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Small Steps
Presto looked down from the hillside to the village below. Around him, the villagers’ attitudes had changed as swiftly as flicking on a switch. One moment they were going to lynch the kids as witches, the next their features were suffused with joy.
The village was returned to its proper state: The illusion was gone.
Presto had stared as the others had cheered.
He knew what it meant. If the illusion had gone, then Varla was gone as well. She was dead.
For a few moments, Presto kept still at the village, not breathing. She was dead. The place in his heart where she had called out from was empty.
The Magician still stared unblinkingly down.
Grief does many things. Some people turn violent and loud, some people cry. But that wasn’t Presto’s way. He was as quiet as death itself.
It was possible that he fainted, as he didn’t remember much.
But he did remember Eric by his side, his arm round his waist as he helped the Magician down to the village. The Cavalier didn’t say anything, not that Presto cared about that at the moment.
They didn’t stay in the village.
Varla’s parents, as stricken with grief as the Magician himself, invited them to stay; they had almost insisted. But Presto couldn’t. He couldn’t bear to be anywhere that reminded him of Varla.
Eric had noticed it, he could be quite astute sometimes; and had told Sheila, who had told Hank. They had left that evening, and spent the night in the forest.
Sheila had tried to help him as they walked. She had been by his side, and tried to talk to him, but he couldn’t speak. He knew if he opened his mouth, nothing but a long endless and heartbroken cry would come out.
It was Eric he felt most comfortable with. His clever, sarcastic, funny friend that he’d known forever. His best friend. His closest friend. His secret fantasy.
Before today, he had never understood. Meeting Varla had opened doors into parts of his mind that he’d never acknowledged were there.
The memory of their connection made him start to shake.
He had lived for fifteen years without knowing her, but in just one day he had discovered what it meant to have a soul mate. Varla was his soul mate, and he loved her in a way he couldn’t love anyone else. He could never forget her.
Eric came to sit next to him, and Presto looked up as he approached.
The pretence had gone, for the moment. There was no egotism, there was nothing selfish in his expression. It was the real Eric Montgomery, the one that was rarely seen.
The Cavalier sat down beside Presto and put his arm around his shoulders.
Though his tears, Eric sat with him constantly, his strong arm never moving, not talking or trying to make it “better” the way Shelia did, but just letting him work it out on his own.
He wanted so much to reach out to Eric, to be engulfed in his arms and his love, to be held tightly and kissed.
But it wasn’t enough that day. Presto knew Eric had gone as far as he could; his feelings of love could never be reciprocated.
But still, Presto leaned against him, taking some strength and comfort from the shared contact. Somehow the presence of his closest and best friend was more than enough to take the edge off the pain and help him think more clearly. He was awake all night, even when the Cavalier had fallen asleep beside him.
Before dawn, his mind was made up: He would find Venger, and he would punish him for causing Varla’s death. No matter what it took. No matter what it cost, he was going to take his revenge. And he was going to do it alone.
Taking care not to wake his friend, the Magician rose.
He took one last look down at Eric, then walked off into the forest, and his destiny.