The Witch’s Trial

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It had been created especially for her when she had come of the age to actively enter the world of magic. The years had not changed it one bit. An ever pristine mirror that held truths and power she had defiantly dared to dream of, it was the bridge and barrier to the apex of her strength.

She had been a Practicing Witch for over 6 years now and she knew the day had arrived; she would be tested as a witch and a person, to be sure power was not falling into the wrong hands.

She could allow no one in her company while she faced this ancient rite of passage.  Anything else could cause the spell to go awry. If she failed, she would not be remembered. That was one of the merciful magics of the mirror- no one in her Circle would have to be heartbroken or miss her.

She held it up before her, feeling her pulse make erratic jumps. The cold metallic frame lent steadiness to her fingers. Suddenly, she felt something seize her mind. Questions and thoughts were eerily voiced by the mirror. She responded, quick and honest. There was no jarring red light which she had been told to expect in the event of an unsatisfying answer. No, she was passing with a beautiful monochrome of colours.

She twisted her hands tighter around the edges, staring deeper into its preternatural reflections with every passing second. Memories of her ancestors began to flit across the glass and into her soul. In a matter of minutes she knew how to tame a Chimaera, how to teleport back and forth from far ends of the universe, and how it felt to carry the weight of the world in the event of an impending Apocalypse. In that long, drawn out instant, she Knew.

Power surged into her fingertips as she struggled to hold onto the mirror, feeling the fire that burned so many sisters who came before her. She knew the second she released it, the transfer would cease, and she could never hope to gain more from its swirling depths. Despite the pain, she gripped it closer; she could feel the victorious end creeping not too far away.

 

Signed,

The Invisible Invigilator

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Letter from Lady Macbeth to Macbeth

What follows was the original inspiration for my blog. An innovative assignment from a teacher who was better at giving homework than teaching, but could not make me love The Bard any less. Convoluted sentimentality prevented me from posting it, but that ends here.

 

Disclaimer: It’s nowhere near as brilliant as the work that it’s based on, and my meandering attempts may appear as though I’m making fun of it, but I assure you, I’m not. If you don’t believe me, fine…. “I am not bound to please thee with my answers.

 

To: Macbeth

From: Lady Macbeth

Time frame within the plot: After the murder of Duncan, and before the onset of Lady Macbeth’s somnambulism.

 

My lord, how fares thee on the high throne?
In reply to thy rumbled musings I make no sense
But that which grows from the common flower:
Anyone but us calls for suspicion,
Following, the Thane of Fife shall be no exception,
In this unyielding game we play
To be but bold is no source of debate,
Unless hollowed by depraved souls
That cast their nets on which does not move,
We must stand clenched on the royal threshold
That guards its mightiest disciples,
Failing which we meet Duncan’s fate.
‘Pon the final note of Birnam walking,
Thoughts that wander will meet my balking,
For how can reason not wheel thyself into laughter
At the merest flimsy suggestion?

Attend thy words addressed to thee
Well thought I might to ease thy troublings:
‘Tis better to wear a general disposition, remember
Dispose any stagger that draws assault on the senses,
Planting seeds of doubt in none-too-loyal soldiers
Who’d as soon turn the whetted edge to their commander
When nestled in growing confusion.
Yet amidst lifting words steer caution
Lest your highness fall, into traps of trust
When all you hold is coveted,
Likely as not by each, and so each
Falls prey to the green hunger that doth undo
Any confidence cachet’d upon their brow.
There shall be weath’ring times design’d to test,
Heed not the calling of any knights of doom
If e’er a challenge marks out when thy weakness shrills in chaos,
Let the Reaper pass by questioning his orders
And know, this is no field for Horsemen.

Blood will fade with time that passes;
Even now the deed is distant in its pricking,
Soon to be lost under more worthy indents
Of festive victory and hapful display of power;
Think no more of it, I beguile myself at the mention.
Now steel thy nerves into order,
There can and shall be no danger’d discovery dis-moving
In the blinding light of courage, even forged,
Hearts of men seek naught but pleasing facade;
O the bright sun o’ Optimism leading,
Oftentimes to their untimely demise.

-Lady M.