Once upon a time, there was a level 7 spellcaster living with his daughter, a young sorcerer, in a castle made of clouds with windows of dreams and rainbows.
The spellcaster loved his daughter, and every morning and night he blessed her with spells of worthiness, resilience, strength, and creativity, which he read aloud from his handwritten Spellbook of Love. She flourished under his parenthood, excelling in all the skills a young sorcerer should, thriving in her education and relationships, and believing most completely in herself.
One day, the spellcaster was unfortunate enough to fall under the curse of a neighbouring dark wizard who had not dealt with his childhood bullying trauma, and he found his life force deteriorating. Determined to provide the best possible future for his daughter, he gave her the spellbook and taught her to cast the spells. With his final breaths, he taught her the melodies, nuances, and blessings of the book, so that she could perform her own maintenance rituals and continue to thrive.
When the spellcaster died, the young sorcerer was devastated, but continued to read her own spells. Blessed by the magic of those spells, she travelled many worlds, educated herself in a number of fields, held many professional positions in various different galaxies, and made many friends and allies.
One day, the sorcerer met a handsome young level 3 enchanter, and the two fell into a wild love affair, their psychological rhythms in perfect complementary harmony and their lovemaking rituals like nothing I can describe on this family-friendly webpage. His spells made her brighter, happier, and more excited about life than she had ever felt before.
One day as they lay side by side, she handed him her father’s Spellbook of Love. “Please read them to me” she insisted. “Reading them myself is so tiring. It feels so much nicer when YOU read them.” And so the enchanter began reading her the maintenance spells of worthiness, resilience, strength, and talent, each morning and night. Over time, she stopped reading her own spells, and relied entirely on the enchanter to cast the blessings. “You hold onto that” she told him one night when he tried to return the spellbook. “It’s your responsibility now.”
Time went on. The enchanter was called on for more and more responsibilities as he graduated to level 4 at enchanter school. Some nights, he wasn’t available to read the spells. The sorcerer tried not to notice as her hair began to fall out. She was surprised when she felt her memory failing her, and was suddenly nervous and unsure in new situations. Panicked and upset, she called him.
“You need to read the spells!” she raged. “You said you’d read the spells! I gave you the book and you need to read them to me!”
Frightened and confused by her anger, particularly as his level 3 enchanter qualification hadn’t included the basics of holding space for an angry rejected partner, he started to become even more busy at work, even less available, and more absorbed in his science and magic books, something he understood much better than good communication in relationships. Unfortunately, he still possessed the Spellbook of Love. In the corner of his room, he let it gather dust, its pages doggy-eared and torn, its spells uncast and forgotten.
Over time, the sorcerer’s intellect and courage paled. Her inner sparkle faded as she began to wilt, her eyes became cloudy and dull, and sadness and self-loathing began to consume her. She was unable to attend the intergalactic events that once brought her joy, or see the point in anything at all, really. Without the spells, unworthiness and resentment took over, and she shrunk into a corner of her castle, withering away.
When it was apparent she was close to the end, she knew her only chance was to retrieve the spellbook from the enchanter and banish him from her life. The enchanter was relieved to get back to his science books and a world that did not perplex him.
As she turned the pages, she wept. They were damaged, some beyond repair, and the spells felt empty and meaningless. Why had she ever given it away? Nobody else could ever value it and care for it like she would.
Although it was difficult in her state of depletion, she worked each day and night on rewriting the book. Where the spells were illegible, she rewrote them from memory, improving and expanding where she could, using the knowledge she’d accrued over the years to write bigger, brighter, more exciting spells than ever. She called in support from loyal friends and companions, and they helped her remember the spells, weaving in their own creativity and sharing their own spells. She forged the pages on magically reinforced diamond-leaf from the Elven Valleys, a material much stronger and more resilient than had been available in her father’s times. She decorated the pages with stardust, and embellished the spells with scents and sensations, and music and poetry that could invoke inspiration in the most stubbornly miserable of creatures.
When the book was complete, the sorcerer opened it, running her fingers over the pages. As she took a breath and began to read the spells, she felt her vibrance returning. Her mind became sharp, her heart became happy, and her presence was so radiant, neighbours wondered aloud what strange light was glowing in her windows of dreams and rainbows. She became more joyful than she had ever been before, a lightness and resilience of her own creation, a strength and independence she had never known.
When completely restored, she realised what a gift she had created, and knew this wasn’t the end of her work.
The sorcerer took to the streets, jubilantly reading her spells to all those around her. She delighted in watching others light up with similar joy, strength, and vibrance, inspired to write their own spells and poetry. Soon the village was transformed, and that magic began to extend throughout the planet, and then the galaxy. She helped people to write their own unique spells and taught them to never, ever give away their spellbooks.
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