The Magician's Daughter

(CW: Mention of death, without graphic details.)

Nahmeda lived peacefully in the untamed wilderness of Yrlyria for her entire life. At eighty, Nahmeda was considered quite the catch for young elven bachelors of yrlyria. Though her village was located far from Elma Asradi, the nearest major city in the kingdom, elven men sought out Nahmeda instead of traveling to secure a wife. Men often passed up younger elven women for wives (of whom were in their fifties and sixties) just for a chance at claiming the hand of a Magician’s daughter. 

Nahmeda’s golden blonde hair and lilac eyes marked her as such, elevating her to a status that superseded other young elven women. However, her parentless status made actually securing a match a far off possibility. That didn’t bother Nahmeda much, as she had no aspirations for love. Or marriage. She saw how the death of her mother nearly destroyed her father, and she reconciled with herself that she had no more love to give than the love and fidelity she already gave to her father and to her position as a Magician’s daughter. 

Nahmeda was mostly independent by eighty, as she had taken up her father’s position in the village as the sole Village Magician, and a doctor of sorts. She was called upon frequently to aid midwives when a difficult birth arose. She was the first point of contact when a child had a stuffy nose, or when an Elder was approaching death. Like her father, Jandar, Nahmeda was well respected. She was important. She was necessary for the welfare of the village. 

After Jandar’s death, Nahmeda was called upon by the Elder’s of the village. She was brought in front of six wise elven men, and three noble elven women, dressed in purple silks, and crowned with silver ivy that accentuated their pointed ears. Nahmeda simply wore a white dress with a high collar, billowing sleeves, and kneeled before her Elders. 

“Nahmeda, daughter of Jandar,” an Elder Man said, “We are all saddened by your father’s recent death.”

Nahmeda nodded once and avoided the sunken eyes of her Elders. Jandar had died at three hundred years old, a far cry from being considered an Elder El by the village. It was a true tragedy.  

“Jandar named you his successor,” an Elder Woman said, though her raised eyebrows suggested she was less confident in that statement. 

Nahmeda nodded again, and parted her lips to say something, but then she realized that there was nothing important to say. 

“Do you accept the position as Village Magician?”

Nahmeda looked up to meet the eyeline of a rather disheveled looking Elder Man. He was balding, but long white tufts of hair stuck out behind each elongated ear. His nose was bent to the right, and his eyes were large, round, and very green. “I of course accept. I was born to be my father’s successor. Nothing more.” She did not smile, she did not even frown at the prospect of carrying on her father’s legacy. In fact, she didn’t feel anything at all. Nahmeda was utterly numb. 

The Elders dismissed Nahmeda, and she returned to the cottage at the edge of the village where she was born and where her father had raised her. It was also the cottage where Nahmeda’s mother died in childbirth, taking the newly born babe with her to the Gods. Nahmeda and Jandar thus clung to each other thereafter, relying on each other to sooth the slow healing wound of grief that they both shared. 

As Village Magician, Jandar had used his knowledge of plants and invoking spirits to aid the ailing and desperate. Nahmeda learned alongside her father, slowly understanding the nuances of plant magic and the forces of nature. However, Nahmeda experimented with other types of magic, eventually discovering she had a hidden ability of clairvoyance. Even more alluring, when Nahmeda was a little elven girl of twenty, she discovered that she could alter the future.

Nahmeda was given a painting set for her birthday one year, because her father saw Nahmeda as a bright, vibrant little elven girl, “Who ought to share that colorful view of the world through art.” When her father’s patients would visit the cottage, they would stop to admire Nahmeda’s creations. She would paint in the garden behind the cottage, always painting flowers, animals, and sunsets. Unbeknownst to anyone, everyone—including Jandar and Nahmeda—were gobstruck at how plentiful their garden had become once Nahmeda began painting there. “Your art is so beautiful, Nahma, it calls upon nature,” Jandar had said once, patting his daughter on the head. 

 But one hot day, she thought to herself, It would be nice if this garden was shaded by a big, old oak. So, Nahmeda painted the garden as it was, but in this painting, she included a large tree growing in the middle of the space. Once she had finished the piece, and signed her name in the bottom right hand corner, the ground shook. 

Her painting easel rattled, and fell over. The canvas itself was flung to the side, and was then impaled by a garden stake, tearing a hole down the middle of it. Nahmeda’s little wooden table that held her paints also toppled over, spilling acrylics over a patch of catnip and then a patch of dill. 

Jandar and his friend, Folen, ran out of the cottage to see what the ruckus was, making sure that Nahmeda was safe and not harmed by whatever environmental catastrophe was unfolding. But when Jandar and Folen entered the garden, their mouths gaped, and their eyes moved up the long, bending trunk of the newly sprouted oak that already towered over the cottage. 

Folen squinted at the new addition to the garden and put his hands on his hips. “Why is that ‘ere trunk split like that?” He pointed up at the tree, where the trunk had split in two, growing outward like a giant Y. “I gotta say Jand’er . . . never ‘een anything like this, bef’er.” 

Jandar frowned and stepped closer to the strange oak. “Nahma?” he asked, not looking at his daughter. 

“Yes?” Nahmeda asked, hugging her midsection, struggling to quell her shaking. She remained seated on her painter’s stool, the one her father had crafted for her, and didn’t dare to move. 

“What is this?” Jandar asked, pointing languidly at the oak, swaying in the breeze. 

Nahmeda shrugged. “It appears to be a tree, father.”

“Hm.” Jandar crossed his arms and walked over to his daughter, then shifted his attention to the impaled painting. “Huh . . . you painted that, Nahma?” 

Nahmeda nodded, eyeing the painting with trepidation. 

“Yer’ daughter is gifted, Jandar! She can change the future!” Folen shouted, and did a little jig around the tree. “By the Gods above, yer gonna be rich, Jand’er!” 

Jandar furrowed at his brows and scowled at his friend, who was acting like a little elven child, jumping and flinging his arms around, worshiping the misshapen tree like it was his own personal God. “Yes, she is gifted,” Jandar said, looking at the tree for a moment, and then gazing down at his child, realizing that she would one day surpass him in every way. “We must keep this between you and I,” he whispered, bending down and placing a hand on her shoulder. “There are powers above us that would very much like to have your gift.” 

Nahmeda nodded, and promised to keep her abilities a secret. 

Jandar convinced Folen to keep her secret hidden, as well, despite his ambitious desires for wealth and notoriety. In the end, Jandar explained to Folen that if anyone were to discover his daughter’s abilities, the High Elven Court may seek to use her for their own ends. He did not want that for his daughter. Thus, Nahmeda was forbidden to paint after that day. Her father took away her painting supplies, and as far as she knew, discarded them completely. 

When Jandar died, Nahmeda took up her father’s patients and cared for them just as he did. It was lonely, though, harvesting herbs and plants by herself. She was used to trailing her father with a wicker basket in hand, always wearing a dreamy expression, and touching the sunlight that dripped through the canopy of trees. After the passing of her father, Nahmeda continued as she thought she ought to—carrying on his good and credible name. That was until she met Tanyth . 

Tanyth had wickedly beautiful, dreamy eyes. She was drawn to them the moment she had opened the door, and saw them staring at her with droopy seriousness. 

“Hello?” Nahmeda asked, wiping her hands on her apron, soiling the muslin fabric with eggy flour. 

“You are the Village Magician, correct?” 

“Depends who you ask.” Nahmeda smiled, and cocked her head to the side. 

Tanyth didn’t reciprocate the gesture, and instead, wrung the cap that he held between both his hands. 

Nahmeda cleared her throat. “Yes I am. I assume you need one?” 

He nodded his head, quickly. “I just arrived in Yrlyria.” 

Nahmeda fluttered her eyelashes. “Ah, well, that would explain why you didn’t know me.” She smiled again, just so to try and pull out something remarkable from this strange elven man. 

Tanyth merely furrowed his brows, and Nahmeda swore she saw the color drain from his face. 

She bit her lip and then shifted uncomfortably on her feet. “Well, come in then.” She ushered for him to enter her cottage. He entered, slowly, watching as she closed the door behind him. “I won’t hurt you,” she said, laughing a bit as she cleared off a spot at her dining table for Tanyth. “Please, sit.”

Tanyth did as instructed. He scratched his overgrown five o'clock shadow absently, and looked at the floury mess that covered every inch of Nahmeda’s kitchenette. 

“Sorry,” she said, wiping her hands onto her apron, again. “Thought I’d try to do some baking.” She sat down at the table, across from Tanyth, and grinned. “So you are looking for a Magician. What for?”

Tanyth swallowed, and glanced briefly at the herb bundles Nahmeda had strung up to dry on the far side of the cottage, opposite of her bed (which was covered in multi-colored quilts). “I am lonely.” 

“Oh?” Nahmeda never had someone request magical remedies for loneliness before. “I don’t think I can help with that, unfortunately.” 

Tanyth’s thick, black, brows drew together, and she saw the skin under his glowing green eyes sag, presumably weighed down by whatever emotional burden he carried. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Nahmeda breathed in his scent, which was heavily infused with pine and tree sap. She wanted to burrow herself into that scent. 

Tanyth leaned forward and buried his face into his hands. 

Nahmeda stayed silent, remained across the table from Tanyth, but felt herself being drawn closer and closer to him, as if the Gods were tightening a tourniquet around them both. “Has it been hard for you here?” she asked, quietly. 

Tanyth nodded, though keeping his face buried in his hands. 

Nahmeda sighed. “I know what it is like to be lonely.” 

He looked up and blinked at her. “Do you?”

“Yes,” she said softly, breath escaping her lungs and filling the space around them. 

They both looked at each other for a long while, neither moving, and neither speaking. Time moved onward, but the space between them stilled and slowed to a near stop. Finally, Nahmeda pressed her palm against the table top and breathed out through her nose. “Give me tonight. I will think about what I might be able to do for you.”

Tanyth’s eyes brightened, and he pulled his cap to his chest. “Oh! Thank you, thank you miss!” 

Nahmeda smiled at being called ‘miss.’ It felt like a title beyond her, meant for lady elves of the High Elven Court. “You can call me Nahmeda. Actually . . .” her voice trailed, and she bit her lip thinking of the pet name her father called her. “You can call me Nahma.” 

He smiled wide, and relaxed his shoulders. “It is nice to meet you, Nahma. My name is Tanyth.” He laughed suddenly, and looked around the room rather embarrassed. “I think we did this all backwards—forgot to do the introductions first.” 

Nahmeda chuckled, and looked at her hand still pressed to the table. She liked hearing Tanyth laugh, and more than that, she liked hearing her name come from his mouth. When he uttered it, she felt it enter her chest and reverberate against every part of her body. She didn’t want him to leave, but she knew he’d have to. There is no reality in which we could be what I now know I want us to be, she thought, as she felt a great pain descend into her stomach, as if her entire heart had dislodged itself and plummeted. 

Nahmeda stood and walked across the room to open the door for Tanyth. “It was nice to meet you, and I promise I will do what I can to help you.” 

He smiled, rosy blush enveloping his cheeks. “I appreciate that.” He moved his lips to say more, but instead nodded, and walked off into the night. 

Nahmeda closed the door, sharply, and began pacing her cottage. She tore her apron off her body and threw it on her bed, ignoring the mess in her kitchenette, and instead, pulled at her hair and prayed for the Gods to send her some sign. 

As if by coincidence, or by heavenly intervention, a clatter from the corner of the room alerted Nahmeda to her answer. A rodent or some other creature weaseled themselves out from her closet, opening it and sending a smattering of stacked things across the room. In that pile of things was Nahmeda’s paint set. 

She kneeled and picked up the forgotten canvas, and thumbed through a few remarkably preserved acrylics. I thought Father had gotten rid of these. She picked up a broken crate that had held her painting materials, and found a note at the bottom: 

Nahma, 

When you find this, you will probably be much older, and much smarter than I was when I took these things from you. Learn how to paint again. Learn how to use your gifts for good. Just be careful.   

Father 

Nahmeda ran her fingers over his scratched cursive and then wiped away tears with the back of her wrist. Thank you, Father. I know what I must do, now, she thought, quickly gathering her painting things and setting herself to work. 

She painted all night. Nahmeda painted Tanyth with a beautiful bride, and three elven children. She made sure to paint his bride with chestnut curls and blue eyes, to separate this muse as much as possible from herself. I cannot love you as you deserve, Tanyth, she reminded herself over and over again as she painted and wept. 

In her manic desperation, Nahmeda had to almost laugh at how quickly she had fallen in love with the lonely elf. Her mind drifted in and out of fantasies in which they married and she bore Tanyth children. But she would quickly remove those thoughts from her mind, as she remembered that whatever she manifested in her thoughts, transferred to the canvas, and then to real life. 

She finished the painting at dawn, signed it, and tucked it under her bed. Just after making tea and rubbing the sleepiness from her eyes, she heard the expected knock at the door. Tanyth. She opened it slowly, feeling her stomach twist just at the sight of him. “Good morning.”

He narrowed his eyes, surveying her disheveled appearance, puffy eyes, and trembling lips. “Are you okay?”

She forced a smile and then lazily leaned against the doorframe. “Of course. Never better.”

“Oh,” he said, biting his lip and rubbing his wrist. “So . . . uh . . . any thoughts of my—”

“I’ve fixed it.”

“Huh?” Tanyth looked at her with darting eyes. 

“Your problem. I’ve fixed it.”

He blinked and shook his head. “But I—”

She held up her hand to silence him. “Magic is not always instantaneous. However, you can have faith that things will work out for you—probably within the next six months or so.”

“Oh?”

“Yup,” Nahmeda said, picking at her nail bed and not daring to look at Tanyth for fear she might burst into tears. 

“Well, what can I expect?”

Nahmeda resolved to look at him, then, deeply and intensely. “You will be married. You will have three children. You will be happy.” 

Tanyth’s face brightened, and he sort of jumped up and down like a giddy little elf. “I’m so excited, then!” He hugged Nahmeda, but drew back quickly. “I will love her, with my whole heart. Oh! Children? I will love them too! More than myself. I will love them all more than my heart can withstand.” 

Nahmeda forced herself to smile. “Of course you will.”

Tanyth thanked her again, and he nearly skipped all the way down the path leading from Nahmeda’s cottage. She watched until he disappeared into the woods. Nahmeda closed the door, pressed her back against it, and slid down to the ground. She drew her legs close to her chest and then pressed her head against her knees. 

Nahmeda wept. 

She wept until her body shook from exhaustion, and until she finally drifted off to sleep. When she awoke, she remembered the painting under her bed. She pulled it out and examined her work. It is beautiful, she admitted to herself, running her fingers over the expertly drawn paint strokes. She tapped her fingers against the edges of the canvas and began thinking of how she might alter her own future. And perhaps when she does that, she may be able to place her heart back to where it had dislodged itself from. Nahmeda had that sinking sort of feeling, though, that such a task may take longer than expected.