Muir Short
The snow crunched gently as the boy curled his hand inwards.
The man with the flaming-red hair who had created this illusion would oftentimes describe it as ‘cold’, as did his Ward.
Cold…the sensation was at once familiar and unknown, like a lingering memory where once beloved faces had now become a nothing but a blur.
Memories themselves were a strange prospect. How many had he made since he came to be? According to the Ward, they had known one another for five years now, though how they were able to keep track of that sort of thing, he had no clue. Images, once clear and vivid, had begun to melt and merge with other impressions in his mind. Only one still appeared clear and untouched: the day he met the Ward.
A small smile tugged at his lips as he felt their presence brush against his consciousness somewhere nearby.
With an agile movement that likened a bird taking flight, he jumped down from the snowbank and landed on the ground below. The fur he had been gifted rested on his shoulders, draping his form in a cloud of white. You’re supposed to show your appreciation for gifts, he occasionally had to remind himself, and so he wore it despite his lack of need.
Barefoot, he made his way through the bleak landscape with a spring in his step. The wind carried him forward, and rare laughter – that dear friend which had grown ever-distant with his maturing years – bubbled out, light and unbridled. It was a free but short-lived sound, as he got the sudden urge to sing, instead. His voice cracked in places it had not done years ago, as though struggling to remember how to fit comfortably inside his body.
It was an old melody that had found him long ago when he had abandoned this vessel and soared amongst ever-shifting skies and shining stars. “A lullaby?” The Ward had asked when he was humming it the next morning. Muir had looked them in confusion, inquiring as to what a ‘lullaby’ was.
This was no tune meant to bring anyone to sleep. It was a song orchestrated by the essence of existence itself.
“You seem to be enjoying yourself.”
The weary voice brought him down in an instant, anchoring him to what he had learned to call 'the present' – the flicker of a moment that transpired before his earthly eyes, when the world shackled itself and turned into a shell of what it truly was.
Cirern stood with his arms wrapped around himself, wearing a thicker robe than the ones he usually donned indoors. It took Muir a few, tense seconds to realize that the sorcerer had not meant to pull him into conversation; neither one took the initiative to break the silence that was growing between them.
Cirern eventually turned his gaze towards the third figure in the distance, who he had made certain remained occupied with yet another practical lesson.
“Yes,” Muir muttered, eyes flitting between him and the Ward. He tried not to let his tone sour, but it was easier said than done. Cirern Avari unnerved him, yet he could not simply remove himself from his presence. They shared this space, whether he liked it or not.
“In moments like these,” the sorcerer went on, “one could almost mistake you for a normal child.”
Muir promptly turned his eyes away. He wanted to summon more snow and bury the man in it. Or perhaps bury himself. Whatever would get him out of this conversation.
That was usually the job of the Ward; they seemed to have a knack for distracting Cirern in a way that few other things managed to.
He tried, through thought alone, to force them back here and deal with this situation.
“You seem unsettled. There is no reason to be.” He saw Cirern’s robes shift in the snow as he turned away, his eyes moving to a point in the distance. “You are needed here. Without you, I cannot be certain that my apprentice will maintain their ability to weave the spells I have taught them, curious though that is.”
Now that he was no longer looking his way, Muir finally gathered the courage to speak. “…Even though you don’t know what I am?”
Cirern nodded, just once. Muir was about to turn away, thinking his lack of a verbal response a sign that the man wished for the conversation to come to and end.
He had only taken a few steps before he heard him speak again:
“There are no truths that cannot be uncovered. Not even those hiding inside an oblivious mind.”
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Once again, I'm so sorry that it took me so long to finish this! I hope it's enjoyable even though it's quite short.
To clarify, 'the Ward' here is the MC. I settled on they/them pronouns and had Muir refer to them that way because I obviously can't use a customizable name/pronouns when writing like this. 'Ward' is capitalized to show the importance Muir places on them/his relationship with the MC.