The scratching of chalk and the sounds of strained wheezing breathes fill my apartment, hastily reorganized living room sitting bare but for my hunched and coughing figure looming over the intricate circles etched onto the dark creaking wooden floor.
The overturned coffee table and shifted sofa lay illuminated by a series of dwindling candles, the long red sticks having diminished in size quite substantially since the start of the evening.
"Come on..." I groan with a hoarse cough, sweat dripping from my brow as I pray that some errant droplet doesn't undo hours of work in an instant. Fever wracks my shivering frame, infection ravaging my body to the point it was almost a miracle that I managed to pull myself from bed let alone move the furniture.
It had been weeks since the illness had set in, a terrible infection that had left me largely bedridden. I had managed to get by with the help of my neighbors, their kindness taking the form of the occasional load of washing or tuperware container of food. However, try as I might the illness had continued to burn though me as my fever refused to break. Delirious, having been forced awake for days at a time, I was at my breaking point.
In that moment my panicked and slipping mind had turned to some other means to make myself well once again, my deranged thoughts turning to the small box I had once collected within my old desk.
Candles, chalk, and strips of papyrus sat within the small shoebox, a series of scanned pages sitting atop it all with a series of poorly written notes and attempted translations from the books the ancient words had been ripped from. It had spoken of 'Becoming Better' from what my mind could vaguely remember, though it was at a great cost. Be it something metaphysical or placebo, I simply had lost all care by this point.
Using a piece of chalk I try to nudge tone of the rivulets of wax towards the chalk line surrounding it, the blood red substance hardening almost as fast as I can manipulate it.
"Come the fuck..." I hack, coughing into the crook of my arm as to try to shield the flicking wicks from going out. "I need to get... get better... or..." I wheeze, trying once again to blend the wax and the chalk. "Get Reborn or.. or..."
Little did I know that, in my attempt to research so long forgotten rite or ritual, I had stumbled across three. My haphazard approach to sources and translation would never have worked, the constantly shifting languages and texts simply not clicking with me that I was blending a variety of dialects and tomes that were centuries apart.
However, each tried to convey a similar knowledge.
How to be Reborn as a better you
Each required a similar sacrifice as well. To improve oneself immediately cannot be done, the past must be involved at some point in the process. Whichever ritual it was there was once simple fact, something would need to be taken either from or in the past itself. Even the names were similar, the shared title making any translated differentiation between the three nigh impossible for a layman like myself
Based on the concept of what happens to a butterfly in its cocoon, the ritual sought to create a new being from some formative essence. The ritual took two parts;
Firstly, the dissolution of the caster down to what could best be described as their pure essence, a writhing mass of twitching and pulsating fleshy ooze that could barely move on its own will. Secondly, the formation of a portal to some point in the past for which the caster could easily tumble through.
The writing in papyrus were to act as a focus, linking to some aspired goal or trait for the caster to attain before opening a portal above someone close to the caster with said desired attribute. Friends, family, and foes were all on the table, though should the caster succeed they would not be some separate entity for long.
With a sloshing tumble the caster would fall through the tiny makeshift portal, cascading themselves back in time before colliding with their intended target. Flesh would meld with flesh, bones and sinew spiting and combining as the target is subsumed into the ooze to form their new perfected form be it years or decades in the past.
Much like the prior spell, this was drafted centuries later. Why would someone want to experience The Black Plague, the Punic Wars, or any other terrible civilization shaking event of the past? Why not target the person in the past and bring them to the present, melting them down before taking on that perfected for in the present?
It was this thought that brought about the slight change to the order of the spell, removing some poor soul from history entirely so that the caster of the spell could enjoy the fruits of their labor or boons of their birth.
The last permutation of these spells came from yet another with a distaste for the previous rituals. Why go through the pangs of youth all over again? Taking something from some past person could take years or decades to bear fruit, why not simply fuse the target or targets with your past self?
With a bit more effort and time, the caster could merely open a window to the past before dissolving their former self and the target together. So long as the ritual is completed prior to their destruction in the present, thanks to their now destroyed former self, the caster would soon find themselves living the more mature life of their combined form.
The hot sweat dripping from my forehead patters to the floor as I feel my head begin to swim. The need for sleep, for rest and recovery wracks my entire body as I hunch over. I'm left staring down at the completed chalk circles, the wax just a fraction of an inch away from its destination.
"Please..." I whimper, watching as my sweat drips onto the chalk circles and the lines of red wax.
In an instant the room fills with a brilliant white light, the chalk flickering and flashing as the lines of foul sweat droplets form a bridge between the materials. My eyes strain against the light, my whole body lumbering backwards as I find myself staring at...
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