Chasing Echoes
00
Margo Beatrice Thyme Blackstone tried for the final time to weave together the energies she’d managed to gather to form a shield when a strong, gale-like wind pushed into her, and knocked her off her feet and several feet away from her original spot. Margo laid there struggling to regain her breath, hearing somewhere off to her right the instructor declaring the match over. Somewhere to the left her younger brother gave a victory cry.
“Did you see father?” Her brother, Sebastian, asked excitedly. “Did you see how far my wind pushed Margo?”
“Yes,” Their father answered in a monotone voice—his tone obvious of his bitter disappointment in his eldest child. Margo felt the tears burn the back of her eyes as she pushed herself up into a sitting position, breathing easier now. She looked over to Bastian—as she referred to him—grinning in youthful, childish glee. Why shouldn’t Bastian be excited? He was the strongest magic user in their family, directly after their father. Not like her. Margo had always been lacking in the skill of magic. It didn’t matter that she studied harder than her brother, it didn’t matter that she knew more spells than he did, and it didn’t matter that she worked harder than Bastian while practicing because Margo had nothing to show for her hard work. Bastian was a prodigy in magic, and had quickly risen to Margo age level in three years he had been studying. Margo was jealous of the easiness magic came to him, and on that level hated her younger brother because she would never be as good in magic as Bastian. So, Margo chose the only option left to her.
She accepted that her current level was the best she could ever hope to achieve.
Margo gave up.
Several tears escaped the hold of her eyes as she stood, brushing the dust off her sparing uniform before wiping the errant tears away, aware of her father’s piercing glare at the show of weakness.
“You are so amazing, Bastian.” Margo told him, giving him what she hoped was a believable smile, “I could never beat you.”
With her spirit broken, Margo turned away from her younger brother—too young to understand his sister’s final farewell—and offered a deep bow to her teacher before retreating to her room. “Thank you for the lessons.”
That was the day Margo Beatrice Thyme Blackstone died.
҉
Later, in the late hours of the night, Margo felt along the walls of the formal dining room until her fingers found the stone with the craving of an ancient rune for knowledge she’d placed there years before, and pushed it to reveal a secret passage that lead to an unguarded portion of the estate. Margo in her training uniform, the material just dark enough to pass along with shadows, moved as silently as she could through the large gardens.
It was nearly fifteen minutes before she found the section where a portion of gate was missing thanks to Bastian getting carried away during a duel she’d foolishly challenged him to the previous week. Before crossing over the broken boundary, Margo looked behind her to place she had seen as both a home and a prison. Margo said goodbye to the girl who had suffered through hours of training in every form, to the child who had discovered reading in that house and found a passion for knowledge, and to the woman who was still suffering in her insecurities, bitter feelings, and fears. Tears burned her eyes, and this time Margo let them fall. She was mourning; mourning the person she was never able to be, mourning the death of her former spirit.
With those tears, Margo stepped over the broken gate into the new world that was hers to explore. She was everything the old Margo was—intelligent, educated, absolutely terrible at magic—but this Margo had freedom. Freedom to choose who she would be, freedom to learn whatever she wanted, freedom to explore, and freedom to make mistakes. With the gift of freedom, Margo adjusted the bag of supplies she’d brought with her and began walking, never looking back again.
That was the night the woman known as Margo Wyld was born.
“Did you see father?” Her brother, Sebastian, asked excitedly. “Did you see how far my wind pushed Margo?”
“Yes,” Their father answered in a monotone voice—his tone obvious of his bitter disappointment in his eldest child. Margo felt the tears burn the back of her eyes as she pushed herself up into a sitting position, breathing easier now. She looked over to Bastian—as she referred to him—grinning in youthful, childish glee. Why shouldn’t Bastian be excited? He was the strongest magic user in their family, directly after their father. Not like her. Margo had always been lacking in the skill of magic. It didn’t matter that she studied harder than her brother, it didn’t matter that she knew more spells than he did, and it didn’t matter that she worked harder than Bastian while practicing because Margo had nothing to show for her hard work. Bastian was a prodigy in magic, and had quickly risen to Margo age level in three years he had been studying. Margo was jealous of the easiness magic came to him, and on that level hated her younger brother because she would never be as good in magic as Bastian. So, Margo chose the only option left to her.
She accepted that her current level was the best she could ever hope to achieve.
Margo gave up.
Several tears escaped the hold of her eyes as she stood, brushing the dust off her sparing uniform before wiping the errant tears away, aware of her father’s piercing glare at the show of weakness.
“You are so amazing, Bastian.” Margo told him, giving him what she hoped was a believable smile, “I could never beat you.”
With her spirit broken, Margo turned away from her younger brother—too young to understand his sister’s final farewell—and offered a deep bow to her teacher before retreating to her room. “Thank you for the lessons.”
That was the day Margo Beatrice Thyme Blackstone died.
҉
Later, in the late hours of the night, Margo felt along the walls of the formal dining room until her fingers found the stone with the craving of an ancient rune for knowledge she’d placed there years before, and pushed it to reveal a secret passage that lead to an unguarded portion of the estate. Margo in her training uniform, the material just dark enough to pass along with shadows, moved as silently as she could through the large gardens.
It was nearly fifteen minutes before she found the section where a portion of gate was missing thanks to Bastian getting carried away during a duel she’d foolishly challenged him to the previous week. Before crossing over the broken boundary, Margo looked behind her to place she had seen as both a home and a prison. Margo said goodbye to the girl who had suffered through hours of training in every form, to the child who had discovered reading in that house and found a passion for knowledge, and to the woman who was still suffering in her insecurities, bitter feelings, and fears. Tears burned her eyes, and this time Margo let them fall. She was mourning; mourning the person she was never able to be, mourning the death of her former spirit.
With those tears, Margo stepped over the broken gate into the new world that was hers to explore. She was everything the old Margo was—intelligent, educated, absolutely terrible at magic—but this Margo had freedom. Freedom to choose who she would be, freedom to learn whatever she wanted, freedom to explore, and freedom to make mistakes. With the gift of freedom, Margo adjusted the bag of supplies she’d brought with her and began walking, never looking back again.
That was the night the woman known as Margo Wyld was born.
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I really like this story idea, tell me what you think of it.Also, like the layout? I'm not amazing at them so sorry if it's lame.
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