The Reincarnation of Love Part 1/2

Dedicated to my dear friend, Armeeta Seam

It would have been a fairly pleasant night, warm but not uncomfortable, had it not been for one man. By his presence alone, he turned the night foreboding and malicious. He was an evil Magician, in action and mood, and he looked the part. Tall and gaunt, with long flowing robes and short-slicked hair. For many months, he had traveled the world to gather ingredients for a powerful ritual. From far off lands, he had sought out rare herbs and spices. He delved into the deepest caverns, to gather the crystals that grew there. He had found the banks of a secret sacred river, and gathered its clay. And with it all he fashioned a doll, the size and shape of a sleeping man. On this ominous night, in the top-most room of his tower, he completed his work. With arms raised he spoke ancient words of power, and the winds began to whip about him.

“Ancient Spirit!” He yelled to the whirling winds, “Hear me and answer! Do me this service, and this body I give to you! The woman I love is betrothed to another! I cannot rest while he yet breathes!” From his cloak, he produced a fine dagger, forged in steel and magic. “Take this dagger and slay that man, and we both shall be reborn!”

As suddenly as they’d started, the winds died, and the Magician’s long cloak settled around him. Just as it began to feel as if the ritual had failed, the clay doll on the table began to shake and spin. It transformed into a man, clothed in black, who from the table leapt; he ran towards the Magician, stopping mere inches from him. 

The Spirit spoke, his voice gravely from a two hundred years of silence.”Tell the name of this thief of loves, and it will be done.”

“He is Samuel, youngest prince of this Kingdom- his palace is ten leagues to the west.” The Magician replied, holding up that terrible dagger.

The Spirit snapped the dagger from his hand, and transformed into a spiraling zephyr. In a whirl, he flew from the window. To the west he went, transforming from a zephyr, to a raven, to a gust of cloud, till at last he arrived above the palace itself. He slipped in through yawning windows, and prowled the dark halls till he found the bedchamber of the Prince.

It should be noted that the Prince was not a superstitious or religious sort. He burned incense before he slept, not to ward away evil spirits, but to calm the nerves and relax the mind. Regardless, his room was filled with incense that night, and though the Spirit was not strictly evil, he was certainly wishing harm. So when the Spirit crept in, dagger raised, he found himself blinded by the smoke. But he pushed forward, poising himself to drive the blade through the sleeping prince; but in his blindness, he did not see the Prince’s slippers. Instead of stabbing, the Spirit spun; falling ass over tea-kettle as his foot slipped on the cloth shoes.

The Prince, having had a grown man fully wipe-out right next to his bed, woke up. On instinct, he said, “Are you okay?”

The Spirit, in a fit of pure embarrassment, transformed again into wind and flew from the Prince’s chambers. He spun and flew from the palace, and in his hurry left the dagger where he’d fallen. But by the time he’d noticed, he had already made it most of the way to the tower, and it was too late to go back now.

The winds whipped as the Spirit appeared in that dark room a second time. The Magician grinned white teeth.

“Is it done? Is he dead?”

“There have been… complications.” The Spirit said. “I must rest. But worry not, he will be dead tomorrow.”

And so the day came and went, and the next evening the Spirit set out again. From the top of the tower he flew, transforming into an agile myna, a soaring eagle, a wayward breeze till at last he came to the palace itself. With great care he searched the palace for his missing dagger, in the libraries and studies, under every lock and key, till there was only one place left. He found the dagger in the same room he’d left it in, in the Prince’s curious hands. The room was clear of incense, and the Spirit could find no nearby guards, so he decided to appear in the room as himself.

The Prince saw him immediately. His surprise was undeniable, but he did not call for help.

“Hi! This is your dagger, right?” The Prince said, in a very friendly voice.

“It is…” The Spirit said. 

An awkward silence followed, before the Prince spoke. “Its a remarkable make. You know- I mean you must. Do you? Er- do you know who made this?” The Prince babbled.

“I did.” The Spirit said.

“Really! Will you tell me how? I took it to all our best forgers, but none of them could figure out the secret to its make.” The Prince said, genuinely interested.

“That is because a smith did not make it. At least, a smith did not finish it.” The Spirit said. He found himself curious what the Prince thought he would get out of this conversation. “I am no smith, but when I was alive I was a powerful magician. It is with those skills that I shaped the steel, not by forge or hammer.”

“Then you really are a spirit…” The Prince said, with no small awe.

The Spirit smiled. “And a powerful one. Death has not tarnished my skills, merely delayed their use.”

“The way you appeared, so suddenly- the ministers say that the incense forced you to reveal yourself, but I don’t know if I believe it.” The Prince said, tapping the dagger on his arm thoughtfully.

“Then you are wiser than your sages, prince. Your incense wasn’t more than an annoyance. I used no illusions to enter this place, but my powers of transformation!” The Spirit said, puffing out his chest a bit. Transformation was hard, and he was still proud of figuring it out.

“Transformation!” The Prince cried, appropriately impressed. “I- Is that really possible?”

“Ha!” The Spirit said, and with a spin his form was swallowed and grown into a snarling tiger! He flexed his lethal claws and grinned his razor teeth. “It is probable, Prince!”

The Prince gasped, and began to bombard the Spirit with questions. The Spirit happily answered each one, often with an accompanying transformation, eager to show off his talents.

Both of them quickly lost track of time, till the chirping and whistling from the window signaled the coming dawn. All of a sudden, a terrible fatigue hit the Spirit, and he realized his powers had almost been spent.

“I suppose you must go.” The Prince said, looking at the Spirit’s face. He then yawned.

“I must.” The Spirit said.

“Then here is your blade.” The Prince said, holding it out to him. The shades to the windows had been left open, and so the morning light rested brightly on his nightwear and the outstretched metal alike. The dagger reflected some of this blue-white light onto his face, revealing kindly hazel eyes; a detail the Spirit had easily missed in the dark.

“Thank you.” The Spirit said, gingerly taking the dagger.

“Will you come again tomorrow?” The Prince asked.

“You can count on it.” The Spirit grinned, before he transformed once more. 

After a very exhausting flight back, the Spirit once again alighted in the window of that top-most room.

The Magician did not smile now. “Is it done? Is he dead?”

“There have been… complications.” The Spirit said, trying to hide the wheeze from his voice. “I must rest. But worry not, he will be dead tomorrow.”

The day came and went, and the next dusk the Spirit once again leapt from the top of the tower. He transformed with an excited haste now, into a zipping fly, a diving falcon, a whistling gale; he flew with such speed that he arrived at the palace before the sun had even finished setting. When he came to the Prince’s chamber it was thus empty. The Spirit searched each room of the palace before he glanced outside. In the gardens, he at last found the Prince. He was alone, seated in a beautiful gazebo that was ringed on all sides by a botanical mastery of flowers, bushes, and trees. The Prince, however, was unconcerned with the beauty around him, merely frowning at a notebook in his hands. Curious, the Spirit glanced over his shoulder to see the notebook was completely blank. He realized how easy it would be to strike the man from behind, burying the dagger in his heart, but the Spirit’s curiosity won out.

“What are you doing?” He said, appearing behind the Prince.

“GAH!” the Prince replied, nearly tossing the notebook in surprise, “How long have you been there?!”

“I have just arrived.” The Spirit said, amused. “Why are you staring at a blank page?”

“Ah, this.” The Prince said, “I am trying to put words to it, but I can’t seem to find the right ones. I hope to be a historian, you see.”

“A historian!” The Spirit said, surprised. “Are you not a prince? Why aim to be a scholar?”

“I want to record and understand things of great importance; ancient battles, the figures of history, the miracles of the past and present.” The Prince said with genuine passion. With a bit of timidity, he continued. “I was trying to record our meeting, but I couldn’t find the words to describe your transformation.”

“Perhaps this will jog your memory?” The Spirit said, and with a spin he transformed into one of his most powerful shapes! The ivory tusks of a massive bull elephant curled around the Prince. In his new trumpeting voice, the Spirit volunteered: “Perhaps elegant? Mystical?”

“More like… fast. Rapid.” The Prince said, tapping his chin. “Spinny.”

The Spirit glared, a somewhat funny effect on an elephant’s face. “Do not describe my incredible powers of transformation as ‘spinny’.”

The Prince laughed, and they once again fell into a conversation. The Prince spoke of his love for history, and the Spirit listened, asking many questions and telling a few stories.

They both quickly lost track of time, and only realized how much had passed when the first bird cried its song and the Prince yawned in reply.

“Apologies, I have kept you up overnight again.” The Spirit said, smiling.

“No apology needed.” The Prince replied, before growing strangely sad. “I assume you must leave again?”

“I must.” The Spirit said. “But worry not, I swear I will be back tomorrow.”

The Prince’s smile returned. “Thank you, Cyrus.”

A bolt of lightning could not have shook the Spirit half as much as the Prince’s words.

“Where did you learn that name!?”

The Prince was startled. “Didn’t you tell me it?”

“We have not exchanged names.” The Spirit said. “Where did you learn it?”

“I apologize,” the Prince said, stammeringly, “I thought it was your name- I, I thought you had told it to me. I don’t know why, you just seemed… like a Cyrus, I suppose?”

Like the creeping heat of the lightning strike’s flames, a realization grew in the Spirit’s heart.

The Spirit stepped away from the Prince, and with a spin, he transformed into wind and fled. Up and to the east he flew, till at last he arrived, shaking, at the top of the tower.

The Magician had grown tired of his excuses, and was not there to meet him. Instead, his assistant, a mousy woman, sat waiting.

She spoke up to where he hid, in the rafters.  “Is it done? Is he dead?”

“There have been… complications.” The Spirit said, trying (and failing) to hide the emotion from his voice. “I must rest. But worry not, he will be….”

“Are you alright?” The woman asked. Though she was eager to learn the Magician’s magics, she was very different in temperament.

“I… suppose I am not.” the Spirit said, unsure. “Who are you?”

“I am Guela, the Magician’s apprentice.”

“Is your master here?”

Guela shook her head, “He’s gone on a journey. I don’t know when he’ll return. He left me to mind the tower, and you. Where are you, by the way? Why can I only hear your voice?”

“I am the air in the rafters above you.” The Spirit said, before dropping down, now in the form of a man. He looked terribly sad.

“What happened, that you look like you’ve been weeping even as air?” The woman said, part concerned and part genuinely curious.

“I cannot tell you if you will tell your master.”

“My boss is talented, but he has no great loyalty from me.” The woman assured him. “My lips are sealed.”

“Very well.” The Spirit said. “Then I will tell you my tale:

I was not always a powerful spirit. Once I was a simple mortal man, named Cyrus. I joined a religious brotherhood very young, and spent many years sworn to its Goddess. I was the most learned in its scripture, the most competent in its martial techniques, and not particularly social, save in one case; a man named Chand, who had joined the order the same year as I. Chand was my equal in skill and knowledge, and my closest friend and rival.  The only thing I had above Chand was my Oath. Those who choose could take an Oath to the Goddess, and thus be granted powerful magics. The Oath was simple; To love no one more than you loved the Goddess. Still, many people didn’t take it, for fear of finding someone, be they lover or relative, whom they cared for more. I had never been interested in women and I was distant from my family, so I took it easily.

It was not a peaceful time, and the Goddess’ followers pleaded for the help of her order, so many of us were sent out. Chand and I were both assigned to a walled town in disputed territory. We were to help its people in any way we could, and protect them from the enemies on the horizon. It was a beautiful town. Even now, I remember that dream-like time. As the only representative of our Goddess in the town, we were so stressed and busy, organizing the offerings and decorating the temple. The weeks leading up to the New Year were more rigorous a training than we had ever been put through in the Order. By the end of the week we could move in perfect sync. I found myself spending more and more time with Chand, outside of duties, just because I wanted to. It came to its peak on the last night of the festival of the New Year. The music was loud and joyful, and the crowd had pulled away, giving us a moment alone. I don’t remember who stepped forward first, but we finally kissed. It was spontaneous and wonderful. But before we could talk, the crowd returned and swept us away. Both Chand and I were quite a bit nervous and embarrassed about the event, so we started trying to avoid each other the next day. Fortunately for us, the town was small and we could hardly avoid eye-contact forever, so after a few days we finally sat down and talked.

I admitted to Chand that I had always cared for him as a friend, but now I felt more than that. I swore to him that, if he would have me, I would forever be by his side. That I loved him.

And the bastard,” The Spirit’s tone turned heart-wrenchingly fond, smiling despite his tears. “He had to one up me, even then. Do you know what he said? He looked me in the eyes and said the reason he had never been able to take the Oath all those years ago- the reason had been me. 

We were inseparable, from that point forward. We performed our duties together, trained together, and spent many evenings talking late into the night. We were together when we received the summons, back to our Order. The situation had grown worse, and there were reports of an enemy army that would soon take the region. The Order had recalled all their members from there, thinking it a lost cause. Chand and I disagreed. We had come to really care about this town where we discovered our love together, and the community that had accepted us. We sent back a refusal, and helped the town make preparations for a siege. 

Perhaps if we’d have gone, then…” Cyrus stopped, voice choked with emotion. He took a long breath to steady himself, before continuing. “The wall-scouts spotted the army a little after dawn. Chand and I went up to take a look, and resolved to return a couple hours later when the army was close enough to be a threat. One of the magics my Oath gave me was the ability to create a vast shield, and so I was to be the first line of defense when the siege began. I managed to get some fitful sleep, before I was roused again to man the wall. When we arrived, however, I saw that they had waited too long to bring me; the army was nearly at our doorstep, and the arrows could come at any moment. I could already make out the first few lines of troops, and in the morning light I saw the silhouettes of longbows. With Chand by my side, I got right to work. I steadied myself, speaking the words of our Goddess, and threw out my hands to send the glowing shield in front of us.

But it did not appear. There was no radiant barrier, not even a flicker of light. I tried again, and again, but each failure only confirmed a terrible realization.

Someone asked what was wrong- I think it was Chand. I turned to him and said ‘I have broken my Oath, my love. The magic is gone.’ 

A sharp pain struck my shoulder. An over-eager archer had hit his mark.

The sound came next: a thousand whistles from the skies. Our walls were not high, and there was no time to run. I had no time to think, but Chand was always a quicker thinker than I. 

He pulled me behind him, and shielded my body with his own. It seemed an eternity passed, before the volley finally stopped. 

He fell only after the immediate danger passed, crumbling into my arms with some thirty arrows through his back. I held him. There was nothing else I could do. I didn’t ask why; I already knew. He held me as much as I held him, and put hand to my face.

‘Don’t worry, my love.’ He said. ‘I promise we will see each other again.’

That was the last thing he said to me. He died in my arms, and all I could do was weep.” Cyrus breathed shakily, wrapped up in the terrible memory. Guela laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, and waited till he’d summoned back his composure.

“I’m sorry.” She said, “That is not what I expected at all.”

“No?” Cyrus said, wiping his eye and looking at her with an ember of mischief. “Expecting some epic about me burning a few countries down?”

“I figured you’d done some assassinating at least, given what the Magician asked of you.” Guela said honestly.

Cyrus grew grim. “He likely knows of my… later life. I did not die on that wall. I swore vengeance.”
“Against who? The bowmen?”

“Against the Goddess. Her Oath had doomed us, and in that moment of need she had sent no miracles to protect Chand, who believed in her till the end. I resolved to avenge my love by casting the Goddess out of the heavens and killing her myself. I survived the siege by the skin of my teeth, and abandoned the Order, seeking out new, more reliable sources of power. I studied magics new and ancient, and learned every incantation and sorcery I could get my hands on. With great determination I forged a dagger that could accomplish the task. When at last I felt I was ready, I took that dagger and flew up to the heavens. But as I flew higher and higher, the air around me turned to flame. No cloud or spell could douse it, and in seconds I was burned away to ash. In that last moment I had, I used every ounce of my power to fling my heart, my spirit, out to that veil between worlds. I waited, as centuries passed, till I felt the pull of the familiar. At the other end I found your Master, who set me to his task. I thought it would be easy at first. I met the Prince, and he was no terrible threat. No, he was… pleasant, and his company brought me real joy. I kept hesitating to do the terrible deed, and then…” Cyrus closed his eyes, his face a mask of pain and frustration. “How could I not have seen! He has the same chuckling laugh, the same kind eyes! He knew my name, Guela! He knew a name that has not been spoken for hundreds of years, and he knew it was mine. He is my love reborn, and I have been summoned to kill him! Even if I throw away the blade, can I stop the summoner from picking it up himself? Must my love die before me again?! I don’t- I don’t know what to do…”

Cyrus grabbed at his face, burying it in his hands.

Guela cautiously asked. “Have you… told him any of this?”

Cyrus lifted his head up. “Ah. Well, no.”

“Then I think that might be a good place to start. Maybe you can figure something out together. Do you have the strength to make it back to the palace?”

Cyrus sighed. “I don’t. I barely made it here.”
Guela said. “Then go talk to him tomorrow. Nothing can be done now but resting, so you might as well do that. I will keep an eye out for my boss, but he didn’t say when he was returning, so I doubt it will be anytime soon.”

Cyrus nodded, and propped himself in the arched window sill to sleep away the day.