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Preparing.
Sep. 4th, 2005 09:36 pmCorrine’s packing. She’s not sure she’s ready to do this, especially with the help of others, but she knows she’s going to need the help. In a way, she resents it. It was her problem to begin with, and even though it’s one of the things she’s learned her mother was wrong about, she still feels it in her gut: keep it in the family.
Keep it all in the family. No one talks about it, no one else gets involved, it’s no one else’s concern.
She stares at the picture on her dresser, the picture of her and Caleb smiling together on the beach in Cape May. They’ve spoken since their training session. He knows now. She’s not sure whether that was a good idea or a bad one, but regardless, it’s done. She’s spent long enough creeping around in the shadows of the past, and she won’t sacrifice anymore. It’s not fair.
Corrine moves to her bedroom, sliding a small wooden box from under her bed. A quick incantation and the lid opens, the overpowering scent of winter rain filling the room. The box carries much more than it would seem, and she carefully searches around inside until she finds what she’s looking for; eight connection stones, nine small bags of sealing powders, fourteen pouches of mystic fire.
She sets them aside, and then with a sigh, thrusts her entire arm inside, the tips of her fingers feeling around. She brushes across the switch and flicks it upward, pulling her hand back out as quickly as possible. She’s got the blanket ready when, seconds later, there’s a whirring sound, and several vials of red liquid pop out of the box.
She catches them, setting the blanket down carefully and examining the vials. Most of them are dated for six months from now, but two are dangerously close to expiration. They’ll have to do. She doesn’t have time to make more. At the very least, she’ll have to use the two herself, and give the rest to the others. She won’t risk someone getting hurt because she has to cut it close.
Retrieving her bag, she begins loading the supplies into it. In the next room is her full length mirror, and with a final sigh of resignation, she slides through it.
On the other side is a dark room, and with a flick of her hand, candles about the room sprout flames. There’s a multi-tiered metal table in the center, and she sets her bag down before beginning around the room to gather supplies. Several short glass jars with lids, a stack of glass mixing bowls, and an old book, the cover made of leather, the pages a thick, yellowed parchment.
A quick incantation for cleansing, and then she opens the book, flipping to a page towards the back. I _hate_ blood magic, she thinks to herself, pulling the vials and bags of sealing powder from her bag.
Corrine empties a bag and a half of powder into each bowl, and removes the corks from the vials, pouring two each over the powders.
“Veneficus compingo, retineo,” she incants, using a finger to mix the contents of each of the bowls until they’re a thick, blue mud. She does this with each bowl, moving right down the line from one to the other.
Now comes the tricky part.
From her left pocket, she pulls a cross on a long chain. It’s an antique, a family heirloom really, and it shows. She sets it onto the table, rolling up her left sleeve and taking a deep breath. If this works, this will be the last time she’ll ever have to do this, and she’s quite glad for it.
She takes what is left of the mixture sticking to her finger and lines the back of the cross with it, gripping it tightly in her hand.
“Iugo,” she says as confidently as possible, and immediately there’s an almost unbearable burning in her palm. For several minutes, she stands that way, holding on as tightly as she can as she feels the magic beginning to work, the spell binding itself to her very essence, the blood beginning to pool in her closed palm.
And then, without warning, the pain is gone along with the blood. With shaking fingers, she drops the cross onto the table, immediately cradling her hand under her other arm. It’s more out of instinct, a psychological comfort. She knows the danger has passed. If one tiny detail had been off, though, she’d be one hand less. Just because that had never happened doesn’t mean she wasn’t still afraid of it.
Weak and tired now, she knows she must hurry to finish this. Hastily, she pulls the cross around her neck, beginning to divide the mixtures into the glass jars. Minutes later, the task is done, and she reloads the jars into her bag.
She barely has the energy to lift it, and the world spins underneath of her as she slides back through the mirror to the other side.
Back in her apartment, the room tilts, her bag hitting the floor with a thud. She scolds herself for not using a strengthening spell, as she always does, but she knows that might endanger the magic now trapped in the jars.
She forces herself to remain upright, retrieving a long, blue velvet cover from beside the mirror. She throws it over the top, hearing the heavy, old wood of the mirror creak against the weight of the cover, and then it and the cover are gone.
Corrine reaches a hand out, tentatively, feeling for the edge of the mirror, and rest assured, it is still there. Even after having it in her possession these past eight years, she still second-guesses its existence, and its nature.
With some effort, she makes her way over to the couch, slumping onto the soft cushions. The last few moments of consciousness are spent considering what exactly Caleb would think of her moderate collection of magical artifacts, and then she’s asleep.
Keep it all in the family. No one talks about it, no one else gets involved, it’s no one else’s concern.
She stares at the picture on her dresser, the picture of her and Caleb smiling together on the beach in Cape May. They’ve spoken since their training session. He knows now. She’s not sure whether that was a good idea or a bad one, but regardless, it’s done. She’s spent long enough creeping around in the shadows of the past, and she won’t sacrifice anymore. It’s not fair.
Corrine moves to her bedroom, sliding a small wooden box from under her bed. A quick incantation and the lid opens, the overpowering scent of winter rain filling the room. The box carries much more than it would seem, and she carefully searches around inside until she finds what she’s looking for; eight connection stones, nine small bags of sealing powders, fourteen pouches of mystic fire.
She sets them aside, and then with a sigh, thrusts her entire arm inside, the tips of her fingers feeling around. She brushes across the switch and flicks it upward, pulling her hand back out as quickly as possible. She’s got the blanket ready when, seconds later, there’s a whirring sound, and several vials of red liquid pop out of the box.
She catches them, setting the blanket down carefully and examining the vials. Most of them are dated for six months from now, but two are dangerously close to expiration. They’ll have to do. She doesn’t have time to make more. At the very least, she’ll have to use the two herself, and give the rest to the others. She won’t risk someone getting hurt because she has to cut it close.
Retrieving her bag, she begins loading the supplies into it. In the next room is her full length mirror, and with a final sigh of resignation, she slides through it.
On the other side is a dark room, and with a flick of her hand, candles about the room sprout flames. There’s a multi-tiered metal table in the center, and she sets her bag down before beginning around the room to gather supplies. Several short glass jars with lids, a stack of glass mixing bowls, and an old book, the cover made of leather, the pages a thick, yellowed parchment.
A quick incantation for cleansing, and then she opens the book, flipping to a page towards the back. I _hate_ blood magic, she thinks to herself, pulling the vials and bags of sealing powder from her bag.
Corrine empties a bag and a half of powder into each bowl, and removes the corks from the vials, pouring two each over the powders.
“Veneficus compingo, retineo,” she incants, using a finger to mix the contents of each of the bowls until they’re a thick, blue mud. She does this with each bowl, moving right down the line from one to the other.
Now comes the tricky part.
From her left pocket, she pulls a cross on a long chain. It’s an antique, a family heirloom really, and it shows. She sets it onto the table, rolling up her left sleeve and taking a deep breath. If this works, this will be the last time she’ll ever have to do this, and she’s quite glad for it.
She takes what is left of the mixture sticking to her finger and lines the back of the cross with it, gripping it tightly in her hand.
“Iugo,” she says as confidently as possible, and immediately there’s an almost unbearable burning in her palm. For several minutes, she stands that way, holding on as tightly as she can as she feels the magic beginning to work, the spell binding itself to her very essence, the blood beginning to pool in her closed palm.
And then, without warning, the pain is gone along with the blood. With shaking fingers, she drops the cross onto the table, immediately cradling her hand under her other arm. It’s more out of instinct, a psychological comfort. She knows the danger has passed. If one tiny detail had been off, though, she’d be one hand less. Just because that had never happened doesn’t mean she wasn’t still afraid of it.
Weak and tired now, she knows she must hurry to finish this. Hastily, she pulls the cross around her neck, beginning to divide the mixtures into the glass jars. Minutes later, the task is done, and she reloads the jars into her bag.
She barely has the energy to lift it, and the world spins underneath of her as she slides back through the mirror to the other side.
Back in her apartment, the room tilts, her bag hitting the floor with a thud. She scolds herself for not using a strengthening spell, as she always does, but she knows that might endanger the magic now trapped in the jars.
She forces herself to remain upright, retrieving a long, blue velvet cover from beside the mirror. She throws it over the top, hearing the heavy, old wood of the mirror creak against the weight of the cover, and then it and the cover are gone.
Corrine reaches a hand out, tentatively, feeling for the edge of the mirror, and rest assured, it is still there. Even after having it in her possession these past eight years, she still second-guesses its existence, and its nature.
With some effort, she makes her way over to the couch, slumping onto the soft cushions. The last few moments of consciousness are spent considering what exactly Caleb would think of her moderate collection of magical artifacts, and then she’s asleep.
