Requiem

What governs the fate of wizards in this world? Some unseen being or law? Something akin to the hand of Merlin hovering over the world? One thing is certain: a wizard is not even master of his own will. An imperious, all-consuming voice repeated in her head, over and over. His image surfaced in her mind: ornate, measured, practically perfect. But behind that polished facade lurked something slimy, filthy - something forbidden and criminal to speak of aloud. Something inescapable. The only thing distracting her from the fear crawling beneath her skin was the rain drumming against the windowpane. Something ached deep inside. Something distant, old, forgotten. His voice demanded no answer, only obedience - a path with no room for misstep. His will granted freedom, gave wings, yet bound her hands all the same. Her hand reached for the quill again. A furrow formed between her brows, and the silence was cut by the scrape of parchment. Dear Father. The first line came easily. Suspiciously so, the letters falling into a neat row, only to come crashing down into a devastating ellipsis. I must inform you that, despite your instructions, I will not be returning home for Christmas. I know you will be very angry, but... Her hesitation turned into a messy blot. She crumpled the parchment and tossed it into the fireplace. But... Was there even a "but"? There were only one reason she didn't want to return to her father's house: the narrow, grimy alleys teeming with real scum seemed safer and more welcoming than home. As if even the worst enemy could not outshine her father's rage and what it usually entailed. Father, A fresh parchment now spoke. I will not be returning for Christmas. My work in the city has been prolonged, and I must stay. They say it's not very safe at the moment. I hear more and more about the Father. Some think a coup is being prepared; others simply fear a bunch of rejected wizards will start causing chaos in the streets. The Council of Magic remains silent. They likely have greater concerns... Forgive me. I will send letters and will eagerly await your reply. Anna. She meticulously formed each letter, the very act making her sick with its feigned politeness and pretense. It was unlikely her father would feel anything but fury when the owl arrived. Anna carefully folded the letter and sealed it in an envelope. Shards of dark red sealing wax fell into the spoon - the only thing she could find in the dusty motel room - and melted under the candle flame. The molten pool spread across the yellowed parchment, kindly loaned by the innkeeper, leaving a red stain imprinted with the seal of a flying bird. A seal of freedom that looked more like a bloodstain.