On lazy evenings, when the sun was resisting dropping behind the mountains and the castle was bathed in golden light, the young prince would steal away to the north-most tower, wherein lived the wizard. The wizard's chambers were crammed to bursting with books, or scrolls, or scraps of parchment, covered with every sort of script imaginable. The wizard himself was an old man, everything you'd imagine a wizard to be, with a long blue robe and even longer white beard, which he'd step on sometimes and and stumble over, spinning his arms and saying "Oh, bother." The prince liked the wizard. He was a grandfatherly sort, and delighted in showing the prince some small oddity he'd come across whilst reading, or showing him some little spell that made his beard twist itself into little curlycues.
During this particular visit, the prince had seated himself on the stack of books across the room from the western window, and was amusing himself by watching the silhouette of the old man try to extract his beard from under a table without disturbing the pile of scrolls precariously balanced upon it. After twice nearly causing an avalanche of paper and another time merely succeeding in rescuing the ends of his mustache, he finally gave up and just caused the table and scrolls to float to another portion of the room. Observing this and trying to hide his grin, the prince spoke, careful to avoid betraying his mirth in his voice.
"Sir," he asked (one should always call a wizard 'sir.' It's generally bad policy to offend someone who can turn you into a newt, even if you will get better), "might I ask a question?"
"Of course you might," replied the wizard, now combing out his beard and swearing to himself that he would trim it at some point, "and probably even should. After all, if I'm not entirely mistaken, you come up here to learn things your tutor says you shouldn't bother with, as if that insufferable old bat knows what learning is. Contrary to what she seems to think, you can't learn anything of value without asking a question, and a prince should know things of value. So the answer is yes, you might ask a question, but it is better to make that possibility a definite course of action."
Unable to keep from laughing any longer, the prince had to wait for his giggles to subside before he could take the wizard's advice. "Sir," he asked, hiccuping a little, "where does magic come from?"
Looking up from his beard, the wizard gazed at the prince from behind his spectacles, fixing with with cool, faded blue eyes. Then he sighed, and with a pulling motion caused a plush chair to appear from the air, which he placed in front of the boy and dropped into before answering.
"It's all in here, you know," he said, gesturing to the stack of books upon which the prince was perched. "All the magic. Everything that's ever happened, everything that yet might, and everything that's unfolding around us. Such a simple little contraption, just paper, ink, and cleverness, yet it's more potent than any war machine. They call me wizard, spell-weaver, but I can't help but think that the real magicians are the ones who wrote these books. All I can do with my muttered words is change the world, a little. I can move a table, or call a chair, or make a physic to heal what ails you. But with their words, even unvoiced, they've created entire new worlds. With their power, you might be a sailor, or a traveler in far-off places. You might be a wise king like your father, or a mighty wizard, certainly mightier than I. You can travel forwards in time, or backwards, learn languages that turn your tongue into knots or hear tell of monsters that would make you swallow it in fear. Where does magic come from? It comes from the same place as everything else, dear boy. It comes from dreams. It comes from hopes, and wishes, from fears and desires and goals. It comes from us."
Here the wizard stretched for a bit, and turned his attention to the shadows on the wall, which were by degrees seeming more the rule than the exception. Then he faced the prince once more, smiling at the rapt fascination in the boy's eyes.
"I want you to promise me something," said the old man. "I want you to promise, that, when your father and I are gone and you rule as king, that you will continue to love this room as you do. For a king who loves stories is a king who loves people, and as long as the king loves his people, then there will always be something the magic can come from. Promise me, little prince. Promise me you won't let the magic die."
"I promise," said the prince, eyes wide as saucers.
"Good," smiled the wizard, standing. "Now, it is late, and if you're up here any longer your nursemaid might decide to keep a closer eye on you, and we can't have that, can we?"
"No sir," replied the prince, hopping off his stack of books and heading for the door. "Good night, sir."
"Good night, little prince." said the wizard, as the door closed behind the boy. When he heard the lock click, he closed his eyes, and stood with his head bowed in the middle of the room. He sighed. He was so old now. He had seen so many princes make so many promises. But even after so much disappointment, he couldn't help but hope that maybe this one, this time, might get it right.
"Please, little prince. Please."
"We don't want to be forgotten, again."
