Cloverfield Magic

Chapter 21 - Gilded Lily

That night, the four of them stood in the highest room on the mountain. The roof was left open, allowing the light of the full moon hanging amongst the colorful swath of stars to fall upon an ornate altar covered in symbols that Isaac did not recognize. Circe stood beside him, her face a cool mask of stern concentration. She held a small bowl filled with a dark liquid that she proceeded to pour over Isaac's head and the altar as she intoned a series of incantations. The liquid felt cold and viscous against his skin, and Isaac shuddered in discomfort as he felt the cold seep into his very being. At the very least the liquid didn't smell too horrible - merely invoking memories of dirt, flowers, and something metallic. Small mercies.

He doesn't even flinch at the sight of the ceremonious knife Circe hands him.

To Issac, Circe instructs, "Offer your blood to Magia, so she may hear your story and recognize your devotion. Retreat into your mind like when we practiced, and follow the sound of her voice. Should you fail, Alice will repair your body and we can try again tomorrow."

Issac takes the knife and takes his left arm out of his perfectly white robe. He looks down at the thin silver scars on his arm and finds it ironic that after struggling to stay clean for so long, he was once again taking a blade to his own body to save a friend.

Bringing down the knife without hesitation, he cuts a deep, purposeful gash on his arm, and his blood starts to flow. He didn't have much time until the blood loss took him, so he pushed through the pain and started meditating. Behind his closed eyelids, shadows moved in the corners of his vision, and he started to hear whispers in that strange language he could not understand. But unlike he previous attempts, he felt a force reaching out to him, testing him, probing his soul.

Suddenly Issac feels a rush of euphoria as everything goes quiet. Issac opens his eyes in confusion, but instead of the cold, dark shadows of the mountain, he finds himself sitting in a dimly lit closet staring at the peeling paint of a wooden door. If he strains his ears, he can hear the sound of muffled shouting from the other side of the door.

"Hey, don't worry about them. Pay attention to me," a gentle voice calls. Issac turns to his right and sees Evelyn, smiling her cheerful smile and holding a book in her lap. "I was just about to get to the part where the prince rescues the princess."

Issac doesn't know why, but he starts to cry. Evelyn sets down the book in worry and rushes to comfort him. "Hey, don't cry. I can read you a different story if you'd like."

"Where did you go?" Issac cries. "Why did you leave me?"

His big sister pulls his ten-year-old self into her lap and rocks him as sobs wreck his body. "Well, it's because of you, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" Issac asks.

"It's because of you that I'm gone. You have no one to blame but yourself."

Then, Issac remembers. The sound of gunshots. Bang. Bang. Bang.

"No! It's not my fault!"

"Really? Then what are these for?" Evelyn asks as she points to the scars on his arm, his thighs, and his stomach. "Aren't these because you felt the need to punish yourself for killing me?"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Lynn, I'm sorry! I didn't know!" Issac cries as he clings to his sister for dear life.

Evelyn lets him cry and sushes him gentry, Issac's childish wails joining the backdrop of his parents' fighting a couple of rooms away. After a while, Evelyn asks again, "Well, is it your fault or is it not? You still haven't answered my question, Issac."

Issac wipes the snot dripping from his nose with his sleeve as hiccups interrupt his pitiful attempts to breathe. But somewhere in the back of his mind, a brief memory of patient understanding and sorrowful grey eyes floats to the forefront of his consciousness. "It wasn't my fault," Issac finds himself saying, "but I did blame myself for a long time. It took a while, but I think I'm finally reaching a point where I'm okay with not hating myself anymore."