?I need a new apartment.?
Owen was on his hands and knees scrubbing away at the dark stained concrete floor of his unit with a large sponge and a bucket of water beside him. He?d been at it for a few hours, cleaning the place.
?And a mop.?
It had never occurred to him to use magic to clear up the chalk and blood, the dirty water and solutions spilled over the floor during his work over the last few days. It wasn?t that he was averse to using it for such mundane means, the thought had simply slipped his mind. So, he was there on all fours, cheeks flushed at the lengthy effort of scrubbing away. At last, he sat back on his haunches and surveyed his living room. The dark floors glistened, the water just beginning to dry in the far side where he?d started his efforts earlier. Piled up by the door were several black garbage bags bulging and tearing in places from the lengths of twigs and shattered bones he?d used for a ritual. He hoped the city?s waste collection services wouldn?t mind.
Owen stood, back arching as he bent double to stretch it. He didn?t let up until hearing the satisfying series of quiet cracks of his spine setting itself. He dropped the sponge in the bucket and cursed at the splash of dirty water it created, but picked and carried it away to the kitchen where it was all emptied into the sink. He washed his hands, dried them, and filled a kettle with water to set on the stove.
While he waited for the water to heat, Owen went about the task of reorganizing his furniture. His chairs and coffee table were shoved back into position, circling around one another in an area that seemed barren for the lack of television and a liquor cabinet-turned-record player stand tucked away in a corner as though forgotten. He looked over his apartment and frowned thoughtfully at the stark lack of decoration on the walls, of anything noteworthy. It seemed not to belong to anyone, like it was just a space he was filling for a time.
Well of course I am, he thought. This is all only temporary.
One day he?d go home.
Until then, he had work to do.
A small round stone that had been weighing his pocket down for a few days was held in his hands now. He turned it about, examining its polished black surface that was devoid of any marring save the thin, deep grooves that seemed laid with blue lights that swirled around it. They had been slowly fading over the last few days, he?d noticed. He decided then to get to the heart of just another of the many mysteries that seemed to occupy his attention day in and day out. The night and morning before had been a pleasant distraction, but perhaps he?d dawdled too long in coming home.
?No, not dawdled,? he said to the stone. ?I would not call it that.?
It said nothing and he smiled.
?I?m going to crack you like an egg. Shame you don?t fry up so well,? he ran the tip of his index finger down one side of the stone, feeling the bumps in its surface created by the grooves. He set it down on the dining table and took a seat in a chair before it. His arms folded across the table, his chin coming to rest on them as he bent forward to stare at the stone, as though expecting it might do something under the intensity of his scrutiny.
?Veritas,? he said. It pulsed silently in response. He smiled again.
?Veritas,? Owen repeated with a little more command, summoning up a reserve of will to pour into the word. It twitched.
?Ostende mihi,? he reached for the stone as the grooves brightly sprang to life, their light so intense as to make him squint past the sting it caused his eyes. He closed his eyes, briefly, against that light to give himself a moment to slip into the sight of Prime, to allow him to see the very tangible tethers and threads of magic which bound the golem?s heart to its controller. Though its powered had begun to wane since he?d deactivated the golem it fueled, the weave of the spell was still clear as day to one versed in the arts.
To any casual observer, he might have been staring blankly into space at that moment if not for the sheer focus that held his gaze. He reached for the invisible strands of energy and, delicate as you please, plucked at one with a finger as though it were the string on some kind of great, cosmological instrument. It produced a resonance he felt within the core of his being, something familiar and foreign at once. Magic often felt like that when he was deconstructing it.
?Where are you from?? he asked.
It answered, not with words, but with a sense of compulsion. He found the tether that linked the heart to its controller, to the master of the golem and the one who wove the spell. It pulled him inexorably and he knew the sensation would not fade until he left to investigate.
Forgetting the kettle on the stove top, Owen snatched at the heart and left.
Owen was on his hands and knees scrubbing away at the dark stained concrete floor of his unit with a large sponge and a bucket of water beside him. He?d been at it for a few hours, cleaning the place.
?And a mop.?
It had never occurred to him to use magic to clear up the chalk and blood, the dirty water and solutions spilled over the floor during his work over the last few days. It wasn?t that he was averse to using it for such mundane means, the thought had simply slipped his mind. So, he was there on all fours, cheeks flushed at the lengthy effort of scrubbing away. At last, he sat back on his haunches and surveyed his living room. The dark floors glistened, the water just beginning to dry in the far side where he?d started his efforts earlier. Piled up by the door were several black garbage bags bulging and tearing in places from the lengths of twigs and shattered bones he?d used for a ritual. He hoped the city?s waste collection services wouldn?t mind.
Owen stood, back arching as he bent double to stretch it. He didn?t let up until hearing the satisfying series of quiet cracks of his spine setting itself. He dropped the sponge in the bucket and cursed at the splash of dirty water it created, but picked and carried it away to the kitchen where it was all emptied into the sink. He washed his hands, dried them, and filled a kettle with water to set on the stove.
While he waited for the water to heat, Owen went about the task of reorganizing his furniture. His chairs and coffee table were shoved back into position, circling around one another in an area that seemed barren for the lack of television and a liquor cabinet-turned-record player stand tucked away in a corner as though forgotten. He looked over his apartment and frowned thoughtfully at the stark lack of decoration on the walls, of anything noteworthy. It seemed not to belong to anyone, like it was just a space he was filling for a time.
Well of course I am, he thought. This is all only temporary.
One day he?d go home.
Until then, he had work to do.
A small round stone that had been weighing his pocket down for a few days was held in his hands now. He turned it about, examining its polished black surface that was devoid of any marring save the thin, deep grooves that seemed laid with blue lights that swirled around it. They had been slowly fading over the last few days, he?d noticed. He decided then to get to the heart of just another of the many mysteries that seemed to occupy his attention day in and day out. The night and morning before had been a pleasant distraction, but perhaps he?d dawdled too long in coming home.
?No, not dawdled,? he said to the stone. ?I would not call it that.?
It said nothing and he smiled.
?I?m going to crack you like an egg. Shame you don?t fry up so well,? he ran the tip of his index finger down one side of the stone, feeling the bumps in its surface created by the grooves. He set it down on the dining table and took a seat in a chair before it. His arms folded across the table, his chin coming to rest on them as he bent forward to stare at the stone, as though expecting it might do something under the intensity of his scrutiny.
?Veritas,? he said. It pulsed silently in response. He smiled again.
?Veritas,? Owen repeated with a little more command, summoning up a reserve of will to pour into the word. It twitched.
?Ostende mihi,? he reached for the stone as the grooves brightly sprang to life, their light so intense as to make him squint past the sting it caused his eyes. He closed his eyes, briefly, against that light to give himself a moment to slip into the sight of Prime, to allow him to see the very tangible tethers and threads of magic which bound the golem?s heart to its controller. Though its powered had begun to wane since he?d deactivated the golem it fueled, the weave of the spell was still clear as day to one versed in the arts.
To any casual observer, he might have been staring blankly into space at that moment if not for the sheer focus that held his gaze. He reached for the invisible strands of energy and, delicate as you please, plucked at one with a finger as though it were the string on some kind of great, cosmological instrument. It produced a resonance he felt within the core of his being, something familiar and foreign at once. Magic often felt like that when he was deconstructing it.
?Where are you from?? he asked.
It answered, not with words, but with a sense of compulsion. He found the tether that linked the heart to its controller, to the master of the golem and the one who wove the spell. It pulled him inexorably and he knew the sensation would not fade until he left to investigate.
Forgetting the kettle on the stove top, Owen snatched at the heart and left.