Bohemian Rhapsody

moment two: under shadow´s gaze (1953)

Tom scuttled across the open plain, ensorcelling any onlookers with a web of his own making. See nothing, he whispered, and they saw nothing. Hear nothing, and so it seemed silent.

Finally, the appointed time had arrived. A dark moon, perfect for magicks that were never meant to be seen. Stonehenge: a place of ancient power, steeped in blood and ruin, left as a curious relic for Muggles. Hefting the sack from over his shoulder, he deposited it on the weathered altar stone, and gently opened the sack to reveal a sleeping fawn. He had found it on the sacred Isle of Mona, a dying breed associated with rituals of royal power going back to the Celts.

The apostate had learnt much in these three years, years in which he almost became a fixture amongst the Library of St. John the Beheaded, searching through arcane and dark texts, remnants of legend, and those in which legend had already turned into myth.

In his studies, he had come across a trace of an ancient ritual, long since purged from the text, thanks to Christian piety and later magical ethics. He had managed to piece part of it together based on the ancient tales of Ireland, and had figured out the rest himself. He hoped.

During millennia gone past, druids would stand here, where he was now, and chant. What happens to the King Stag when the Young Stag is grown? The cycle of time continuing as power moved from old to new.

Tom grunted, feeling the groan of nature against this. He would kill the Young Stag, and no-one would follow to usurp his power. He fumbled in his pocket for the obsidian knife he´d made, and stifled a cry as he cut himself upon the razor-sharp blade. Licking at the blood, he whispered the few words that would rouse the young fawn from its spell-induced sleep, and it rose, kicking and afraid, the smell of fear in the air. Tom slashed once, and then again.

The fawn struggled, and was still, its heartblood pouring out upon the altar. Looking at the ugly cut across his palm, Tom shrugged and squeezed out a few drops into the mixture. He swirled it with his wand, and marked the stone with old symbols, before marking his forehead in a similar fashion.

He called on darkness, in its purest form, here on the blackest night to guide him. "Nox."

The whisper rolled out from the land like a thunderstorm, and the night seemed to get colder, the darkness drawn to him like a lover.

"As blood calls to blood, and life to life, so I offer life in place of mine, and my life in place of you who does not die, so that I may be worthy of eternal service."

He bowed his head ritually, and marked his cheeks with blood, his voice softly speaking the invocation. "I call upon thee, father of darkness, to help me as thy would thy son, for I will be thy flesh and thy blood and through me thou shall rule amongst glory and ruin forever."

The blood started to swirl of its own accord, and Tom could see the heart of the fawn begin to beat again, wildly, madly.

He turned to the east. "I summon thee: Apollyon, angel of destruction."

He turned to the south. "I summon thee: Huitzilopochtli, warrior God, champion of the Mexaca."

He turned to the west. "I summon thee: Mara, master of temptations."

He turned to the north. "I summon thee: Fenric, wolf who eats the sun."

Tom could feel the darkness gather form and substance, moving around him as the blood became shot with black, crimson dissolving in a pool of night. The fawn´s eyes snapped open, black and empty, devoid of life, its open heart still thumping wetly.

"I summon and beseech thee, master of all names and none, that thou will bind me to thee as a faithful servant, and live in me, so that I may know thy Glory!" His voice rose to a scream, and without hesitation, Tom took the knife and slashed each wrist in turn, blood pouring from his veins.

"I am only the vessel - you are the life. I am only the vessel - you are the life. I am only the vessel - you are the life!" He could feel the power raging within him, and around him. The fawn´s heart exploded, covering him with flesh and blood, and he exulted in the sacrifice, mouth open in a rictus-like grin. "Let the life enter in!"

"Deus hominem intrat!" The words burst from his soul. "Permittere ianuam aperit!"

And before he collapsed, Tom could feel that other self smiling at the back of his mind. "Very good, Lord Voldemort," the voice whispered on the edge of consciousness, chuckling softly. "The door is opened, indeed."

Then everything went black.