There was a time when Aldren Schweer knew how magic worked, or at least he is fairly certain he did. He spent most of his life studying it. He remembers being young and sitting under candlelight until his eyes hurt, copying spells from one book to another and getting his knuckles struck when he drew a sigil incorrectly. He was never some great archmage whose name people would recognize. He was a scholar more than anything, the kind of wizard who would spend months studying why a spell worked instead of being satisfied that it did. Back then there were rules to magic, and Aldren understood those rules.
When the Time of Troubles ended and magic disappeared, Aldren was already getting old. At first he assumed the problem was him. He went through his spells word by word, checked every movement and replaced his components. When that didn't work, he bought new components because maybe his had somehow gone bad. Then he started copying spells onto fresh parchment, trying older versions of them and going back to simple spells he hadn't bothered casting since he was an apprentice. Nothing worked.
As the weeks passed, Aldren became more desperate. He traveled to places where he remembered the Weave feeling particularly strong and sought out other wizards to compare what they were experiencing. He argued with priests, dug through books about dead magic and magical disasters, and tried rituals he would have laughed at years earlier. He even prayed to gods he had never worshipped. At one point he became convinced there was something wrong with his spellbooks and burned several of them. He regretted that almost immediately, but by then he was willing to try just about anything.
For all thirteen months of the Longest Year, Aldren continued trying. Every morning he would attempt a few of the simplest spells he knew and every morning they failed. That's when the notes started. At first they were normal research notes: dates, components, changes he'd made and theories about what might have happened. As the months went on, he started writing down things he normally would have considered completely meaningless. Which direction he was facing, what kind of candle was burning, the weather outside, the phase of the moon, nearby animals, what he had eaten that morning. He knew most of it was probably nonsense, but after months of failure he wasn't willing to rule anything out.
Somewhere during that time, the notes started becoming stranger. Do not cast near yellow candles. The Weave listens better when facing east. Never trust a spell that works the first time. Three knocks before fire, four before light. If you hear whispering, write down what it says. One sentence started appearing more than any other: I know how this used to work.
Then one night, while sitting alone at his desk, Aldren tried a simple spell he had probably cast a thousand times before the Longest Year. A tiny flame appeared above his finger. He sat there staring at it before finally starting to laugh. After years of getting nothing, he had finally done it. The next morning he set everything up exactly as he had the night before. Same words, same movements and the same components. He tried the spell again and nothing happened.
That was when Aldren became convinced that magic hadn't simply disappeared and returned. Something had changed. He couldn't prove it and still can't, but the Weave didn't feel like the thing he remembered. The rules he had spent his entire life learning no longer seemed to be the rules.
So Aldren started over.
That is how a man who has studied magic for most of his life can now struggle with spells an apprentice once could have handled. He isn't learning magic for the first time. He's trying to relearn something he thought he already understood. His old techniques sometimes work and sometimes don't, and every now and then something happens that he knows should be impossible. Aldren records all of it.
His spellbooks have become a mess over the years. Actual spells are mixed with theories, corrections, warnings and arguments he has apparently had with himself. Some are harmless reminders such as Fireball — very useful. Do not cast in library again or Teleportation Circle — remember destination before casting. Others are harder to explain: Do not trust the moon. The mushrooms were correct about Tuesday. Do not summon anything that knows my full name. Gerald has been dead for seventeen years. There are supposed to be eight schools of magic.
The ones that bother Aldren are the notes he doesn't remember writing. They are clearly in his handwriting, and sometimes they reference things only he should know, but he has no memory of putting them there. Do not attempt to remember. You did this willingly. If you are reading this and cannot remember writing it, then it worked. Do not trust Gerald. Gerald may not exist.
The worst one mentions a red door. Aldren doesn't know what the red door is, but he has found the same warning in several of his books: If you remember what is behind the red door, forget it again. He has torn the page out more than once. Somehow, sooner or later, he always finds the note again.
Most people who spend enough time around Aldren eventually decide that the Longest Year did something to his mind. He talks to himself, gets distracted in the middle of conversations and asks questions that don't seem to have anything to do with what's happening. He might want to know which direction someone was facing when something happened or whether a dog barked before or after a spell was cast. He also has a bad habit of arguing with things he wrote years ago as though the person who wrote them was a completely different wizard.
Aldren doesn't really mind if people think he's crazy. The problem is that every once in a while, he's right. Some ridiculous warning he wrote years ago suddenly matters. Something he was told was impossible happens right in front of him. A detail everyone else ignored turns out to be important. Those moments are enough to keep him wondering how much of his nonsense is actually nonsense.
The one thing that can make Aldren completely serious is hearing a younger wizard say that magic has always worked a certain way. He remembers what magic was like before the Longest Year. He remembers what it felt like and what the rules were. He may not remember where he put his glasses or why he wrote a warning about Gerald seventeen years ago, but he remembers that.
Aldren has started traveling again because he wants answers. Magic is becoming stronger, old artifacts are beginning to wake up, magical creatures are returning and the dead are moving again. Most people see those things and think the world is finally getting back to normal.
Aldren Schweer remembers normal.
Whatever is happening now isn't it.
When the Time of Troubles ended and magic disappeared, Aldren was already getting old. At first he assumed the problem was him. He went through his spells word by word, checked every movement and replaced his components. When that didn't work, he bought new components because maybe his had somehow gone bad. Then he started copying spells onto fresh parchment, trying older versions of them and going back to simple spells he hadn't bothered casting since he was an apprentice. Nothing worked.
As the weeks passed, Aldren became more desperate. He traveled to places where he remembered the Weave feeling particularly strong and sought out other wizards to compare what they were experiencing. He argued with priests, dug through books about dead magic and magical disasters, and tried rituals he would have laughed at years earlier. He even prayed to gods he had never worshipped. At one point he became convinced there was something wrong with his spellbooks and burned several of them. He regretted that almost immediately, but by then he was willing to try just about anything.
For all thirteen months of the Longest Year, Aldren continued trying. Every morning he would attempt a few of the simplest spells he knew and every morning they failed. That's when the notes started. At first they were normal research notes: dates, components, changes he'd made and theories about what might have happened. As the months went on, he started writing down things he normally would have considered completely meaningless. Which direction he was facing, what kind of candle was burning, the weather outside, the phase of the moon, nearby animals, what he had eaten that morning. He knew most of it was probably nonsense, but after months of failure he wasn't willing to rule anything out.
Somewhere during that time, the notes started becoming stranger. Do not cast near yellow candles. The Weave listens better when facing east. Never trust a spell that works the first time. Three knocks before fire, four before light. If you hear whispering, write down what it says. One sentence started appearing more than any other: I know how this used to work.
Then one night, while sitting alone at his desk, Aldren tried a simple spell he had probably cast a thousand times before the Longest Year. A tiny flame appeared above his finger. He sat there staring at it before finally starting to laugh. After years of getting nothing, he had finally done it. The next morning he set everything up exactly as he had the night before. Same words, same movements and the same components. He tried the spell again and nothing happened.
That was when Aldren became convinced that magic hadn't simply disappeared and returned. Something had changed. He couldn't prove it and still can't, but the Weave didn't feel like the thing he remembered. The rules he had spent his entire life learning no longer seemed to be the rules.
So Aldren started over.
That is how a man who has studied magic for most of his life can now struggle with spells an apprentice once could have handled. He isn't learning magic for the first time. He's trying to relearn something he thought he already understood. His old techniques sometimes work and sometimes don't, and every now and then something happens that he knows should be impossible. Aldren records all of it.
His spellbooks have become a mess over the years. Actual spells are mixed with theories, corrections, warnings and arguments he has apparently had with himself. Some are harmless reminders such as Fireball — very useful. Do not cast in library again or Teleportation Circle — remember destination before casting. Others are harder to explain: Do not trust the moon. The mushrooms were correct about Tuesday. Do not summon anything that knows my full name. Gerald has been dead for seventeen years. There are supposed to be eight schools of magic.
The ones that bother Aldren are the notes he doesn't remember writing. They are clearly in his handwriting, and sometimes they reference things only he should know, but he has no memory of putting them there. Do not attempt to remember. You did this willingly. If you are reading this and cannot remember writing it, then it worked. Do not trust Gerald. Gerald may not exist.
The worst one mentions a red door. Aldren doesn't know what the red door is, but he has found the same warning in several of his books: If you remember what is behind the red door, forget it again. He has torn the page out more than once. Somehow, sooner or later, he always finds the note again.
Most people who spend enough time around Aldren eventually decide that the Longest Year did something to his mind. He talks to himself, gets distracted in the middle of conversations and asks questions that don't seem to have anything to do with what's happening. He might want to know which direction someone was facing when something happened or whether a dog barked before or after a spell was cast. He also has a bad habit of arguing with things he wrote years ago as though the person who wrote them was a completely different wizard.
Aldren doesn't really mind if people think he's crazy. The problem is that every once in a while, he's right. Some ridiculous warning he wrote years ago suddenly matters. Something he was told was impossible happens right in front of him. A detail everyone else ignored turns out to be important. Those moments are enough to keep him wondering how much of his nonsense is actually nonsense.
The one thing that can make Aldren completely serious is hearing a younger wizard say that magic has always worked a certain way. He remembers what magic was like before the Longest Year. He remembers what it felt like and what the rules were. He may not remember where he put his glasses or why he wrote a warning about Gerald seventeen years ago, but he remembers that.
Aldren has started traveling again because he wants answers. Magic is becoming stronger, old artifacts are beginning to wake up, magical creatures are returning and the dead are moving again. Most people see those things and think the world is finally getting back to normal.
Aldren Schweer remembers normal.
Whatever is happening now isn't it.