''Paracosm is a novel by J.H.''
See content warnings: [[Content Warnings]]
Begin: [[ANACRUSIS]] Paracosm contains:
-Depression
-Underage drinking
-Alcoholism
-Ableism
-Hand trauma
-Extreme heights
-Falling
-Self image issues
-Vomiting
-Eye trauma
-Loss of a loved one
-Gun violence
[[ANACRUSIS]] (align:"=><=")+(box:"===XXXXXXXXXXXXXX===")[''ANACRUSIS''
Describing the Sky
//You know the sight of us, the two most complacent.//]
(align:"<==>")+(box:"===XXXXXXXXXXXXXX===")[ You were limping through the streets together, all three of you, arms over each others’ shoulders. You were so afraid of letting go. You were so scared that one of you would die. You were only ten years old.
Downtown Anima was clogged with people; the summer festival had just started. The sun was set and there were clusters of candles at every street corner. You had to push through the crowds, three abreast as you were, but you never wanted to let go again. Vendors called from their booths, hawking masks and food and toys and those little rigged games where you could never win anyway, even if you knew magic already. Spaceships traced dotted lines through the light pollution, the only visible bodies in the sky.
But you ignored all of it, desperate to get home, to return somewhere safe. For the first time in your lives, the crowd seemed hostile, like these were not your people, that this was not your island, your home.
Eventually, you reached the edges of downtown where the crowds thinned out, and you could pass easier, and it was only a few minutes before you found your building. Tall stone, like every other; one of you pulled a key and unlocked the front door. You passed through the lobby, checking the mail slot like you had every single day since break had started. It was nearing the end of the year, and they still hadn’t sent out the acceptance letters yet. So, you maneuvered over, found the box labelled “333” and popped it open. Three crisp envelopes, each bearing one of your names. You were so excited, you almost fell over, or one of you did, and the other two followed.
The stairwell was narrow enough that you had to unlink your arms, but even though you were not in your room, the semblance of comfort was enough that it didn’t hurt much to separate.
Warren raced up the stairs first, as was typical, with Iris following, and Kos in last, until Iris felt guilty and went back for them. It was only three flights, but they were never the most physically capable child, and they had just suffered a great shock, as had all of you.
Warren bounced at the door, having forgotten his key, and Iris let the three of you in. You settled on the bed together, now barely fitting all of you, and debated in what order to open your letters. Eventually it was decided that you would all open them together.
You did, and all three of you were disappointed.
Iris and Kos received enlistment. You were to be bonded.
Warren received a work assignment. You were an Other.
You cried each other to sleep, if you did even sleep at all, that night.
For the weeks afterwards, you couldn’t comprehend life without Warren. You had always been three, the two most complacent. You’d spent the whole break doing whatever you could together. Trying that restaurant you’d always seen through the window, visiting that park with the nice trees, doing anything and everything, spending every waking moment together.
It was nice.
And then the time came for you to leave. You parted, as children do, with many tears and hugs and promises to visit. And then you packed off to the Basics Academy, and you didn’t see him for another seven years. Five years in Basics, two as Newlings.
You only saw him once. ]
[[TAPE ONE]](align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[''(text-style:"expand")[TAPE ONE]''
Track One: On Goat Rock (In Winter)
//Making promises I know I can’t keep, as a safeguard for my thoughts.//]
(align:"<==>")+(box:"X")[ The founding monument looms above the crowd; a sphere, cracked down one side, the first Dual and Caster hand in hand atop its arc. The rest of your class mills about, laughing, talking, jostling with sharp elbows. You’re sitting at the edge, chin in your hands, so you can look at all of it, all at once.
You’ve been in the centre of the city before, for class trips, to meet friends. It’s not like it’s easy to miss; the statue is almost twenty feet tall. The buildings crawl around you, the bowl in which you sit. Voices echo against the walls.
You keep your hands at your sides, tunneled in your sleeves. Your fingers are always cold. You look around for Iris, hoping to ask her to put your hand in his. You spot her as she breaks from the crowd, settling beside you. You reach over, and even though he gives you a look, he obliges. Her hands are bigger than yours. “I won’t let go.” Her hand flexes in yours.
As voices continue to rise, you look at the monument again. There’s a little magic to it maybe, something that makes it shimmer in your peripheral vision like a heat mirage. They were the first bonded. You know that Godhood arrests the body’s decay, but does not grant invulnerability. Life is never eternal, death only delayed. Perhaps they’re already dead, their bones resting on some backwater planet with nobody to find them.
The Headmaster, Louth, you think her name was, filters through the crowd, making her way to the front. She bears the hallmarks of a caster: navy robes, two left hands.
She doesn’t call for silence, but her presence is enough. The people settle down slowly, their conversations dying as they turn to look at her. Even after all the talk has ended, she doesn’t say anything, just letting the moment steep.
She smiles.
“Before Anima floated, we fought.”
The words fall like a stone into water. No ripples, no sound, no laughter. You don’t know if they’re transfixed out of fear or attention. The silence enjoys itself.
“Before this island climbed to its rightful place in the sky, it was earthbound, a ruin, a crater. The war had made dust of nations. From that collapse rose two souls: one who cast, and one who shielded. They devised the method for bonding, the first shared spellcraft.”
She gestures to the statue, the Gods who founded your civilisation.
“They were not engineered for compatibility, like you are. They were lovers. They chose each other, but more importantly, they chose discipline.”
[The word Louth uses here is foreign, in the Exkan language, itself having a definition more possessive. It carries connotations of not an emotion, but an act of maintenance. Those who build and maintain Love.]
You look to Iris. The fingers of his other hand curl in, tight, looser, then tight again.
“This is what we honour,” she continues. “Not talent, not fate, but the bond. The clarity it brings. Caster and Dual alone are unfinished. Together, they exceed their sum, uplifting our home, our people.”
“When you step here with me, you will begin your long journey towards completion. You will leave it as capable defenders of Anima. Welcome to the academy, Newlings.”
No applause follows. You forget to breathe, your head light and uneven. When you stand, it all rushes back to your head, and you lean on Iris for support.
Louth beckons, and you all move as one body towards the monument. A bell chimes, low and deliberate, and it slowly begins to descend.
You look down at your hand, still in his, and then the statue. The Dual’s face is serenity incarnate. The Caster’s smile almost reaches the eyes, curly hair like a halo about them.
You think, unbidden: they didn’t want to be here either.
The statue grinds, stone against stone, slowly lowering down. Your palm sweats. As it disappears, a new platform slides into place, a simple unadorned slab. Louth steps onto it, beckoning the rest of you.
“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, because I see everyone has dressed appropriately. Well,” she smothers a chuckle with her hand as the platform slowly descends. “Almost everyone.” There’s some laughs and shoves from nearer to her; a kid you think you recognise wears only a skirt and short sleeve shirt. “Apologies, but you were warned. We’ll be taking a hike through the snow, and it’ll be long enough that you’ll feel the cold.” She raises an eyebrow at the student. “Perhaps if you run ahead of us, it would warm you up?” Something in her tone communicates that it’s a joke, although you can’t tell what. Her voice is just as flat and unforgiving as before.
The platform continues to lower, eventually shrouding everything in darkness. You try not to acknowledge that you’re leaving your home behind. The only city you’ve ever known.
“Hey,” Iris says. “You know how Anima is shaped like a funnel?”
“Yeah?”
“We’re in the middle right now.”
“Oh.” You don’t know what he’s trying to accomplish, saying that. You can’t see his face to try to interpret his expression. You tighten your hand in his. ]
(align:"<==>")+(box:"=XXXXXX=")+(t8n:"dissolve")+(t8n-time:2s)+(link-reveal:"⇶ ⇶ ⇶")[
As the top edge of the platform crosses an invisible boundary, white light streams over the lip of the disc, giving an aerial view of the academy. Snow blankets the entire landscape, only trees providing a break in the monotony. Still they do little to help, the various evergreens only occasionally peeking out from their blanket. In the distance, you think you can spot a set of buildings, but it’s difficult to tell.
The cold also strikes you. It’s freezing here. You knew it, of course; you got your thickest coat and pants and a nice pair of boots. But it’s never this cold on Anima. It snows once every few years, a light dusting unlike this, this place which has only ever known cold and ice. You don’t know how long the Academy’s existed, but the permafrost here has likely never melted. Somewhere upwards of 1500 years, if you had to guess.
Your view shifts as you lower down and down, level with the treetops and then against the ground.
“Alright!” Louth calls out. “Everybody off!”
You clear the platform, huddling together, and she kicks the side, sending it gently reeling back up into the sky. “By the way,” she adds, marching to the head of your group. “Don’t try calling the platform back up. You can’t, and it’s a waste of your time to try. Follow me.” She sets out into the forest, and the rest of you follow.
After a few minutes trudging through the snow, someone calls out Iris’ name, someone she knows from Basics, and she goes up ahead to talk to them, releasing your hand. Not like you could keep up, anyway. Casters aren’t made for pace; too frail, too brittle in the joints. Sometimes you wonder if you’re intentionally designed to be weak, or if it’s a inextricably tied with the ability to cast. You don’t know which would be worse. You walk alone.
The snow is thick, and your boots match. They do little to help. Every step through the white crust drags you downward, slower and slower, as though the ground resists being walked upon, unwelcoming of the newcomers.
Behind the pack, a student in Caster blues falls into your pace; lazy stride, fluid gait. He glances back once, then again, calculating escape. Then he sees you and brightens like you’re a coincidence he’s pleased by, humming a little tune you only catch the end of.
His coat is near black, draped over regulation blues. His trousers - tight, denim, not school issue. His hair is long, improperly so. Duals must shear theirs for armor’s sake; Casters are merely encouraged. He’s older, in the way that some children just age unevenly. Yet his face is unplaceable. Stylised. Less a face than an impression; something remembered.
He snaps his fingers once, pointing. “Kos, right?”
You study his hands. Long. Elegant. Frustratingly perfect.
“Uh. Have we met?”
He smiles, wide and immediate, then drops it like a curtain. “Think we took a PPA class together. You remember me? Got scolded for, uh - creative applications.”
You would remember. “No, I don’t. Sorry.”
He waves it off. “Well, check it.” Snap. Thumb and forefinger. A flame, no larger than a candle’s, flickers into being. “Portable lighter. Convenient, yeah?”
You’re horrified. “That’s not allowed. No spells until instruction begins. It’s dangerous.”
He flushes. Real embarrassment. Rare in a person like this. It almost makes him... “Then keep it quiet, huh? Our secret. I’ll teach you.”
You offer your casting hand unconsciously. His fingers guide yours into place. “Leftie. Huh. Alright. You need to cycle power through the digits - counterclockwise, for you. Gotta use thumb and forefinger. Have you noticed most people snap with the middle? Anyway, build the charge, snap to break it. That’s the release.”
You mimic. The flame appears - small, but alive.
He looks genuinely pleased. “Well done. Took me two days.”
He turns to go, accelerating. You reach out.
“But that’s - !”
You concede the point.
“We’ll see each other in class,” he says with a halfhearted gesture of respect and departure, and he’s gone. The snow resumes its slow sabotage of your ankles.
(align:"<==>")+(box:"=XXXXXX=")+(t8n:"dissolve")+(t8n-time:5s)+(link-reveal:"⇶ ⇶ ⇶")[
You do not speak during orientation. No one does, really. The procession is solemn, trudging through the institution’s arteries - corridors, empty stone hallways, the faint gleam of arcana on every corner.
You and Iris are diverted down a narrow hall. Your dorm is Level Three-East. The corridor hums with sterile quiet. The doorplate is etched in wonderfully serifed letters: IRIS & KOS. For a moment, you imagine a different name there. LOVEDAY.
Inside: a single bed, a narrow desk, a thick-glass window with an enchanted seal. The lights give off the hum of hospitals and detention centers. The air smells of chemical cleanliness. You find it comforting.
Iris unpacks with precision. Uniforms folded, items arranged. Her dark hair - freshly shorn - catches the room’s cold glow. You sit on the bed. You do not unpack.
Her mouth is tight. Her motions mechanical. As though she’s done this many times before.
You speak without meaning to.
“He should’ve been here.”
She doesn’t respond.
“Warren would’ve mocked that speech. Especially the bit about falling. Remember how he used to climb everything? He would’ve called Louth a fascist.”
Her hands slam flat on the desk.
She turns. Her face is unreadable. Her eyes are not.
“Stop.”
You stop.
“He’s not here,” she says. “Don’t make it worse pretending he is.”
You nod, slowly. You don’t apologize. You’re not permitted to apologise to her anymore.
She leaves. The door shuts softly. She’s gone - to the training floor, probably. Somewhere to hit something.
Snow begins to fall outside. You lie back, staring at the ceiling. Too low. You hear students above, laughing, joking, as though any of this is normal.
You think of Warren - not his face this time, but his voice, rustling from the orchard branches, his hand reaching down towards you:
“Don’t look down. Looking down makes you fall.”
You close your eyes and try to dream of the ground.
[[TRACK TWO: DIAGNOSIS]]]]