#34

The walk ahead of Mark and his companion will be a long and treacherous one. Fortunately, it's these sorts of walks that tend to develop friendships, and there have been many such walks of this sort in this country. Unfortunately however, Mark is not a very friendly fellow. He's still distracted by the fact that he cannot sense a gender below those robes.

“So, uh. Mate,” he asks. He needs conversation, to cleanse the palette of fear and loss that's still in his head. “What do I call you?”

“I am the Old Man.”

Good, thinks Mark. He's a man.

“But does that name mean nothing to you?”

“Hm? Well, 'Old Man' isn't much of a name. It's more like a title.”

“It is a title. But for one who comes from that has no name, a title such as mine ought to be as good as a name. Did you not read your history? The history of your town?”

“Hm? Are you saying I should know about a particular Old Man? I mean, there were the town elders...”

“I was the eldest of your town elders. I founded that has no name, over seven centuries ago. It was to be my main base on this Earth.”

Mark pauses, and blinks. “You founded...?” He keeps walking. “But that must mean you're...”

“Old, yes. Very Old. For I am the Old Man.”

They continued to walk for quite a ways, saying nothing. They eventually reach the first hill, which they begin to climb.

“A bit of a hike, isn't it, Mark? Oh well. You could stand some exercise.”

“I'm starting to remember you,” Marks says, and he's being sincere. “Weren't you said to be some sort of...irony wizard?”

“Sorry to induce more worldview-shattering onto this plane, Mark, but irony wizards don't exist. Perhaps trope-magic can involve drawing power from the strength we as a species have placed upon dramatic touches, as a massive cultural consciousness manifestation sort of thing, but the idea of 'irony-magic' is a diluted version of true power derived from years of incestuous thought and failure. Your colony did not satisfy my idea of a mystical bohemian utopia, and it is not alone in that regard. I still seek the perfect place, and perfect collection of individuals, to be worthy of my House. For I seek the greatest magic of all, which is freedom.”

“Freedom?” Mark chuckles. “We made freedom, mate. We broke away from the mainstream norms. We defied culture...”

“English culture died when the Empire sent to the fuel-bombs to its cities,” the Old Man replies. “And rebellion is not always freedom. Not when the rebellion falls into the same cycle of rules and regulations as the old order. Remember France?”

Mark shakes his head.

“Of course, the Revolution may not have happened in the same way on this Earth. I'm sure Lutetia faced some sort of cultural rebellion in the 18^th Century, though.”

There is another silence, and this one is awkward.

“If you're a wizard,” Mark says then. “Why don't you just fly us up this hill? Or something?”

“Because magic is subtler than that. Magic is not bolts of raw flaming energy flying everywhere. Though there is such a thing as going Ablaze, which can burn out someone's system rather easily—hence the name. When I was a spry youth, I went Ablaze more than once, and I think it was only the drugs that kept me in check...”

“You don't seem much like a guy to just light up.”

“Oh, I'm consistently high, on a relative scale. Part of the bohemian utopia aspect.”

“So you could be crazy?”

“Of course I'm mad. Don't trust a single thing I say.”

Mark is aware of annoying paradox wizards from fiction and ignores that statement.

“So where are we going?”

“The Wastes. I have an encampment there that we can use to head to America. We're going to fight the Empire.”

“Wait...what? Why? Why me?”

“England is mostly defeated, and has been for decades now. But there are many of those who are quite unlike the men and women of that has no name, trying to rebuild; trying to restore Troy Novantum, but also Glaschu, Baile Átha Cliath, Caerdydd. The great places of these Isles, and not merely England. Those beast-creatures you saw back there are an attempt to make Albion into a base to strike at the rest of the European Allegiance. The Emperor grows ambitious, and hence he's making himself into our target.”

“That doesn't explain why you need me, of all people, though.”

“I see you as a closet patriot, my friend. Certainly your ideals are bent, but you are a young man of your country. With my training, you could learn to be a valuable British soldier. And, perhaps, your teachings in the ways of irony could be reshaped into true magic.”

“You want me to be a sorcerer?”

“At the very least, a magician. Maybe a wizard. Sorcerer's a bit of a ways off, though. And you're no Incomputare, I can tell you that much.”

“Incomputare?”

“Not important. Look, I'm afraid you really have no choice in the matter; the same risks that come about from not following me now apply as well to the near future. My institution in the Wastes will keep your zombie foes waylaid in English, once I contact them, but you must stay with me to indulge my sense of your potential.”

“I can refuse, right?”

Suddenly, the Old Man spins around to face him. Ze raises a gloved finger to Mark's head, and the fingertip glows in starry light. “If you refuse, my friend, you will damaging much more than you know. Your role is important. I can kill you right now, and instantly raise your remains as a doppelganger with a much more acquiescent personality. But you will be dead, as a person, even as your body becomes that which you fear the most.”

Mark isn't unreasonable, especially in the face of a magical gun. He raises his hands and steps back. “I'm not much on kidnapping, chum, but...if it's all I've got.” He shrugs. He doesn't know what to feel on the matter. Somewhere deep inside, he has doubts as to his genuine ability to manifest strong emotions.

The two continue walking, stopping only briefly to set up camp as the sun sets. They eat a simple dinner, conjured from beneath the Old Man's cloak—something Mark doesn't find, alongside a magic gun-finger, very subtle—and sleep peacefully.