Fate of Magics
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The ritual I did was beyond dark magic. Beyond black magic. It was Death magic. Death and Life each had a magic of their own. To give and to take. Many of those who practiced Black Magic hid Death Magic into the Black. Or modified it to not pay tribute to Death. It weakened the results but the more magic you had the stronger and closer to the original it was. My family were once Death’s Chosen. Most of our family secrets revolves around Death Magic. And thus, I knew it well. Death magic was a very part of our souls. It had allowed us to move up in the world. It had allowed us to lead the world via the underground. Oh, there were a few powerful people that we didn’t mess with. The Ice Queen of our world was one. She depended on magic, I wondered if she would be doing a similar Death Ritual to keep her magic? She and I were leaders in our communities, but on the magical side. We would be starting over on the mundane side. But there was no way I was going to start over without my magic. I could not live without something that had been part of my very soul since my conception. So, I read the ritual, and I knew what I had to do. Perhaps, everything does happen for a reason.
I was a widowed bride. My husband murdered in front of me on my wedding. My Snow White heart shaped trumpet gown stained red with his blood forever. I remembered that day as it was yesterday. Even if it was over five years ago now. I did love him. He was an innocent. A Byzantium Wizard. I never imagined what spilling my coffee on someone would bring. It was quite a whirlwind courtship. I tried to keep him away from the seedy world I operated in. I really did. But, my enemies learned of him. Poor Michael Getz. Mike was a peacekeeper and a pure Byzantium Light Wizard. Who loved me no matter my faults.
And upon my wedding day, what was supposed to be the happiest day of my life, I became a widow. My enemies had hired a master assassin. My groom had been standing up and doing a toast to me when the assassin blew his brains out and shot him twice in the chest. His life’s blood and magic splattering upon my dress.
I shook my head as the memories played as I looked at the blood upon my dress. I never cleaned it. Never. After all, it was my wedding and widow dress. I used that blood. Dead Man’s blood. An innocent man’s blood. What he was killed for, it wasn’t his actions, never his, he was a light magic user. It was for actions I had taken against another family. My family is the equivalent of the Mafia and I made a lot of enemies. My enemy hit when I was the weakest. Just like I had done in the past. My groom’s blood would make the perfect offering to Death.
I dressed into my wedding dress. And walked out under the full moon of the summer night. Upon the ground Death’s symbol lay carved into the dirt, sealed with magic to not blow or wash away as the magic built during the ritual. His symbol was an upside-down Ankh with a scab in the center. I stood in the center and using the magic in his blood and mine, I filled the tip of my Athame with the magic and then calling upon Death magic sealed inside myself.
I stabbed the dagger into my chest piercing my heart using the Life blood as an offering to death and then using the combined magic to seal the wound allowing me to live. And this offering and sealing would allow me to keep my magic; as it was now sealed in the scar in my soul and heart. I
wondered as I lay there gasping for air my fresh blood now mingled with the blood of my groom, who else would do what it took to keep their magic? Or would I truly be alone? What had I done? And I gave into darkness as I felt Death accept my offering…