I Refuse - CS
Category: Drabbles

Magic is something that has always fascinated me. Conjuring something out of thin air, healing the wounded in seconds—these feats may seem mundane to some, but I can’t help but find myself in awe of even the simplest spells. Sometimes, as I pass Sorcerer's Sundries, I wonder if magic users ever take these gifts for granted, much like a cat might wonder if people take for granted the convenience of possessing opposable thumbs. This curiosity about magic, combined with a reluctance to fully embrace it, has been a consistent theme in my life since childhood.

My first foray into magic occurred when I was nine years old. My father had been busy all day preparing to have the city officers over for an important dinner to discuss some new major infrastructure, blah blah blah. I was nine, don’t expect me to remember the details of some government project. I could have cared less about it. What I did care about was the feeling of being neglected after being dismissed by him several times over the course of the morning. Was he neglecting me? No. Did it still feel like the end of the world? Yes. However, I quickly realized that our estate staff were all preoccupied as well which meant I could get away with several things I normally couldn't.

For me, that looked like reading my fairytale anthology behind some bushes in the garden for several hours and then walking myself through the city to the beach so I could collect some new shells. I recall the maid's disapproval upon discovering me windswept and sandy - something along the lines of, ‘that girl desperately needs a feminine influence’. (Which was something I didn’t and still don’t understand given that this was the same maid who had to press and relace all my dresses after I had an impromptu fashion show for myself that resulted in every article of clothing in my closet being unceremoniously thrown to the floor after I had tried it on. Had I a mother, I am sure her make-up bag and jewelry box would have fallen victim to my escapades as well.) 

Following a scolding and a futile attempt to tame my unruly hair, I was instructed to remain still until dinner, a concept foreign to my restless nature. Even now, as I read and write, I find solace in pacing, my study's carpet bearing witness to years of this habitual motion. At one point I put a rug over it, but the slight change in elevation made it uncomfortable under my feet and I couldn’t compose a single line until I removed it.

I digress. Unable to find the patience required to remain in my room and fueled by an extreme dislike for being told what to do, especially by someone that wasn’t my father, I decided that I would try to get away with one more adventure before the dinner. I snuck out and into my father’s office. This was a place that was normally off limits. In fact, the door was locked a majority of the time. But in the chaos of preparation I noticed it had been left open and wanted to see just why he felt the need to keep me out. It was a treasure trove; the walls lined with books, a grand piano in the center of the room, a hoard of different colored inks, some of which I’m sure had magical properties. Yet, it was a single scroll on his desk that captivated my attention. A scroll of light.

I had seen spell scrolls used before and was confident that I could easily mimic the steps I saw mages take to cast them. I looked it over for no more than a moment before the door to the office slammed open, the maid standing in the doorway scowling at me. Honestly, I didn’t mean to cast the spell. But I was startled as she grabbed my arm to pull me out of the room. Next thing I knew, the scroll had vanished and the maid was lit up like a firefly in early summer. Though initially amused by the spectacle, my amusement turned to dread as my father implored me to undo the spell, fearing the imminent arrival of our guests. Despite my attempts, the maid remained illuminated throughout the evening, serving drinks and food to our entertained visitors until it wore off and her skin returned to the dull dusty pallor it usually carried.
 

…

Milil. It’s been ten years since you showed yourself to me and declared yourself my patron. I gave you my worship as you asked, you said nothing more. Suddenly I find myself with a gift I never asked for. But such is the narrative of my existence; perennially ungrateful for all that has been bestowed upon me. A cleric of Milil. Is this your effort to shield me? Or do you beckon me to confront those whose talons have pierced the tender flesh of our city? If you urge me to employ these abilities for good, I refuse. Where were they when my father writhed in agony, gasping for air on the floor of his study, choking on his own blood  while I stood by, impotent to aid him? Where were they when I resorted to seeking solace in the beds of strangers each week, driven by sheer terror of the consequences of refusal? And where were they when I did refuse an admirer's advances, only to endure the violation of my virtue at the edge of a blade, leaving me wounded in both body and soul?
 

I refuse. You and I both know that’s a lie… I refuse.