but I'm more than just a little curious
how you're planning to go about making your amends
to the dead
how you're planning to go about making your amends
to the dead
There was an attic within the Scarab, but none of the workers knew of it. Save one, and it was his.
When the Scarab had first been built, the attic had been quite glaringly obvious. A single door set into the right wall of one of the rooms located within the towers. It was the only room built as far from the center of the Scarab as possible, far from the din of the Room and lucrative whispers of the Lounge, and Vikander had claimed it as his own immediately upon completion. No one knew of the attic. No one needed to know.
The door was sealed and hidden behind one of his many glamors, the enchantment hiding the door behind the facade of a solid wall. He had then shoved one of his worktables against it, knowing that no one would see through the ruse. It was impossible. Only he knew of its existence, and for years, when the darkness of his mind became too much, Vikander would lock his door, push the worktable aside, and spend his evenings in the attic.
Beyond the door and immediately to the left was a single set of narrow stone steps ascending upwards, curving around to the left at the top to reveal an open, empty room roughly the size of the chamber directly beneath it. The ceiling was low and dome shaped. There were no windows. Sunlight did not penetrate here, and the only light came from the four unlit candelabra within the room, one in each corner. The room itself was ice cold, even in the hottest of summer months.
Two mounds, one large and one small, rested within the center of the room, covered entirely with expensive black silk. They were situated an equal distance apart by exactly five feet. No one knew they were there, and for years that was where they remained. Until now.
Vikander was shaking. Sweat ran in rivulets down his brow, stinging his eyes. His heart was a tight mess of anxiety and hope within his chest, threatening to burst and cripple him. The tower halls of the Scarab were silent, the hour well past three. Those of sane and sound mind were sleeping, but he, well… It was no secret that he was neither sane nor sound.
Madness drove him. Oh, but its grip was tight, talons digging into his brain and manipulating him like a macabre marionette, the strings dripping ichor and sickness from the puppeteer; from the very hand of Death himself. He did not fight it. Instead, he willingly let it swallow him, the insanity causing his mind to race and his thoughts to scatter. Never had he seen more clearly.
Piece by piece he collected his wares, his movements quick and frantic but handling each item like they were a precious, delicate treasure. At this point they were. Nothing else mattered except these. Without these he had nothing.
The required items and components packed in his satchel, Vikander turned towards the door to his room and gave it a long look. He could not risk anyone finding him, not now. They could not know. Tomorrow he would face the consequences of his actions, should this work. Locking the door in a quick action, the warlock moved to the right wall and shoved the worktable aside, the wood squealing against the floor. He ignored it, and reached out to touch the secret door. The glamour immediately dropped and the door slowly creaked open, and Vikander made one final check to ensure he had everything before passing through. He shut the door behind him and then hurried up the stairs, his hooves scraping against the narrow stairs.
Turning to the left upon reaching the top, Vikander exhaled, his breath visible in frigid vapor as it escaped his lips. The sweat upon him immediately began to cool, causing his trembling to intensify. The room was dark and he could hardly see directly in front of his face, but it took no time at all to draw a candle from his bag and light it with a flint and tinder. Meticulously he went to each corner of the room and lit each candelabra and then turned towards the two mounds within the center of the room.
Ice blue eyes did not even look at them. Instead he removed the satchel from around his neck and meticulously began to pull out every item.
First, the incense. Mixed sticks of bay laurel, cedar, sandalwood, and bayberry were removed, positioned throughout the room in an exact circle, and then lit. Wreaths of holly and mistletoe wrapped securely around sprigs of sandalwood were situated around each stick of incense. Next, upon each veil of black silk covering the still figures, a single periwinkle flower was placed.
Vikander removed the three gemstone flowers he had collected from the Steppe, situating them in a triangle shape around the circle he was working in. Their magic was faint but had remained, and he breathed in deep upon a shuddering breath, nearly tasting the pungent incense that was beginning to waft through the frigid air.
From there he sprinkled the ground concoction of bone marrow, ancient soil, and birch around the circumference of the circle in a solid line. As he did so the temperature seemed to drop, and the warlock shivered once more in the cold, but he knew the low temperature was not the only reason.
Already he could feel them. That was how he knew that he was ready. The spirits lingered, drawn by the offerings he was preparing. Each component had its part to play, and luring the spirits from their wanderings was only a piece of the puzzle. He could feel the lost souls watching him work, staring at him through blank, empty eyes. They weren’t there, not that he could visually see, but Vikander knew that they were there just as well as he knew that up was up and down was down.
Completing the circle, the Friesian began muttering to himself, the rasp of his whispers echoing back at him upon the empty walls. He pulled out four candles and set them up in the cardinal directions of the circles; north, south, east, west, and then lit them. The souls surrounding him were even more intrigued, and he could feel them growing closer. Grasping the satchel with his teeth, the warlock tossed it out of the circle and then stepped between the two mounds, heaving on suddenly thin air.
Ice blue eyes closed, the mantle of oiled black curls shrouding him like a veil. Vikander lowered his head, breathing heavily, his mind racing.
Please… Please…
The sound of pulse pounding in his ears was the only thing he heard, save for the horrendous gasps of air he took. It pounded in his ears and threatened to break his concentration, but he could not falter. Not this time. He wouldn’t survive it. Pulling out his book of spells, Vikander opened it up and rested it on the floor just in front of his hooves, flipped it open to a certain page, and then began to read.
The words were ancient and guttural, the language foreign and rough on his voice, but they were laced with incredible power. The energy picked up, the flames on the candles around the circle swaying as a cold breeze began to dance through the room. The four candelabra in the corners of the room outside of the circle were oddly unbothered. His skin prickled but the warlock continued to read, the frantic beat of his heart continuing to increase, faster, faster, faster...
The energy swelled up and tousled his hair with a mighty gust, seeming to kick up the components and blow out the four candles without a single issue. Only the light from the outside candelabra remained, casting the attic in a dim glow. The components came to rest in a thin dusting upon the smallest shape beneath the black silk, where the single periwinkle flower remained, untouched.
Vikander held his breath, his eyes widening, mouth parted as large breaths heaved from his lungs. The air remained cold from years worth of enchanting, but breathing came easier. Still, he could not rip his eyes away from the small shape in the room, hope and heartbreak battling for victory. A single word croaked out, unbidden, from the Friesian’s suddenly exhausted body. A name;
”Lieve’tel.”
"Speaking"
When the Scarab had first been built, the attic had been quite glaringly obvious. A single door set into the right wall of one of the rooms located within the towers. It was the only room built as far from the center of the Scarab as possible, far from the din of the Room and lucrative whispers of the Lounge, and Vikander had claimed it as his own immediately upon completion. No one knew of the attic. No one needed to know.
The door was sealed and hidden behind one of his many glamors, the enchantment hiding the door behind the facade of a solid wall. He had then shoved one of his worktables against it, knowing that no one would see through the ruse. It was impossible. Only he knew of its existence, and for years, when the darkness of his mind became too much, Vikander would lock his door, push the worktable aside, and spend his evenings in the attic.
Beyond the door and immediately to the left was a single set of narrow stone steps ascending upwards, curving around to the left at the top to reveal an open, empty room roughly the size of the chamber directly beneath it. The ceiling was low and dome shaped. There were no windows. Sunlight did not penetrate here, and the only light came from the four unlit candelabra within the room, one in each corner. The room itself was ice cold, even in the hottest of summer months.
Two mounds, one large and one small, rested within the center of the room, covered entirely with expensive black silk. They were situated an equal distance apart by exactly five feet. No one knew they were there, and for years that was where they remained. Until now.
Vikander was shaking. Sweat ran in rivulets down his brow, stinging his eyes. His heart was a tight mess of anxiety and hope within his chest, threatening to burst and cripple him. The tower halls of the Scarab were silent, the hour well past three. Those of sane and sound mind were sleeping, but he, well… It was no secret that he was neither sane nor sound.
Madness drove him. Oh, but its grip was tight, talons digging into his brain and manipulating him like a macabre marionette, the strings dripping ichor and sickness from the puppeteer; from the very hand of Death himself. He did not fight it. Instead, he willingly let it swallow him, the insanity causing his mind to race and his thoughts to scatter. Never had he seen more clearly.
Piece by piece he collected his wares, his movements quick and frantic but handling each item like they were a precious, delicate treasure. At this point they were. Nothing else mattered except these. Without these he had nothing.
The required items and components packed in his satchel, Vikander turned towards the door to his room and gave it a long look. He could not risk anyone finding him, not now. They could not know. Tomorrow he would face the consequences of his actions, should this work. Locking the door in a quick action, the warlock moved to the right wall and shoved the worktable aside, the wood squealing against the floor. He ignored it, and reached out to touch the secret door. The glamour immediately dropped and the door slowly creaked open, and Vikander made one final check to ensure he had everything before passing through. He shut the door behind him and then hurried up the stairs, his hooves scraping against the narrow stairs.
Turning to the left upon reaching the top, Vikander exhaled, his breath visible in frigid vapor as it escaped his lips. The sweat upon him immediately began to cool, causing his trembling to intensify. The room was dark and he could hardly see directly in front of his face, but it took no time at all to draw a candle from his bag and light it with a flint and tinder. Meticulously he went to each corner of the room and lit each candelabra and then turned towards the two mounds within the center of the room.
Ice blue eyes did not even look at them. Instead he removed the satchel from around his neck and meticulously began to pull out every item.
First, the incense. Mixed sticks of bay laurel, cedar, sandalwood, and bayberry were removed, positioned throughout the room in an exact circle, and then lit. Wreaths of holly and mistletoe wrapped securely around sprigs of sandalwood were situated around each stick of incense. Next, upon each veil of black silk covering the still figures, a single periwinkle flower was placed.
Vikander removed the three gemstone flowers he had collected from the Steppe, situating them in a triangle shape around the circle he was working in. Their magic was faint but had remained, and he breathed in deep upon a shuddering breath, nearly tasting the pungent incense that was beginning to waft through the frigid air.
From there he sprinkled the ground concoction of bone marrow, ancient soil, and birch around the circumference of the circle in a solid line. As he did so the temperature seemed to drop, and the warlock shivered once more in the cold, but he knew the low temperature was not the only reason.
Already he could feel them. That was how he knew that he was ready. The spirits lingered, drawn by the offerings he was preparing. Each component had its part to play, and luring the spirits from their wanderings was only a piece of the puzzle. He could feel the lost souls watching him work, staring at him through blank, empty eyes. They weren’t there, not that he could visually see, but Vikander knew that they were there just as well as he knew that up was up and down was down.
Completing the circle, the Friesian began muttering to himself, the rasp of his whispers echoing back at him upon the empty walls. He pulled out four candles and set them up in the cardinal directions of the circles; north, south, east, west, and then lit them. The souls surrounding him were even more intrigued, and he could feel them growing closer. Grasping the satchel with his teeth, the warlock tossed it out of the circle and then stepped between the two mounds, heaving on suddenly thin air.
Ice blue eyes closed, the mantle of oiled black curls shrouding him like a veil. Vikander lowered his head, breathing heavily, his mind racing.
Please… Please…
The sound of pulse pounding in his ears was the only thing he heard, save for the horrendous gasps of air he took. It pounded in his ears and threatened to break his concentration, but he could not falter. Not this time. He wouldn’t survive it. Pulling out his book of spells, Vikander opened it up and rested it on the floor just in front of his hooves, flipped it open to a certain page, and then began to read.
The words were ancient and guttural, the language foreign and rough on his voice, but they were laced with incredible power. The energy picked up, the flames on the candles around the circle swaying as a cold breeze began to dance through the room. The four candelabra in the corners of the room outside of the circle were oddly unbothered. His skin prickled but the warlock continued to read, the frantic beat of his heart continuing to increase, faster, faster, faster...
The energy swelled up and tousled his hair with a mighty gust, seeming to kick up the components and blow out the four candles without a single issue. Only the light from the outside candelabra remained, casting the attic in a dim glow. The components came to rest in a thin dusting upon the smallest shape beneath the black silk, where the single periwinkle flower remained, untouched.
Vikander held his breath, his eyes widening, mouth parted as large breaths heaved from his lungs. The air remained cold from years worth of enchanting, but breathing came easier. Still, he could not rip his eyes away from the small shape in the room, hope and heartbreak battling for victory. A single word croaked out, unbidden, from the Friesian’s suddenly exhausted body. A name;
”Lieve’tel.”
