Of Measures and Memories

’It really is just like Ela said,’ John thought, rereading the paper in front of him.

Lord Brighton had produced from within his desk a beautiful piece of parchment, embossed with a resplendent rose insignia, bordered with rich colored inks, upon which was written the rules of the Writ of Protection. It had surprised John that, for something so clearly modeled after a contract, there was basically nothing duplicitous or otherwise intended to take advantage of him (at least as far as he could tell).

’I guess that’s how they get it to fit on a single sheet like this,’ he realized, chuckling to himself. ’Pretty straightforward. They agree to protect me and my family - which is a good clarification - in exchange for me agreeing not to join any other guilds… not that I even know of any others.

’Also, there’s the clause about me committing my services if they are in need of them. In exchange for whatever “equitable compensation” means.’

The Gamer sighed, looking up at the others in the room. Lord Brighton sat passively, awaiting John’s response; meanwhile, Moira had returned her attention to the magic focus, glaring at it with all her might - perhaps in an attempt to intimidate some kind of answer out of it. Thus far, the model of the atom was refusing to talk.

“So…” John began, cautiously. “What kind of things does this contract compel me to assist with? Am I agreeing to fight for you?”

The Gamer allowed his voice to trail off, adding two more words so quietly he wasn’t sure anyone could hear them, “…To die?”

“Only in the most **** of circumstances would the Order call upon those it protects to fight alongside her knights,” the Lord-Protector answered resolutely. “We are only asking that, should we determine that your unique abilities could be used to save the lives of others under our banner, you lend us those talents for the betterment of the whole.”

John leaned back in his chair, stretching. ’An impressively political answer, if one I’m willing to believe, for now.’

The Gamer ran through everything he knew in his head. In theory, he couldn’t actually confirm what Ela had warned him about regarding the magical world being dangerous - the only things he would have deemed as threats would have been the enemies in his own dungeon and Victoria Wentworth. A chill slunk down his spine at just the memory of their encounter.

Perhaps her presence alone was enough to justify this contract.

What reason would this seemingly powerful order of paladins have had for lying to him to draw him into this anyway?

’There are certainly easier ways to bait me into things,’ he thought, remembering all the money he’d thrown at cute girls in gacha games.

Deciding to be more thorough, John cast [Observe] on the writ itself.

’Nothing…’ he mused. ’Though, if [Observe] won’t work on the Lord-Protector, they could probably make a contract I can’t sense regardless.’

“You could simply have asked, you know,” Moira interrupted.

He looked up and met her gaze. “Yeah, well, I feel a little better seeing myself.”

The redhead puffed up, as if to retort, but stopped herself. She bit her lip and decompressed momentarily before speaking. “Right. It is understandable to want to see the truth with your own two eyes. You haven’t heard of us before.”

John allowed himself to soften at that. “Thanks.”

Moira met his gaze, and the two reached a silent understanding. Lord Brighton nodded ever so slightly.

As John continued to ponder the pros and cons, Reginald entered the room again followed by another, seemingly much older man. He was skinny, far more so than John had ever been, enough to appear little more than skin and bone. His hair, white as snow, was but wisps upon his head, combed and parted in vain, clinging to the remnants of a more formal and impressive style that it could no longer sustain.

He was dressed no less formally than the butler or the Lord-Protector, though his overall visage was more grandfatherly than refined. His suit was worn and patched over on the elbows, and it was just baggy enough to show weight loss. Nonetheless, his presence shifted the demeanor of the room immediately. Moira looked over at him, sporting a bigger smile than John had ever seen on her, as he approached the beautiful mahogany desk around which the trio were arranged.

“Hello Cornelius!” she said with more enthusiasm than intended. He smiled gently at her greeting.

Clearing her throat and adjusting her stance, she continued with more formality, “Excuse me. This is John Newman, a fellow student at Ashcroft Academy and a Late Bloomer. We have reason to believe that his powers are the result of divine interference."

Cornelius looked at John and nodded cordially.

"He claims that this item was produced by his powers. Could you please take a look at this for us? We are hoping that you could identify the source.”

“Of course,” the aging man replied with warmth. “By your command, Warden.”

He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a set of reading glasses. Their frame was plain, with little in the way of design or decoration; however, the lenses shone immaculately, and the faintest hint of mana could be seen through them. Gingerly, Cornelius unfolded the arms and put on the glasses, taking a few seconds to blink as his eyes adjusted. Reaching out, he received the magic focus from Moira and began to look it over.

John took a moment then to appreciate the absurdity of the situation. Around this desk stood three of the most serious, formal looking people he’d ever met, apparently a paladin, a mage, and a lord - all staring with immense curiosity at a plastic model of the atom. There was simply no reconciling the silly reds and blues of the protons and neutrons with the gold trim and rose colored accents.

’Wonder what he sees through those things?’ The Gamer thought to himself as the man turned the object over in his hands once more. ’Can he, like, see inside it now? Maybe it does its own kind of [Observe] or something?’

Without warning, the aging artificer turned to look at John, his eyes awash with mana. Lines and shapes and sigils traced along the inside of the glasses he now wore. He paused for a moment, shooting a quizzical look at his subject. The Gamer shuddered as he was studied, but, as quickly as it began, it ended with the older man returning to poring over the model.

"Your own signature is quite robust already," Cornelius said, almost absentmindedly. "Are you sure you aren't distantly related to any of the major houses of Europe?"

"Uh… not that I'm aware of? I don't know how I'd know that kind of thing."

The artificer merely nodded and carried on. “Perhaps worth a genealogy check.”

“Um… If you don’t mind me asking,” John said. “What do you mean by signature? Something magic related?”

Cornelius did not pause his analysis to respond, too engrossed in an electron, but, thankfully for John, Moira did. “Mana comes from the essence of each individual, from their fundamental being. As such, every source of mana leaves a unique trace when used to cast any kind of spell, like a fingerprint of magic.

“Cornelius is our most senior artificer; if whoever has given you these powers has been cataloged by the Order in the past, he will be able to identify them. Put simply, he’s checking the traces of magic within the item for anything distinctive that would identify its creator.”

The man gave a hearty laugh at that. "If only I were half the man you make of me. It will take time to complete such an exhaustive search, both to identify the artifact’s own signature and to match it. I do believe I can already see several of the distinctive markers of divine magic.

"The mana itself is clean and pure, though it bears only a passing resemblance to the boy’s. I can have a more definitive answer within a day's time, perhaps half that if it is urgent."

The Warden nodded, then turned to John. “I would insist that you leave at least one of your magical items with us for the time being, so that we can complete our inquiry. Once we have identified the source of your powers, I can return the item to you at school.”

Moira stepped back to the Lord-Protector’s side, adding a single addendum, “Provided that there are no dangerous complications, of course.”

’Probably the best chance to chase that potential achievement,’ John thought, having internally begun mulling over the decision since a time frame had been mentioned. ’Of all the items I have, it’s probably the most expendable. Everything else, besides the sword, has a place on my equipment or is a skill gem. The focus has been power crept out.’

“Yeah, that’s fine,” he answered aloud. “Just, I dunno, be careful with it, I guess? I get sentimental for stuff easily, and that’s the first reward I got.”

She raised an eyebrow at that, but offered no complaint. “Of course. I doubt our investigation will require any damaging magic be used.”

Moira glanced at her father, who gave a resolute nod of approval.

“I think, then, that we have reached our conclusion,” The Lord-Protector began, once more his commanding presence dominating the room. “Have you made your decision regarding the Writ of Protection?

“Understand that this is normally not an option. I offer leniency only because of your status as both a Late Bloomer and one of my daughter’s classmates.”

John leaned forward, folding his hands together under his chin.

’Well, I’ve come this far trusting Ela, and nothing bad’s happened yet,’ he thought, steeling his resolve. ‘In for a penny, in for a pound, or whatever the saying is.’

“Yes, I think this is for the best,” The Gamer declared. “I, uh, need a pen though.”

With Ela

Across the manor, Ela gazed out a back window, lost in her memories. A kind maid had brought cups of tea while she was still clutching her sister's shield. Gently, she sipped the hot liquid, following the warm feeling down her throat. From where she stood, she could see a secluded part of the garden where squires were finishing the day's training.

Most stood in lines, practicing forms, though some, more advanced students, sparred with knights on the sides. As the afternoon training ended, the squires broke apart into their groups, friends and comrades splitting off to return to their bunks together. Smiles and laughter were exchanged.

A fresh wave of melancholy fell upon the Pole.

She closed her eyes and tried to relive days long gone.

Orkney, Scotland - Four years ago.

The midday sun cast beautiful rays across the island. Cool sea breeze fought back the first of spring's warmth. An Order base lay hidden along the shoreline, concealed by the gigantic natural barrier which encompassed the waters of Scapa Flow. Sailors and squires and knights went about their business, each a cog in the machine that operated one of the Golden Rose’s largest naval logistics hubs.

Above the hustle and bustle, faint sounds of battle could be heard. At the training fields on the edge of the base, sword met shield as a pair of blondes exchanged blows. The older of the two smiled as she deflected yet another sword strike, expertly whirling around her frustrated counterpart. The younger shouted with anger, throwing herself forward for another flurry of blows.

The battle cry drew an eye roll from their lone observer. A brunette with red glasses sat on the grass by them, the work on her laptop momentarily forgotten.

Ela Grzmot pushed her offensive as hard as she could, mustering all the strength and speed in her body. She jumped and brought her blade down, the full weight of her body in a singular, crushing strike - blocked with enough **** to throw her back. Before the ring had left the air, she landed and was moving forward once more, whirling to the side with an upward strike, only to again be parried. No matter what she did, her older sister danced around blow after blow.

The two were unquestionably sisters with how similar their appearances were. The older let her fair hair down, flowing to her back, whereas the younger had her blonde locks pulled up in twin tails. Their faces were all but mirror images, with the elder’s features ever so slightly more defined and striking. Both bore identical arms and armor - standard for the Order, with only small decorations for rank distinguishing the big sister’s equipment.

With a huff, the younger blonde ceded her attack, resting her arms at her sides. Her angered expression softened as she looked back at her dear sister.

“You know,” Ela muttered under her breath, offering an exasperated smile. “This would be much less frustrating if you would at least fight back.”

“It is your offense that needs work, not your defense,” Zofia Grzmot chastised, stabbing her own sword into the ground. “You are letting your emotions wear down your technique. Get some water and then we will go again.”

The blonde squire nodded, laying her arms down where she stood. After a second spent stretching, she turned and walked to the side of the field where the brunette was already opening a cooler.

“Rough morning already, E?” the glasses-wearing woman asked, tossing a water bottle at her worn-out friend.

“Yes,” Ela responded, gulping down liquid. “It has been good practice, at least.”

“Good to hear, but, uh, hurry up and kick her butt so we can go get lunch. There’s a new Greek place I want to try off base.”

That got a laugh out of her companion. “I will do my best, but I make no promises.”

Zofia smiled warmly at the pair, though neither could see it.

After a further moment’s rest, Ela rejoined her sister in the square, her focus restored. She flexed her arms and legs before grabbing her armaments and settling into a practiced stance. Her shield was held proudly in front of her, and she had a relaxed grip on her blade. Feet planted firmly, all distractions drifted from her mind. The older knight grinned widely, drawing her own blade from the ground.

“I see that you are ready this time,” Zofia called out, readying herself for combat. “Once more, for real, and then you can go for the day.”

The sisters exchanged one final nod, and combat began. They charged at each other, though the older held the edge, and her strike came out first. The younger raised her own shield, prepared to block a dizzying blow.

The crash of steel sent Ela back into the present, as a chill crept up through her shield arm. She winced and almost dropped her tea cup as a phantom pain returned. Her whole body tensed as if she were under attack again. It passed without incident, but not without notice.

“If the wound is still botherin’ you, then you need to see an Apothecary again,” Knight-Captain Gallacher commented from where he sat. “You know the Order will take care of it.”

“I have been to the Apothecaries,” Ela replied, curtly. “There is nothing wrong with my arm.”

“Hmm,” he grunted with dissatisfaction. Regardless, he allowed the subject to pass.

A silence settled on the two before the blonde returned from the window, taking her seat again on the couch. Next to her sat the shield, once more stored away in its bag. Absent-mindedly, she ran her hand across it again, closing her eyes.

“They are not going to send you back to the front, right?” she inquired.

“Ha! Not me anymore, lass,” the man guffawed in response. “I’m so old they’d have made me retire if they weren’t so short on men. As it is, I’m basically just here to train recruits these days.”

“Not that old.”

“Tell that to my hairline,” he retorted. “I’m in my sixties.”

The two both chuckled at that one.

“It really has been nice to see you again. I have missed you terribly,” she sang, a spark of brightness returning to her voice. “I still do not know if I am ready to come back though.”

Ela smiled warmly at the Knight-Captain. “Sorry.”

“That’s alright,” he assured her. “Knowing that you’re OK is good enough for me.”

Their exchange was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door, through which entered Reginald, the butler. He bowed slightly, realizing he had interrupted them.

“Apologies, but I am to inform you that the meeting between the Late Bloomer and Lord Brighton has concluded.”