The Magician and Her Guard
Summary: Liadan is a magician bound with magic-suppressing runes and sold into the service of a cruel inventor. Oisin is a palace guard in a kingdom that doesn’t take kindly to magic. When their paths cross in a dark dungeon, neither of their lives will ever be the same.
Content warnings: fantasy slavery, chains, mention of (power suppressing) collars, threat of execution, female Whumpee, male caretaker, living weapon whumpee
Words: 1948
Notes: this is an idea I’m playing with, I’ll probably post more of it later. This world isn’t too fleshed out, I’m making it up as I go, but for the sake of this part, you don’t need much. This is a low fantasy setting divided into multiple kingdoms. Magic is born, not taught, and not passed down through bloodline. Magicians are seen as dangerous by most kingdoms, with varying reactions. Some kingdoms attempt to persecute all magicians, some keep magicians as slaves, using collars that prevent a magician from using magic against their owners, and some kingdoms fall somewhere in the middle. Liadan’s runic markings are quite unique and not a common practice. I think the rest should be pretty self-explanatory. Enjoy!
When the prisoner awoke, it was with a mangled scream. Oisin jolted to attention, hand going to his sword immediately. But the scream cut off as soon as it had started, dissolving into a fit of coughing as the woman curled into herself, trying to catch her breath. Her arms came up around her knees, and her sleeves slipped down, revealing a mess of symbols inked across her skin, swooping patterns and shapes Oisin recognised as some language but couldn’t understand. The skin around her shackles was red and raw; clearly, she’d put up a fight on the way here.
She looked up, and her eyes met his. He looked away immediately, returning to position, eyes forward, shoulders back, at attention, but not before her eyes could burn their way into his memory. They shone like molten gold, like the very tip of a flame, with no black center to hold them back. Part of him begged for a second glance, just to be sure he hadn’t fabricated them entirely, but he knew he hadn’t. He could never have dreamed them up, not in his wildest fantasies.
“Where am I?” She asked, raspy voice echoing in the silent dungeon. Oisin didn’t respond. Making eye contact was bad enough. Though she might not look like a threat, perhaps that was what made her dangerous. He couldn’t trust the quiver in her voice or her slight figure. It wasn’t his place to, anyway. He was here to guard her, not to cast judgement.
He kept his gaze forward, keeping her only in his peripheral vision as she got to her feet. The chains clinked against each other before going taut, stopping her just before she reached the bars. Silence fell once more.
“To whom does this place belong?” she tried, louder this time. There was an authority to her tone now, one commonly reserved for ladies of the court, and Oisin felt the words rattle down his spine. He resisted the command. It was getting harder and harder to keep his eyes from wandering.
After a moment, he heard her sigh. The chains rattled once more, and she left the boundaries of his vision. A shuffle, a clank, and a small thump indicated she had sat back down. Then, nothing.
This was far more agonizing now that she was awake. Each second took years, until he was no longer sure how long they had been there. He began counting the straw in the cell next to hers to offer up some meek distraction. It wasn’t enough. He took note of her every breath, finding that every fifth inhale or so seemed sharper. Every little move she made sent straw rustling, or iron tinkling. Every little move brought her back to the forefront of his mind, those burning eyes staring at him, through him, winnowing their way into his soul.
Finally, her breathing began to even out. She stopped shuffling around. He saw no flickers of movement at the edge of his sight. He waited for what felt like ages, listening for her to start up again, but nothing came. Tentatively, he cast a quick glance into her cell.
Those burning eyes stared back.
He looked away, feeling heat rising to his cheeks as she began to laugh, a hoarse, hysterical sound that bounced oddly off the cold stone walls. She was playing with him. Laughing at him.
And now he was fighting not only the urge to look, but the urge to smile as well. She was making his job quite difficult indeed.
Her laughter subsided eventually, and she moved back into his line of sight, leaning against the near side of the cell. “May I at least know your name, sir?” Far from commanding, she now sounded almost conversational.
When he didn’t respond, she let out a huff. “Please? My life may be ending in the morning. Would you deny a condemned woman the dignity of knowing her keeper?”
Oisin could feel the weight of her stare, the earnest plea in her voice. He’d rarely had a prisoner address him, and never with such humanity. On duty, he was no more than a tool, an object to dissuade dissent. Even guarding the palace gates, he was lucky to receive even a glance from passers by. It was an odd feeling, then, in the loneliest corner of the castle, to be so thoroughly watched. Watched by someone who wished to know of him, if only to know something.
He saw her smile slip as she turned away from him with a final, resigned sigh.
God, he would regret this.
“Oisin,” he answered, hardly above a whisper.
Her head jerked back in his direction. “What?” He could see the grin creeping back up to her face. There was no one here to see them.
Slowly, he met her gaze. “My name is Oisin.”
In full focus, she seemed much less impish than he’d first thought. Though her smile had a playful tilt, her eyes were weighted down with exhaustion. Her cheek was bruised, her hair matted and dirty. Still, she lit up under his gaze, looking for all the world like she was having the best night of her life. “Oisin,” she repeated, and the name was honey on her tongue. “What a lovely name. I’m Liadan.”
It suited her well. He gave her a nod, forcing his expression to remain neutral. At least he could maintain that.
“Are you always this chatty, Oisin?” She seemed to revel in the eye contact, almost daring him to look away.
“I’m not meant to engage with prisoners.”
That brought a shadow over her face, even as her smile remained frozen. “I see.” She lowered her voice then, some of the bravado peeling away. “Thank you for making an exception.”
It occurred to him, then, that he may have brought about an end to their short little conversation. He would end his shift at dawn, she would be seen by the court and dealt punishment, and they would never see each other again. And remarkably, he found he couldn’t stand the thought. He wanted her to keep talking, to ask him questions and poke holes in his facade. He wanted to ask her even more, about the strange markings and why she was here and why she would be so desperate for the name of a prison guard.
None of this he could say. “Thank you for asking,” he said instead, hoping his tone might convey what his words could not.
Her eyes widened ever so slightly, smile fading, and she was back to the frightened girl she had been when she’d first awoken. She gave him a nod. When he didn’t look away, something strange began to collect behind her eyes. She didn’t meet his gaze as she said, “Might I ask one more thing of you, Oisin?”
A part of him warned that this was what she’d been getting at all along, making him pity her for the sake of stupidly made promises. The rest of him had already forgotten his training entirely.
“If I am able, I will answer you,” he offered, a feeble compromise. There were few things he wouldn’t tell her in this moment.
She took a while to compose her question. “Your king,” she began. “At least, I assume you serve a king.” Oisin nodded. “Do you know what he should want from… from someone like me?”
His heart twisted. “You don’t know why you’re here?” Perhaps it was naive of him, but the lack of a collar had led him to believe she might have done something, anything, to end up down here.
She simply shook her head. “I’m not certain I know where I am. Not Arboran, surely.”
“Ilia.” There could be no harm in telling her. She’d learn come her audience with the court in the morning.
She inhaled sharply, though her face showed no surprise. “Ilia,” she repeated. “Well, I regret to say I don’t know much about your fair kingdom.”
“There aren’t many of your kind here.” She winced, and he paused to soften his voice before continuing. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure of the punishment for witchcraft. It’s been years since anyone was charged.”
It was quite some time before she responded. He watched her jaw work against itself, her breaths coming sharper, if evenly.
Finally, she turned back to him, and though there were tears in those fiery eyes, she smiled. “I do apologize,” she said, her voice on the verge of breaking. “I know I’ve asked quite a lot of you already, but I have one more favor to request.”
He inclined his head.
“Would you tell me a story?” Her hands were trembling in her lap. “Anything will do. Tell me how a little boy named Oisin grew up to be a palace guard. Let me forget myself until the morning.”
He considered it for longer than he would’ve cared to admit. It was more than just a few responses she was asking for; there was a high chance he’d be caught, especially when he was entirely unsure how long they had until dawn. It would mean punishment for him, of course, and a harder sentence for her.
But the chances of her seeing the next sunset were slim even without his aid. If this was what she chose with which to occupy her last few hours, he couldn’t deny that to her to save himself a few lashes.
So he told her the story of a baby left out by the river, wrapped in an ornate woven blanket. He told her about the sweet woman on the kitchen staff who brought him home and decided to raise him as her own. He recounted his first time seeing the prince, barely a year older than him, and how he’d longed to be the boy who could steal from the kitchen preparations without a beating. How he entered training as soon as he was old enough, itching to fight and protect. How he learned that the greatest feeling in life was in swordfighting, when your mind at last surrendered itself to instinct, and the worst was the silence of friends turned soldiers in a line. When he at last came to accept that he could not have one without the other.
She hung onto his every word. Eventually, her gaze became distant, and he could almost feel her next to him in the memories, holding his hand in the palace halls. Company, even in the loneliest nights. He wondered if this was the magic of witches. He wished he had more than stories to offer her, when she was giving him such a gift, even on her deathbed.
The sun paid no heed to his story’s conclusion, and golden rays began to glimmer through the narrow window above just as he’d begun to tell her about his first love, an errand boy from the city proper. The words died on his tongue. He straightened once more, realizing for the first time how far he’d drifted from his position against the opposite wall. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, no longer daring to speak any louder. “We’re out of time.”
She gave him a smile, genuine and mournful and terrified all at once. In the breaking dawn, silhouetted by the first specks of sunlight, she looked like a specter, an angel from above.
“Thank you,” she said. Then, quieter, almost as if to herself, “Oisin.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, and just this once, he allowed himself to return her smile. “No, Liadan. Thank you.”
The heavy clanking of the metal door echoed down the hall, and he hardened back into stone.
