"Why are you helping the Muggles?" Wanderer asked lazily, as he approached Oleandra from behind. "They've got nothing we could ever need."
"Do I need any reason to help people in need?" Oleandra replied, without even bothering to turn around and face him. "Besides, you're one to talk— the moment you found out Giants were attacking this village, you left me and ran off to the rescue."
Oleandra waved her wand and silently cast the Mending Charm at the half-demolished barn before her. Wanderer watched in awe as the damage reversed itself, like a VHS tape rewinding in real time.
Dust and rubble reformed into stones and cement; wooden splinters fused back into sturdy beams; and the yellowed straw scattered across the ground wove itself neatly into thatched roofing. Once each individual piece of the puzzle had returned to its original shape, they all snapped back into position, and within moments, the barn stood whole again.
Or as whole as the barn had been at the time of its untimely destruction, at any rate.
"That's different," said Wanderer distractedly, his eyes glued to Oleandra's wand. "It's the duty of the strong to protect the weak, just as it's the duty of the weak to serve the strong. That's just how it is; the Muggles serve us— not the other way around. Give the Muggles too much, and they just get lazy, see?"
(This was only true in remote places {at the time} like Northern England or Scotland. In places where Muggles far outnumbered Wizards like Rome, Athens, Memphis or Guangzhou, the opposite was already true— Muggle royalty had court mages at their beck and call.)
At any rate, in Oleandra's somewhat limited experience, there existed two types of supremacists.
The first type believed their kind to be the strongest, and as such, the most deserving of the bounties the world had to offer— placing themselves and their kin on a pedestal and lowering all others.
The first type included your standard blood supremacists and Death Eaters— quite clearly evil.
The second type believed each race and species had its own inimitable strengths and inherent limitations. Each had its rightful place in the universe, so no matter how hard they tried, none could transcend the boundaries of their nature. As such, struggling against one's predetermined fate was pointless.
The second type was much more common; less evil, but much more insidious.
Wizards were superior when it came to magic, and Muggles were better at Muggle stuff— this was only natural to the second type of supremacists. Instinctively, and for lack of interaction with them, the vast majority of Wizards perceived Muggles as inherently inferior: intelligent, yes, but in need of pity, coddling, and protection. Magic was kept out of their hands for their own good.
As fellow humans— whose lives were supposedly of equal worth— was this really any way to think of Muggles? Even the word Muggle sounded derogatory.
…
"Noblesse Oblige, eh?" commented Oleandra.
Wanderer was definitely of the second type, just like most everyone she'd ever met.
"Is that a casting tool?" asked Wanderer eagerly, pointing at Oleandra's wand. "Mind if I have a look at it?"
Oleandra had performed a Slowing Charm on Wanderer during the battle to save the Muggle village, so that particular cat was already out of the bag. Since then, she had stuck to nonverbal casting in order to avoid teaching him any incantations while she helped the Muggles, though.
"I'll be really careful with it," said Wanderer pleadingly. "Come on, I'll let you hold my spear~"
"Well, if you insist," sighed Oleandra; though, truth be told, she was quite eager to get a look at Wanderer's divine weapon. "You called your spear Gungnir, if memory serves?"
The two made the exchange.
To the untrained eye, Gungnir appeared to be a simple staff hewn from a knotted branch of yew wood— it was usually kept in its sealed state to avoid attracting sticky-fingered people's attention. However, to Oleandra's Mystic Eyes, the simple walking stick shone with the brilliance of a million exploding suns. Dense runic inscriptions spider-webbed across its surface— the same runes Oleandra knew, but somehow, more profound…
"OUCH!" yelped Wanderer. "Ruddy thing just burned me!"
Oleandra looked up from the spear just in time to see her own wand flipping through the air towards her. She extended her hand, and her wand landed safely in her palm.
It still felt warm to the touch…
"It doesn't seem to like you very much," Oleandra remarked, sensing a vague feeling of anger from her wand. "It can't be helped, then— you must not be compatible with it."
"I'll say," said Wanderer morosely. "Hand me back my spear, you wouldn't be able to use it, anyway…"
On the contrary, her merest touch was making Gungnir hum with power beneath her fingertips. It felt to her as though all it would take was a gentle caress of its runes and a whisper of its True Name to awaken power beyond anything she had ever known before.
A sharp, stabbing pain suddenly shot through Oleandra's head— nothing like an alcohol-induced headache. Images flickered before her eyes: a kind-faced young man clad in fine armour, an old man whose features were twisted with madness, a lake, a tree. A resplendent sword, whose blade looked as if it had been spun from the sun's golden rays themselves... and a golden spear, its equal in every way. If the two were ever to clash…
Oleandra blinked, and the images were gone.
Without a word, she regretfully returned the weapon to its rightful owner. Wanderer teetered slightly upon receiving the spear, still looking quite wobbly from his alcohol-fuelled night, the poor boy.
"Thanks," Wanderer hiccupped. "I usually don't let others touch Gungnir, but I felt like I could trust— hang on, what's going on outside?"
Oleandra pricked up her pointed ears.
She could make out the sounds of men arguing, the clinking of chainmail links rubbing together and the whinnying of horses stamping the ground impatiently.
Feeling slightly worried, Oleandra tiptoed to the entrance of the barn and peeked outside— just in time to witness a villager pointing a group of men on horseback in her direction. They were wearing thick gambesons, and they were armed to the teeth with swords, spears and bows…
"In the name of Lord Leodegrance, King of Cameliard!" shouted the man at the head of the group. "The criminal Wizard known as 'Wanderer,' along with his lady companion, are hereby ordered to come forth from yonder stable and submit peacefully to face justice!"
"Wanderer!" hissed Oleandra. "What have you done!?"
Judging by his pale face, he was about to vomit again.
"Didn't I tell you— urp— that the people of this land were stark raving mad?" said Wanderer queasily. "I did, didn't I…? hic! This isn't my fault!"