Lights Flicker And Fade : Kol Mikaelson [3]

201: Nature Is Always Changing

'You were right, back when.
I have built a 'you' within me...
or you have.
I wonder what of me there is in you.'

This Is How You Lose The Time War,
Amal El-Mohtar

1902

The night sky was dark, covering the area like a dome, containing the smell in the air. Trapping it. Marking the land with blood and bodies. It felt cruel, but the stars were shining, like the eyes of a God, looking down and laughing - or taunting - or, well, no one really knew. When a story is told so many times, the specific details become vague.

Spirits and stars reminding the woman, baby in her arms, that there will always be a stronger power in the world.

Someone able to step on you, the way you step on ants.

"Pran Sa Ki Sakre."

At the start of time, magic appeared.

Different tribes, covens, and lives spread across the world, echoing a million names. Though the gift of magic should be what connected them, as time passed, that link weakened.

The thing that united all witches was pain.

"Anima Marcam, Iskoristi Vuka."

Creators of nature.

Creators for nature.

A title that felt more like a joke, overrun with new creatures. All fighting, at every second, to be at the top. Taking themselves as nature, magic their servants. Fearing and oppressing what they did not understand until it forgot the power it truly held.

"Fè Li Yon Bagay Nouvo."

Maybe it was nature's way of keeping them in check. Reminding witches that rules on what they could create had been put there to save them. The dog that bites the hand that feeds it would not exist if they did not push what they'd been blessed with.

If they had not questioned or created, simply served.

Nature's servants.

"Sakrifis Pou Lalin Lan."

They were their strongest when aligned with their spirits.

That was the legend, anyway.

Fact and fiction had always been a thin line, and humanity seemed to have a short-term memory.

No one recorded the history of magic. Not the whole history. Family spells and coven biographies? Sure. But the changes in patterns beyond what one person could do had never been gathered in one place.

In 1901, how could it have been?

"Hashi Nvgiddgia Nvasdi."

The woman was dressed in white linen, stepping into a river at the start of a wooded path, the land decorated with tiny pyres flickering with each grace of wind. Adding colour to the canvas of dark royal blue, splintering off into indigo and berry. Shadowed greens. Blinding white. Brown that was black in the night, with no deepness to signal health and life or budding bushes.

Fire, the burning red pyres.

Turning to a shade of blue that was anything but 'natural.' Bright, glowing and filled with power. Arctic ice breaking through the night, warmer and more welcoming to her than any red or yellow could've ever been anymore.

"Pran Sa Ki Sakre."

Holy scripts could write about water turning to blood and wine, but the image had lost its power. She had seen the colour. Felt its flow - and known her family had contributed to it.