[Completed]
An alchemist who poisoned himself, an assassin who stabbed his own heart, an arsonist who burned herself, and a hero who couldn't defeat his inner monster.
***
( A re-enact of Hades...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•
WARNING: This chapter will include discussion of abuse.
Faith was a sensitive topic. Mortals had free-will to determine which god, value, or tradition they would respect. In the wizarding world, power seemed to be the substantial god, so close to perfection. With power came compliance, respect, and unlimited favors to those who owned them. But my dear, since the beginning of time, when universe was crafted out of galactic dust—power had an expensive price. It was power too that sparked war and blood-bath in the battlefield of brothers. This war, was the hope for magic to entangle in egoistic mortal world, had it not because of this failing battle—you could witness magic roamed around you here and now.
But the battle of Camlann was both won and lost, won because Albion once again defeated the wicked. Lost, because Arthur Pendragon died and Merlin had failed him.
A sickening path to reform the wizarding world he loved so dearly. He wanted nothing but rhythmic of mundane and magic in one realm, but Merlin was no God despite having power. His idealistic self crumbled under the bitter tears of Arthur Pendragon's death in the Isle of the Blessed. Merlin did not fancy the power that settled inside his bloodstreams, the essence of his soul—magic.
Blood, the essence of life was the only print the great Warlock left in this world. It slithered carmine, so thick of his magic throughout years, centuries even. Perhaps, Merlin predicted that history would repeat itself, the war would begin again, centuries after him. Akin to moth drawn to flames, humans would fall to power temptation, before they would be swallowed whole along with their senses.
Now, the sound of twigs gasping between the winter air should be a soothing rhythm for any mortal soul. But a witch had found the way inferno ate inches of burnt bark as terrifying, her palate dominated with bitter medicine thrills as she gazed down her hand. The crackling wood hissed to her ears as reminder of the sanguine scent on burnt corpses, crows' death symphony, and ferum-red clotting her body.
Her skin was the shade of pale fawn, rosy-tinted when scorched by the sun. Goosebumps littered above her freckles and she blew out a breath she was holding. In the shifting firelight, her blue eyes darted to her arms and her teeth clattered as if she was bare against the winter air. But it wasn't cold that pierced her skin—it was magic, humming in her mind, toying and taunting her, sometimes she heard it cackle like a victorious God.
It whispered or screamed, siphoning her vision into a twisted fantasy of the late dawn and cold fire, of midnight blood upon blue water, and a woman's shrieks.
