By SylverEyes
He planted one mutilated hand on the blood-soaked floor of the theatre, testing it to see if it would support his suddenly frail body. The other hand he used to pull himself up, but he only collapsed again after seconds of his short-lived triumph.
He lay on the ground for a while, his breath coming out in short, painful gasps. So much he had worked for, strived for - all gone. And it was him that had done it.
A sudden burst of fury, of unchecked anger threatened to overwhelm him, but he refused to let it happen. No, he had lived too hatefully to allow himself to succumb to such a primitive emotion.
Besides, he was too damn tired.
He took a deep breath, shuddering painfully. The blood was still dripping, still falling... would it never end?
It would not. And that fault would be his, and his alone.
He started to drag himself from the grisly scene, with every desperate move his body begging for him to stop. But he couldn't. It was not yet too late, and this was all he had to give - all he had left, his final wish for redemption. It was not that far, and he deserved the pain, yes, he did... no matter what the voices would say.
For the voices were gone.
Locked inside the book he held in his burned, bleeding hands. And when he reached his altar... they would never, ever speak again.
And with this thought in mind he pulled himself onward, his only goal to stay alive until he reached the Summoning Chamber. He would reach it, he told himself. He had to, damnit!
He dragged himself through the secret passage and felt his hands connect with the cold stone floor of the hidden hall. The stone was painfully cold... it numbed, almost, the burning pain in his hands.
The book glowed with a life of its own; it seemed to move and twist in his grasp. The spirit wanted freedom, but no, it would not have it. It would not.
He was close - almost there... but his body cried out in anguish. No more, it said. Time had run out.
His life was over.
He closed his eyes, knowing that his exhausted body was indeed failing him. He had been the greatest magician, the most powerful of them all... he had ruled the world! Triumph filled his mind. He had indeed achieved his most desired goal.
Then, the pain came. It rushed into him, allowing nothing inside him to live. The joy, the sweet joy... gone. The feeling of success was destroyed, and all that was left was pain, more tortuous agony to torment him.
He couldn't tell if it was mental or physical, or perhaps both, only that it took away his breath and his will to survive. He would have screamed, but he could not find his voice. The same voice, which not so long ago had proudly presented his magical deeds.
The demon had ripped into his soul and robbed him of everything that was sweet. He had become one with what he had always secretly desired - power. True, dark, evil power. And in doing so, he became the monstrosity that both children and adults are ever wary of, the dark fears that came with the night. Monsters at midnight - under the bed, in the darkness of a closet, concealed with blood-tinted knives...
Visions, fleeting but still effective - they poured over his eyes. His first and most beloved wife, standing with his baby girl... and then himself, murdering them both without remorse. The blood, it was on his hands.
His smile was ironic; he looked down at his hands and saw the charred flesh, the blood still slowly dripping. Oh, he was the greatest magician - but what had he done? The price he had paid?
"I am such a fool," he spat, his words leaving him breathless. He felt his life draining, he could not go on. Perhaps the spirit would remain in the book... the thought brightened him considerably, but still, he could not help but think he was deluding himself. There was no use in false hope. But he could give nothing more, there was nothing else he had to offer to this world, from which he had taken so much. His body, his weak, pathetic body had failed him even when his spirit was still strong.
"Yes, strong, goddamn you!" he cried, the consequences of his harsh words stunning him for an instant. Words... words were so precious, and he could barely speak. His strength had left him.
So this was what death was like, he thought. He had always wondered.
It was hard. It was hard to watch his life slipping away every second, every minute of his precious time. It was hard to watch the blood drip - drip, drip, drip - it was suddenly so loud in his ears. The drums of judgment day had come to torment him.
And it was hard to just lie there, to know he had no strength left to send the demon back. There was nothing left inside him to move any further.
He made up his mind. He had to try one more time.
He grasped the wall, the stone biting into his hand. He ignored the pain. After all, there was a hole in his damn chest. A scratch from a stone wall shouldn't do anything to him.
The world was ending for him. The great Carno, World-Renowned Magician - can't even get up anymore. Couldn't overcome the demon. Left it waiting for more victims, to satisfy its murderous hunger...
Self-pity! Again! His ego was grand, but his self-pity was even stronger. Disgusted with himself, he slashed his hands against the wall and while he grimaced from the sharp pain, he chuckled softly to himself.
Almost... oh, he was agonizingly close to his goal... his feet planted on the ground.
But no. He fell back down onto the stone floor, exhausted.
He clung to his life, but it was no longer his to own. The book seemed to laugh at him, the malicious green glow breathing with a heartbeat of its own - as if drawing its energy from his former keeper's last breaths.
The previous rage he had felt was back. This time, he let it be. It was all he had left! What would it matter now?
The anger filled his soul, it exploded deep inside him. He was alive in his fury, alive for the last time... but as quickly as it had come, it died.
He rolled over, the book still in his arms. "Why...have...you...done...this...to me?" he asked, his voice almost begging, the pleading tone in it signaling his defeat.
There was no answer from the entity, but he knew well the response. You brought this down upon yourself, he told himself. And on all those you have loved.
Death came, swiftly, silently. He saw her the moment before she took his soul. She knew she was welcome, for she had visited this mansion many, many times before.
"No...no, not yet..." he moaned. Was there to be no salvation for his poor, tortured soul? He had lived in the shadow of the demon's deeds, watching helplessly as his wives, all his wives, his child... all killed by himself.
How could he explain that? To anyone? To his Creator, the God of the religion he was born into? The religion he had forsaken so long ago, the faith that had died before he was even born.
And to his wives, the victims of his destruction? Especially Sofia. His little girl, his precious one - her darling father was nothing but a cold-blooded murderer.
And Katya - what would she think of him now? Her older brother, so admired, so famed - a killer? There was no salvation for him if they did not forgive him. And he did not, could not forgive himself.
He felt his soul was trying to escape his broken body. Away, away... away from the hands of deceit. He had failed the world. Failed! It was a blow to his still-surviving pride, the ego he now despised.
With his last attempt to redeem himself, he could think of nothing to do but make the sign of the cross. The Father - whom he had never cared for. The Son - who gave up his life. The Spirit - where was the spirit now? The supposedly comforting, kind spirit? There was no comfort for him. He wished only to make his peace with God. If there was a God.
Perhaps, though, he would not be completely destroyed. Or maybe he should be...
Death smiled upon her own. They were not so unlike, this magician and herself.
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