Chapter Text
“I had a feeling you’d be up.”
Tommy stumbles back, at the sound of the familiar purr; the door that he’d been furiously and relentlessly tugging on given reprieve as it pushes open from the other side, nearly catching his feet as he scampers back, toes curling in the cool marble floor.
“You!” he gasps, the sting of horror-driven bile frothing in his throat, filling his mouth with an acid taste just begging him to retch.
His kidnapper. The - fucking - Archangel stretches pitch black wings, casually fluttering and fluffing up the feathers in a show of how in control he is.
Both of them know how powerless Tommy is.
“Yes,” the monster prowls closer. Rich robes drag silently across the perfect, clean floor. “Me. Hello… Theseus, was it?” he smiles.
His head tilts, silver-blue eyes flashing and Tommy shivers. How does he know his name? Did Clara tell him? He… doesn’t remember her ever saying, but his memory of their entire encounter is fuzzy; drenched in panic and fear. Just the vivid pulse of his heart and the unstoppable magic winding around him like chains.
However it was found out, it doesn’t ease Tommy’s tension in the slightest. It only makes him warier; shuffling sideways to put the huge bed he’d woken up in between him and the dangerous angel.
“Maybe,” he snaps in retort. “What’s it to you?”
The angel’s smile widens. Tommy shivers as he steps closer. Tommy bites the inside of his cheek, trying desperately to not jump back and show weakness.
The angel continues to advance. Step by step. The tips of wings lightly brush furniture as he passes by, slowly but surely forcing Tommy to choose between being backed into a corner or standing his ground. In either case, the Archangel’s presence will be smothering, forcing Tommy to pay attention.
Tommy sways but he chooses the latter: wanting to face this… creature on his own terms. He tilts his head back as they come face to face, the angel rising so much taller than he is child-like in comparison.
“Oh,” the Archangel croons, pupils contracting like a cat’s. “It is everything to me.”
“What do you want with me?” Tommy flushes as his voice cracks halfway through, revealing the extent of his fear.
The angel hums. A taloned hand rises and Tommy flinches as black claws trace the edge of his jaw, curling up towards his eye. A full, warm hand cupping his cheek and tipping his head back ever so slightly.
He trembles; shuddering like the ground before a land roil; pebbles and stones clattering against each other, leaves falling from the great trees above as their spines are shaken.
The archangel smiles, curling his wings around so the ends brush Tommy’s arms. He jerks, automatically moving to push the monster away. The angel’s grip tightens marginally, catching his chin and Tommy’s nose flares as he sucks in a hard breath.
Fearfully, he raises his eyes to meet the angel’s. That small struggle would’ve been enough for Dream to send him crashing to the ground; a boot in his stomach for his insolence.
Surprisingly, the angel does not look angry. His thumb makes a small circle, pressing into the flesh of his cheek and Tommy stills, gaze flickering down, more than aware of the sharpness of those talons and how near they are to his eye. How easy it would be for them to be plucked out.
“Theseus,” the angel speaks and Tommy flinches back up, staring into the thin pupils of the mana-born creature.
“I am not here to hurt you.” If he weren’t halfway frozen in fear, Tommy would snort. What an obvious lie. The angel draws closer until their noses nearly touch. “When did you awaken your magic, elfling?” he croons.
Tommy stops breathing. He… he doesn’t know. Essempii felt like a lifetime ago. Like a distant dream despite his fighting to go home. Time and space has become soup in his head; jumping from world to world.
“Hmm?” The angel taps his fingers, gently prodding at Tommy’s face. “Speak, little spark.”
Tommy shakes his head and musters up a growl. “Get away from me, you bitch!” he snarls and pushes with all his might.
The angel barely twitches, eyebrows raised in amusement as Tommy claws at the hand holding him, trying to pry it off – without success.
He digs dirty, jagged fingernails into his captor’s arm, heaving and puffing as all his attempts are made futile. The angel staring down at him blankly as Tommy desperately twists to free himself.
“Let me go!” he cries, furious tears budding in the corners of his eyes.
Just as he’d done when he’d first woken up in this strange room, he reaches for his magic. The well that was so easy to access; the mana bursting up from the depths to greet him. It continues to not respond. Tommy can scrabble and scream for the edge, but something prevents him from hooking it with his fingertips, drawing it close when he needs it most. The mana floating just under the surface deaf and blind to his calls.
It makes him frustrated. He boils. Thick, poisonous thorns weaving through his veins.
He may hate his magic, but he despises it being taken from him even more.
It’s his one defense; and as he gasps and wrestles in the unrelenting grip of the archangel monster, he loathes that he’s even more useless without it.
Finally – mercifully – the angel releases him and Tommy takes huge, stumbling steps back, his chest rising and falling like a bird with a broken wing.
“St-” he stutters, “stay away from me. Don’t–”
“Theseus,” the angel calls, voice soft and smooth like silk. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
He coughs and laughs hollowly. “Right. Cause that makes me believe you any better.”
There’s a flash of anger in those burning blue-silver eyes and Tommy puts more distance between them, jerking in surprise as his heel touches the wall. He’s cornered.
The angel’s expression softens once again, back to the pleasant calm that only makes his heart beat faster. He’s good at hiding his emotions. Doesn’t even need a mask like Dream-
“I swear on the Aether you’ll come to no harm as long as you’re with me.”
The oath makes Tommy falter. They are serious things even ones that are unfamiliar. Part of him twitches, instinct assuming he would swear on Exdee, the world creator.
He is an angel though… and angels are endlessly devoted to their deity.
Tommy lifts his chin. “Swear on your god,” he demands.
In all truth, it won’t make him trust the archangel anymore or any faster – he was kidnapped, his magic sealed, but he doesn’t expect such a serious promise to be given.
The angel hardly pauses. With a wry smile, he bows, bending wings and feathers and lifting hands in supplication.
“I swear on Lady Death, the void and stars, that you will not be harmed. That you will be under my protection within these hallowed walls.”
He straightens, dark ancient magic binding his wrists, the burning hiss of his oath branding his heart and Tommy’s eyes widen.
“Now,” the angel smooths out his triple pairs of wings, giving Tommy one of the most adoring smiles he’s ever seen in his entire life. “I believe I should introduce myself.
“My name is Philza. Anointed Archangel and Right Hand of Death, herself.”
“You never answered my question.”
Philza hums, only half turning his head, pace never wavering as Tommy follows behind the archangel through the twisted hallways of the – temple, he assumes, for the only other place that would be so lavish must be an emperor’s palace.
His bare feet glide over the polished black stone floors, so dark and rich he can see into them like a mirror. Marble columns adorned in gold and carved with images of skeleton bones and skulls; fascinatingly treading both beautiful and frightening. The walls contain even more of the delicate craftsmanship. Image after image of crows and serving angels with their thorn-like halos.
Tommy curls his toes, the faint chill absorbing up through his feet and he shivers.
“What question is that?” Phil clarifies. He pauses suddenly at an intersection of hallways and Tommy nearly steps on his lower, trailing wings, forcing him to backpedal quickly to avoid them.
Philza smiles over his shoulder, chuckling lightly. Tommy glowers. He’s only following the angel out of need for answers, nothing more. Not that he has many options at this point. His magic is locked and Philza has made it abundantly clear that Tommy is not leaving.
The oath gives him just enough assurance to run on the angel’s heels and demand such without the looming fear of punishment.
“What do you want with me? You hurt the other angels – you hurt Clara just to get to me. What have I done?”
Philza’s eyes flash at Clara’s name, but otherwise is completely unregretful. He shrugs a wing dismissively and Tommy’s eyes narrow.
“They’re replaceable,” the archangel states bluntly. “ You , however, are not.”
Tommy’s fingernails press half moons into his palms and sweat beads on the back of his neck.
“And what makes me so special?” he growls, already tired of this game of cat and mouse.
At that, Philza turns to face him fully once again.
“Oh, Theseus, your magic of course.”
Even if he were prepared, Tommy wouldn’t have been able to suppress his full body flinch. Is this all he is? A vessel? A mana well? He’s never been a person to Dream. Makes sense that he is the same to another powerful spell-crafter. It doesn’t matter the world, he is nothing .
“I could feel you from the moment you… stepped into my territory, let’s put it.”
This time, Tommy takes a harsh step backwards, his chest hitching raggedly as he tries to force his lungs into submission. Breathe. In and out. Calm down. On reflex, he begins to push down on his magic to stop an emotional outburst, but jerks back as he encounters the lock barring it in place.
Right. He can’t access it anyway.
“I’m-” he swallows. “I’m not a thing .”
Philza’s brows furrow as if in mock confusion. A good act but Tommy’s not buying it.
“Of course you’re not, little spark. You would never be.”
Prime and Exdee. Tommy can feel his spine trembling, making it difficult to keep himself upright. All he wants to do is bend in place. Kneel and hope that the punishment for talking back is lenient.
The oath. Remember the oath. Remember-
“Good,” he snaps. His molars are grinding and he’s shaking but Tommy hisses the next words before his teeth completely clamp shut. “I’m not doing anything for you. You- you can’t make me.”
“Theseus,” Philza murmurs. Tommy nearly bursts into hysterical laughter. One of the angel’s wings extend, the long flight feathers brushing the floor, creeping closer and closer to his ankles as if to trip him. “I truly want to help you-”
“I don’t want to hear it! You kidnapped me! You-” Tommy jumps back, making a high whimper as some of Phil’s feathers still manage to touch his skin and he shudders. “Fuck off! I’ll kill you! I’ll-”
Tommy’s magic unlocks.
He dives for it and just as it bursts to life in his chest, the earth beneath the temple floor beginning to rumble-
It’s gone .
He falls to his knees.
“What-? But, how?”
He claws at his chest, as if through physical effort he can pry the lid loose again. “Give it back,” he whimpers. “Give it back!”
“Theseus, I want you to listen.” The aura around Philza condenses, the tell-tale sign of a spell. The archangel weaves it slowly, twisting enveloping shadow and blazing sunlight together. “I’m sorry, I believe I haven’t chosen my words carefully enough and you have misunderstood.”
Those high arching wings open wider, curling over his head and Tommy tries to shuffle away, but then Philza’s magic loops around his wrists, tugging forward slightly. Just enough that Tommy cannot squirm away.
“Come here.”
No, he shakes his head. He’s not moving. Philza- he’ll have to force him.
Philza merely sighs softly and closes the distance himself. Darkness surrounding him as all those wings shift and fold around Tommy, pressing into his sides like a cocoon and the archangel kneels down to his level.
“I’m not going to use you, Theseus. I have more than enough power on my own. I don’t need to steal yours. Yes, I am interested in you because of your magic. You have powerful potential and that’s why I gathered you into my wings. I’m trying to protect you.”
It still doesn’t make sense. Tommy stares up into Philza’s eyes.
“But…” his mouth flaps uselessly. “Why?”
Philza’s gaze softens further. A gentle pity that has Tommy squirming with shock and irritation. He’s a big man. He can take care of himself.
“I’m going to teach you.” And, damn, if that doesn’t make his entire spine straighten, a nervous keen hovering on his lips.
“You’re special. A wonderful miracle. I want to nurture you into something strong. Can I do that?”
Tommy blinks wetly. No. No . He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to be taught anything. It has been nothing but hell. For gods’ sake! He’s running from his last mentor.
“It’s going to be ok,” Philza smiles. The corners of his eyes crinkle sweetly and if Tommy had only known his face in passing, he might feel comforted. A perfect look of sympathy on an angel.
A thumb swipes under his eye, smearing away the moisture as tears begin to fall down his face.
“Oh, Thes,” Philza croons, gathering his face into the crook of his neck.
It’s almost a mirror of before.
“Oh Toms,” Dream sighs, holding him close to his chest. “You’ll get it right next time.”
Tommy chokes on the blood in his lungs, in his throat and curls around the bruises on his stomach and agrees.
He will always agree.
Tommy had expected a lot of things once Philza’s intentions had become clear. He’d tried to prepare himself mentally and physically for whatever “lessons” the archangel had in store.
The oath, once a small beacon of comfort, became a source of dread.
“You will not be harmed.” Yes, but to what extent? Where is the line? What counts as harm, and what is necessary?
Tommy’s stomach churns more with each hour that passes; Philza maintaining a smooth contentedness, knowing that Tommy is completely under his thumb.
Then the time finally came, a knock on his room’s door in the late morning. With dread in his soul, Tommy drags himself over, his hand hanging at his side; a conscious effort he has to make to lift it, grip the handle and turn it, pulling open the heavy wood just enough he can see blonde hair, fair like flaxseed, and the iron gleam of the halo’s thorns.
“Hello, Theseus,” Philza greets, unperturbed by Tommy’s reluctance. “Would you like to join me for a walk to the gardens? We can have your first lesson outside, if you wish.”
There’s nothing more in the world that Tommy want than letting his bare feet sink into warm earth and spread his toes between ticklish blades of grass.
Death’s temple is windowless, and he’s tiring of the monochromatic coloring. He tugs at his sleeves, shivering quietly. It’s always a bit faintly cold. Just enough to chip at his perception and before he knows it, after a few hours his fingernails have turned purple and numb and he has to search out the solitary kitchen fire to heat himself with.
“Theseus?” Philza repeats and Tommy jerks out of his thoughts with a gasp. “Would you like to go outside with me?”
He- can’t .
Before he knows what he’s doing, before he can stop himself, he’s slammed the door shut in the angel’s face. Tommy’s eyes widen and he leans into the wood, holding it closed with his body weight in the absence of a bolt.
There’s a long, silent pause. Tommy shudders, feeling Philza’s aura waver and shift and he nearly screams as a small tendril slips underneath the crack in the door and slowly winds about his ankle.
He stares down, biting his lip, blinking back tears rapidly and trying to suppress the terrified gasps that threaten to take over.
Philza’s magic doesn’t sharpen, doesn’t slice into him for refusing. More flows out, dark and impossible to breathe like smoke as it circles his feet, reaching up to grasp at his hands. Tommy brings his arms up to his chest and fights the urge to kick it away or flail – not that it’d do much.
His core burns, his magic pressing from the opposite side of its barrier to come to his aid.
A whine rises in his throat and he hears movement from the hallway outside. Philza’s going to-
A small knock. Barely a tap next to his ear.
“You can stay here if you’re tired.” The call through the door is barely a murmur. Tommy turns slightly, upsetting the coils of magic at his feet. They swirl, contemplating before returning, lapping at his shins and heels. He presses his ear to the wood grain and listens as Philza continues.
“You can rest if you need. I’ll bring you back something and we’ll speak at lunch. How does that sound?”
Tommy doesn’t respond. He hears the rustling of those multi-pair of wings.
“I’ll be back,” Philza says. Then he is gone.
The worst of his aura disappears with him; a loyal dog trotting at the heels of its master. All, that is, except for a singular strand, still possessively wrapped about his foot.
Tommy exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding and collapses, curling into a ball at the foot of the door.
He’s not sure how long he lays there. At least enough time that his panic begins to fade and the duller throb of anxiety takes its place.
Philza… didn’t make him go. That’s for certain. He didn’t even sound angry that Tommy had refused. That he’d been insolent.
Dream would’ve never allowed what he just did.
“Brat,” hisses the familiar voice from the back of his mind. “Worthless, useless thing. I am making you greater than any of your kinds’ elders and this is the gratitude I receive?”
He beats the memories back. Bruises and blood. Ribs showing through taunt, starving skin and the snap within his core that brought it all to an end.
With a need he can’t fully explain, Tommy drags himself to his knees, then to his feet. He sways, exhausted; the coil of magic slithering to his wrist from his leg. A hand holding his own as he exits out into the corridor.
The temple is still a labyrinth and although Tommy had yet to encounter a locked door or forbidden areas, he doesn’t feel much like exploring. Rather, he takes the ever-growing familiar path to the inner sanctuary. The most holy space for Lady Death.
Trepidation, like most other visits, greets him upon entry. Tommy slows his footsteps to a tiptoe, moving on the balls of his feet as if he is prey avoiding the sharp ears of a predator.
He keeps expecting to be struck down. Cursed; made into a living ghost or wandering skeleton for his lack of belief. As if the foreign deity will know just by looking at him that he is not one of her faithful.
The room’s shadows flicker in the dim, blue torchlight. Soulfire, Philza had called it in passing.
In the center rises a statue of the goddess. He compares it silently to the mural painted in Clara’s church. Death towers over him, carved into obsidian glass that catches light in strange and irregular patterns, making it appear as if the statue is breathing at times. Or swaying, about to step down from her podium and carve him in twain with the curved scythe in her right hand.
Perched, in her left, is a gigantic crow, bigger than him if they were face to face. It spreads its wings, beak parted in a cry as it faces out, body tensed in preparation for flight.
The veil over her face is blown back in the wind and Tommy can see the impression of a face through the fabric. It’s a kind smile she wears. Gentle. This world worships Death, but she isn’t to fear.
She is a mother guiding him home, tucking him into bed. Safe and fulfilled at last.
Philza’s magic winds up his arm, and trance-like Tommy sets a hand on the statue’s dais.
“Hello,” he murmurs into the emptiness. It’s not a prayer – he doesn’t have the intent behind it for it to be transmitted, but it feels rude to invade this space without some kind of permission.
“May I stay here?” he asks, eyes lowered in respect. “I’m just a bit lost. I hope you understand.”
The statue is silent, nonjudgmental. Tommy sighs.
“I’ll be quiet. I just…. I just need to think.”
The dark magic curled around his wrist pulses briefly, curling against the pulse in the base of his thumb and Tommy takes it as acceptance. He pulls himself up onto the marble platform and rests his back against Death’s foot.
“Thanks,” he whispers. “I’ll be good. I don’t want to get in trouble.”
Tommy lays his head back and closes his eyes. He'll rest for just a minute. Here, where it's dark and safe under the goddess' watchful eye…
It feels like less than a second when Tommy's jerking awake, the miasma of Philza’s magic tucking itself around him like a blanket.
He startles, whipping around to meet Philza’s burning gaze. “H-hey!”
“Oh, sorry, Theseus,” Philza coos. “I didn't mean to disturb you.”
“N-no. It's alright. I was just… I'm leaving anyway.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” Tommy says as confidently as possible, inching away to the side.
“Wait a moment.”
Philza’s voice snags Tommy in place like a hook to a fish and he goes limp, waiting for the inevitable.
“Here,” the angel purrs, “No need to leave, I have something to show you.”
The black magic tightens against his limbs and Tommy finds himself in Philza’s arms.
“What-!” he begins to shriek, clawing away from the angel when-
He's sitting on the cool floor and before him are laid out five bowls, each forming a point on a star drawn out in chalk lines. The makeshift pentagram sits dead, no spell breathing it to life. Philza circles round and takes a seat on the opposite side.
“What do you know about mana?”
“What?” Tommy blinks.
The archangel gestures lightly. “Call it curiosity. There are no wrong answers.”
Oh . Tommy can see what he’s doing. “No,” he bares his teeth. “I don’t want to learn from you.”
“Then who would you like to learn from?” Phil tilts his head and Tommy is given pause. Fingers trace the golden rim of the bowl before him. “In my experience, the right teacher and environment will nurture further than simply drilling concepts into one’s head. Who was your last mentor? One of your elf mages? A village elder? I’d think that neither would want to spurn such potential.”
Tommy’s head turn; the tiniest shake of disagreement, but Philza’s eyes are sharp and he takes note quick enough.
“Were you not raised with your kind? How old are you, Theseus?”
“I was!” Tommy instantly denies the first question. And he is being entirely truthful. The second, he bites his lip, staring at the crest of Philza’s wing rather than make eye contact in case the archangel can somehow see through half-lies.
“They said I was too young.” That is true. He was considered too young, until Dream arrived and whispered in the Elders’ ears, manipulating them into letting a human mage take their youngest.
His age, Tommy lies directly about.
“I’m fifty.”
He’s pushing the believability, but only a little. Everyone knows that elven aging can be flexible and unpredictable.
Philza takes it, hook, line and sinker. Tommy flushes as the angel purrs deeply, the magic that had moved away giving him room to breathe rushes back, nuzzling at his cheeks and draping itself around his shoulders.
“You’re so young,” he whispers.
Tommy shivers, the velvety-crackle of Philza’s aura molding around him making the hairs on his arms stand up. “Not that young,” he refutes. “I can take care of myself.”
“Mmm, perhaps. But it must be lonely, without having anyone to rely on.”
“What– what were you saying about mana?” Tommy pivots the conversation back to the original topic. As much as he doesn’t want to be “taught”, he’d rather face that than the slow creeping interrogation and the pain of the angel learning he’d been lied to.
Philza ruffles his wings, giving his head a little shake and his dilated pupils focus marginally. He doesn’t stop his fond smile or the delicate caressing of his magic, but his attention goes back to the web between them.
“Ah, yes. Mana. What do you know?”
Tommy racks his brain. He doesn’t want to get this wrong.
“Mana is…” he hesitates, flinching when Philza looks at him. “Mana is where mages get their magic from?”
A quick nod. Correct. Tommy relaxes, but not by much. He wets his lips, debating pushing his luck and saying more. Or would it be better to stay silent? With Dream, he should always go with the latter, unless it's an easy answer, then he should bark it out quick or his master will get impatient and backhand-
Philza hums, and he bends, nudging one of the bowls to be a little more straight. “Yes, mana is wh-”
“It flows like rivers,” Tommy burst out. Immediately he regrets it and clamps his lips shut as Philza’s face darts up to look at him.
“Why… yes it does,” the archangel agrees, surprise coloring his tone. “Most assume they are static lines of aether, but they are more fluid than that. It flows unseen in rivers and lakes. The veins of our world; mana, the lifeblood we draw upon for spellcraft.
“From aether comes mana, and as it flows through lands with certain… ‘traits’, let’s call them, it takes on different properties and characteristics. Personalities , if you will.”
“What characteristics?” Tommy furrows his brow, unconsciously leaning forward in interest.
“Mana is in a constant state of flux,” Philza says solemnly. “It adapts and cycles, never staying the same for long. Especially as leyline streams merge and split. Throughout the ages, we have identified five types, each found within particular environments.” He waves a hand over the circle, and from most shadows, each bowl fills, the pentagram lines flickering with cool, white flame.
“It connects, one to another, each to itself, and creates unity. When combined, their potential increases tenfold.”
He touches the bowl closest to him, a small silver badge shaped in a sun. “White mana arising from plains. The heat of the sun, unobstructed.” He then moves to the next one, moving clockwise to where Tommy sat.
A bowl of still water. “Blue mana from islands. The flow of water and its eventual wearing of all things.”
A small rabbit skull. “Black: dead lands. Rot and ruin. Places of shadows and loss.” Tommy shivers, remembering the destroyed forest he’d landed in.
Blackened charcoal, ready to be set ablaze. “Red: mountains. Crashing stone; the thunderous explosion of volcanos.”
A seedling, the first tendril of a new leaf curling out from the cracked shell. “And lastly, Green mana found in forests and jungles. Environments of boundless life. Overgrown and ripe with plants.”
Now that he's beginning to think about it, it makes sense. He didn't have the words to explain what he was feeling before, but they line up perfectly with what Philza describes.
“Theseus.”
Tommy jerks from his trance, following Philza’s fingers as they dance from bowl to bowl, his voice low and soothing.
“…yes?”
Philza smiles warmly. “And we, as those with the ability to harness mana, are attuned to at least one of these types. I was born of this one.”
He brings his palm back over the first bowl in the series. “Light. Order. Protection. And as I’ve served my goddess I’ve become attuned to her darker powers.” He moves, indicating the third bowl. The skull. “Darkness and death. Opposing, some might say,” he chuckles. “I’ve found them quite complimentary, however. They have served me well.”
He straightens, resting his hands on his knees. “And you? What calls to you, Theseus?”
Oh.
He’d known the moment the objects had been revealed. They’re all enchanted in some way, and though they weren’t as powerful as the mana streams – the leylines twisting beneath their feet, they shone like diamonds scattered at a river’s edge.
Tommy considers the circle of bowls. Should he…? How much could Philza really do with the knowledge of his attunement?
“Can you feel them?” Philza asks, lowering his tone to a soft caress. “It’s alright if you can’t connect at first. Close your eyes. Relax and open your core. You can do it.”
The dark magic that had huddled around him the entire duration of Philza’s lesson peels away just slightly. Giving him a small berth as if to not distract him.
Tommy inhales through his nose. Philza nods encouragingly.
He opens his hand, raising it towards the circle and pauses. Maybe… he really shouldn’t-
“By my Lady,” Philza whispers, noting his hesitance. “I am not going to harm you, Theseus. I want to teach you. There are no consequences.”
Tommy exhales and reaches for the seedling. Forest mana. Tangled roots and branches; nature and growth under his feet. His home . It surprises even himself as he automatically offers the symbol out to Philza.
The archangel’s face breaks into a smile and he accepts, twisting the pod between his fingers and peering at the light green shoot with pride.
“Life,” Philza breathes. “Instinct. Community. Basic principles of elves; it stands to suit that you would also follow in the tradition. Amazing.”
Tommy ducks his head as a flush spreads across his cheeks. He’d never thought he would be praised for something as simple as the kind of magic he could wield. Dream certainly hadn’t.
On impulse, his other hand dips into the second bowl – the other artifact calling to him – and extends a black smudged hand to Philza. The archangel’s eyes go wide and Tommy almost has a burst of satisfaction for being able to surprise him before nervousness sets in and he nearly drops the coal into the center of the pentagram.
A taloned hand catches his wrist, stopping him before he can pull away. Gently, Tommy’s fingers are unfurled, stretched out to bear the evidence of his second choice.
Philza regards him with wide pupils, dream-like as he plucks the soft, crumbling rock from his palm. With a holy reverence, he cradles it in his hand next to the seedling, a joyful smile spreading across his face.
“ Oh, ” he croons. “This is wonderful, Theseus.”
Tommy turns his face away, a flush creeping up his neck. “No,” he shrugs, trying to deny Philza's obsessive stare. “Just – what the hell does it mean.”
Philza chuckles. Another wave of his hand and the bowls and pentagram lines disappear in a flurry of shadow and whispers.
“Red mana,” he says, “represents freedom. Impulse and action. Chaos.
“How perfect,” he coos.