An Exercise in Disappointment

"He's weird, isn't he?"

"Indeed, he's weird."

"He's not that weird, is he?"

Hamelin lazily opened his eyes and looked up at the three figures standing above him. "Who…?"

"Hey, Sleepyhead, what do you think you're doing?" The oldest of them, Wayne, said.

Groggily, Hamelin shook his head from side to side. "I'm sleeping… what else?"

"It's in the middle of the bloody day, you idiot," said the second-oldest, Heston, "You were supposed to be training your swordsmanship with us."

"Can't do it," Hamelin mumbled and closed his eyes again. Someone grabbed his head from behind and forced his eyes open, probably Heston, which gave Hamelin a clear view of his third brother.

"Father is quite cross with you, Hamelin," the quiet Mosel said, "You'll be punished."

Hamelin snorted, but said nothing. He was the youngest of the four brothers, and the one no one expected anything from. Whatever this 'punishment' was, Hamelin suspected it was barely a slap on the wrist. Humans had such strange idea about what constituted punishment. No torture of either the body or mind, no forced starvation or hard physical labor. At worst, he would have to recite some old text a hundred times or so—barely an inconvenience.

"We shouldn't be too hard on him," Wayne said, fixing the position of his glasses, "It's not his fault he's like this."

"It's exactly his fault," Heston argued, "He's the one who dumped himself in dung, back then."

"But he didn't know any better," Mosel said, shaking his head, "He shouldn't have to pay all of his life for a mistake he did when he could barely speak."

"I can hear you, you know," Hamelin said, shaking himself out of Heston's grip and gaining his feet. He had found a nice damp corner to sleep in, but now that he had been found, this place was ruined. Looking out of a nearby window, he could see the abominable sun stretching its rays across the landscape.

The idea that he had once wished to bathe in that light seemed foolish, now that he could stand in the light as much as he wanted. Indeed, it was only now that he knew how exhausting the sun could be that he fully appreciated how he belonged in the dark.

"Even if you can hear us, what can you do about it?" Heston said, stepping into Hamelin's line of sight, "You're the family's disgrace; better you know that, than think you are like us."

"Heston! That's too harsh," Wayne reprimanded, although Hamelin suspected the oldest Regias sibling did not fundamentally disagree with the sentiment. Mosel reached out and patted on Hamelin on the shoulder, saying, "Don't listen to Heston too much. He rarely think before he speaks, and often says what he shouldn't"

While you, on the other hand, Hamelin thought, studying the boy who was only a few years older than himself, Think entirely too much, and rarely says what you truly believe.

Mosel's cunning mind was familiar to Hamelin, as it reminded him of the deceptions he had played part in during his vexen days. "I don't mind," Hamelin said, truthfully, "I'm just an idiot, after all."

Heston snickered, but Wayne frowned and said, "Don't speak like that about yourself, Hamelin. It is bad enough that the servants gossip, but if you yourself admit it, the family's standing will falter."

There it was; the honest priorities of the oldest son, who would inherit all of the Regias estate in the future. Wayne was already given responsibility over large parts of the upkeep and duties, and had, at the age of seventeen, contributed by increasing farm-yield and expanding the family businesses. A true, administrative genius, the Regias family stood to raise itself out of mediocrity with him at the helm.

"At least he knows his place," Heston said, slapping Hamelin on the back, "You can deal with the gossip, can't you, dear brother?"

Hamelin had to fake being thrown off balance from the force Heston used. The second son of the family was obsessed with with military and martial arts, and had trained since young to enter the army. At 13 years old, the boy was built like an ox, and had the temper of one as well.

While he might be able to earn an officer's commission on his own in a few years, with the yields that Wayne was bringing in, he could look forward to one being bought for him—meaning he would be on the fast-track to becoming general within a decade of signing up.

Stumbling forward, it was Mosel who caught him. The third brother of the Regias family was a quiet sort, but equally as impressive as his two older brothers. Where one excelled in the administrative arts, and the other in martial arts, the third had found his expertise what these humans referred to as magic.

It was an unfamiliar subject to Hamelin, and he had taken little interest in it so far. The mutagenic practices of the vexen had always been superior to the bloodlines of the humans, except, of course, for the hereditary skill of the saintess, who was said to be a universal panacea for all ills — the natural enemy of all vexen.

"You alright, Hamelin?" Mosel asked, his large eyes somewhat worried. As the previous youngest of the family, at eleven years, Mosel had always been the one most concerned for Hamelin's welfare. "You shouldn't be so rough with him, Heston. He doesn't have your strength, and you know how easily he succumbs to sickness."

And then there was Hamelin. At nine years, Hamelin was scrawny, sickly, and known for sleeping most of the day. As far as the family knew, Hamelin had none of the gifts his brothers displayed, nor any true prospects.

The sickness that had overtaken him after his descent into the dung-pile had left lasting effects, making him more likely to end up sick, often spending weeks in a fevered state. Or, at least, that was the impression that the Regias family had.

It was an impression that Hamelin deliberately neglected to correct.

Heston showed Hamelin his teeth, saying, "If he's too weak to handle it, we shouldn't waste resources on him. Let's hope he has a bit of magical potential, otherwise he'll just be a waste for the rest of his life."

Both Wayne and Mosel looked troubled, but none of them contradicted Heston's harsh assessment. Hamelin said nothing, seeing no reason to. As far as the family knew, he was a waste, and had this been a vexen training facility, he would have been forced to show his hidden cards a long time ago.

To the vexen there was only the clan, those above your station, and those below. The clan was everything, and to anyone who dared threaten them, the vexen put up a unified front. However, when the times allowed for it, the internal deception, trickery, and murder ran rampant. Those at the bottom craved higher station, more food and power, while those at the top had to keep those below in check, while also keeping an eye of for the schemes of their rivals.

And in between the top and the bottom, the mid-rankers had to both keep those below them at bay, while scheming for higher positions. Death and murder was a daily occurrence, and whenever someone died, another stepped in to fill the vacuum.

Luxuries such as familial ties and obligations were irrelevant to the vexen. All that mattered was power and ambition. To Hamelin, therefore, the concerns of the Regias family felt more than justified.

"Let's go," Wayne said, grabbing Hamelin's arm, "Mage Correl will check our reservoirs today; you can't skip this time, Hamelin."

Somewhat unwilling, Hamelin nonetheless let his oldest brother drag him to the manor's study, where the royal tutor, Mage Correl, was awaiting them. The checking of their magical reservoirs was a monthly occurrence, which Hamelin had been spared until now, but no more.

They walked down the corridors, passing only a few servants on the way. The Regias manor was so small it only employed a handful of servants for its upkeep, two maids for the daily chores, a cook, a gardener, and a stable hand for both the horses and the cattle. They passed the kitchen on the way, where Hamelin heard the cook complain about "Those damn critters in the pantry—we have to do something!"

The safety of their food storage seemed a lot more interesting to Hamelin than whatever knowledge this tutor would pretend to teach, but he never got to hear the reply from whoever was in the kitchen with the cook—probably the gardener, in for a midday meal. Instead, he was dragged onward to the study.

The manor's study was a small affair, merely a good-sized parlor with a few bookshelves and four study tables cramming the room. Entering through the unadorned door, Hamelin and the brothers stood before the robed majesty of Mage Correl, an older man whose hair probably had begun graying in his thirties, and now in his fifties it looked positively ancient.

"Ahh, young lords, good to see you. Mosel, have you prepared the analysis I asked of you last time? Very good, thank you." The old fingers rifled through the documents that Mosel handed him, nodding all the way through, "Excellent. I'll look through them more thoroughly later, but your geometry appears in order. Now, let's see, ahh young master Hamelin have joined us; what an honor."

The old man closed in on Hamelin like a viper. Trying to move back, Hamelin was stopped by both Wayne's grasp of his arm, and the ancient magus' wizened claw.

"I see you're still as timid as always," the old man said and grimaced, "Let's get you seated, shall we, before you scarper off." The mage dragged Hamelin to one of the tables, and sat him down firmly, waving a finger before his eyes. To Hamelin's astonishment, he found himself unable to move even an inch.

"There, now I won't have you running off."

Hamelin stared daggers at the old man, but his murderous glare was ignored. "Let's take it in order of seniority, shall we. Lord Wayne, if you please." Mage Correl walked to his table and pointed to a crystal ball resting upon it.

The oldest of the Regias brothers stepped forward and placed his hand on the pall. Within its center, a soft glow began illuminating the surroundings with a solid, brown hue. "A small improvement from last time," Correl said and nodded, while penning the result on a piece of parchment, "I'm afraid your powers are limited to a smaller scale, but you should be able to improve the farming yield of any plot of land you focus your power on."

Wayne nodded and did not look the least bit dissatisfied. Hamelin could already see him playing out the possible increase in revenue from utilizing his powers properly.

"Lord Heston, if you please."

The second Regias brother stepped forward and copied Wayne's actions. The ball lit up with a more powerful, red light, but it was still just a speck in the center of the orb. "Very good, very good… fire is a powerful element, and especially good support for one aiming for the martial path."

Heston grinned and released his hand, stepping back and winking in Hamelin's general direction. Hamelin had never felt any malice coming from Heston, which had always confused him, given the second brother's propensity for ridiculing him. It was like a group-leader acting tough in the face of ratlings, but having no claws with which to scratch.

"And Mosel, come here," The old man's tone turned from professional to doting. There was no doubt about who he favored among the brothers, and understandably so. When Mosel put his hand on the ball, it lit up with powerful, swirling colors of blue and green.

"As impressive as always. Both your affinity for water and wind have grown magnificently," mage Correl said, nodding and noting down his findings, "It appears I'll have to request the use of the royal family's reservoir gauge; you have reached the limit of this one."

Mosel smiled, abashed, and looked down onto the ground. He was quiet and unassuming in daily life, nothing like Heston who freely boasted about his prowess on the training field.

"And finally, let's see what we've got to work with, young master Hamelin," the old man said, once Mosel had taken his seat, once more waving a finger. Hamelin was again amazed by the sudden change that overcame him.

Narrowing his eyes, he began to suspect that this human magic was not as inconsequential as he had first assumed. Perhaps, now that he was human himself, he could learn a thing or two. If nothing else, he might find away to improve the rate of mutation.

With a little excitement in his eyes, Hamelin stood up and approached the crystal ball. Without meaning to, he was looking forward to learn what kind of affinity he would have, and whether he might surprise the family.

Over the last two years, Hamelin had done his best to stay low-key. His experience told him that humans regarded the power of withermancy as unsavory, at best, and downright abominable at worst, and so it had seemed best to hide his skills. However, if there was a legitimate source of power for him to exploit, it might not be a bad idea to get back into his family's good graces.

He was so small that the edge of the table was directly in his line of sight, and had to tip-toe to reach the crystal ball. Tentatively, he reached out and placed his small palm on the cool exterior of the ball. Once he touched it, nothing like sparkling light emerged. Not even a color. Nothing but blank crystal and a disappointed tutor.

"It seems," mage Correl said with a sigh, "That your talents lie not in magic either, young lord. You can attend my classes if you wish, but I can teach you nothing of substance."

Furrowing his brown, Hamelin looked into the depths of the crystal, looking for anything that might explain the difference in result. Although he was disappointed, in the end he just shook his head and said, "I see. Then I won't bother you."

The tutor looked at him with dismay, but said nothing. Like everyone else, he would rather not deal with the troublesome, youngest son of the Regias family.