Perhaps it was the disturbance of something alien in his veins that caused the shift in thinking. He was as always unaware of how deeply home-brewed mead affected him. Alcohol was alcohol, some would argue, but they didn’t account for psychological aspects – or the tradition and mythology behind the brewing. In his case it was neither, magic ruled him. It always had. Flowing through him was not the the flashy hands-on magic of contemporary con artists, but the ancient magic of words well spoken.
Subtle nuances in speech, a seemingly subconscious shift in tone or inflection. That was his kind of magic, the kind that lingered in the hearts of people. Mead, his thoughts always travelled in old patterns he had somehow forgotten when the magic of mead flowed through his veins and the ancient skalds whispered in his ears. It was one of his greatest pains that he could not seem to replicate what he heard.
But the magic was in him tonight, and his tongue gilded words in silver. But all wealth did not come from glittering things. Skaldic influence or not, there were things of which he could not speak, there were truths he could not utter. Such was the nature of the Old Magic, words well spoken just as words spoken unwell carried consequences with them. That was why love had never once been spoken, in words that did it justice.
Few are fools enough to curse themselves, and those who are either do not live very long or are doomed to live forever. The real question was, “which one am I?”