Two Weeks Before...

"The history books forgot about us. Then again, I played a part in that. It was easy to smite our names in fire. For a time, there was talk of legendary heroes who slew a wingless dragon, but that wasn't true- we killed a man. Years passed, and so did my friends, and so did the tales of their great deeds. I never followed. I was simply forgotten." the drunkard slurred rather eloquently to be holding a half-empty bottle of rum.

It was at least his fourth bottle, as three others laid empty on the dirt floor of the cellar. They gleamed green under the light of a copper chamberstick held in the fat fingers of a cook. The man sitting amidst the bottles cleared his throat, hitting a shelf of root vegetables and canned fruit so hard a jar of mulberry jelly shattered on the floor.

The drunk continued, "That's the price you pay for immortality. So imagine my surprise when I saw my best friend, hundreds of years after our last meeting!"

The castle cook and her husband towered over him as he took another swig from the bottle; both were toad-like in appearance with gray streaked hair and large, hazel eyes. "You can't actually expect me to believe this yarn of yours." the cook retorted with a snort. Her amphibian nose was flat on her face and the skin stretched across her wide features was as waxy as the neck of the candle she held.

"Believe what you want." Standing with a wobble, the drunk zig-zagged across the kitchen, pulling a pitcher of buttermilk off the counter. He took a swig and spit it straight out. What little the cook could glimpse of his teeth were off-colored and rotting. "This isn't rum! You- you could have warned me!"

"Quiet." the cook's husband yelled, "You've kept us up all night! All night rummaging about! We thought- perhaps there were rats- or a stray- but no! A drunk in the castle's kitchen! And now- this incessant rambling!"

"How did you get past the guards?" the cook asked in wonder.

"No point, darling. This one's clearly mad."

"It's a wonder!" she replied simply. "Look in his eyes! He's got Witch's fever. Too much magic." Clucking her tongue, she opened a polished cabinet and pulled a bottle of liquor from the highest shelf. There were others containers of varying shape, height, and color, but this one glowed gold.

"Maggie- that's top stuff!"

"Yes, I know- but look at him! The guards will be here soon and then- off to the dungeons with him! Pour soul's crazy. This is the least us Christians can do." Tilting the bottle over a glass, she took a shot of her own before spilling amber liquid in the cup for the drunkard. Capping the bottle, she carefully put it back in it's place and offered the glass to the madman.

The drunkard thanked her. Though it was the most expensive brand of rum available in the markets, he tasted no difference. "Good Christian woman!" he breathed with a hiss. "I have nothing to offer, but my clever tongue."

Maggie blushed.

"Why you- get away from my wife!" her husband snapped, stomping to the drunkard's side so fast the fat on his belly rolled up and down in waves. It reminded the drunkard of a life he once lived on an island, but he quickly pushed these thoughts away.

Black-encrusted eyebrows shot up into a fringe of matted hair that laid stiff across the drunkard's forehead; his bloodshot eyes were filled with tears as he laughed until he could no longer breathe. "Cheeky, aren't I? Only joking, kind sir. I would never ravage a married woman in the presence of her own husband." the drunkard winked, taking another sip from the bottle of rum in his hands. "So you've called the guards, have you?"

"Of course we have!" the husband snorted. "You know what's going to happen to you? You've got so much magic built in your head that you're going to explode!"

"Why, thank you for pointing that out, but it will be interesting, won't it? I mean, I've been beheaded loads of times, but exploding is something new for me."

"Come on, Maggie- let's get out of here before this nutter bursts."

"James- what if this was our son? They're about the same age-"

"Doubtful." the drunkard persisted.

"-same height. What if the guards-" suddenly she lowers her voice to a whisper, "-aim to kill him?"

"He broke in to the kitchen. They'd be doing their job- this man's gone wonky! There's no helping him now."

Maggie huffed, "Stubborn, old fool! Go on, then! I'm staying behind to make sure he's apprehended safe and sound. He might still have a chance."

"Suit yourself! Really, now. Should have married Jennaeve instead." James stomped out of the kitchen, slamming the wood and iron framed door closed so hard bits of dust fell from the ceiling above. Maggie stood on her tiptoes to light the chandelier, flames licking to life on thirteen wicks that cast both light and shadows across the center table.

The man looked mad, alright. His midnight blue eyes appeared to be cut from stone they were so cold to meet. A black cloak about two sizes too big swallowed him from the neck down. His fist gripping the bottle of rum was caked in grime from all ends of the earth, and the smell emanating from his clothes made Maggie's stomach churn like butter. Rather than be sick, she tried to treat him with hospitality; after all, this poor man was clearly alone.

"Well, the girls in my kitchen call me Mother Mags. Mother Mags or Maggie is fine. What's your name, darling?"

"George. George Starkey. I haven't been called that in ages."

"Pleasure to meet you, Georgie. Those are some mighty fine scars on your arms. You fought in the last Great Alchemical War, I suspect."

"Yes. I played my part in that."

"It's not uncommon you know- retired soldiers get all pent up. The magic becomes violent and consumes you. Then, all at once- boom! Lila- one of my girls- her husband had Witch's fever. He almost- well, popped- but they took him to a nice doctor in Downton- a medical alchemist- and he drained all the bad stuff away. Lila kept it- it's in a jar on her beside table. Awful thing to look at."

"You seem like an awfully nice woman." George replied.

"I try to be." Mother Mags agreed. "Well, son. Do you have a wife?"

"Oh, yes. Susanna. She's long dead, though. Strangely enough, I never saw her again. Only my friends. Or rather- just Ignotus-" the drunkard looked confused. "I'm sorry. Who are you, again?"

"Mother Mags, dear." she tutted. "Do you need to lie down? Why don't you tell me some more about this Ignotus?"

"Ignotus? Talented alchemist back in the day- bloody bastard's become an augur. An augur of all things!"

"A respectable practice," Maggie commented, "Greater Britain has need for accurate predictors of the future. Why- just last month an augur successfully prophesied a train derailment. An engineer gave it a looksy-lou and- what do you know! There was a problem with the channels."

There would have been no possible way for the mage controlling the train to have known this. Once the cars left the rail, it simply would have plunged down the cliff side. Passengers and all.

"I suppose they're useful, but their accuracy does not makeup for their arrogance." George sighed. "Twenty years. Nearly twenty years I knew him- most of his short, mundane life- and does he bother giving me a hello? None at all! I had to beg him for pennies."

"Ah! I know you- you're the fiddler that plays by the fountain!"

"That's the one." George slurs between breathy swallows of liquor.

"Is this Ignotus-" Maggie asked with sudden curiosity. She was so invested in the story, her plump bottom was sliding off the edge of her stool, "-is he one of the Queen's officials?"

George opened his cruddy palm gesturing up which Maggie took to mean higher. Her assumption was correct.

"Is he- he's royalty? Who is he?"

"Hannibal. Percival. Ko."

With a gasp, Maggie plunged out of her chair and landed on her slippered heels, "The Queen's nephew! Why Mr. George, you're pulling my leg!"

Before Maggie could remark on this any further, a cool, silver-clad fist gripped her burlap nightgown. She had been listening to George so intently she hadn't noticed the guards pouring into the kitchen one by one until a half-dozen circled the drunk with one hand braced on the hilt of their swords. Their eyes wheeled around George until they landed on his head. His face was beginning to shiver and crawl like something alive was scurrying under his skin.

"Now, now, Sir Anthony. This poor soul's hanging on by a thread. He needs our help- God bless him- don't hurt him, please." begged Maggie.

The leader of the guards was a short man with barreling shoulders and slick, tar-black hair that curled around his ears. Rheumy eyes landed on Maggie and Sir Anthony stated, "Step away, Mags."

"Please-"

"I'm telling you to step away! This man's dangerous- look at him!"

George rolled his eyes, revealing spots of red on the orbs. "So my time's almost up, huh?" he huffed, "Not even finished with my bloody bottle."

"George- I'm sorry I couldn't save you, Georgie." cried Maggie. Unclasping a chain from her neck, she dropped a charm into George's still-opened palm. "Take my cross."

"My head- hurts-" George groaned, bending forward. Extensions dark as shadow and as swift as a bird began to spin around him. The walls creaked then began to shudder the way they do at the train station. The chandelier overhead rocked back and forth, dripping wax that hardened the second it hit the table top. Swords were drawn behind the drunk; those with magic erected barriers around their person for what little good it would do against pure, unadulterated magic.

Maggie, paralyzed with fear, let out a gasp as George looked at her with bulging eyes. The veins in his head and neck were like rivers across a map of flesh. This is the true horror of Witch's fever, she thought.

"Mags!"

Sir Anthony jumped forward, shoving Maggie away from George Starkey in one last, brave effort. When the explosion happened, his body shielded her from the worst of it. There was a moment of silence during which she thought she was dead, followed by shrieking that became a high-pitched whistle.

Something wet, sticky, and hot covered her face, and with every breath she took she tasted iron.

"Sir Anthony!" she sniffed, picking up his massive shoulders and sliding him off her bosom. The guard wasn't dead, though he was nearly there. Each breath he took was ragged and shorter than the last. Looking at the raw, red strings across his back- muscle, she suspected- she could hardly believe he survived the blast.

The piercing sound she heard was one of the boys standing behind George when he burst. A beautiful, blond lad who lost both of his legs in the blast. Each time he bent his head to look at the burned stubs above his thighs, he grew weak and began to scream. He screamed so hard, his white teeth were stained with speckles of blood. The others were so still it hurt Maggie to look at them.

Her face was singed and burning. Magic doesn't burn like fire. The heat starts slow and manageable, intensifying to something like grief. She felt heavy.

"George- and Sir Anthony- p-poor George!" she stuttered in shock, "I h-have to go find help. I h-have to h-help somehow."

Maggie began opening cupboards, drawers, and crates until she found what she was searching for. She poured water out of a pitcher onto dish cloths which she carefully set on Sir Anthony's flayed back. Every once in a while, her eyes glanced at the kitchen table which exuded green and gray smoke, magical embers forever charring the birch furniture.

I'll have to scrub the floors. Replace the fixtures. The table- the table has to go, she thought with a sniffle.

"Mags? Mags, are you alright?" Sir Anthony hissed.

"Oh- you're alive after all!" Maggie laughed broken-hearted, "I'm so glad."

"I've never- seen anything like it."

True, Maggie wondered; it was rare for such an explosion to cause this much damage. Most infected with Witch's fever sort of fizzled out and exploded within themselves, but George Starkey's magic reached all around the room. There must have been a great deal of it built up.

"He m-must have been very powerful." her teeth chattered.

Sir Anthony's watery, blue eyes grew wide, "Mags- behind you."

Something was stitching George back together, separating his shredded bits from the remains of all the men lying together on the floor. An invisible force. Arms, legs, and lack thereof bent at strange angles, bulbs of red pulp climbing their length only to jump across the room. A solid, but raw figure was forming where George Starkey had been seated.

With a moan, Sir Anthony fell into a slump, eyes closed. His lips were turning purple.

"Sir Anthony! Wake up. Mary, mother of Jesus!" she glanced over her shoulder with a shudder. Carrying Anthony under the shoulders was like dragging sacks of potatoes across uneven ground. She said, "Y-you have to help me! I cannot pull you all on my own!"

Maggie was not the type of person to leave another behind in dire circumstances. Gripping Sir Anthony's icy fingers, she fell to her knees. Skirt bunched around her thighs, she crossed herself, and began to pray. Her eyes were closed, but even so she saw dazzling colors behind the lids. She licked life into her lips, trying to remember the rest of her trembling hymn.

The room grew very still. Carefully, Maggie opened her eyes with a yelp.

"Good Christian woman," George chuckled in peak condition, "I am disappointed to report I have yet to enter any realms of Heaven nor Hell, but if I ever see the pearly white gates of your Lord or flames not of my own making- you'll be the first to know."

"Dear God, save me!" she said as the remains of magic began to eat at her face, growing more and more intense. She almost couldn't bare it. George reached out, cupping her features in his freshly cleaned palms. He wiped away a tear with his thumb and whispered in latin: delens.