Prompt: A laid-back magician is considered the worst in his profession.

In the sleepy town of Anderby Creek, magicians were respectable. They wore suits every day with cuff-links of rose gold shaped like crescent moons and kept monogrammed handkerchiefs in their pockets and were always formal. When a magician walked across the street people would stop and stare, maybe whispering, "That's one of them," but everyone would already know, because the magicians had a sort of aura about them, of hidden power and potions and things the townspeople couldn't understand.

Masking this aura, though was the stiff-backed formal composure they maintained for every second of the day. Magicians were the best citizens, donating portions of their family fortune, carefully balanced, to the construction of the citadel, or giving a penny or two to the poor peasant boy with holes in the soles of his shoes. They were benevolent but unapproachable, like angels, and equally magical, but cold and distant and distinctly otherworldly. Therefore the magicians had to confide within their ranks to seek friendships, for a magician's true friend was only ever a fellow magician, and thus they were semi-outcasts, but they preferred it that way.

All except one, that is.

Bradley Church was a magician, but only barely, or so the other magicians thought. While they were polishing their goblin-wrought silver Brad was roaming the streets, summoning sparklers to cheer up a crying child or giving his overcoat to a young man without one. Brad was often without an overcoat and was constantly buying more, much to the pleasure of the local tailor. When asked why he was always giving away his things Brad simply shrugged and smiled a half-smile.

"Who needs an overcoat?" He would ask. "It isn't even brisk out!"

The other magicians lifted up their noses and pulled their overcoats on tighter, giving Brad withering glances as he passed. The man might as well have been the Pied Piper, so did the children flock to him, begging for a snowflake or a firecracker or two to be summoned, or to be levitated a foot off the ground, gasping as they rose over their peers' heads.

Brad certainly didn't look like a magician, with his tousled hair and carefully mended clothes, and had no dragon's gold in his coffers, but he was much more magical that the stiff-necked magicians that wandered the streets, not dropping in money to charity in an ostentatious manner with eyes cold and dark. Brad's eyes were warm and kind, the kind of eyes you could watch forever, shifting and blending with the light and the magic barely concealed within them.

The magicians had met in their usual meeting-place, a room in the half-constructed citadel made simply for their benefit. Candles dimly illuminated the room, and spellbooks leaned against each other in bookshelves, some scattered across tables, dusty with disuse. The magicians were seated in their chairs, brooding, drumming their fingers on the table runner and stroking their long white beards, clipped at the end in a fashionable way, not unkempt in the least. At the head of the table sat Geoff Palmer, the head of the band of magicians, and the most respectable and insufferable one of the lot, with a bowler hat nestled on his head and exceptionally bushy eyebrows. Mister Palmer was tapping his cane against the ground, scowling down at a certain spellbook on magical illness remedies.

"Something must be done about Mister Church!" He announced loudly, causing many of the magicians in assembly to start. He always referred to Brad as 'Mister Church,' although Brad wished to be on more amicable terms with his fellow magicians. The other magicians groaned – they had heard the tirade before, and while at first they may have wanted to clear their names as magicians their passion had faded to apathy.

"But must we, Palmer?" One bold man asked, twirling a wand between his slim fingers. The wand had supposedly belonged to Agitha the Amorous, a famed female magician of old, and had sat collecting dust for years on the table.

"Indeed!" Palmer puffed out his chest, his beady eyes squinting up and down the table. "This Brad is no true magician! He despoils our name!"

And he was right, wasn't he? Magicians were proper and gentlemanly, stooping low, but not low enough to dirty their jacket hems. A commoner would never be one of them.

---

The boy liked the sparkles. They were like tiny stars, dancing in the fading twilight, and he could reach out and touch them before he went to bed. There were always strange things happening to him, but he didn't mind. No one else could talk to the dogs that the fancy ladies walked on leashes, or make the flowers dance when he walked through them. No one else could talk to dogs or make flowers dance, but he thought they might be lying. It was easy for him, and it just happened. Normal was strange, he thought, but strange was better than normal.

The old man knew, though. He always sat in the library, thumbing through old books and warming himself. The old man knew about dancing flowers, and the old man could talk to dogs. In fact, the old man could do lots of things. He could make rainbows on a sunny day and make sunny days pour rain, and if the boy asked him kindly sometimes he would summon sweets.

"You'll be great someday." The old man would rumble, peering over the pages of his book. "They like to pretend they're all high and mighty, but I know better. Always be kind, boy. Always do good. That's what magic is for."

Magic. That's what the sparkling lights were. And he could use it, he could make things happen just the way he wanted them to.

The old man would teach him behind the library, showing him tricks not unlike the sleight-of-hand tricks the peddlers did. "Magic," The old man would say, "Is all around us. It bleeds into our world, very unassuming and ordinary-like. I can make a coin appear from behind your ear. Why do you think a magician never gives away his secrets? Because he doesn't know them himself. It's magic, my boy, magic."

And the boy grew and grew, learning under the teachings of the old man, until it was time for him to venture on his own way. He could give messages to birds and have them speak to the recipient, and he could make the moon switch places with the sun. In fact, under the old man's guidance the only thing it seemed he could not do was understand women, the 'great mystery,' as the old man called it. But the boy loved the old man dearly, and wished to stay and learn forevermore. To this the old man shook his head.

"You're the next, son. I'll give you my blessing. They have their sons, too, just like their parents. Always have sticks up their... Never mind. Remember what I said. Always do good. You'll know what to do when you get there."

Indeed a new generations of magicians had risen, bred polishing cauldrons and learning proper etiquette, quite as hopeless as the first batch. Still they met in the cathedral, which was now finished, and would drone on in boring, flat voices about magical theory and sip their tea and pretend to know what they were doing.

"They're afraid." The old man had told the boy. "Magic is a frightening thing, though. They aren't up to the challenge. But you and I, we've delved into the deepest reaches of the art. We can manipulate the very foundations of society, of our lives. We can use the wind and the water to do our bidding. It's a choice, boy. Magic always knows the right vessel to choose. It was me, and now it's you. Use it well."

The boy didn't have a name – he had only ever been a street urchin – so he adopted the name of his mentor, Brad Church, but referred to himself only as Church. And carrying on Brad's legacy was Church's specialty.

Church was a magician's bane when it came to using his gift. Occasionally a magician would step out of his manor to find a dragon perched on the top of the citadel, shooting blue flames out of its mouth to defrost the snow off of the city roofs, or step on a crop of potatoes that had grown root-like legs and walked to market when the farmers were unable to harvest. They couldn't condemn Church, though, for all the magical acts he did were in mind of the people, and he was very popular. The last thing the magicians wanted was a public outcry if Church was imprisoned, and no real prison would hold him. He could simply magic his way out if he was ever held captive. And so the meetings of the magicians dissolved again to venting about their anger at a certain Brad Church.

But Church grew older, and he knew that it was time to search for his next apprentice, like the old man had searched for him. And so the magician took to the streets, hiding behind fences to hear the snatches of gossip the maids of the houses exchanged during break, or inquiring lightly about a particularly odd child so-and-so had told him about. Finally, after months of searching, he found his apprentice, in the local park talking to trees.

"What are you doing, young man?" Church had asked. "Where is your father?"

"Haven't one." Was the reply.

"And what are you doing, pray tell?"

"Speaking to my friends. I can talk to lots of things, and they talk back to me too. They say nice things to me, and they talk about magic."

"Magic?"

"I see it in the trees and in the sky, and in the sun and moon. The old men in the big houses have it too, but it's faint, like a trail that's cold. You have it, though." The young man took a reverent breath. "Lots and lots of it. Who are you?"

"Who are you?" Church asked pointedly.

"I'm nobody, sir. They call me strange things, though." He pointed to the trees. "Complicated things. I don't understand them."

"Mind if I call you Brad, then? We've got a lot of work to do."

---

The legend of Bradley Church became like folklore in Anderby Creek, of a man, sometimes old, sometimes young, and sometimes neither, bustling through the town giving flowers to the poor and summoning dragons. They spoke of magical wolf's treasure hidden away in caves only Brad Church new about, or enchanted books that would curse you if you opened them upside-down. The magicians' scorn only multiplied over the years, but when Brad Church began to fade into legend they smiled, knowing it was the end of an era of change that had lasted far too long. They polished their carved enchanted horns and dusted their dwarven statues and had a glass of wine. They danced with their wives and held parties that only the richest of the rich were invited to, and would have a quiet laugh when they were alone, relishing the moment when Brad Church no longer loomed over them.

But Brad Church was no longer gone. His name had faded like the legends had, and now he was simply a wanderer, a poor man on the streets, covering his head with a tattered hat and making a living off of performing cheap magician's tricks like every other homeless person. He missed something dearly, something he couldn't place, something of his that was gone, but didn't know what it was. Brad Church was gone, but his shadow still remained.

The people would whisper about magic, though, not the magic the magicians performed, or the magic the con men performed, but real magic, magic that could fill the noonday sky with twinkling stars or turn a ratty peasant's gown into a ball gown fit for a princess. Every time Brad Church's name was mentioned the magicians would scowl, but when the whispers dissipated they would smirk, knowing the pest that had plagued their fathers and their father's fathers was gone forever.

But their sons were curious. Unlike their parents, who had grown knowing about magic and even seeing some of Brad Church's works, they wanted to know where magic had gone. When they had frustrated their fathers with questions about magic enough to be grounded they would bury themselves in magical textbooks and study for hours, squinting in the dim candlelight to make out the faded words. Of course, the magicians were infuriated, livid even, tugging at their fashionably trimmed bears and brandishing their fists at their wayward sons. Undeterred, though, the sons met in secret, much like their fathers did, and discussed magic with a burning passion that made the candles flicker.

Brad Church's heir knew nothing of his gift, or how it was passed along, or his purpose. He simply knew of life scrounging for meals and begging for spare change, and the empty feeling that seemed to haunt him. He was drawn to the meetings of the rich young men, and would listen through the windows as they shouted carelessly about spells, and his heart would race. Magic – it sounded so exotic, so unfamiliar, and he lived for those afternoons when he could listen to the words of the young magicians' sons.

Magic really was everywhere, Brad Church's heir realized as he listened to the boys. They read passages about the lilting whimsy of the wind and the magic that shaped the smallest stones. To think that such an art could be trod underfoot without a second thought, the boys proclaimed! The trees spoke the secrets of the magicians long ago, and the twinkling stars greeted the vessels of magic, and the beasts of the earth would communicate with them. The earth opened its doors to the magicians and their kin, and the noble families of magic had been established for generations, spreading their wisdom and treasure on to their future generations. Occasionally a young man would slip away from his manor with a certain magical trinket – a shattered unicorn horn, split down the middle with a crack like lightning, or a withered goblin's head, the smell of which Brad Church's heir could smell ever from out the window, or a shard of the famed sword Excalibur.

But above all the young men spoke of Brad Church. Being of the age to still entertain the thought of legends but mature enough to think clearly, the men debated for hours on the matter. Surely he existed, they would say, no one could argue with that. What exactly did he do, though? Fanciful stories had muddied the legend for ages, and it was difficult to discern the truth when it came to Brad Church and his works. Was it true he passed his legacy on as he died? Was it true their great-great grandfathers had known him? Why were they so opposed to him? To the young men Brad Church seemed like some benevolent magical god, blessing the people with good deeds and flowers.

To Brad Church's heir this seemed right in every way, and he began to think of himself as the new Brad Church, although he did not know the truth of his assumption until much later. He was kindly, more so than before, giving all he had to the less fortunate, smiling at all who passed him, and seemed to radiate a warm glow of friendliness than hadn't been there before.

And then the magic returned to Anderby Creek.

It had never really gone away, only dissipated as Brad Church dissipated, hidden under the beds of children and in mouse-holes. But to Brad Church's heir, the trees began to speak again, in their old and ancient tones, rumbling and rustling the history of magic to his ears. The wind blew the tune of dragon-fire and prophecy, and even the sleight-of-hand card tricks mumbled their secrets. The world was overturned, like a shadow thrown away by a beam of pure light. The magicians' sons felt it too, and they hurried into the streets without their coats and hats on, cheering and dancing around, being very unceremonious in their celebrations, and most passers-by simply wondered if they had had too much to drink. But Brad Church knew, and the magicians' sons knew, and thought their magic had just about withered and died, the magicians knew it too.

Anderby Creek became a town of magic, no longer sheltered in moldering manors, but frolicking through the streets, riding the wind and plunging down chimneys. Leading the festivities was the newly restored Brad Church, with children clinging to his coat and magic gleaming in his eyes. Visitors would notice something strange about the city, something they couldn't place, but simply labeled it as homesickness or the different climate. The citizens knew though, even if the foreigners couldn't, that magic was a part of their lives, and magic abounded in Anderby Creek – there was no doubt about it.