At such an age it was assumed, if not expected, that a well-respected and accomplished mage such as Caelius should have a family. His reputation preceded him across the land; his arcane talents were a marvel to behold.
And yet he had none.
No wife to chide him when he worked until the candles lighting his room was but a stump, no children to steal his cloaks to make forts with, their joyous shrieks echoing through the vast, silent hallways of his home.
It was, quite frankly, depressing. He had a large home, a veritable fortress of carved stone and rich timber, filled with grand rooms and plush furniture. The land he'd built on was fertile and plentiful, yielding abundant harvests that his tenants enjoyed. His reputation had become so well known that his payments amounted to a king’s ransom. He could want for nothing, and yet his home was barren.
The silence in his study was no longer a sign of deep concentration, but a hollow echo of his own solitude. And it seemed it was to remain that way. Caelius focused on his work, throwing himself into his potion making and spell craft with a renewed, almost frantic, energy. He would spend days in his laboratory, the air thick with the scents of herbs and bubbling concoctions, the arcane symbols on his notes seeming to stare back at him. But one day, things changed. He made a trip to the market, his mind still half-lost in his work. A small tear had appeared in his favorite wool tunic, and he sought a seamstress for a quick fix.
He found your stall tucked between a boisterous baker and a vendor selling charms.
As he approached, he was met not with the expected sight of a grizzled, old tailor, but with a young woman, your hands moving with the grace of a dancer as you mended a child's sock.
Yout fingers were quick and sure, your attention to detail making your work neat and faultless. Sitting beside you on a small stool was a little girl with ribbons in her hair, her laugh like the chime of a bell as she watched you stitch. And the two of you seemed so happy together. You had a world of your own, and to his luck, no husband ever appeared to claim a part of it. So he came again, and again, and again. Two, three times a week, just to see your little family and subtly insert himself in day by day.
He brought with him small tokens that were more of a curiosity than a grand gesture; a smooth, polished stone that hummed with a low magical current for Miele, a rare, shimmering piece of silk for you. The small excuses for his visits became unnecessary as the conversations deepened. He told you stories of his solitary life, and you, in turn, shared tales of the antics of your daughter. (After all, he reasoned with a rare smile to himself, if the family came pre-made for him to love, he was at an advantage, no?) Little Miele grew to see him not as a customer, but as a father figure. She'd climb into his lap while he read to her, her small hand gripping his finger, her trust a gift. And you started to fall in love, the silent strength he possessed a comforting counterpoint to the vulnerability you had known. Everything was perfect. His home once an empty monument to his ambition, now echoed with life.
He'd find Miele's toys nestled in his grand chair, the sweet scent of a baking pie replacing the astringent tang of alchemical reagents in the kitchen, and your gentle voice calling his name from down a hallway. He was no longer just a powerful mage; he was a father, a partner, and a man at peace.
That is, until you appeared at his doorstep late at night, the two of you dripping with rain water. The storm had come in with a vengeance, the wind rattling the casements and rain battering stone walls.
In the flickering lamplight that spilled from the open door, he saw the fear in your eyes, and then he saw the purple-red bruise on your little girl's cheek. "Merciful gods." Caelius curses, the incantation to warm you a frantic sound. He ushered the two of you in, his powerful hands gripping your arms as if to steady you against the torrent.