Grace's Gift

It was terrifying being a mage these days. There was too much suspicion on those like Silvanus, whether or not they actually possessed magic. Far too many had been ripped from their beds, and farms, and businesses, transported to Namarast without a second thought for those they left behind and the necessary parts of Ivratian society that would crumble without them. Yes, it was far too dangerous to be a mage, especially one who had no methods of fighting back, only avoidance and escaping. In time, his luck would run out. And when it did, he needed something to protect himself with. 

So it had surprised even Silvanus himself when he had stopped at a place of worship for Grace, a small altar bearing crudely painted images of harvest, and knelt before it, his hands cradling the earth beneath him. The earth gave so much to them all, and yet there were those who wanted to shower it in blood. And yet... the earth still provided. Grace still provided. 

Not daring to speak aloud- he was hardly religious, and did not want anyone nearby to know his position- he knelt, placing his head on the earth that Grace nurtured, and begging Grace for a boon- a way to protect himself from the coming dangers he feared would strike Ivras soon, would strike all mages. He needed protection so that he would not fall to Namarast's clutches, would not be forced to remain in one place for his entire life when even as a babe he had been wandering from place to place. 

He would not be trapped there. He would rather die. 

Taking in a deep breath of summer-filled air, he let the scents of sweet green grass, growing things, and flowers fill his nose, steadying his mind and relaxing his body. Patrons, it had been so long since he had taken a moment to relax, to breathe in the scent of summer, feel the slightly-prickly grass beneath his hands, smell the worked earth in the fields surrounding him. For too long, it had been painting after painting, location after location, watching his back and hiding his face. And while he could not abandon those things- how could one abandon the habits that kept them safe and free, or the work that kept a roof over one's head and food in one's stomach- he could use these few moments to relish in what his life would have been like if he did not need these habits. 

What would his life have been like if his magic had never appeared? Where would he be now?

He knew the Troupe D'Arcadia's schedule by heart- they stopped in Faline this time of year, entertaining guests at the capital. They were around for the Feast of Flowering, and stayed until a month or so after the summer solstice, raking in coin and loving the relative stability that came with the late spring and early summer. Many found lovers who joined the fold, or said goodbye to those who had traveled with them for a year and decided that the traveling life was not for them. In seven to nine months, many new Troupe members would be born, brought about by the stability of the summer. 

Painters always did well in the Troupe- though not the highest art, as that was reserved only for the d'Arcadia dancers- their artwork, though costly to make, almost always sold well. Commission season was in the summer and the winter, and he and the other di Koralias would be taking commissions left and right for those in Faline. He would make a pretty penny, most of which would go back to the Troupe, but he would keep enough to buy the typical summer sweets in Faline- fruit tarts, fried dough rolled in cinnamon and sugar, shaved ice drizzled in sweet syrups, sugar formed into beautiful shapes. 

He brought himself out of the memory- that was not his life now. He had given up that face for a reason- for although the Troupe did not hate their mages, they were not considered good enough, pure enough, to practice their crafts at the same levels of non-mages. He could wish that it was different all he wanted, but it would not change the past. 

He could not go back to that life- not ever. 

So he went into his little wagon and rooted around for something of value that he could give to Grace- something to beg a boon from the power Grace carried. Finally finding what he sought, he ducked outside, bringing the satchel with him. He had kept this, in case he needed it. In case he ever wanted to go back to being Jasper di Koralia, and not Silvanus, with no name, no family. But he saw now- he could not go back to them. They did not hate him, and loved him because he was one of them, but they would not protect him from Witchfinders if they came. They would turn him over- forced to, they would say, but they would not fight for him. They would obey, because they had always obeyed, and they would damn him to a life behind walls- their worst fears. 

All because he had been born with magic in his veins. 

Laying the portrait gently, reverently, upon the altar, he looked at his past self, the portrait he had formed when he had given himself a new life. That was how his magic worked- he painted a portrait of the new face, and in the process of the ritual, the painting morphed into a painting of the form given up. That painting was the only way to re-obtain that form- even with his power, he could not take on the broad-shouldered, red-haired, gold-eyed, freckled face of his boyhood. He could come close, but he could never be exact. Jasper di Koralia was lost to him. 

And now, he would be forever. As he turned away from the altar, climbing up onto the seat and clicking at his mares to pull away, he looked back only once at the face he left behind, the life he would never lead again. He just hoped that this was enough, that this would stir Grace into acting on his behalf. 

He would rather die than be caged.