Location: Physically? Adrift in nowhere. Mentally? Suddenly about three-and-a-half centuries in the past, standing on solid, familiar stone in the Grey Mountains, breathing actual, mountain-scoured air.
This flower. Night-blooming Silene. Haven’t seen one grow wild since… well, since the tower stopped being reliably attached to anything resembling soil where they might actually grow. Holding it now, cradled in my palm, the papery-thin petals feel impossibly fragile, yet they’ve endured centuries sealed in that stasis box. Its scent, though faint, is a physical blow against the sterile, recycled air of the house – sharp, clean high-altitude air after a thunderstorm, the tang of ozone, crushed pine needles underfoot, wet stone, the loamy smell of real earth from the garden patch… It’s overwhelming, a flood of sensory data in the profound sensory deprivation of this void. Gods, did the world always smell this much? Compared to the absolute olfactory nothingness outside the void-wards, it’s intoxicating.
My old tower. Not some grand, shimmering spire, just solid grey mountain stone, built into a shoulder of rock overlooking a vast, forested valley. Rough-hewn in places, smooth with age in others. I remember the specific chill of the stone under my bare feet on summer mornings, the way the narrow, winding stairs were always drafty, no matter how many sealing charms I put up. The main hall had a massive hearth that crackled merrily (or sulkily, depending on the wood and the quality of the fire-starting incantation) through the long winters. Light there wasn't this hard, pitiless starlight filtering through a Void-Window; it was sunlight, real sunlight, slanting through arched windows, sometimes hazy with morning mist rising from the valley, sometimes sharp and clear, making dust motes dance in its beams – normal dust, not the possibly-sentient kind that congregates here now. And sounds! Wind whistling around the battlements, rain drumming on the roof slates, the distant cry of a hunting eagle, the crackle of the fire, the scritch-scratch of my quill on parchment, even the intermittent, grumpy rattling from the pantry when Barnaby the badger spirit disapproved of my choice of breakfast herbs. Real sounds, grounding sounds, not this oppressive, pressing silence that feels like the universe holding its breath.
And the garden… Gods, the garden. A small, terraced patch wrested from the stony slope just below the tower’s main entrance. Took decades to cultivate that soil, hauling richer earth up from the valley, charming away rocks, building low stone walls to hold it all in place. Remember the feeling of actual dirt under my fingernails, the satisfaction of coaxing stubborn mountain herbs to thrive – Arnica, Stonecrop, stubborn wild Thyme, and these Silene that only opened their delicate blue flowers to the moonlight. Fought epic battles against rock voles with highly developed evasion skills and slugs that seemed resistant to anything less than direct magical incineration. But harvesting those herbs, drying them in the tower's upper room, knowing they grew under my sky, rooted in my earth… it felt real in a way these pale, terrified specimens clinging to life in their magically-warmed, altitude-adjusted boxes just… don't.
Magic felt realer then, too. Quieter, yes, less prone to dramatic backfires (mostly because I was less prone to desperate, high-stakes spellcasting back then), but more… reliable. Predictable, even. A Mending Charm took ten seconds, a murmured word, a touch of will, and snap, the broken pottery shard was whole again. No commentary, no artistic interpretation, no sudden infusion of animate keratin demanding praise. I recall fixing a cracked windowpane once – a simple Sealing spell, drawing fine lines of light across the glass, humming the resonance note until it flowed together seamlessly. Worked perfectly. First time. Compare that to the hours spent yesterday reinforcing wards against the void with raw power, feeling reality itself push back… different scale entirely. Less exhausting.
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My hair… It’s almost painful to remember it then. Oh, it was long, sure. The Deal’s longevity aspect kicked in fast, and with it came accelerated growth. Probably down to my waist within that first century. Annoying sometimes, getting caught on things, needing braiding. But it was just… hair. Healthy, thick, maybe holding a bit more static than strictly normal after spellwork, but it hung there. It did what hair does. Washing it involved heating water, using soap made with pine tar and goat milk, maybe a herbal rinse. Brushing it took time, yes, but it was just brushing. No negotiations, no sudden sentience deciding it preferred a different style today, no need for specialized potions laced with calming agents and metaphysical detanglers. It didn’t watch me. It didn’t judge my spellcasting. It didn’t try to fucking help. The thought is almost liberating.
Of course, it wasn’t perfect then, either. Easy to forget the why behind the Deal when reminiscing about stable gardens and manageable hair. The Grey Mountains were beautiful, but isolated. Dangerous. Those rival mages weren't imaginary threats; they were real, powerful, and closing in. The wasting curse I’d been afflicted with (a parting gift from a disgruntled former mentor) was slowly, inexorably draining my magic, my life. The tower, solid as it felt, was becoming a prison. Stability meant predictability, yes, but also stagnation, vulnerability. The memory of that cold, creeping fear is just as real as the scent of pine resin, if I let myself truly recall it. I sought out that capricious entity, performed that ill-translated rite, because I was desperate. Because rooted stability felt like a slow death sentence.
Traded that fear for… this. This wandering chaos, this constant adaptation, this follicular life sentence. Was it a good trade? Ask me on a different day. Ask me when I’m not stranded in literal nowhere, staring at impossible stars.
Thump-Rumble.
There it is again. The house groans, a low frequency shiver running through the deck plates beneath my feet. The memory, sharp and vivid moments ago, begins to fray at the edges. The scent of pine and ozone fades, replaced by the stale, recycled air of the cabin. The hard starlight from the Void-Window reasserts itself. The listless mass of the Hair on the floor rustles faintly, perhaps sensing the shift in my mood, or just reacting to the house's vibration.
Back to reality. Or this bizarre approximation of it. The flower feels just like dry petals now, the magic of the memory receding. Carefully, carefully, I wrap it back in its oilcloth, tuck it deep within the stasis box. A reminder of what was. Not necessarily better, maybe, but simpler. Understandable.
Unlike this damned void. Unlike this house. Unlike this hair. Right. Enough wallowing. Capacitor levels won't check themselves. And maybe, just maybe, I'll try that dancing teacup charm again. See if anything's changed.
Probably not.
