I am unworthy.
A bolt of lightning strikes the earth before me, and the Chariot and her massive steeds barrel into me,throughme, an explosion of fire and magick that rips me in two.
The pain is like nothing I’ve ever felt—burning and tearing, a loss so deep and fathomless I’m certain I won’t survive. I don'twantto survive. I fall to my knees and clutch my head, howling in agony, begging for death.
The pain is too much, too vast, tooeverything…
And then it stops.
Suddenly I feel… nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I open my eyes to find myself standing on the dirt path again, unharmed, unbroken. Before me, another man stands. The same red hair, the same golden-brown eyes. He is my mirror.
But where I am full of shadows, he is goodness and joy, childlike wonder, happiness. White light emanates from his very being, nearly blinding me.
He reaches out for me, his smile compassionate, his eyes holding a hint of sadness in an otherwise serene face.
But there’s nothing he can offer me now, nothing he can promise.
“Ansel, it is time.” The druid presents me with the gift I’ve longed for my entire life.
My hand wraps around the wand, my magick instantly fusing with it, reverberating back to me with a sense of completion and wholeness and sheer determination.
Instinctively, I know what must be done.
Gripping the wand, I call on my fire magick, directing it toward the mirror image standing before me. His shoes ignite first, the fire eating a path up his legs, his torso, his face.
I watch in fascination as he burns, his skin glowing bright red like a smoldering ember, then blackening. I watch as it turns the color of bone. I watch as he collapses in a pile of ash and memory.
“Be gone, Ansel McCauley,” I whisper, and the breeze heeds my call, picking him up and carrying him away.
“Where is he?” I ask the druid once he’s gone, more curious than concerned.
“He has been called to atone. You needn’t concern yourself with him anymore, Ansel. You have other work—greater work—to accomplish now.”
“What must I do?”
“First, tell me what you recall of the life of Ansel McCauley.”
I close my eyes, trying to give his request the consideration it deserves. Ansel McCauley… Did I know him?
Images flash through my mind like a movie—a childhood by the ocean, the scent of cocoa butter and sticky cherry popsicles, the warmth of the summer sun on fair skin. A chubby little girl stomping through sand castles, squealing with delight as the waves chased her along the shoreline.
I shake my head, and the ocean blurs into a house. An ear pressed to the wall as a man and a woman threaten and scream, beg and shout. Accusations of infidelity, of a young ginger-haired mage, unwanted and unloved.
Everything ends, everything begins again.
The house blurs into a campus. School. Witches and mages. The Academy. Friends that call themselves brothers. There are classes and professors, a bar where students sing karaoke. There’s a woman too, with crazy hair and a terrible singing voice, her skin as sweet as honeysuckle.
She’s singing to me, calling me home… Her eyes are the deepest shade of… blue? Hazel? I’m losing the image. Losing the feel of her touch in my hair. Losing the taste of her kiss.
In its place, I taste fire. Power.
Everything ends, everything begins again.
The last of the images finally fades, and moments later, blinking up at the druid, I can’t even remember what I was thinking about.
“Nothing,” I say honestly. “I recall nothing.”
