubby’s tomes were right, saying the wizard’s name should call him back to human shape, and then Gordon could remind him of the treaty and make him take his skeletons and go home. But if it didn’t work, Gordon had to hope that he was good enough bait to draw the creature into the prepared ambush.
Of course, the damn wizard had to pick a third option.
The wyvern had lost its balance in its thrashing and ended up on its side, one leg kicking at the sky as its wings tangled underneath it. Gordon nudged Dog forward, wondering if he should take this chance to pin the thing’s wings down with the lance, or even draw his sword and lop its head off – but then it jerked again and uncoiled rapidly, hauling itself to its feet and swinging its head out from under its body to raise its long neck up and stare down at Gordon.
And it was staring with the wizard’s fucking face.
Gordon yanked reflexively on the reins as he leaned back, and Dog obediently backed up several steps before Gordon forced himself to stop them both. “Oh, fuck, that’s horrifying,” he said, staring in alarmed disgust up at the human face that had taken the place of the lizard-like maw on the end of the wyvern’s neck.
“Yyyyuh,” the wyvern said. “Yerrrrr.”
“What the fuck,” Gordon said.
“Yurrrrr...y’re, uh...” The wyvern shook its head again, then grimaced with its now-human face. “Ugh. You. You’re sayin’ it wrong.”
“What the fuck,” Gordon said, more fervently.
“M’name,” the wyvern continued, dropping its head on its long neck until the wizard’s oversized face was at the same level as Gordon on Dog. “You’re...sayin’ it wrong. S’not Benry.”
Gordon felt like he was going insane. How was this his life? Why couldn’t it have been a dragon? Dragons were easy. “Well, what the hell is it, then?”
“It’s Benrey,” the wyvern said, and Gordon barked out a laugh.
“That’s what I said! Benry!”
“No-uhh,” the wyvern whined, tilting its massive head sideways. “Benrey.”
“Okay! Sure!” Gordon said manically. “Why do you look like this? It was supposed to change you back!”
“Yeah, but, y’said it wrong,” the wizard told him.
“Oh, great, fine then.” Gordon cleared his throat and enunciated with as much sarcasm as he could muster. “Benrey, wizard of the North – stop being a wyvern right fucking now.”
“Can’t,” the wyvern sighed petulantly. “The moment’s gone.”
“I want to kill you,” Gordon said conversationally. “I wanna make you dead.”
“Kinky,” the wyvern said, then tilted its head and spat out a line of colored orbs which burst on contact with the ground into clouds of toxic gas. “Ugh. Gross.”
“Stop doing it, then.” Gordon began backing Dog up again, eyeing the skeletal crowd in the trees beyond the wyvern's flank. They hadn't changed their behavior at the appearance of the wizard's face or words – hopefully that meant he wasn't going to use them to attack.
“Can't help it,” the wyvern said with the wizard's face. “Feels weird. Can't...”
It lurched forward suddenly, and Gordon raised the lance to smack the side of the wizard's giant face with a ringing clang. He was wearing that stupid helmet, which merged sickeningly with the rough skin of the wyvern's neck.
“Owww,” the creature complained. “That hurt.”
“Don't try to fucking eat me,” Gordon said frantically, risking a look back over his shoulder. He could spin Dog and take off at a gallop back toward town, but there was no guarantee the wyvern would land again if it took off now, and they needed it on the ground for the ambush to work. Dog's ears flicked as they retreated, the hard-packed dirt of the road crunching under his heavy-shod hooves.
The wyvern made a raspy noise and Gordon whipped his head back around, golden fields blurring at the edge of his vision. The wizard's eyes looked vacant – more than usual – and the wyvern coughed out another line of colored orbs, then sneezed when they all burst on the road below it and engulfed its head in a cloud of multicolored smoke.
“Oww, stoppit.”
“You did that to yourself, you fucking idiot,” Gordon snapped.
“Stop, please?”
“I'm not doing anything!”
The wizard's face emerged from the cloud of gas, smoke eddying around his enormous features. “Stop moving please?”
“Nope,” Gordon replied, Dog's reins tight in his fist. “Nope, not doing that.”
The wyvern advanced awkwardly, placing its wings carefully on the road and hunching over them before pulling its hind legs forward one at a time, as if using improperly-sized crutches. It had moved more naturally before Gordon said its name, and now it was like there was some severed connection between the cursed creature part of it and the wizard part of it. Its tail dragged in the dust, the trees getting farther away as Gordon backed them both toward the village.
“Gonna – gonna try to hide in the buildings, y'lil chicken hat?”
“I'm not hiding.”
“I can see you wherever you go,” the wyvern told him, turning its head to sing out another line of colored orbs, which splattered and burst in the barley, causing several yards of the field to wilt and die immediately. “I got scans of your feet, bro.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Gordon squawked. “And stop killing our crops!”
The wyvern stood up on its hind legs, beating its wings, and for a moment Gordon thought he'd lost it – but then it dropped back down to all fours and turned its head the other way, singing another line of orbs to the other side and blighting even more of the barley.
“You,” Gordon growled, “are a fucking anomaly. What is –”
“It's – I did it for symmetry,” the wyvern interrupted.
A shadow fell across Gordon and he flinched, then had to force himself to relax as he realized it was from a farmhouse. They were in the buildings at the edge of town. He just had to keep the damn thing on the ground for another few streets and they could get it under control. Probably.
“I'm impressed you even know a word that big,” Gordon said, frantically casting about for things to say to keep the creature's attention.
“Yeah? I know...lotsa words. Big words. Like, uhhhh...”
“Take your time,” Gordon snorted after a moment, glancing over his shoulder and nudging Dog with one heel to get the destrier to swivel his haunches and back them down a side street.
“Huh?”
“With your big words.”
“Whuh?”
“I'm no longer impressed,” Gordon sighed, sweat running down his spine and pooling at the small of his back. He just had to keep it interested for a few minutes more...
“Bro, that's – s'not fair,” the wyvern said, ducking its head under the eaves of a building as it turned down the street after Gordon, seemingly uncaring of where Gordon was taking it. “I know words.”
“Uh-huh, just not right now?”
“No, I can – words. I'm – what about, uh, appaloosa? Or...aubergine.”
“Okay, that's the A's covered.”
“Uh...anomaly.”
Gordon bristled. “Hey, you little shit, I used that one earlier! You can't steal my words!”
“Mneh nyeh nanuh nyuh,” the wyvern said, then shook its head hard enough to clang the wizard's helmet off the walls of the buildings. “Whoa, what was that?”
“What was what?” Gordon asked. If he tilted his head, he could see the lumps of cloth that disguised the knights on the roof, so he tried not to do that for fear of bringing attention to them.
“Where are we?”
“What?” Gordon blinked up at the wizard's giant face, half in shadow now as it peered down at him between the buildings. That tone of voice was different – oddly plaintive and lost.
“Whuh -” The wizard's face dropped closer and Gordon flinched violently as it hung over him like a hideous moon, the length of the wyvern's neck arching above. “What happened to your arm?”
“Are you insane?” Gordon yelled. “Have you lost your fucking mind? You know what happened to my arm, you asshole!”
The wizard's face retracted so quickly that it banged the helmet on the eaves of one of the inns. “I'm just – just tryin' to have a conversation, man, sheesh.” It raised its head higher and tilted to look at the roof, where several knights had been dislodged by the rattling impact of the helmet and were now visible, cloth coverings pooling by their feet as they struggled to avoid sliding down toward the street. “Can you believe this guy?”
“Nets,” Gordon said, mouth dry and heart hammering. “NETS, NOW!”
He yanked on the reins and Dog spun around, hooves clattering on the cobblestones as he charged away up the street.
“Whuh – come back, bro, I was just – hey, stop that,” the wizard's voice grew fainter behind him as he slowed Dog and turned him again once he was sure he was clear of the nets, which had settled over the wyvern's back in layers, weighted edges dragging its gray bulk down to the ground. “Let go, please? Friend?”
Gordon guided Dog back down the street as the knights cheered from the rooftops, but then the wyvern twisted its head around and sang out a long, continuous line of red and purple orbs which burst as soon as they hit the eaves and walls, engulfing the street and surrounding rooftops in a slowly-expanding yellow-green cloud of toxic gases. Gordon swore and reined Dog in, backing him up again as the poisonous-looking cloud advanced. He could still hear the tone ringing from deep inside the gas, but he could also hear the panicked shouts of the knights scrambling over the roof ridges and sliding down toward the abutments to escape. Hopefully none of them had breathed too much of the wyvern's toxicity.
“Psst! Gordon! In here!”
Gordon whipped around and stared into the alley he was backing Dog past. Bubby and Dr. Coomer were crouched there, both holding leather satchels the size of their heads.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Gordon hissed, flicking his gaze back and forth to make sure the gas cloud wasn't about to overtake them.
“We're here as insurance, Gordon!” Dr. Coomer said brightly, hefting the satchel in his hand. Bubby swatted at his arm and looked up at Gordon, eyes wide.
“You can't kill him, Gordon! You have to change him back!”
“What? Why not?”
“Did you even read the treaty?” Bubby shook his head. “Many great minds worked on it for a long time, you know!”
“Yeah, and he wasn't gonna fucking sign it until one of his skeletons went rogue and hacked my hand off,” Gordon reminded them. “I think he signed it out of guilt, but that doesn't grow my arm back.”
“So you didn't read it.”
“No! It was sealed! How would I?”
“You've got to learn to read fast upside-down, Gordon, or you'll never make it in politics. You should always be able to skim the papers on your enemy's desk,” Bubby said.
“I was more worried about being surrounded by skeletons with swords, actually,” Gordon snapped. “Look, the gas is getting closer – you've got to get out of here. What was in the treaty that says I can't kill him?”
“None of us can, Gordon,” Bubby said quickly. “It was in the treaty that if anyone from our kingdom kills him, knowing who he is, the skeleton army will attack to the last bone.”
“Well what the fuck am I supposed to do?” Gordon squawked. “If I can't kill him and he didn't change back from his name – thanks for that, by the way, this horror show is way worse than the wyvern alone – how are we supposed to get rid of him?”
“You're going to have to kiss him, Gordon!” Dr. Coomer said brightly, tossing his satchel at Gordon. It hit his chest and bounced off, falling to the ground by Dog's feet as Gordon gaped at him.
“What?!”
“It's our best shot,” Bubby added. “If it doesn't work, we'll – we'll have to wrap him in nets and keep him confined somewhere, and find a stronger wizard to change him back.”
“Great! Let's do that!” Gordon replied. “Because I am not kissing that thing!”
“It's the quickest and easiest way to break a curse, you know.”
“No! I don't know! I thought that was true love's kiss, and I hate that asshole!”
“That's fine,” Bubby said hurriedly, peering out into the street and blanching at how close the gas was getting. “True love's kiss is a common myth, actually – it's the kiss itself paired with a true emotion. Hate works just as well as love. Strong feeling of any kind would work. It's the gesture more than anything.”
“I've got a gesture right here,” Gordon said, and flipped him off.
“Yes, thank you,” Bubby said waspishly. He darted out into the street and opened his satchel, pulling out a leather contraption and reaching up toward Dog's halter.
“Whoa, what is that?” Gordon asked, but then Dr. Coomer was at his knee, holding up the satchel Gordon had failed to catch earlier.
“They're hoods, Gordon. For the gas!”
“The horse gets one, too?”
“Unless you want to go on foot,” Bubby replied, working the long leather hood over Dog's head, the patient destrier allowing the intrusion. “These will only work for a few minutes, so if you can't get him to disperse the gas, just leave and we'll come back later with more nets.”
“Yeah, sure, why not,” Gordon grumbled, pulling the satchel on his lap open and tugging out the boxy leather hood, dyed orange and black with circular clear glass lenses set into the front. Before he could think too much about it, he tugged his helmet off and hooked it on the saddle’s pommel before yanking the hood over his head and cinching it into his gorget.
“Very dashing, Gordon!” Dr. Coomer's voice was muted through the hood.
“I doubt that,” Gordon said, his own voice loud and echoing in his ears. “Ugh. Fine. I'll talk to him.” He wasn't going to kiss the asshole, but if he pretended he tried, they could move on to the next plan that much quicker. “You two had better get out of here. Do you have a horse, or –”
“No need, Gordon!” Dr. Coomer said. “I can carry Bubby in my big strong arms!” Then he scooped up the augur, who hissed “Harold!” and whacked him on the head with his empty satchel, before taking off down the alley at a dead sprint.
“Damn, he's really fast,” Gordon said to himself, having to twist his whole upper body to get the hood's lenses to point in the right direction. Then he twisted back to see the greenish yellow cloud of smog roiling up the street. “All right, Dog, let's see how these things work.”
He advanced slowly into the smoke, ready to turn back at the first sign of distress from the horse, or the first taste of poison on his own tongue. But the hoods held true, and he followed the sound of singing into the cloud of gas.
Dog's hooves rang out in rhythmic chimes as his iron shoes hit the cobblestones, and Gordon heard the wyvern's song stop before he saw the dark bulk of it emerging from the smog as they drew closer.
“Benrey?” he called, hoping the wizard could still recognize his distorted voice through the hood. “Can you cool it with the toxic gas shit?”
“Let me out of this BOX,” the wyvern barked, and with a flurry of motion, the fog around them dispersed into wisps as the wyvern thrashed beneath the nets.
“Easy, man, quit it,” Gordon said, reining Dog to a halt a safe distance away.
The wyvern tilted its head under the weight of the netting, giving Gordon a baleful look from the wizard's human eyes before it thrashed again, claws hooking against the reinforced fibers and scrabbling for purchase. “It's not fair,” it said. “I'm – I'm a great cool, I feel a good, but you make me angry!”
“You piss me off too, y'know,” Gordon told it, deciding to ignore the word salad at the start of that sentence. “First you attack our kingdom, then you cut my fucking hand off when I bring a peace treaty, and now you've turned yourself into a monster – and for what? To try to get around the terms?”
The wyvern muttered to itself, its long tail coiling and uncoiling around its haunches, the membranes of its bat-like wings trembling with the effort of trying to heave the netting off. It inhaled, its great chest inflating like a bellows, and Gordon tightened his hands on Dog's reins and prepared to haul the horse around and take off. He didn't want either of them to take a direct hit from the fresh gas. But instead, the wizard's lips pursed and he blew out a massive burst of air, swiveling his head around unnaturally to clear the cloud of toxicity from the area directly around the wyvern's body and Gordon on Dog. The smoke flowed away, racing toward the ends of the street, cresting over the rooftops and rolling down like morning mist, leaving a clear spot around the mass of netting and pebbled gray skin in the middle of the road. Gordon waited a moment to gauge the air currents before he slowly reached up and pulled the hood off. It caught on his sweaty hair and yanked it out of its neat tail, sending it cascading loose in damp locks over his shoulders as he hooked the hood on the pommel next to his helmet and glared down at the wizard's face, which stared back at him with wide, glassy eyes. The air tasted tingly on Gordon's gums and his eyes watered like he'd walked into a room someone else was cutting onions in, but after another few breaths through his smarting nose, the feeling faded as the atmosphere continued to clear.
“I'm not gonna thank you for that,” Gordon said.
“Whuh?”
“Clearing the smoke,” Gordon clarified.
“Uh-huh,” the wizard said, then blinked. “What? Oh, yeah, tha's nothin'.”
“I bet. So hey, why are you a wyvern?”
“Wh'th'fuck, Freeman, y'can't just ask people why they're wyverns,” the wizard mumbled.
“I can when they're terrorizing my kingdom,” Gordon said, leaning an elbow on top of his helmet on the pommel and looking down through the net at Benrey's face. His head was almost as wide across as Dog was tall, but that still put Gordon above him when his giant cheek was pressed to the cobblestones like this.
Gordon sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Dog shifted his weight under him and swished his tail, one ear flicking back while the other faced forward, feeling his rider relax and relaxing in turn.
“All right, fine. Do you know how to stop being a wyvern?”
“Uhh...” Benrey's eyes darted to the side and Gordon swore quietly.
“Was Bubby right? Is it the fucking kissing thing?”
“That would be fastest, yeah,” Benrey said. “Otherwise...uh...” The wyvern's tail thrashed against his flank, and the wings shuddered again. “I might...forget.”
“Like you were before,” Gordon said. “Before I said your name?”
“Yeah.”
Gordon sighed again, the exhaustion of the last few days catching up to him. Why was this his life? “Fuck it. Why not. Anything to get rid of you faster.”
“Hey man, that's not nice,” the wyvern said, but Gordon was already swinging a leg over the saddle as he dismounted, his hand going to the hilt of his sword as soon as both feet hit the ground. But the wyvern held still under the weight of the nets, Benrey's eyes watching him as he walked around Dog's head and started to remove the destrier's hood before pausing and eyeing the wyvern over his shoulder.
“Yeah, not gonna risk it,” Gordon said under his breath, dropping his hands from the horse's hood.
“Whuh? M'not gonna – I wouldn't hurt 'im,” Benrey protested, and Gordon scoffed.
“You seemed hell-bent on doing just that earlier.”
“Wasn't me,” the wizard mumbled. “Wouldn't...do that.”
Gordon put his hands on his hips and turned to face the enormous sideways face and the gray length of the tangled creature's body. “Look. I'm afraid of you; I'm gonna admit that. I'm doing this because I have to, but I am not happy about it, and I still fucking hate you.”
“Uh-huh,” Benrey said vaguely.
Gritting his teeth, Gordon glanced up to check the rooftops, making sure none of the knights had snuck back to see what was going on. He was surprised and a bit worried to see a wall of toxic smoke still swirling, centered on the netted wyvern. Hopefully it would dissipate as soon as the curse was broken. He looked back down at the captured wizard and made a face, trying to figure out how to do this through the net and with the current immensity of the wizard's features.
“Why are you so big,” he muttered absently – not even asking a question, just making a statement.
Benrey winked at him. “I agree.”
“Shut up,” Gordon said, then stepped forward before he could lose his nerve and pressed his taut lips to the corner of the wizard's massive mouth. He jerked back, his own mouth drawing down at the corners, prepared for a new bout of ridicule – but instead, Benrey was staring at him, eyes wide and pupils huge in his shadowed face.
“Waow,” he said, then light bloomed and Gordon stumbled backward, grabbing Dog's reins and tugging the horse away. His cloak flapped around his legs as he struggled to retreat; air was rushing from behind him toward where the wyvern had been laying. He remembered a moment later what that would mean, and all he could do was take a deep breath, close his eyes tightly, and raise one hand to pinch his nose shut as the cloud of toxic gas, drawn by the vacuum, completely engulfed him.
* * *
Gordon's lips were tingling as he slowly came back to consciousness, his limbs heavy and his eyes burning.
“C'mon, it worked on me,” a monotone voice was muttering. “It should – should work on you. Used m'magic already, y'should...should be waking up...”
Gordon felt his eyebrows draw together involuntarily.
“Oh, fuck yeah, you're alive,” the voice said, sounding slightly less monotone and slightly more relieved. “I mean...of course you're alive, and also fine, b'cause I'm the best.”
“Benrey?' Gordon groaned, struggling to open eyes that felt strangely gummy. Pressure closed over his elbow, and he flinched away from it. It vanished immediately, and Gordon heard more muttering, but he was suddenly seized with the fear that he'd gone blind. He'd been caught in a cloud of the wyvern's toxic gas, hadn't he? What if the wizard of the fucking North had taken something else from him?
His stomach muscles screamed as he jackknifed upright, his silver hand slamming flat on the ground to support himself as he brought his gloved flesh hand up to rub at his face, feeling for open sores or blisters. No pain sparked under his fingers, and he tried again to wrench his eyes open, teeth clenched from the amount of effort it was taking to just remain partially upright.
“Whoa, careful,” the wizard's voice said, just as Gordon's eyes cracked open, strings of gunk obscuring his vision. “Hey, that's – don't take that off, it's a good, uh, good poultice – aw, man, c'mon,” he added, as Gordon clawed the substance off his eyelids and stared frantically around.
He hadn't moved – he was still on the same street, surrounded by the same buildings, though they looked considerably worse for wear than they had before their long exposure to the toxic smoke. Thatching had shriveled, wood had scorched or stained, and even the glass windows had pitted and frosted over. Dog was standing at Gordon's feet, eyeing him placidly. His gas hood was unstrapped and dangling from his halter, and he was apparently unharmed except for how the very tips of his mane and tail had curled, as if singed.
The nets lay flat and tangled on the cobblestones, and the fucking wizard was sitting cross-legged next to Gordon. He tried to lurch away, but his arm gave out and he dropped to his elbow, muscles in his side twinging from the motion as he swore. Benrey reached out, then stopped before his hand made contact with Gordon's arm. Smart of him. Gordon took a moment to look him up and down, but he looked the same as when he'd been sent to bring the treaty to him several years before. The wizard wore a black surcoat over a dark blue shirt, black pants tucked into black boots, and the same dumbass helmet that had manifested on his head when his face had appeared on the wyvern. The helmet kept his eyes in a shadow that made them glow feverishly when he was casting spells, and Gordon could see from the dark circles and the faint glimmer of light in his irises that he'd been doing magic very recently, and a lot of it.
“What did you do?” he asked, though his tongue was heavy behind his teeth, so it came out more like “whadishadu?”
The wizard seemed to understand, anyway, waving a hand over his shoulder. “Sent the skeletons away, they didn't need to be here. They just, uh, came lookin' for me because it had been too long. I gotta...should rework that spell, anyway. And, uh, got out from the nets – couldn't squeeze through. And then, uh. You.” He waved a hand at Gordon's half-reclining form, and Gordon's stomach went cold.
“What did you do to me?” he rasped.
“Uh. Fixed you?”
“What?” Gordon automatically looked down, but his hand was still metal, still aching and tight on his wrist.
“Oh, shit – uh, no. I can't – can't do anythin' for that.” Benrey rubbed his hands together and looked around, then stopped guiltily and placed his palms flat on his thighs. “I uh – I mean the, the smog. It did some burning, like – acid damage or something. Had to fix that.”
“S'your fault,” Gordon coughed, hauling himself back upright and leaning over his sprawled legs, vambraces clanging on his cuisses. His armor felt at least ten times heavier than it should. “Y'shoulda...hold on. Fuck. Did you use my life to fuel it?”
“Uh...”
“What the fuck,” Gordon snarled. “Why not use yours?”
“Can't,” Benrey shrugged, gesturing at himself. “M'a wizard, not a magician.”
Gordon slumped and groaned. “Right – yeah, right. Fine.”
“Was it a magician that, uh...your hand?”
Gordon sighed. “Yeah, man, of course it was. Nearly killed her to do it, too.” Azian was the court magician for only six years before healing Gordon's injury and building his hand had forced her into an early retirement at a convent near the sea. Eli and Alyx went to see her twice a year, but she always insisted they return to the castle. Gordon knew if she ever asked Eli to stay, he would. Eli himself had never shown any dislike of Gordon, despite his injury being the cause of his wife's weakness. Magicians built spells from their own life's energy and wove them with the power of magical items with stored power. Wizards cast spells using the magic inherent in books, trees, carved stones. If they tried to heal, they had to use the life energy of the person they were healing, not their own.
“Oh. But it, uh. It works?”
“Better than nothing,” Gordon shrugged, raising it and concentrating on the flex of muscles in his arm to open the glittering grip, then squeeze it back into a fist. “I can open and close it, but that's it. Can't even separate the fingers. It lets me fight, though, so that's all that matters.”
“Huh.” Benrey stared at the hand with an odd intensity. Gordon forced himself not to tuck the silvery shine away beneath his orange cloak in response to that look.
“Anyway,” he groaned, leaning forward to get his legs under him and reaching up to grab Dog's stirrup, dragging himself to his feet. “Do you remember why you were a wyvern yet? Bubby said it was a curse.”
Benrey blew a raspberry as he stood up. “What would an augur know about it?”
“So...it wasn't a curse?”
“Oh, yeah, no, it totally was.”
“Fucking hell.” Gordon tugged at the cinch and the bridle to make sure the toxic smoke hadn't eaten through any of the destrier's equipment. “So then what -”
“SIR FREEMAN!”
“Oh, for fuck's sake,” Gordon sighed, peering over the saddle to look up the street, where a whole collection of people were massed. Tommy astride his giant palomino mare Sunkist was behind a row of spearmen, with a handful of knights around him. Bubby and Coomer were driving a cart drawn by two draught horses so tall that Gordon could only see the tops of the advisors’ heads.
“Tommy – your highness, stay there!” Gordon looked down and debated whether or not it would be possible to lift his leg high enough to get it into Dog's stirrup, as weak as his legs were right now.
Of course, Benrey couldn't take a hint. “TOMMY!” he bellowed.
“Oh – hi, Benry!” Tommy called back. Gordon could hear him giving orders to the surrounding troops as he decided he didn't need to be any more humiliated today and took Dog's reins from the ground, instead, walking the destrier to the side of the street until he could tie him to a stained pillar.
“Hello, Gordon!” Dr. Coomer shouted over the creaking rattle of wheels as he drove the cart forward. “We were prepared to collect your lifeless body!”
“Don't tell him that,” Bubby hissed, elbowing Dr. Coomer in the side.
“Oh, all right, dear. We had every faith in you, Gordon!”
“Yeah, I can tell.” Gordon limped back into the middle of the street so he could at least put his battered body between the wizard of the North and his prince's entourage. He glared at Benrey, hand on the hilt of his sword as various wheels and hooves drew close behind him. “Don’t fucking touch anyone, or do any magic on anyone, or – anything weird. Got it?”
“Y’should wear your hair down more,” Benrey said.
Gordon drew his sword with a violent motion and pointed it at Benrey’s chest. “You’re still held to the terms of the treaty you signed,” he told the wizard through gritted teeth. “Do you agree?”
“Yeah, sheesh, whatever.” The wizard of the North rolled his eyes, and Gordon fought down the urge to just run him through right now and damn the consequences. At least they could burn the skeletons.
“Benry, be nice to Sir Freeman,” Tommy said, frown evident in his voice. “He saved you from the curse! You, um – you did, right, Gordon?”
“Yes, Tommy,” Gordon sighed, gesturing with the sword. “As you can see, he’s not a wyvern anymore.”
“Yeah, how did that happen in the first place?” Bubby asked. One of the draught horses nudged Gordon’s pauldron from behind and he steadied himself weakly. He needed a nap, and soon. Magical healing took the body’s own healing ability and accelerated it, so he felt like he’d been awake for weeks – and according to his injuries, he had.
Benrey shrugged. “Some lady, I dunno.”
“Some...lady turned you into a wyvern?” Bubby’s tone was incredulous.
“Some old lady, yeah.”
“...Why?”
“She asked me to suck her, and I didn’t wanna. An’ I guess that’s a, uh, ‘failure of hospitality,’ so she cursed me.” He broke out the finger quotes and everything for that explanation, which still made zero fucking sense.
“She wanted you to what?” Gordon spluttered.
“Suck her, I guess. I dunno what she meant by that, so...”
“Did she – Benrey.” Gordon rested the sword’s point on the ground and set the pommel in the crook of his elbow so he could bring his flesh hand up to rub at his tired face. “Did she ask you for succor?”
“Yeah. Suck her.”
“What the –” Gordon flailed a hand, ignoring the muffled voices behind him. “Succor means support, or aid! She was asking you for help!”
“Oh.” Benrey scratched at his chin. “Why didn’t she just say that, then?”
“She did!”
“Shoulda said it in a plainer...more plain, uh, way.”
Gordon sheathed his sword so he could fist a hand in his hair and yank it, half holding himself back from strangling the wizard and half to keep himself from actively collapsing. Benrey’s eyes got huge, though, and Gordon would have been worried he’d sent some secret wizard signal if he hadn’t been so exhausted.
“I really fucking hate you, y’know that?” His voice sounded brittle even to his own ears. “I hate you with my life. Which you stole some of, not ten minutes ago!”
“What?” Tommy’s voice pitched up in concern. “Sir – Gordon, are you okay?”
“Yeah, he’s fine, I fixed him,” Benrey said quickly.
“I fixed me,” Gordon growled, pointing at him. “You just – sped up the process with your wizard shit.”
“Yeah? S’what I said?”
“Fuck it, I can’t deal with you anymore.” Gordon spun on his heel and nearly overbalanced, the weight of his armor almost unbearable in his present condition. He could feel bits of whatever poultice Benrey put on his eyes drying in crackling flakes on his cheeks and in his beard, he was covered in sweat and dust, his hair smelled like toxic gases, and he wanted nothing more than a hot bath and uninterrupted sleep for a week. “Someone else take over, or I’m gonna kill him.”
The wagon creaked forward as Gordon plodded his way over to Dog, who stood patiently where he’d been tied and waited for Gordon to unloop his reins before pulling him around so he could mount up from the raised walkway.
“Come along, young Benry! We have much to discuss about our proposal for an updated treaty!” Dr. Coomer said cheerfully, and Gordon looked up just in time to see him lift the entire wizard into the back of the cart with one hand. Gordon sometimes forgot that Dr. Coomer had been the strongest berserker in the king’s army in his youth – and, judging by the look on Benrey’s face as he was yanked into the air, he’d had no idea what muscles still rested under Dr. Coomer’s loose robes.
“You’re sayin’ my name wrong, y’know,” the wizard of the North said petulantly as the wagon began to execute a creaky turn in the narrow street.
“O-oh no!” Tommy looked over at him, genuinely upset. Sunkist whickered like she was making a comment Gordon would have agreed with. “What – how should we be saying it?”
“It’s Benrey,” the wizard said, and Gordon watched as Tommy’s good-natured face wrinkled in befuddlement.
“But...isn’t that what I said?”
“Ugh, forget it,” the wizard folded his arms and slouched down in the back of the cart, kicking his legs out and crossing them at the ankle. “The moment’s gone, anyway.”
And he was the only one who smirked, the others staring in confusion, as Gordon surrendered to hysteria and laughed so hard he cried.
I am begging people to engage with stuff beyond the literal.
Like obviously this is extremely important for understanding poetry, mythology, fiction etc. But it’s also vital for seeing the value in cultural practices and such.
Take divination. Lots of folk will dismiss it because nothing can predict the future and all that. It’s fine if you think that, but contemporary divination is more than that. Many contemporary magical practices are focused on changing consciousness before reality. Divination is no different. The cards, runes etc. force you to connect abstract ideas to concrete people and events in your life. This symbolism elevates subconscious connections to a conscious level, leading you to introspection and more emotionally aware decision making. The belief that this process is somewhat spiritually or supernaturally empowered can enhance the experience but is not all it is.
Same with many cultural practices. There’s a “literal” explanation, which opens people up through the invocation of the magical & the supernatural, but there’s also the psychological, social and emotional meaning that goes much deeper and is completely missed by literalist “hard science is the only truth” NA readings.
If you’re just reading spiritual texts and practices through a literalist lens, you are choosing a reductive approach. This is very likely to lead culturally imperialist behaviour when you try to dissuade people from their practices because “they aren’t real” not because of any actual harm.
If you are an empiricist to a fault, then you need to look at actual violence and harm caused by practices, not the abstract harm that “religion” or “superstition” does in a generalised manner according to your bias, which often ironically ignores materialist readings.
