On Being a New Wizard in Arcadia--V

    He wasn't aware of dreaming in any connected, coherent narrative, but of vague pulses of emotion and even more primal feelings, those most base motives that drive even the lowliest creatures. A thin thread of foreboding ran through all of them, causing him to stir restlessly in his sleep, a low moan caught deep in his throat. A noise, or perhaps a draft, brought him fully awake. He stared into the shadows of the room, trying to determine what had brought him out of his stupor. It was no louder than usual, as his fellow students banged up and down the stairs and hallways. There was no presence in his room that shouldn't be, no women in black veils or the twisted imps that had initially driven him away in the first place. He briefly thought he caught sight of an aura-flare on his dresser, but a second look made it plain that it was one of the lenses of his glasses catching the light of a street lamp. Scrutinizing his dresser did bring the brocade box back to the forefront of his mind, and he got slowly to his feet, apprehensive.

    There was nothing untoward in the box's appearance, even in the half-light. Turning on the desk lamp did not bring about a sudden shift in its size or color or pattern. Almost annoyed, Christian picked it up. Its weight was exactly the weight one would expect from a nicely-sized ring box, neither damnably heavy nor ethereal. His sudden urge to throw it against the wall came not from a sense of terror or wrongness but sheer frustration that it was exactly as it seemed: a brocade box for the display and storage of a ring or some other token. He slammed it down on his desk and scowled at it for a full minute before at last sitting. He held his breath as he slowly grasped the lid and lifted it open.

    If he had been holding out any last hope of some demonic apparition or manifestation, it vanished when the box fully opened, revealing a simple silver ring of spiraling and curled filaments. Christian gave a disgusted snort and sat back, staring. Nothing about it spoke of delirium or the hellscapes he had seen. If anything, it looked like the sort of trinket that could be gotten at a Renaissance festival or a Celtic kiosk at the mall. He chewed his lip in aggravation. Had he been building himself up into a lather over a gift from one of his friends? Had his near-death experience left him so overwrought that he saw otherworldly horrors in the most mundane of things? He lifted the ring out of its pillow. No sparks, no visions of the Pit, no unholy screams or voices. Thoroughly fed up with the matter, he slipped it onto the middle finger of his right hand. It fit quite nicely, and did nothing. It did not burn, it did not freeze, it did not cut him.

    "I'm losing it," he told the darkness. "It's just a ring. I'm getting worked up over a piece of jewelry." It looked attractive on his hand, stretching from one knuckle to the next, accentuating his long fingers. Perhaps it was just a gift. Valletta had excellent taste and a keen insight into what items best flattered the wearer, and it was not outside the realm of possibility that she had gotten him a gift to surprise him on his return home. She tended toward a bigger production with her gifting, though. So maybe not Valletta, then. The twins? Again, it didn't feel like their style or their type of gift. He couldn't think off-hand who else it might have been. There wasn't anything for it until morning. According to the baleful red glow of his alarm clock's numbers, it was 1:30 in the morning. He slumped in his chair. He didn't feel like sleeping again for a while. He dragged his text books across the desk and started reading.


    Friday passed by in a series of cat-naps broken up by flurries of make-up work. Christian made a point of calling each of his professors during their office hours, not only to apologize for his absences but also to get any assignments that Zoe, Rei, Audrey, or Sebastian might have missed. Most of them were most sympathetic, and Professor Ohda seemed genuinely surprised by Christian's determination to be in class on Monday. The one who was disinclined to give any mercy or leniency was Dr. McMillan. He went on a lengthy diatribe at Christian, questioning his diligence and his dedication to his academic career, scoffing at the notion that somehow Christian would be able to scrape together a respectable paper without the benefit of actual attendance in class for the lecture, and finally demanding that Christian bring in not only his doctor's note but a detailed report as to why Christian had been in the hospital in the first place. Christian was pretty sure that was illegal, not to mention tacky, but he kept his opinions to himself.

    As promised, Sebastian came by after class, bearing the gift of hot wings and more beer. While there was the temptation to see who could get the other undressed the fastest, they both showed remarkable restraint and settled in to look over McMillan's demands.

    "Can we pick who we're writing on, or did he assign it?" Christian asked. Sebastian laid back against the pillows on Christian's bed and made an inscrutable face. "What? I hate that Cheshire Cat look of yours."

    "Oh, he assigned them. I got Byron." Sebastian wrinkled his nose slightly. Christian really hoped he hadn't gotten Wordsworth, because he didn't know if their relationship could survive that tension. "You got..."

    "Wordsworth?" Christian ventured. Sebastian's looked more Cheshire Cat-like than ever. "What? No?! Oh Jesus, not Shelley..."

    "No, dear, not Shelley or Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Can you stand any more guessing or should I let you off the hook?"

    "Well, there's no way I got lucky enough for Coleridge." Christian had written a fifteen-page-paper on Coleridge for Honors English in high school. Sebastian grinned. "Oh my God. I have this thing done then." Christian felt a huge weight lift off his spirit. "Do I get extra credit if I can recite Rime of the Ancient Mariner from memory?"

    "I think McMillan would flunk you on principle. He thought he was really sticking it to you with Coleridge."

    "Well, he's wrong." Christian absently played with the silver ring. "Oh, hey, do you know anything about this?" He took the ring from his finger and handed it to Sebastian. "It was on my dresser when I got back."

    Sebastian examined it closely, turning it under the light. "It doesn't have any markings to indicate manufacture, so some artist-made thing probably? It's definitely silver,  pretty nice stuff. Weird. It was just on your dresser?"

    "In this." Christian reached over his books and beer to retrieve the box. Sebastian looked it over, then handed it back. "Nothing out of the ordinary about it?"

    "Again, it looks to be artist-made. Do you have any friends in the art department?"

    "No one close enough to make me jewelry. It looks kind of ren fest to me." He slipped it back onto his finger. "You aren't offended if I wear it? Even if it's from some secret admirer?"

    "It suits you." Sebastian pulled him over for a kiss. "And, since we know you have Coleridge under control...." He slid a very inviting hand up the back of Christian's t-shirt. "Are you up for it? We can take a night off if need be."

    "Take it a little easy, and I should be just fine," Christian chided, his fingers eagerly undoing the button of Sebastian's jeans.