Byron: The Dark Witch

Prompt the Fourth: Witches, Magicks, Magus and Politics

Tapping his pen against the desk, Byron struggled not to fall asleep. His head was heavy and his eyes slipping closed, the light blurring and slipping in his vision like mist over the moon. The letter in front of him was short, brief, to the point in a way that he appreciated.

A summons.

Because people like him couldn’t be trusted.

Heaving a sigh, he bent his hand to sign the offending document.

He remembered the days when he’d thought himself so much higher than this. He’d imagined himself a spymaster, an invisible threat to all and sundry. He recalled idle hours sitting outside the local coffee shop, flipping casually through newspapers, skimming articles for anything of interest. Back then it forged a facade for the local gossipers, but it had started his habit of scouring local press as well as the nationals and world papers. It was a good habit to have; local papers gave away far more than they realised, especially on the social dynamics of an area. Back then, he’d kept each day’s paper carefully folded on the table beside his cooling hot tea... Back then he’d felt alive just by playing his part – sinking into the position of affluent bachelor with one long fingered hand gently curled around a softly steaming brew, one leg slung over the other and one foot just about touching the tip of the sun that blazed above in the bright blue sky. Those were idyllic days in the county, the weather just cooling off for fall after a summer that scorched much of the States. Vague memories of town life peppered his thoughts as he felt the memories pass by. No doubt it was the same there now. Small town. Small people.

His signature stared up at him, a mocking pigeon-scratch against their calligraphic ‘invitation’. Blowing over the ink, he moved the page to one side, eyeing it with the same hatred as the daily headlines and their full-page, emblazoned captions like Devils Torched in Winston, or The Truth about Witch-Shaming. It was another success for the church – that corrupt citadel of righteous spell crafters. Byron tried to think a more positive thought, attempting a smile, his teeth like pearls and lips like coral, creating a face suitable for the exemplary model of good citizenship he had been in his youth.

He began the reply. Responding with some little greeting, he always recalled the name of those that greeted him thus making sure, in the style of Dale Carnegie, that each man or woman felt special. He was a great people person, always had been... But there were other motives. A complex mix of affectation and candidness, there was something mask like about his face, his hair just a shade too red, his dark eyes too calm and clear, his complexion a little too pale, his colour a little too pure. Most dismissed it. His coven could see past it. They loved their bright eyed boy, their prodigal, powerful witch. But he had spent hours sitting in the shade, perfecting that falseness for people like his letter correspondence. He could gaze into the eyes of those sallow faced, sanctimonious hypocrites and listen to their accusations. In front of them, his eyes wouldn’t even flicker if they told him he was responsible for the mutilated bodies of four young witches strung up in Winston or flinch at the pride of their belief that they had tamed him. That he was their pet to be called upon at whim.

A growl rose in his throat and not for the first time did he relish his decision to live separately, nomadically, from the coven that had saved his soul. He couldn’t do his job if he was under the thumb of those that still saw a threat in him... even if that threat and their fear was valid. An eddy of wind seemed to laugh around him, enjoying the turn of this darkening thoughts. He was powerful because he had learnt to embrace everything about magick. His proximity to the dark had changed him, yes, and parts of that had branded him irreparably. He would never be the same man that had once believed that a secret vendetta was enough.

So his letter served another purpose. He would check in with his brethren, his willingness proved his acceptance of the terms of his freedom, but he would never be their puppet the way they designed it. Again and again, they pitted themselves against him: five minds to his one own. Trying to trap him with phrases popularised by the church that now persecuted them – do unto others, Byron, do not forget the rule of three.

The rule of three, of course, was a little more complex. Back in those Carolina blue days, he’d played with the blackest of magicks, abused blood magick, denied the sacrifices, repudiated the call of his soul in lieu of power, temptation, the addictive rush of magick stolen, magick greater than almost anything he dreamt of at night. His actions, his misuse had gained him the scar on his face that curled from left eye socket to jaw. Mostly, he concealed it from the public eye. Not out of shame, for he saw it as a price, a reminder of his sins. No, it was a liability – a trait too distinctive to match with his flawless social mask.

He played the game. He bowed his head in contrition, let those around him chastise him once more for the horrors he committed years ago.

Sighing, he placed the pen down, staring at the page that detailed his position, professing his willingness to enter the dream state with them, spelling the words to trickle off the page as if blown away in a breeze should anyone but a member of the covens witness this letter.

Someone like him shouldn’t be chained up like this, a small voice whispered through his thoughts, you shouldn’t be their dog, not with your power.

He shook his head, red curls tousling even further. That was how the blackness spoke, seductive, determined to have him again.

There was a fine line to magick. At the heart of all magick lay the Wild Magick – the magick that existed in all things, the underlying magical forces at work in the universe. Quite literally alive, they superceded morality, existing before any governing force and likely remaining after those governments were lost. Byron smiled, they were completely amoral. Or perhaps a better word was whimsical. That whimsy would normally be almost harmless. Magick enjoyed play, its own celebration of self. In some instances, it even manifested. But mostly it carried itself around the world through leylines, pooling in places of power such as Stone Henge where the leylines crosse. Casting a spell with that kind of magic was extremely dangerous, it was more than just a spell – it was pure Will imposed on a wild thing. The witch had either to convince magic to do what they wanted it to, to subdue it in a battle of wills, or accept that tilting the metaphorical pinball machine of reality came with violent, often deadly repercussions.

That wasn’t something Byron ever wanted to experience, though he had several times called upon the Wild in his need. He was lucky magick loved him as much as he loved it.

Then there were the extremes of dark and light magicks, the embodied extremes of the wild, natural magicks. Affliation with the light or dark could result in an augmentation of a witches power but there were dangers too, Byron trod the careful line between them. Most leant towards the light, unwilling to affiliate with the destructive, feral beast that they imagined the dark to be. But it was not without benefits. The wildest of wild magicks, the dark was freer, less constrained by ritual and lore. If you struck the right bargain with the dark, your will could become infinitely stronger. Unlike the controlled, calm elements of light magick and its purity of spirit, the dark was fickle though – more likely to refuse at any given moment, to pull away if the bargain was not fulfilled.

Byron gave a last glance at his response and the signed paper, confirming his continued abeyance to their petty, human normative.

Magick had its own dynamics that went beyond the small minded folk that checked up on him. He was closer than them to the heart of his magick. He had fought the worst enemy of all in order to do gain that closeness, the discover the nature of his own soul. His own coven understood that. The council, mainly comprised of members of the clans he’d adjorned with in New Orleans, however, were less sympathetic. Once an addict, always an addict, they said. And always a liability.

In the last year, he had never been so relieved that he hadn’t admitted to his full abilities when first asked to do so to the Council. If they knew what he knew... Nodding to himself, he folded the page again, took a sip from his tea and pulled an amused face. Just as when his heart hurt upon reading about the Hunts, his heart ached with the knowledge that this would continue and never again would they be safe in the ignorance of the many.

Always in danger, and people like him, more so.

A tapping noise broke through his bitter reverie. He’d done too much of that lately, he realised, turning his face to the tapping. A bird, crumpled and small, tapped on the window. Over and over. It saw his gaze and trilled through the glass, a soundless expression but one he could imagine. He turned away. The tapping resumed. Byron turned back to it. It gave its open beaked call again.

“Seriously?” He wondered aloud, “Is someone using a bird to summon me now too?”

Frowning, he rose from his seat, moving cautiously to the window where the bird hopped delightedly. It fluttered away and fluttered back. It wanted him to... follow? Whoever had done this had read one to many Harry Potter novels.

He went around to the front door, down the stairs to the street, round to the back on silent feet.

“Hello little one,” He murmured as the bird flittered and tweeted around his head. It looked tired. He wished he’d brought some little food with him, “Where are you taking me?”

As it was, it wasn’t far to go.

The woodland he loved for meditation lay just beyond the house he was renting. A typical North Carolina forest of pines and firs, bluish hue present in the wind, it was perfect for him. But he had never been found before.

He hissed, wondering why his magick hadn’t warned him, why it had let him leave... no, that wasn’t fair. Why had he thought it safe and normal to follow a bird when it so clearly had to have a master. He was never so incautious. Yet there he stood, legs bracing for a quick escape, face-to-face with a church Word user.

“Magus.” He hissed.

A bundle of cloth, the strange man had the top of his robe peaking over the top of a heavy grey jacket. The man was pale, skin looking clammy, his face sunken, yellow bruises on his jaw, black bruises over his neck.

“Witch...” The man’s voice held none of the vehemence that Byron’s had, “My name is Edward. Edward McTaggart. I need your help.”

A history of their thousand year old hate, swam up against Byron’s thoughts. Magus hunted people like him. His magick swirled up now, curling around him, tugging at his clothes and hair. The sunshine skimmed across his back, he could spirit himself away, he could run and hide. Magus caught and tortured witches, unable to fathom their links with magick or the depths of their soul.

“My help.” He snarled, “And why should I help you, snake.”

“Something is coming. Byron Bathory... you are needed.” The magus’ voice wasn’t strong, “There’s something coming.” His breathing rattled off in his chest, wheezing, eyes closing under the strain of his agonies, “Powerful... there’s a game... I found you.”

Byron was powerful, was that what the magus meant? It was Beltane and his affinities with the sun and wind were at their apex – fuelled on by the light of the season. But it seemed more than that... Edward McTaggart wheezed again, choked on a nasty rattle in his chest. Not even age old enmity could make Byron let this man die like this though. Especially when... could he also believe that this man sought him above others, deliberately to help? For help? Memories of his own pain, his own torture at the hands of others, burnt clear within him. He couldn’t stand by. But could he take him home?

Realising that the magus’ strength had finally failed, though his breathing still struggled loudly on, Byron sighed. He’d always enjoyed the game, the politics of this supernatural war he’d been born into. This was just another challenge.

“Come on magus. Let’s stick it to your prickle-crowned Christ and get you into the house of a real witch.” He muttered, noting that the little bird was still there, “And you, tweetling. Come on. We’ll call Aoife. She can help me with the ritual.”

Word Count: 2,223. (added by edit @ 0130)