vv gift exchange for @fantasy-shadows | storm-speaker
You hear nothing but the wind’s intermittent whistling. It is cool on your bare shoulders, and a shiver runs down your spine. The water underneath your ship’s hull is unmoving. Everything is still.
It is strange. Normally, you can hear the quiet whispers of the magic around you—their gears locking and breaking apart, their arguments, their suggestions. Sometimes, if you are lucky, you can see their glow in the air around you. You haven't been able to hear anything today.
You breathe in, once, and slide down to sit on the lacquered wood floor. You gather your legs and hug your knees to your chest. The last time you couldn’t hear them was the day your sister disappeared.
You know more now, though. The silence means one of two options: the magic is elsewhere, fighting against a dire danger; or, they are collecting their wits so they may strike soon.
Alone, the silence is eerily comforting. It feels as though you have all the time in the world; there is nothing to be concerned about.
You tilt your head back and watch the sky. The sun has since set. Now, the only source of light comes from the stars above in the sky, and the light glow from lanterns underneath deck where your crew is dining. Even then, the sky is muted, greyscale. Clouds dot the horizon and the air above you, filtering the celestial lights. They have been edging closer and closer. A storm is building.
You will join your crew soon. For now, you just need this quietude.
The ship is a day’s sail to the nearest port city. The rest of the crew—just as unqualified to be navigating on open waters as you are—have different goals. Six of them are circus performers, a couple are businesspeople fond of travelling, one is a scholar returning home. There are more.
You all share one thing in common: the ability to speak the world’s mother tongue. The language of magic, your father called it. The scholar disagrees, and she tends to be right. Still, she has yet to offer you a better term, so magic it is.
You just want to find your sister. Someone at the last city recognized the sole picture you have of her and gave you minimal but important information. She was to visit the port city, they said. All information is important when you know nothing.
You know she is out there, somewhere. You don’t need to bring her home, or bring her anywhere—you just need to know that she is OK and preferably happy.
Your father told you not to look for her; she is gone, he said. It had been long enough without word. It is easy enough to draw the right conclusions. But still, you held hope—as you do now—for years until you had the agency to leave home and search on your own. You know she is alive because magic is on her side; it always loved her more than it did you, and your title did not come cheap. Magic’s favour runs in your family, but your sister was beloved.
The clouds draw together, flashing before turning sour. The tranquility is broken. There is a rumble in the distance, on the horizon. The storm is here, and you begin to see the faint outlines of gold in the air. You still hear nothing.
“Get away from them!” someone shouts from your left, but you pay them no mind. Somehow, you stood up and headed towards the clouds.
They are woven into tight spirals, crackling and a dark grey. You taste a vague promise of lightning. Everything feels hazy. You haven’t had enough sleep, nor have you eaten. The world’s small scripture solidifies in deep gold, but your eyes won’t focus, so you can’t read what they say.
The same person as before—the scholar, you realize with a jolt—pulls you back, away from the storm clouds. They are strangely low; if you were only a bit taller, you could hold them in your hands. They would only do such a thing if they wanted you to. These experiences are the wonders of travelling unsupervised on open waters.
“What are you doing?” she hisses, her fingers digging into your shoulder. Her nails are sharp. You hadn’t realized you moved.
You shake your head, but it doesn’t help. It’s your job to push them away, dispel the magic’s anger, but you don’t know where to begin.
Your sister would know what to do.
She’s not here though, you realize with a pang. You haven’t seen her since you were fourteen, but time has only made it worse. She always knew what to do.
The scholar opens her mouth to speak, then cuts herself off. Nothing she could have said would have helped, and she doesn’t know your name. Nobody on this boat does. The twenty of you made the pact for protection; without a licensed captain, this many magic-speakers is volatile danger waiting to burst.
The scholar curses and turns away. “I’ll get the acrobat,” she snarls, and the words take a moment to register. “Do your job, storm-speaker.”
If only you could. She disappears, which leaves you alone on the deck, facing a dozen angry clouds and their erratic golden texts. Your mouth opens, forming the words, but no sound comes out.
Usually, no sound means no communication. You must keep trying, though, because you are the only one on the boat who has spoken to the weather. The clouds know you; they have been following you since you left shore.
If you were any more superstitious, you would believe that their anger is an omen. A warning, perhaps—that your sister isn’t in the city, or that the city is dangerous, or that something else is hunting you.
As it is, though, you do not believe. There is nothing to do but keep mouthing the words, articulating each silenced syllable to the best of your ability.
Your vision wavers for a moment, and in your delirium, you think that your pleas have been heard.
Honeyed words crawl their way through your hearing, each word pronounced with a distinct twang. That voice belongs to the acrobat; you turn and see him and his eyes locked on you. The magic of the weather is impartial to him, but he has a way with people.
The fact that you can hear him speak is telling. He must be restoring your health so that you may once more convince the clouds to calm down. You don’t understand what he is saying, but that is because he speaks a northern magic language. Your father never taught you it, though you’re sure he could.
You turn your eyes away and return to the storm clouds. Keep repeating the same phrases over and over again; once your voice returns to its fullest, then, you will know. Then, you may converse. Then, you may negotiate.
As it is, the clouds are tight-lipped. They wouldn’t tell you anything of importance. No comment on the whereabouts of your sister, nor why they got mad. Maybe they were lonely. It’s hard to say.
Like all magic, they have patience in spades. Even without their problems solved, the clouds unravel and separate. They begin to slink back, away from the ship. Their transparency returns, just enough for you to see the orange-pink beginnings of the sun peeking through its curtain. Sunrise is coming, and with it, the port-city.
The clouds let you pass, of course, though they are still watching. You don’t know when they will stop watching, but that is what happens when you are a speaker.
Your limbs begin to drag. The toll of speaking the language is heavy on your body, acting like weighted anchors pulling your limbs towards the sea. There is always a price, your father had said. For your sister, it is one you are willing to pay.
Staggering backwards, your hands flounder in the air as you grasp for the rail. Another wave of exhaustion hits, and your knees collapse from under the newfound pressure. You drop to the floor. Hands grab at your arms a beat too late. The strain pulls at your armpits, so you shift, looking up. The scholar is at your left, the acrobat on your right. You hadn’t realized the scholar returned to deck.
She is drenched—all three of you are, you realize—and sighs, sounding weary. “Come on. You haven’t eaten yet, have you? Best get inside before a storm tries to fight us again.”
