Work Text:
From the first time she cast a spell, Desscaras remembers only one thing, in two parts. One part is the electrifying rush of power. The way every hair on her body had stood up, how her blood had seemed to speed up. How it was as if there were a thousand little suns going supernova in her chest, illuminating the entire universe with infinite light, with the potential of this new world that had just opened to her.
The other is how her brother’s eyes had lit up, as if he could see every single one of those suns and was basking in the warmth of their light.
Together, Desscaras remembers them as joy.
The academy is weird at first. Girls who make the cut to train for witch tend to come in with a jagged, competitive edge to them. They all know that the number of those who’ll so much as get a shot at a majik can be counted on the fingers of one hand. Desscaras—“country bumpkin, look at her, all the way from Polaris, what’s she doing here?”—is no different.
They're practicing water summoning spells; easy-peasy, you get as much water as you put magic power into it, now fill this bucket. Desscaras, imagining Libro’s glittery eyes looking over her shoulder, puts on her widest, haughtiest smirk and floods the room.
“What?” she throws over her shoulder, “is this supposed to be hard or something?”
The instructor clicks her mouth shut but before she manages to gather her wits enough to say anything, the world’s most annoying voice pierces through Desscaras’s moment with, “It’s about control as well, you complete pumpkin! You’re not supposed to flood the room!”
Just like everyone else, Togeice is up to her knees in water. Next to her, her own bucket is filled right to the brim, a single drop away from spilling over.
Desscaras can feel the annoyance rise in her. “Like you could pull it off, Toge-dolt!”
All the water in the room disappears in the next blink, the instructor’s wand raised. “Thank you Desscaras, Togeice. You may move on to the next chapter in self-study,” she says.
Desscaras opens her mouth to argue—why should she get extra work when she's better than everyone else?—but is cut off by the clack of Togeice’s perfectly polished shoes walking up to her and answering with, “Yes, ma’am.”
The next second Togeice is tugging her by the hand. “Come along, Desscaras.”
The indignation dies down in a snicker. “What, into the broom closet? Didn't know you felt that way about me, Clumsy-ice!”
Without missing a beat, Togeice turns the other way, this time towards the exit. “Don't be ridiculous.”
Desscaras wants to keep making fun of her, but Togeice's hand is pleasantly cool around hers and Togeice's ears are adorably red and fine, maybe some self-study with just the two of them wouldn't be so bad after all.
Pretty soon Desscaras claims her rightful place at the top. The whispers turn reverent: she's no longer a country bumpkin, she's the brightest star of her generation.
Togeice was the only one who grit her teeth and put her back into catching up. Desscaras buried the relief under mocking laughter, the pleasure of having someone to race under taunts. She’s the best, will continue to be the best but it’s a thrill to have someone to run with.
The majik, with its thousand spindly clapping, grasping arms, laughs at her. “Do you really think you have what it takes, witch?” Its voice is like needles through her ears. Desscaras smiles her most serene smile, the rush of a challenge setting fire to her blood. She spits out a glob of bloodied saliva. “Let’s find out.”
Her brother calls often, every single time far more excited about whatever new spell she has to show off.
“Yeesh!” Desscaras pouts at the mirror, “I feel like you don't care about me at all beyond the magic I can show you!”
When her words sink in, Libro recoils as if she struck him, tears welling up in his eyes, “No!” he practically launches himself through the mirror, “That's not true! I love you best!”
A mix of guilt and fondness claws at Desscaras's insides. “I kno-” she clears her throat, trying to get rid of the croak in her voice. “I know, Libro. It was a joke.”
She still shows him the spells and he talks about some book or another he managed to get his hands on.
By the time they're wrapping up the call, Libro is as bright and cheerful as he always should be and Desscaras hopes he forgot all about it.
“Dess?”
“Whaaaat?” she drags her words out, she has places to be.
“I really do love you best of all.”
Desscaras wonders how it is possible that her heart hasn't burst from the overflow of love in it. “I really love you best of all too.”
It was only a matter of time before someone tried to take a shot at her, Desscaras supposes. She hasn’t been on top for long, but it’s been such an astronomical rise that some might doubt she deserves it.
Mantinel doesn’t approve of in-fighting—which is different from what Moneygold dismissed as “run-of-the-mill personality clash”—so anyone who truly had a bone to pick with Desscaras had to do so from the outside.
The misguided, ignorant little thing that came at her, all bluster and righteous indignation, had been from another association. Desscaras had wanted to simply scorch her butt, but Shirabedonna, eternal complicator, suggested a contest. Something which Moneygold, eternal observer, approved of greatly. Go for the same majik, whoever acquires it first wins.
It takes her three minutes altogether. She doesn’t need a perfume majik, not really, but it does come in handy when she sends her would-be challenger a scented letter thanking her for the light exercise.
Moneygold’s office, usually filled with glitz and sparkling, golden things, seems very dull. Moneygold herself is sitting across from her, equally dull and distant. She taps her pipe twice against the desk. Desscaras clenches her fists.
“Desscaras,” Moneygold starts, then stops.
There’s a clock ticking, acutely keeping Desscaras aware that the world doesn’t stop for anyone, not even her.
“Give yourself time to be sad.” Moneygold breaks the silence, her voice brittle, as if aware how empty her words are. “Rage will come. As will a chance at revenge. But you must leave room for grief first.”
Moneygold is special. Moneygold is the only witch in the entire world Dess would admit to herself—sometimes others even!— she respects.
Desscaras wants to spit in her face.
After the fifth acquisition in just as many weeks, Togeice intercepts her in the hallway. “You should slow down for a bit.”
Desscaras shrugs. “And do what? Sit and cry?”
Nearly immediately Togeice’s eyes turn wet, piercing Desscaras with guilt. Togeice had met Libro, had liked him, had lamented how such a “good and diligent boy could possibly be related to a troublemaker like you.”
“It might do you some good,” Togeice says after a few moments, where they both pretend she’s not blinking back tears.
“You’d know, huh?” Desscaras doesn’t regret the words, nor the venom, because who does Togeice think she is, trying to tell her how to deal with her brother being— Desscaras inhales sharply and lifts her head high.
Togeice’s face closes off into a chilly look of disapproval, though that doesn’t really faze her: Togeice had always been second best, but firmly on the other side of the inadequacy abyss separating Desscaras from every other witch.
“It's not gonna be you.”
They had a witches’ meeting, one Desscaras didn’t manage to wiggle out of, on account of being physically present in the building when it was happening. She had skulked out of the meeting room, properly drained, but it seems that the annoyances of the day weren’t over.
Desscaras turns, looking down at the unsettling child with the silly hat. “Excuse me?”
The Prophecy Majik grins. “It's not gonna be you~” she sing-songs.
Desscaras lifts an eyebrow.
“You're not the one in the prophecy!” The Prophecy Majik spreads its arms, “No magic woman can acquire Uroro and, therefore, it's just not gonna be you!”
Desscaras scoffs, then turns to continue on her way. “I don't need a prophecy,” she throws over her shoulder, “I'll just win.”
From the top, sometimes all the other witches look like ants. She wonders if the World Hater Majik had a similar perspective on Polaris. Maybe she’ll ask it once it’s affixed to her scabbard.
“Desscaras.”
She stops grumbling into her chin to give the stupid untamed mutt a scathing glare. “What?”
The feral idiot child turns towards her, a flush in his cheeks and the infinite light of a thousand little suns going supernova in his eyes. “Magic is fun!”
Desscaras blinks, once, twice, then looks away. When had she forgotten?