A simple ission

Arguing in his own mind about the best way to break the news was proving to be a daunting task. If he made too much of a spectacle out of it, Erik would have him running tests with it for the next full moon. If he under played it, Erik would have him sit in the archives studying ways to improve magical output until his fingers bled. Neither were an appealing option. He had already deduced enough that full meals improved his continuous casting ability, he could cast using conviction from emotion rather than spoken words, but the spoken incantations refined the effects.

The last part was what bothered him most. He still wasn't entirely certain what the words did. The first time he had cast Strong Gust, the words had felt less like something he had memorized and more like something he had ed. The conviction behind them had shaped the spell, while the incantation seemed to give that conviction a direction. Without it, the magic came out rougher. Stronger in some ways, weaker in others. Like trying to steer a ship by leaning toward where he wanted to go.

He rubbed his temples as he walked. That wasn't how he wanted to explain it to Erik. He could already imagine the questions. How did you learn it? What book did you read? Why didn't you tell me? Can you cast anything else? How much can you cast before exhausting yourself? Does eating actually restore magical stamina or does it just prevent fatigue? Can you teach me? Can I watch you cast it again?

Wilkes stopped walking. The last question was the most dangerous. He could already hear Erik saying it with that particular gleam in his eyes. The curious glint he'd gotten whenever they found some strange piece of equipment washed ashore or heard a sailor describe a distant port. Erik never learned something halfway. If something caught his attention, it consumed him. Wilkes sighed and continued toward the docks. Maybe Beatrice had been right. Maybe hiding it had only made the problem worse.

The docks were already alive with the usual morning rhythm. Nets were being hauled across the planks, fish were being sorted into barrels, and somewhere nearby a hammer rang against metal in steady intervals. The smell of salt, scales, and old wood settled over everything. It was familiar enough that Wilkes felt some of the tension leave his shoulders.

Then he spotted Erik. The elf-eared savant was sitting on an overturned crate with a book balanced against one knee. His other hand was wrapped around a piece of bread, though he seemed to have forgotten about it entirely. His eyes moved rapidly across the page. His lips moved as he muttered his opinions on the book aloud. Wilkes stopped again full tilt. Of course he was reading about magic. He almost turned around.

“Wilkes.”

The sailor froze. Erik lowered the book.

“Why are you standing there like you've seen a ghost?”

Wilkes looked toward the sea. He could still leave. He could go help Barry with the nets. He could find Rangpar and whatever was being hammered. He could even spend the next six hours pretending this conversation didn't exist.

Instead, he walked over and dropped onto the crate beside him.

“I need to tell ye something.”

Erik's book immediately closed. The movement was so quick Wilkes nearly regretted speaking.

“What happened? Did things end with Beatrice?”

“Nothing happened. We’re doing fine.”

“That isn't reassuring.”

“I know.”

Erik stared at him. Wilkes stared at the water. The foamy crests teasing him out toward the horizon. The silence stretched. Finally Erik nudged him with an elbow.

“You're making this much worse than it needs to be.”

“Aye, that's what I'm afraid of.”

“What are you afraid of?”

Wilkes took a deep breath. Then another.

“I can do magic.”

Erik blinked. Once. Twice. His expression didn't change. Wilkes frowned.

“That’s it? Ye've got nothing ta say?”

Erik slowly opened his mouth. Then closed it. He looked down at the book in his lap. Then back at Wilkes.

“Uh, I figured. You think Rangpar hadn’t mentioned the wounds he gave you closing mid tussle?”

Wilkes stared at him blankly now. He repeated the habitual blinking while the ropes pulled and the gears turned in his mind. He had been subtle the whole time, but forgot about the storytelling Orc. Of course he told people that, wounds closing like magic just made a story more interesting. Erik wouldn’t have taken it as a tall tale though. He would’ve assumed things, studied changes. It explained why he’d been near him so much during their last fight with pirates, he was waiting to see it again while keeping up the defensive.

“Uh, yeah, well I learned another trick.”

“A trick? Or a spell?”

“Both, one trick, one spell.”

“And it is?”

“I can make the wind move by waving my hand.”

Erik then fanned Wilkes with his hand, cracking a sly smile at his own joke.

“Right, well so can I. Now C’mon Dortas has the shipping manifest checked off and you need to approve it as his direct mentor.” Erik said, hopping up from the crate and climbing aboard the ship.

“Huh? Since when was I his direct mentor, I thought the three of ‘em were still learning as a group?”

“Since I asked to have Leif as my private apprentice.” Erik responded with a small shrug.

“Well what about Svend?”

“Rangpar picked him.”

Wilkes stared at the ship for a few seconds before following after him. “Wait, wait, wait. Back up. You asked to have Leif as your private apprentice?”

Erik turned around while walking backward up the gangplank. “Aye. Because he's interested in learning to hold up my usual spot. Lad wants to learn cartography on top of hauling and sorting.”

“So ye just asked the captain and it was made so?”

“Aye.”

Wilkes stepped onto the deck behind him. “Then why Leif?”

“Because he listens.”

Wilkes stopped. Erik kept walking, his steps already adjusting to the slight rise and fall of the boat as it bobbed gently with the waves. Wilkes took a final step forward to fully adjust himself with the familiar rhythm.

“That's your reason?”

“It's a very good reason.”

Wilkes rubbed his forehead. “Erik, you're teaching these lads how to become sailors. Yer not picking fishing bait.”

“I know.”

“You've spent half your life complaining that nobody around here takes learning seriously.”

“I know.”

“And now you've decided one of them is worth personally teaching because he listens? Did ye take into that he’s the hot headed one out of the twins? That he nearly swung on me, for untying his knot?”

Erik finally stopped and looked back at him. His expression was stoney serious.

“Yes. It was because he listens and has a temper I chose him. He’s ionate about his work, a perfect trait for a sailor.”

Wilkes stared at him for a moment before shaking his head. “Yer impossible.”

“That's what Beatrice says about you.”

That stopped Wilkes from teasing him further. Erik grinned. Wilkes narrowed his eyes. “What'd she tell ye?”

“Nothing.”

“Erik.”

“Nothing important.”

“Erik.”

The elf-eared savant turned away and continued toward the stern. “Dortas has the manifest.”

Wilkes followed him with a groan. “Ye can't just say something like that and walk away.”

“Watch as I go.”

“I'm gonna throw you overboard.”

“Ye'd have to catch me first.”

Wilkes considered it. He probably could. The problem was that Erik knew that too. Playing a mental game with him was a sure loss. Maybe if he knocked him aside with a gust it’d be easier, but mights and maybes never filled a belly.

By the time they reached the stern, the argument had already dissolved into the familiar rhythm of their friendship. The ship needed work. Nets needed checking. The manifest needed approval. Whatever strange secret Wilkes had been carrying in his chest could apparently wait another few minutes.

He took the parchment from Dortas and began reading. The numbers made sense. The weights matched the listed catches. Expected invoices for return were similar enough to old ones, raw ores and bolts of fabric. A typical bi-moonly voyage. The destination was Port Einruch, and the expected departure was still several weeks away.

Wilkes paused. Several weeks. His eyes drifted toward Erik. Port Einruch. The Mainland’s home for arcane studies. His brow furrowed briefly.

Beatrice had suggested it almost immediately after learning about his magic. A place where he could find books that actually taught spellcraft instead of merely explaining magical theory. A place where he might find better fabric for his wedding tunic. A place where Erik could probably lose himself in an archive for three consecutive days. And, perhaps most importantly, a place where Wilkes could learn what the hell was happening to him. He folded the manifest with a neat crease.

“Erik.”

“Hm?”

“I think Bea had an idea.” Erik looked up. Wilkes smiled faintly. “We should try to get on that voyage.”

“Wilkes, we have apprentices now. We’re going to teach them about their first long distance voyage. Barry’s gonna be commissioning a clipper and crew from some surrounding islands to meet immediate needs in our absence.” Erik's smile was nearly as wide as the horizon that loomed behind him. The sun beat down on him, but was dim in comparison to the radiant joy on his face. He nodded back at the human sailor.

Their daily work split the two briefly after that. Wilkes toiled away below deck with Dortas. The barrels of brining fish needed to be arranged by catch date and labeled. His apprentice was apt for it, but keeping an eye on him kept the lad from dawdling. Wilkes found himself smiling whenever the gnome couldn’t see it. Showing too much pride early on would spoil his ego. His handwriting was neat and plainly legible, the scratching noise of his stylus on the paper labels was hardly noticeable. The lad had inherent skill, likely from life in the manor. Wilkes figured it better not to pry on what he’d put together was a sore subject. Pulling up a stool, he sat and simply supervised the process. When Dortas finished he rose and inspected the work. One by one each label proved to be in its right place.

“Right, Rangpar and Svend are likely to be hauling in the catches, did ye ready the fresh nets?”

“Aye sir, our next task should be to measure out the salt right?”

“Dead on lad, if we finish everything before dusk, I’ll take ye on fer a spar. Bout time ye learned to fight.”

The gnome’s eyes sparkled faintly for a second. He had asked in ing about learning to wrestle from him. Anything with Rangpar would be a pure mismatch, but considering the size differences between themselves it’d be near identical to Wilkes’s early training. He’d start with basic openings, inside shots and single leg take downs. The bread and butter of basic grappling. The gnomish lad seemed to catch a second wind with his work. The usually monotonous work of measuring out salt flew by for him. His apprentice practically bounded off to the main deck again to retrieve the fishing haul. Svend met him with an equal amount of glee. The lads were taking their first major step to being real sailors instead of just dock hands in training. It was only natural they’d be all smiles.

Leif and Erik strode past quickly, heading onto the dock for more parchment it seemed. The most disturbing part of it was that Leif seemed to be muttering under his breath. Erik’s habits spreading within the first day of direct observation was a concern he hadn’t thought of yet. One half elf constantly muttering schemes was charming, a pair became a concern. Though it seemed the younger one had been repeating rather than brewing his own plan. Having an echo suited Erik. The sun was moving along as it always did, colors beginning to bleed from the skyline washed everything in beautiful hues. The old pit in Wilkes’s stomach made itself known. He had about twenty or so nights like this before he’d be at sea again. Before he could be staring down pirates again. The promise of adventure was great, refreshing even. The long shadow of the tide reapers wouldn’t let him bask in the radiance of it though.