Failed Digression

A long, long weekend.

Invocation

I spoke the words, of love and loss and their oneness, just as she had written them down for me.

Just as she had bidden me to do in that last heedless, hurried talk.

I made the signs, traced the sigels in the air.

I threw the bones, counted the runes.

I marked the passage of stars in the sky, scrying in a crystal globe.

I measured the rumbles of giants in the earth, echoing through a tin ear.

I danced the dance in measured, precise steps.

I summoned the glamour, began the begine.

I lit the alchemical fires, yellow and teal and red, breathed in the fragrant smoke.

The audience watched, and listened, and waited for the air to split and the veil to tear.

I poured my very soul into the invocation, cast it like spilt wine before the spirits.

The words have failed.

The spirits have turned their faces from me, she has turned her face from me.

The magic is spent.

I was left with naught but wormwood and rue and the same sense of silent desperation.

Naught but wormwood and rue and failed words.

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2 Comments

  1. Sometimes magic works, just not in the ways that we can see it with our eyes, or not as we expect it to.

  2. Reminded of the line in Hamlet:

    “There’s rue for you; and here’s some
    for me: we may call it herb of grace a’ Sundays.”

    And rosemary for remembrance, and wormwood for absinthe…which may lead to eventual forgetting.

    Or, if not forgetting–because some things, they are never forgotten–then at least some distance, eventually. With time enough, and care.

    “You may wear your rue with a difference. There’s
    a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they
    withered all when my father died…”


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