Well, it's been a long wait, but I think it's worth it. I'm posting Chapter 2 of my story: Books of Magic.
Story Ahead-----> Keep going down....
Now Awaken....
Now Forsaken....
Ugh. That book was a bitch. What in the hell happened? I sit up and look around. I’m not in my apartment anymore.
I’m in a room. A big, big room. Light seems to come from all directions at once, making the entire room lit, but not blindingly bright. The floor tile is a nice off white. Well, nice, compared to my shitty flower print linoleum and my shag carpet. The walls are a lighter shade of green, giving the room a very Matrix-y feel to it. I stand up and finally notice the book and table in the center of the room. It seems that whatever dream I’m in, that crazy ass book came with me. It even brought the card table and some of my linoleum. I walk over to the table. The red book is sitting on the table’s dirty surface, closed. That’s good for me. I don’t want to see that second page again. I look down and scream. “What in the hell have you done to me?”
A voice startles me. “The question you should be asking is, ‘What have I done to you?’.” I whip around to the voice behind me.
There is an old man there. He is wearing an old cardigan sweater, and a pair of well tailored slacks. His black shoes click on the floor as he slowly walks towards me from the far wall of the room. In one arm he holds a green book, similar to the one that I found outside of my apartment. As if he’s reading my thoughts, he says, “It is quite similar to the book you found. In fact, you might say it’s the same book. No matter though. What concerns my time now is you.”
I stare at him for a moment. I’m frightened, and enraged. I feel like shouting. “Who are you, demon?” He answers again. “Do not ask who I am, but rather, who I’m not. For it is said that demons are but one. I am the one who represents the Legion, as you say in your quaint language.”
I don’t know what to say. I look up at his eyes, questioning. “No.” he answers. “No, I do not know everything: But enough of this.”
The old man looks at me with his piercing eyes for one last second, and then flings his head upward. “Look, at the stars.” he says in a soft voice. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
I gasp. Where there once was a room, a field stands there now. I’m standing on a tall hill, looking up at the clear night sky. The moon smiles down on my face, but the strong wind bites my skin. The old man doesn’t seem to be affected by the elements. He looks upward towards the sky.
“Sometimes you forget about the beauty of the world. I come to this place to remember my roots have always stayed in the earth.” I look over at him.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Not where, young one. When.” The old man looked down at the ground. “We are in North America... circa 1200. I don’t remember the exact place, but this is the best view I’ve ever found.”
I’m looking at the old man. He turns and looks at me. His hawkish eyes pierce my soul. I shiver slightly. “What are you?” I ask in a timid voice.
“I? I am a magus.” The old man looks down at the book tucked under his right arm. “This volume is the 71st tome I’ve written in the past 700 years. It contains knowledge of the mystical, the magic of the earth, the wind, fire, and water. One day it may be yours.” I look at him in bewilderment.
“I thought magic was made up, that it wasn’t real.” The old man looks at me for a few seconds. Finally, the old man opened his book to a specific page, and then speaks a word of command.
My mind swirls and the world turns black. Not a second later we are in the large room again. The table had not moved throughout the ordeal, and as I walk up to it, the old man appears behind it, looking at me. “If magic wasn’t real, then how did I do that?” he asks in a quizzical tone. “The truth is, that magic is real, just as you are real.”
I look at him for a second. “Why are you doing this to me?” I asked. The old man looked at his shoes for a second, and looked back up.
“The answer is simple.” he says, looking at the wall to his right. “You and your family have descended from a powerful mix of bloods from the early ages. You are a direct descendant of Morgan le Fey. Your potential is extraordinarily high. To make it simple; You, like your brother before you, are destined to become a mage.”
I stare at him in surprise, and then smirk with contempt. “My brother was killed in a gang fight 7 years ago.” The look of shock on the old man’s face makes me want to laugh at him, call him a crock and wake up from this god-forsaken dream. To my fascination, the old man looks down. I can see tears trickle down from his face. Droplets of water fall from his face, splashing on the floor below him. He looks up, his eyes red. “They never told you, did they?” he asks, his whole body shaking.
“Who? Tell me what?” I ask. “Why are you crying, old man?”
The old mage turns away and wipes the tears from his face. “Your brother did not die, as you have learned. Whoever told you that is a liar and a fool. Your brother is still alive. He was not killed seven years ago. He was turned.” The old man looks down at the floor and once more begins to speak. “Your brother was one of the greatest mages that ever walked the planes. He was a benevolent man, giving and true. It was a great loss when he was changed.” I don’t comprehend what he is saying. “I know you don’t understand, young one, and it is beyond my power to explain everything to you. But there is much you should know.” Clearing his throat, the old man continues. “Each mage controls his ability in a different way. Your family has long used the power of the Stone of Ithk to maintain proper control. Your great-mother, Morgan le Fay, once used the Stone as a conduit for her power. I maintain control by meditation on the Soul of the Source.” The old man looks down at his hands, and red figures glow red for a second, and then fade away into nothingness. “These red marks are my control. They are tattooed into my existence, and I dare not remove them. For if a mage ever loses control of the magic, he will be turned. I have heard that the turning is quite painful, excruciating beyond belief. I have also heard that if a mage does not die in this turning, then he will be changed, changed into a daemon, a powerful hellspawn bent on the destruction of other mages.” The old man turns his head and looks at me with pleading eyes. “He is killing us, and we are near helpless to stop it.” The tears continue to flow from the old man’s eyes. At one time, there were millions of mages from thousands of planes. Our numbers are greatly depleted now because of your brother. When he was changed, the corruption of his soul went further than most. He became a Hez-bolithia, a daemon leader. He has unified the efforts of all the hellspawn, and has resurrected some of the most evil mages from the past. Your great-mother, Morgan le Fay, rides by his side, her soul corrupted by his arcane workings.” The old mage looks down at his book as he pulls it in front of him. He opens it and turns it to furthest pages. He turns it around so that it faces me. A picture is engraved into the face of the page. I see what appear to be giant demons surrounded by ranks of writhing creatures, putrid masses, undead creatures, and foul magic users. The old man begins chanting, and the picture begins to move. The pictures become more lifelike, and the picture slowly moves toward what appears to be the front of the legion. At it’s head, a colossal great-daemon roars and shakes its horrible head and mane, holding up a banner inscribed with runes and evil markings. Its eyes burn from the creatures large head, and two giant horns protrude from its skull like bent knives. Red scaly hands, each the size of a normal human, hold the banner, and run to a chest that has runes charred into its flesh. In the middle of it’s abdomen is a face contorted in agony. I look at the face closely. Scars run up and down its face, and a webbing of red flesh binds the face to the daemons stomach. It is the face of my brother.
I scream in agony, and double over. My eyes feel like they are bleeding. I know I’m vomiting, expelling everything from myself with force that pushes me backwards. The old man shuts the book quickly.. He rushes over to me and with one of his fingers, he scribes a circle in the middle of my back, and then writes around it with the tip of his finger. As soon as he is done, the pain flees, and I feel better.
“Do you understand now?” the old man says quietly. “He has been destroyed, turned into something that we can not defeat.” I look up from the ground. “What can I do?” I ask. “Come with me, and I will show you.” The old man says. He reaches out to me with his left arm. “If you come with me, you can not go back. This is your only chance to back out.” I look at him as he says this, and grab his hand. The old man smiles a smile tinged with sorrow. “Let us go.” Lights flash, and we are gone.