Hide in Here.
Trispell.
Where can we go to escape the Devil for a few hours?
Where can I lead an exhausted scribe, who needs respite from his kind of evil?
What could possibly matter to her at this time? Not much, I find.
Music is always a good place to start, so easy to slip in and change the playlist, if you understand me. She will go where led, like a mindless thing, for that’s what she is, currently. I find I could literally write whatever I want, utter gibberish even, and she will just keep going, like an automaton. All I can do is sigh.
It’s never fun to follow that man, he will have wrung her dry. He is hard to beat, I confess, like his darkness gives him first access. Or perhaps he just wants it more. I can’t help her when she’s down like this, he has her in his fist, forever clenched.
If there is no getting her out, it is a matter of getting me in.
What will I use for this spell? What do I want from it?
Access, let me see with my witch’s senses the landscape she lies in. Something bleak and barren, swept by bitter winds, stinging snow and cruel cold, yes I can his traces everywhere. The man is a brute, at times.
This one is easy, call the fire, feed it well, she must be kept warm, signs of shock in her face, come to me my love, it’s safe here. You can trust me, I can give you a refuge, you must be willing to take it.
What can I see in her eyes? Ah. This is harder, most of what I see is my own reflection. A drastic change of music, increase the volume, I don’t care if it hurts, hear it and deny the pulse if you can. That’s right, your feet are moving, well, one of them is, and I count that a win. Give me a smile now, a half one will do. See? My spells are powerful.
What’s in this one? A song, on repeat as long as it takes. Then grasslands and winds, early June, perhaps, everything green and frantic. Birds, they will pull her in any direction they want, lavender blossoms, they come willingly for her, a spent Hoya leaf, a piece of lichen, curled like a secret, an insect wing, gathered with her own hand as it lay on the ground, missing its everything else. All things given, none taken. Collect it together, a hint of ozone, electricity kindly provided by the Universe that keeps her highly charged. A lit match is hardly needed, but I use one anyway, the sulphur is critical, as is the smoke, the sacrifice of wood wasted in such a way, all of it comes when it is lit, forceful in its own right. A pinch of dark earth, a drop of my blood, words spoken that must never be spoken again.
A moonlit night, not full, rather waning, just. Hold my hands up to her, she is listening now, as she never could have, if she was full. I am just a little smarter than other witches, as I mentioned.
Take this gift, Mother, and release its power. Light the fire, summon my coven, keep the scribe here with me long enough to matter.
My third spell? For they are often done in threes.
I call the muses, they come for a proper candle and true reverence. Give them all they want, not much, actually. Again a match, nothing comes without sulphur, and this has nothing to do with his Lordship, but is a reflection of its own properties. Sulphur compels, it’s not for nothing the smell is overpowering, caught in its smoke, you will listen.
I ask them to crowd the Devil’s head. Literally, invade him and harass him without cease, as long as it takes for him to understand that he should spend more time writing his own story, less time crippling scribes. Scribal down time affects more than you, Pandor. They like the idea, always looking for a reason to torment him, and who can blame them?
Will you see less of us here? I hope so, she needs to lose herself in the story, there are lives waiting to be messed up. They have the benefit of not being hers.
The dark sky accepts my spells.
“Soar” by Faux Tales