Nicholas Flamel

My feet didn’t even have time to get cold before I was reaching out for a new hero: Nicolas Flamel.

“Set. Install.”

Paradoxically, I shrank an inch or two, different from how it normally was with my male heroes. I also experienced the extremely strange sensation of aging almost thirty years in a single instant — I felt the wrinkles form around my mouth and my eyes, saw the strands of grey that streaked through my hair, almost hear the creak of my bones as the passage of time weakened them. My pajamas vanished and were replaced with long, red silk robes, lined with black and decorated with designs done in rich gold.

I knew why, too. Nicolas was not like my other heroes, who had all formed through me in the bloom of youth, the peak of their strength and power. Their legends all occurred and were remembered from their prime, when they were at their best and brightest, when they could fight to the utmost.

Nicolas was an older man, and he was remembered as an older man. Wise, knowledgeable, because it was not until later in life when he was said to have created the legendary philosopher’s stone. And so the form he took was that of a man entering his twilight years, but not quite there yet — a respected, tenured lecturer and teacher, rather than an old sage.

I let out a breath. It was a little…odd, to be well into middle age before I was even twenty. Odd, but strangely satisfying. It made me feel more mature.