The Last Philosopher

(Self) mocking and pity

The oldest living sorcerer on Huom jerked awake. The motion tweaked his back, shooting pain down his legs. As sleep was drifting in, like a delightful numbing fog, the Darkness of his nightmares had sucker-punched him with his own guts. The midwinter season was usually his favourite. Because when the lazy sun hardly came up at all, he could justify napping his dull days away.

Your favourite part of any day is the one where you play at being dead, but sure the sun's the lazy one, the old sorcerer's ambition thought.

"What do you want from me? I'm one the five headmasters, am I not?"

Sure, but who knows what you could be if you only applied yourself a bit.

A series of self-pitying groans brought the head of Dalmicir magick rolling out of bed. He looked a sorry sight as he shuffled to his rocking-chair, in his purple, ceremonial pyjamas. Like many nights before, he would spend this one gazing through his penthouse's balcony doors. At least it gave him ample opportunity to blame the city for his troubles.

And it's not like it doesn't deserve the blame, his humiliation thought.

Inside Pentakl's city-wall, the five towers of magick housed the sorcerers. But at least from this height, only a few of the grim city-lights reached his penthouse chamber. He had disliked this austere capital from the moment he first saw it, and his contempt had only grown over the centuries. It was all bright lights, sharp corners, and pointy things that would have one's eye out. Still, it was also the only metropolis in the frozen nation of Empris.

For the last five months, the tired ancient had been fighting a losing battle with self-imposed insomnia. For normal sleeplessness, he would've gotten a potion from the Macbiar school. But that wasn't an option this time. Because with the kind of nightmares he was having, he preferred to sleep as little as possible. Also, asking Noertdel for help came with an inappropriate price in smugness. It was like the Macbiar headmaster was only truly happy when condescending to a patient.

Rubbing his black eyes hard, he tried to banish the fatigue and remember. But all that came to him was the bed-wetting fear of the Darkness.

Minutes turned to hours while he swayed in his rocking-chair, his blank, sleep deprived stare fixed on the stars. Totally unaware he was stroking his long beard like a security blanket. The penthouse's panoramic view was one of the few things he liked about being a headmaster. Even so, it was blocked by dusty windowsills crammed full of books. Being able to keep several thoughts going at once, he often read while pondering. And more books surrounded the rocking-chair in tall, precarious stacks.

We should get the moron to tidy this up, his spite thought.

But instead of calling for his PA, his tired eyes searched for the snow-covered peaks surrounding their green plain. It was no use, midwinter night had blanketed Empris. The nation that had only one redeeming feature according to other nations, that it was as far away as possible from any of them. Because sorcerers were held in high contempt throughout the continent.

He could've stayed in bed instead of sitting here self-pitying, but the round thing was uncomfortable. To his annoyance, the bed, like all provided furniture, only got frillier and less useful the higher his rank in magick became.

Of course, you know the reasons for the furniture, don't you, his vanity coaxed.

"I know! We have to maintain the image of status and power!"

Exactly, his inner sorcerer added, it has to look right! Just like this penthouse apartment.

Unofficially, he would've preferred a more age-appropriate room on the bottom floor. Struggling up and down this forty-meter-high tower was a pain in more than just his joints. But the bulk of his thought cared more for the prestige, and even his name was a representation of that drive.

"Lye-as-rak-ard-sul," he said frowning with each syllable.

"Hmpf!" His cavernous nostrils flared as he huffed at his reflection. "Why did I choose such a long, stupid name? Seven-hundred years, and I have barely gotten the hang of how it's pronounced!"

You know why, his self-doubt mocked. Like every sorcling discharged from Xefef's mandatory grades, you were allowed to choose your new name. And you went ahead and chose something as pretentious as possible.

"Well, I could not go around calling myself Lug any more, could I?" Shame bloomed on his wrinkled cheeks. Because the truth was, he missed that simple Kor name.

Sucking on his tobacco stained teeth with a loud smack, he tried to stop his multi-thoughts from running away with him. If these extra musings would work on being a bit less condescending, then perhaps someday, in the very distant future, he could learn to take his own advice. Right now, however, there were more important things to worry about. He needed to metaphorically poke his big nose into things that weren't his to poke. Hopefully, he could sniff out a way to shift the problems on his plate onto the other schools' plates. A strategy that had always worked for him before.

The Darkness in his nightmares had been a real jolt to his system. On top of this obsidian-stone tower, he had believed himself beyond the reach of defecating fear. If it wasn't for the comfort of his three personal items, a trip of the balcony edge would have been preferable. He'd been allowed the first item, the sturdy rocking-chair, with his second promotion to professor. For their first promotion, sorcerers only got more stress.

"It took me centuries to get all three, and I'm still not sure why we are not allowed to own things."

Stop whining, the window's reflection thought at him, there is work to be done. Their elitist accent rang in his head, because even his thoughts sounded like they were talking down to someone.

Updated: 24.04.2024