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(A little lost? Read the Intro, the Prelude, and if you’re game, Chapter One)

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Arc II, Chapter One

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A spritzing of beer rained down on Maedoc’s hair.

“Hawwwh! You… You’re pullin’ my leg.”

“I pull no legs! Never!”

“Funny, I heard you were pulled out legs firss’ as a babe. That’s… that’s, uh… it’s ionic.”

“You mean erratic, you dunce.”

Drunken mutterings proceeded the malty misting. Maedoc shrugged down a little lower in his nook behind the bar.

This is hardly the place for an impressionable youth.

Then again, most would think the same of a mill harboring murderous furnaces.

It seems he simply couldn’t escape environments of a provocative nature.

What a night it had been. Maedoc blinked hard as he counted down the list of supposedly impossible discoveries he now had to integrate into his everyday life. Slippery facts that became more elusive the closer he examined them . . .

Extra-dimensional energies?

He couldn’t claim the notion to be correct, halfway right or otherwise. All Maedoc knew for certain was the befuddling phenomena that he had taken part in; what he had seen and felt. The remnants of these events left something mysterious brewing inside him, and the only way he could think to describe it was as a fatigue, but also a hunger.

As though he’d seen a million unknown colors through a distant set of eyes. They were weary from the activity, forcefully budged from their comfort zone — and yet they were stimulated, itching for more.

A literal balance of good and evil?

The boy wasn’t sure about that topic at all. He assumed that, were it true, the Aether would reveal it sooner or later.  A claim like this would need undeniable, concrete evidence before he could do anything with it.

Repressed memories?

Maedoc left that topic well alone. Remembering one was plenty for him. The boy deftly tucked the thought back into the recesses of his mind. He didn’t feel the littlest bit guilty about doing so.

A palm of iron?

Now that was a dreamy notion.

He hazily saw himself slicing through knotted tree trunks with the side of his palm as though they were loaves of bread. The adoration of every girl in the village would encircle him, his vision almost blinded by their starry eyes. The men and various travelers would take a knee and bow their heads, clutching their hats tightly in their hands.

All would gasp in well-warranted shock, proceeding to chant his name in a unified and deafening roar.

All he had to do was figure out the secret to Charge.

If an old coot could do it, why not him?

Maedoc looked down to admire the item he had received from Cynwrig, slowly rolling it between his fingers.

It was only a matter of time.

The boy stretched his limbs while mouthing the slightest of yawns. He had left the mill just twenty minutes ago. Maedoc reminisced on the final moments of that fateful encounter . . .

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Cynwrig, looking a little worn, had ushered him out directly after his explosive demonstration had concluded. The man was rarely seen tired, but when he was, no time was wasted in getting his shut eye.

“Maedoc. Find me an answer. You got this. Goodnight.”

Cynwrig gave him a swift pat on the shoulder, causing Maedoc to stumble through the entryway. The door then banged closed behind him.

“Goodnight!” Maedoc squawked, hopeful that Cynwrig would pick up on his irritation. He would have preferred a more gentle eviction. Especially considering the majesty of what had transpired this evening.

Stepping forward, he peered up to the sky — and in that instant he forgot his irritation entirely.

A beautiful clearing had erupted in the clouds over the village, allowing the stars to spill through. A clean and gentle wind brushed its way through his hair, drying the sweat he had accumulated through his varied trials.

Any semblance of a worn mind and body evaporated with the breeze. He now found himself feeling wide awake. Brimming with alertness. Sharp, refreshed, and renewed.

He inhaled a mass of night air through his nostrils, savoring it as he would a juicy citrus. Remembering the Spearmint Ray he had received, he looked down at his palm to admire it. The item gleamed a pale, silvery gray in the moonlight.

Without warning he bellowed out a laugh, and then snorted, almost choking on nothing in particular. It had suddenly dawned on him.

This evening really had defined his existence.

Cynwrig had not disappointed.

Even after promising what should have been impossible. That gnarled old man had really pulled through.

Though “define” might not be the best word, Maedoc mused. All the information he’d taken in, and all in the scope of an hour — it simply felt too ethereal, too dreamy for anything to truly take shape just yet.

It was more like his existence had been “broadened.”

Maedoc skipped his way down the trail in the tall wet grass, a path that took many a year and many a villager to create. Nothing more than footsteps were used in its creation.

Upon encountering this scenery, a fleeting notion skipped across Maedoc’s mind.

Before this night, he was awfully similar to a hill without a path.

A directionless youth. No past, no future. Floating through life without a clue.

All his time was poured into menial tasks and duties. Each day was just about the same.

He had never considered himself a sad person. Maedoc was continually grateful for all that he had. In a word, he had felt satisfied.

That belief was now beginning to shift.

Looking back, he realized just how small his existence had been.

He had acquired a taste of what felt like forbidden knowledge. He was knee deep in a supernatural mystery, one which brewed directly under the noses of everyone in the village.

Within his hand was the beginning of something utterly marvelous. Entirely unknown. And maybe just the littlest bit frightening.

This is what it felt like, to be sincerely alive.

He looked onward. The small, dusty windows of his destination came into view, dewdrops of warm light amidst the darkness of the village.

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“Maedoc!” Stollin grunted. “Get your butt in gear. Where are those peanuts I asked for? We need those shelled.”

Maedoc tore his gaze from his palm and pocketed the Ray on the sly. He then peered up at the burly, bearded man.

“Peanuts? You never asked . . . I mean, sorry, I’ll get those going.”

He knew they weren’t asked for, but it was no use arguing. Stollin seemed to think Maedoc was a psychic future-reading manservant. He would think up a request, ponder on it real hard, assume he had asked it aloud, then get angry when it didn’t manifest.

It was a healthy work relationship.

“You’re just sitting there. What’s the use of having you? Go check for spills once you’re finished up.”

“Yes, sir.”

Business as usual at the Grievous Glen. Donnegal’s one and only tavern.

It was the closest thing Maedoc could call home. Or at least, a bed he could call his own.

Pushing himself off the floor, he rinsed his hands in cool water, wiped them on his shirt, and grabbed the sack of peanuts slumped to his side. Grabbing a bowl, he drove it into the sack, fished up a sizeable pile, and began dismantling. The Ray was placed next to his work, laying flat on its side. Its metallic sheen helped it fit right in with the bar utensils littered across the counter.

Split. Snap. Crunch. His hands now on auto-pilot, Maedoc peered across the countertop and surveyed the room.

Who do we have on tap tonight?

Directly at the bar sat the two who had so graciously gifted him that skunky shower earlier. Osgar and Morag. Harmless, but a little crude. Maedoc saw them as big, shaggy dogs in human form. They didn’t drool, but they sure made a mess.

“Peanuts! Ey Maedoc, we’ll take those off yer hands. No need to shell ’em; it’s haff the fun.”

“Oy, perfect! You read my mind like a . . . like one of those, uh . . . ”

“Books, yeah,” Maedoc muttered, sheepishly scooting the bowl towards his two attentive barmates. “Help yourselves.”

His wares depleted, the boy retrieved a second bowl, scooped it in the sack, and began his task once more.

Scanning the back of the tavern, he saw the quieter sorts keeping to themselves at their favorite tables. A few were sailors; others were field workers just like him. Their hands were caked in clay, as were their brows.

Why the brows? The wiping of sweat in the hot fields tends to leave a little residue. At the end of the day, this added up.

As if to illustrate the point, a sizeable clump fell off an older gentleman’s wiry eyebrow, plopping directly into his beer. He didn’t appear to notice. Maedoc considered going up and telling him, but he was very busy with an important task, and couldn’t be torn away. Truly.

Lastly, there were the MacRath twins.

Part comedian. Part pain in the neck. They poked fun at all their eyes could reach, Maedoc included. Though he couldn’t say they were all that bad. They even stole a chuckle from the boy himself every once in a while, whether he was their comedic victim or not.

Both twins were in their late twenties, with stocky builds and short, stubby beards. Much of the village followed this body type, it seemed. Maedoc wondered if he would ever fill in like the rest.

His task completed, Maedoc fetched the Ray laying next to him, holding it in his hand as he left his protective perch behind the bar and began scouting for spills.

As he began walking through the rickety rows of tables, something Cynwrig had told him began to echo in his head:

 

If the Aether responds violently, do not trust the individual it responds to.

 

The boy stopped in his tracks, suddenly apprehensive.

Say this notion of Cynwrig’s were true. If dark-natured people were to congregate anywhere, it would certainly be in a dark, dusty tavern.

Or a graveyard. Right? Maybe a seedy back alley, playing dice? Maedoc nodded to himself, satisfied with his flawless logic, then wrangled his mind back on track.

If a clash of energy were to occur, what would happen?

And would he want to be in the middle of it when it took place?

Regardless, he felt an insatiable curiosity. A drive to get to the bottom of this mysterious claim.

Thinking on it a moment, he arrived to a solution.

Just do a quick little trot. With the Ray in tow, something is sure to happen. Right?

His master plan fully formed, Maedoc proceeded to barrel through the tables, bouncing his head around as though it were fixed to a spring. His eyes bounced around to a similar extent as he quickly surveyed the room. Nope, no spills he could find.

With the sure-footedness of a startled rabbit, he darted back behind the bar, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Looking down at his hand, he paused to feel the Ray.

No change could be detected. The same constant, soothing tempo purred on without a hitch.

Scanning the faces of the bar, he could see no change in behavior. Though he wasn’t sure what he was expecting to see…

Bulging eyes? Gaping mouths? Any change at all?

Come to think of it, Cynwrig never mentioned a change in these supposed darker individuals. In the end, the boy was simply daydreaming.

The whole evening felt like a daydream. Was it so wrong for him to add a cherry on top?

“It’s not a race, Maedoc,” Stollin grunted, appearing behind him like a ghost. Hands on his hips, he stared the boy down with skeptical eyes. “You gotta pee or something?”

Maedoc spun around. “No, no. Just . . . trying to be more efficient is all.”

Sometimes, he was an adequate liar.

“You flailing around the bar is giving me a headache. Save your ‘efficiency’ for another time.”

“Yes, sir.”

Turning to walk away, Stollin paused as he looked off in the distance. “There’s a pooling of ‘efficiency’ near the rear tables. You might want to attend to it.” He then vanished into the kitchen.

Maedoc groaned quietly to himself. As if he needed another reason for that man to be irked by him. Squinting at the far reaches of the bar, he did indeed see a small puddle of glittery brown lapping at the legs of a chair.

Fetching a grimy rag that had no business cleaning anything, he shuffled towards the back. Plopping himself down next to the puddle, he began his titillating task.

“Look at him, stealing beer from the floor. That’s new, eh?” Maedoc heard one of the MacRath twins say.

“Think we should rat him out?” the other chimed in. He spoke in a faux hushed tone, making sure it was loud enough for Maedoc to hear.

“No, no, have a heart, Frang. I think we should help the poor lad out.”

Immediately after this was said, a brief trickle of fluid was heard splattering across the floor.

“Oy, Mr. Maed, not to be a bother, but there’s a spill over here, too.”

Bearnard, the older of the twins (by one minute), was the one who called out. Frang snorted into his beer.

Maedoc rolled his eyes before turning to greet them with a half smile.

Really, guys . . .

“Thanks for the heads up, gentlemen,” he said with a nod. If nothing else, Maedoc possessed a nigh infinite amount of patience. One that could only be acquired by watching grass grow — literally.

He weighed the grimy rag in his hand. It seemed like it could handle another puddle before maxing out its moisture. Standing up, he took three long strides and set up camp upon the floor of the twins’ table. For the time being they left him well alone, content with sipping their stouts.

Maedoc eyed the scene before him. A magical spill had been conjured by these enchanting fellows. It had splattered itself not only on the floor, not just the legs of the chairs, but the underside of the table.

How was this even possible?

Taking a breath, he set his rag to work and began mopping the table’s posterior. Though he tried his best to avoid the tangle of legs, he couldn’t help grazing a knee with his elbow.

“Hey now, buy a man a drink if you’re gonna snuggle up so close.”

“Yeh, you’re breezing past third date boundaries minimum, mate.”

The duo snickered.

“Yeah, yeah . . .” Maedoc had to admit, that one was a little funny.

Yet, despite this, in this instant he became aware of a palpable anxiety slowly manifesting within him.

It felt much like any old anxiety, the multitude of flavors of which he knew and loved. It began, as always, in the pit of his stomach. A small, tireless spark which spread itself up and around his heart. A total enveloping of said organ was the end goal of any anxiety that befell him.

This particular anxiety, however, was different than the others.

Maedoc was a boy who paid attention to his surroundings. Too much.

He was always precisely aware of the “how” and “why” of everything around him.

If he ever had anxiety, it was a simple matter for him to deduce its source.

Crowded rooms. Pretty girls. Prolonged eye contact. Creepy customers. Spiderwebs without spiders (for there’s now a spider unaccounted for). These were all very much cut and dry.

It was something quite odd, for anxiety to arise whilst soaking beer off the floor.

Maedoc had done this a thousand times. He had also grazed hundreds of knees, for the good folk of Donnegal were champion spillers, and it was his sole duty to mop it up before it began to stink. Typical glamorous barroom lifestyle.

So why this feeling? Why now?

“If you’re down there any longer mate, I’ma have to start charging you rent. And I n-need another beer, so scram, and whatnot.”

“Y-yeah, I could use further inebriation myself, my g-good Maed.”

Were they mocking his stutter now? Maedoc crinkled his brow.

Did he even have a stutter?

He gave it some thought.

No. He had never been one to stutter.

Sometimes these fellows really threw him for a loop.

His job finished, he pressed himself up off the floor, careful to cup the utterly soaked rag in his palm so it wouldn’t drip. Turning to face the twins, he was confronted with an odd scene.

Their faces, usually gruff and unaffected by anything anyone says or does were, for the first time Maedoc had ever seen, a rosy pink. Not exceedingly so, but it was there.

“One more of the same?” Maedoc asked. He eyed the duo with a small sense of wonder, as he would two carriages crashing into each other. The MacRath twins, bashful? He didn’t think it was possible. They nodded as they blinked at their beers, appearing to be just as confounded at these circumstances as he was.

Turning back to the bar, Maedoc looked at his feet as he walked, thinking to himself.

The MacRath twins, blushing. He thought he’d enjoy the sight more, but it puzzled him more than anything.

The timing was suspect, too. This rare oddity happening right alongside his sudden anxiety spell.

Was it possible they were sharing this same mysterious nervousness?

Having arrived at the barrel behind the bar, he grabbed two clean glasses and went about pouring the draft. In the dim light it came out black, foam materializing from its depths an instant later. A storm upon the night’s sea.

As he filled the second glass, he felt the anxiety slowly dimming in its intensity. This was an event he always welcomed, but it added nothing in the way of him figuring out why.

With both glasses in tow, he made his way back to the table. Maedoc was a self proclaimed fluids balancing master. If Stollin wasn’t so sullen all the time, he might add a bit of flair to his delivery. Maybe do a spin, or a small jump. Something fun. Perhaps then he would, at long last, receive a tip or two.

Maedoc had nearly returned to the table before he was greeted once more by that same amorphous fear.

But this time he had it figured out.

It was the MacRath twins.

There was no other explanation. He only felt it while in their proximity. There was no one else sitting anywhere near them. What else could it be?

If this was the case, why was anxiety hanging around like a fog? Why did he perceive it only in this space? As far as he knew, anxiety was an emotion. A state of mind.

It shouldn’t be able to do this.

“The beer—is—HERE!!” Bearnard bellowed with a wide smile, just a tad too enthusiastically. Every head in the bar turned to the source of this disturbance. Upon seeing it was a MacRath, they returned to their drinks. This was not unexpected behavior from them.

An utterly silent night from the duo? That’s cause for alarm.

“Too kind, Maemy, too kind!” Frang chimed in with equal volume. He gave Maedoc a slap on the back, almost causing him to drop his cargo. With a swivel of his arms he spun the glasses up, the beer cycling around like a haphazard whirlpool. Miraculously, not a drop was spilled. Maedoc exhaled with relief as he set the glasses down. The twins stared at him with widened eyes, stunned into silence.

“Well you’re paying me, so . . . ”

Maedoc was eager to get away. Being anxious was annoying enough. The yelling and slapping, while in “good fun,” weren’t helping much. He was more the quieter, no-touching sort of youth.

” . . . so, yeah, I’ll be on my way. Lemme know if you need anything else, guys,” the boy murmured as he backed away from the table. The twins, occupied with their fresh beverages, allowed him an easy escape.

Feeling fortified behind the bar, Maedoc waited for the anxiety to pass. Breathing slower and deeper than he normally would, he looked at his feet as he counted the seconds. Typical anxious procedure.

Eyeing his pocket, he remembered his Ray.

He had observed it providing a unique form of relaxation when held. If it was soothing when nothing was afoot, how might it hold up under anxiety? Maedoc stuffed his hand in his pocket, retrieving the Ray from its depths.

Almost immediately he felt an unmistakable tempo as it spread up his arm, reverberating through his bones one after the other. It was as though his arm was quietly humming to itself.

As the hum slowly found its way to his heart, he was surprised to feel it brush against “something.”

He had never noticed anxiety having a texture before . . .

Then again, he’d never possessed a capacity to brush against it, either.

It felt hard, stony, and dense. This sullen mass also had roots, a trunk, which reached down deeply inside him. So deep, in fact, that it felt like a limb or organ of his own. One that had always belonged to him.

In his day to day life, his occasional anxiety would leave only of its own volition. There was no reasoning with it. No requests taken. It was purely a waiting game.

In this moment, all commonly held expectations of anxiety were erased.

Seems that was happening more and more often, lately, and for a widening range of topics . . .

The energy from the Ray felt as though it was welling up within his heart, as a rainstorm might do for an old, hollowed tree stump. Slowly this sensation grew in size and breadth, until the stony pit felt as if it were surrounded by an ethereal, swirling vortex.

A moment passed. Then two.

Against all odds, he felt the pit slowly dissolving away. Maedoc’s eyes widened as he witnessed another impossibility happening within him.

An instant expulsion of anxiety.

He brought his hand to his chest and held it to his heart. The Ray was now pressed directly against it. As Maedoc had hoped, it appeared to speed up the expulsion process. He felt the vortex now swirling both stronger and faster.

He squeezed the Ray just a little tighter as the last remnants were washed away, as if it had never been there to begin with.

“Incredible . . . ” Maedoc murmured to himself. An item that steals the nervous state away.

The world is truly a palace of mystery.

A large shadow enveloped the flabbergasted youth. Did it suddenly get colder in here?

“What’s incredible,” Stollin began, “is that you’re standing here letting those MacRath brutes scare off our customers.”

Spooked, Maedoc let loose an audible eep. It was not his most dignified moment.

“The MacRath . . . ?”

Returning to his senses, Maedoc was finally able to hear what Stollin was speaking of. The twins were now yelling as loud as they could muster, forcing out unnecessarily long laughs and banging on their table. For whatever reason, their sleeves were rolled up and their faces were tinged with sweat.

One of the twins had approached a neighboring table, quite audibly inquiring about something or other. The table’s inhabitants, two tired farmers, looked about ready to bolt. Their eyes could be seen bouncing between the twin and their drink: was the remainder of the glass worth all this?

Stollin ran his hand through his hair. “This isn’t what I wanted to muck through tonight. My head’s killing me . . . ”

He leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling as he let loose a quiet groan.

“Maedoc,” the man murmured. “If you make this all better, I’ll give you the night off. More importantly, you might just steal a smile from this old gargoyle.”

Stollin, smiling? If Stollin hadn’t said it himself, Maedoc wouldn’t have believed it could happen.

“Just . . .  fix it.”

Normally the boy would be daunted by such a task. Belligerent barhops were not his forte. Least of all the MacRaths, who were as slippery as they come.

But tonight . . .

He gave the Ray in his hand a squeeze.

“I’m confident I’ll get this sorted out, Stollin,” Maedoc chirped as he marched towards the duo, head held high. He secretly hoped he looked impressive as he did so.

Chances to win Stollin’s admiration were few and far between.

“Come on, you look plenty strong! Give it a go!” Bearnard solicited the shell-shocked duo was he donned his widest smile. “My brother, he’s alright, but it’s always a tie. It’s no fun. NO FUN!”

He gave their table a slap, causing the glasses to rattle and shake. The duo saw Maedoc approaching and displayed immediate relief.

“Maedoc! Check please?”

“Yes, early start tomorrow, really ought to be on our way . . . ”

The boy gave them a nod. “Don’t worry guys, it’s on the house tonight. I won’t keep you.”

Stollin might not appreciate that. But the boy was on a roll. He was feeling suave and very much on top of things.

As the two patrons waved their thanks and spilled out of their chairs, Bearnard turned to face Maedoc.

The Aether, which had felt as it always had up until now, suddenly spurred to action. Its pulse became erratic, strained and uneven. It almost felt a little painful to hold, but not quite.

This must be what Cynwrig was talking about!

When faced with a negative individual it would react as a scared animal would.

Impressive, how spot on that description was. The thing was practically squirming free of his grasp.

“Maaaedoc! You c-came to heed my call!”

A large, sweaty hand plopped down on his shoulder. That telltale anxiety began to wash over Maedoc once again.

“Well let’s get right to it, then,” Bearnard grinned, lips parting into a smile any predator would be proud to wear. He took a seat at the now vacant table and placed his arm on it. He then bent his elbow, hoisting his forearm up until it pointed to the ceiling.

Maedoc was sufficiently lost. All he knew is that the expression of the man across from him was as insincere as it was unnerving.

Beyond that, he felt a bewildering conflict bubbling up within him. The anxiety filling the air around this table was palpable; it felt as though it could very well creep in through his mouth, like intelligent soot. Some sort of “something” began to grime up his lungs, making his chest feel heavy and tired.

On the other end of this bodily tug-of-war, the Aether shone as a small orb of light, twinkling an ocean away. Unmistakably bright. Tangibly warm. But it was not enough to expel this inward shudder, which he felt slowly growing in strength.

This tumultuous sensation reminded Maedoc of a storm front. The way it looked and felt as it crashed into a pocket of warm air on an autumn eve.

The cold wind bites through his clothes. The clouds, dark and full of moisture. They slither their way around the sun, threatening to engulf it entirely. Yet, miraculously, the sun always holds its ground. It never vanishes without a fight.

But in the end, it was almost always swallowed.

The boy’s legs buckled and collapsed as a chair slid in behind him to meet his knees. Maedoc spun his head around to see Frang at the helm, his fingers wrapped around the chair’s back.

“If you’re going to a-armwrestle, you’ll be needing this.”

“Arm . . .  wrestle?”

That explained Bearnard’s arm jutting up like a great oak tree.

“Oh. Um. Guys. I’m not—”

“No backing out! If you run away, I’ll j-just have to challenge everyone else in here until someone obliges! Won’t I, Frang?”

His brother returned a massive nod, which Maedoc felt reverberate through the chair. With heads so big, one would think it would bring equivalent smarts in tow. The ends of his lips curled as he imagined an alternate reality where he would say such a thing out loud.

Amazing, how he could think up jokes when entwined in such a scenario.

He looked to the remaining patrons in the bar. They were all bunched up against the far wall, their eyes piercing Maedoc pleadingly. One customer, old Clay Eyes, physically shook his head “no.”

They weren’t feeling up to it.

With an exhale, Maedoc accepted his fate.

“Alright. Let’s . . .  . . .  . . . ”

The silence was palpable. He realized only too late that he had nothing to end his line with, nothing at all. The absurdity of the circumstances barred his brain from English almost entirely. The bar collectively held its breath as it waited for his sentence to conclude.

In an instant of lukewarm adolescent insight, his answer manifested. Short. Sweet. Zero brainpower required.

Summoning the gruffest voice he could, Maedoc spoke.

” . . . yes. Let’s.”

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End of Arc II, Chapter One

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[sf_button colour=”black” type=”standard” size=”standard” link=”https://aetheric.org/aethretics-saga-arc-2-chapter-two/” target=”_self” icon=”” dropshadow=”no” extraclass=””]Arc II, Chapter Two[/sf_button]

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