“So I don't blame you if you want to / Bury me in your memory, I'm not the girl I ought to be”

 

In the vast lexicon of all that was possible within the bounds of magic, certain spells would inevitably, through decades, centuries of passing on knowledge, become common and understood well enough to be given somewhat universal names. Homeward was one such spell, the simplest of teleportation spells to cast, it took a person from wherever they were, to the magical receiver on the other end. And, while Homeward was generally considered fairly elementary, without proper concentration, any spell involving moving a person from one place to another was exceedingly dangerous. People could wind up maimed or disfigured, half in one location half in another, or pop out the other side high in the air, plummeting to an inevitable doom. Sybil didn’t have time to consider the danger. Another volley of arrows was being prepped and Madelyn’s limp form was too heavy to shove off quickly. She pictured her cabin, grasped Madelyn tightly, and said the words. The next moment felt as though she were being squeezed through a strainer. Was this how it ended? Torn apart by an errant casting?

 

Then she was home, and not in any pain. More importantly, Madelyn was in one piece, unconscious on the floor. Most importantly, she was bleeding profusely. Her femoral artery had been severed just above the knee, an arrow had lodged into her back, and, depending on how deep it was, may have hit her left kidney. If she didn’t receive attention soon, Madelyn would die. Sybil couldn’t stop panting, she was practically doubled over, but, somehow, managed to bark out a command to ‘Ruuk. “Slow the bleeding on her leg. Hurry,” she wheezed. Not wasting a moment, Lady Hissruuk, who was naturally transported along with her Mistress due to their magical bond, wound herself tightly around Madelyn’s leg, applying a makeshift temporary tourniquet. 

 

Time was short, Sybil knew that. ‘Ruuk had bought her only moments, assuming Madelyn wanted to keep her leg. Feet hammering against the floor, she dashed to her study, flinging open her cabinets and generally making a mess of all her painstakingly organized stock as she desperately searched for her healing salves. Her supplies were low, but it would have to do. An unused spool of spider-silk bandages gathered dust in the back of one of her ingredient shelves, along with a kit of basic surgeon’s tools. She snatched them, doused them with alcohol, and slathered as much of the salve as she could possibly fit onto the strips of bandage she cut. It would be enough, it had to. 

 

Sybil didn’t really remember running back to her front room, but she must have. Her vision was blurry, head pounding, breath gasping. ‘Ruuk slithered off Madelyn’s leg, and the blood began to spurt once more. There was so much. She was going to die and it would be Sybil’s fault. She couldn’t see, her vision was too stained by tears and blind grief. She sank to her knees, lungs seeming to somehow outpace her heaving gasps; she’d never breathed so hard and fast in her life, so why did it feel as though she were choking? This was going to be it, wasn’t it? Madelyn was always absent from the dreams because Sybil had killed her. Could she even bring herself to finish the spell knowing what she’d done? Suddenly, her ears were ringing. Lady Hissruuk was inches from her face, jaw unhinged, living up to at least one part of her namesake. With a yelp, Sybil fell backward, shaking her head and wiping her eyes. She breathed in and out, nodded a brief thanks to her familiar, then stood.

 

Hands shaking, but head at least mostly cleared, she bound Madelyn’s leg tightly, ensuring the wound was coated in salve. That would clot the blood and, with time, stitch the artery back together. Unfortunately, dressing that particular wound was the easy part. The first arrow had cleanly sailed right through; the one still lodged inside would prove more challenging. Grasping the shaft firmly, as close to the entrance site she could manage, Sybil glanced up once at Madelyn’s face to ensure she was still fully unconscious. “Please don’t wake up.” Lightly, she marked the arrow shaft with her scalpel at the entrance of the wound; then, wincing, she made a shallow incision on either side of the shaft to make room for the head, and, muttering a second apology, tugged with a frim, but smooth motion. Sybil was lucky, Madelyn luckier; the arrow wasn’t impacted deep enough to require further tools, and slid out with little resistance. Using the mark she’d made as a reference, Sybil was able to confirm it had only managed to impact itself a few centimeters deep, not far enough to puncture a kidney. All those physiology and medicine lessons Illis had hammered home were good for something, apparently. 

 

The second wound wasn’t bleeding particularly badly, but Sybil wasn’t about to leave it untreated. Taking the second disinfected bandage, Sybil wound it around Madelyn’s midsection. “She’ll be okay,” Sybil repeated over and over with each rise and fall of her breaths, as though saying it more often would somehow make it come to pass. Returning to Madelyn’s leg, she checked and rechecked the bandage’s application. It seemed fine, tight, but not too tight, though already stained dark, nearly black with the outpouring of blood. Still, it appeared to be doing its job; nothing was leaking out. There was a pulse, if faint, and Madelyn was breathing slowly. All that was left to do was wait and hope she’d acted quickly enough. “Watch her for a few minutes, tell me if anything changes.” 

 

Standing and striding from the room, Sybil did all she could to keep her focus narrow, to not think about what would happen if she’d been too late. She fetched some cheese, bread and fruit from the kitchen and arranged them on a plate, then scrounged up as much soft bedding and linens as she could find. Returning, Sybil set the plate beside Madelyn’s head along with her waterskin, then covered her in blankets, and lifted her head to place a pillow beneath it. Doing more seemed risky; Sybil wasn’t confident that moving Madelyn would be a good idea at this point. For several moments, she simply paced the room, trying to occupy her thoughts with literally anything at all. Theoretically, Sybil could prep the spell, she had all she needed, but that felt so grim at a time like this. It wouldn’t take long to do so regardless; summoning her could wait. In all honesty, she wasn’t entirely certain Sybil could look her future lover in the eye if Madelyn died for the purpose of finding her.

 

Those thoughts had become too much; next thing Sybil knew, she was rushing to Madelyn’s side to check her pulse again, her breathing again, hoping to find something, anything to do to be useful. There wasn’t, Sybil knew that she’d done all she could. Still, it was hard to tell, but it felt like Madelyn’s pulse might have grown stronger. Whether it actually had, or Sybil just desperately wanted it to, remained a mystery. But hunched over her like that, her slow breaths tickling Sybil’s neck as she felt for Madelyn’s heartbeat, Sybil found herself unable to rise. What if this were the last time she felt Madelyn’s warmth? That thought was enough to bring on the tears again.  She clutched Madelyn tightly, pressing her face into the crook of her neck and sobbing into the pillow. Holding her like this, at least, felt comfortable. Sybil didn’t want to let go. Her eyes fluttered shut.

 

When her eyes opened, Sybil was dreaming. Madelyn was awake; she had wrapped an arm around Sybil and pulled her closer. With a shy smile, Sybil closed her eyes and nuzzled into Madelyn’s neck, tightening her grip and breathing a contented sigh. That was when Madelyn began stuttering and stammering.

 

“S-Sybil? What are you?” Madelyn was growing suddenly warmer; Sybil’s eyes flew open as she bolted up with a start and turned away, blushing furiously. 

 

“I, uh, you’re awake. S-sorry.” Sybil cursed herself internally; how could she let this happen? Falling asleep like that was one thing, but not realizing she was awake and literally cuddling closer to Madelyn? “Got wrapped up in the moment.”

 

“R-right. You uh, you saved me again, didn’t you? Thank you. I’m sorry I keep fucking up. You shouldn’t need to keep bailing me out.” She’d taken on an unexpectedly dejected, defeated tone, and why? Those arrows weren’t meant for Madelyn, but she took them anyway. 

 

“Don’t. You protected me. You probably saved both our lives. I’m the one who should be thanking you. You’ve done more than I could ever reasonably ask of you.” Heart hammering in her chest, Sybil lay a hand on Madelyn’s cheek, stroking it affectionately. “Besides, we didn’t fail. We have everything we needed, we got out. We did it.” The words had scarcely left her mouth when Sybil was struck with the realization that she’d quite possibly picked the least comforting thing she could choose to say in that moment. On cue, Madelyn’s already deflated mood fell further still.

 

“Oh.” She sounded bitter, almost sarcastic. ”So that means you can cast the spell, right?”

 

“Well, yeah we can, but it can wait. You’re still recovering and—”

 

“I feel fine, actually. All healed.” Her voice, low, even and sharp, betrayed the reality that, while her physical wounds may well have been fixed up by Sybil’s magic salves, Madelyn was most certainly not fine. “You should cast the spell; it’s everything you’ve ever wanted, right?”

 

“But I—”

 

“Just do it, Sybil.” And that was that, apparently. Madelyn glanced away, crossing her arms under her chest and chewing her lip. Every part of Sybil wanted to push back, to refuse, to climb back into that little makeshift bed and beg forgiveness for just about everything she’d said and done since waking up. She didn’t. The writing was on the wall; Sybil had already pushed Madelyn away. It was hard to even get excited for the spell; maybe this was how things were supposed to be, though. Without another word—at least none out loud, within her head Sybil was screaming at both herself and Madelyn—left the front room, entering her workspace. 

 

Her ingredient satchel was waiting on the counter; it contained everything she’d gathered that past few days. With a mortar and pestle, Sybil pounded half of the syrkroot she’d first gathered in the woods together with about a quarter of the lumbering dragon’s saliva, creating a powerful binding catalyst. That would keep everything contained, along with kickstarting the spell for her, saving energy she simply didn’t have. Next was a sprinkle of the planar-dust Madelyn had bought in town for her, and one of the nyllwev leaves she’d gathered—Sybil had been no fool this time, with each reagent, she had made sure to get extra in case something went wrong again. The dust would do all the heavy lifting when it came to actually performing the teleportation, while the nyllwev leaves would create a far more effective scrying spell than the reagent Sybil had used in her previous attempt. 

 

Then there were the reagents she’d had all along, a fine paste made from various mosses that would ensure the subject wasn’t hurt during the transportation, a bit of mercury to automatically close the portal behind her, and lastly, a drop of her own blood, to ensure it sought the correct person’s match. The drop of blood part was never easy; she’d done it countless times and still always hesitated. Still, Sybil managed to prick her finger after the fourth attempt of goading herself into doing it, and was generally doing a pretty good job of not thinking about Madelyn. A good job until just then. She scrawled out a summoning circle—contrary to popular belief, they really didn’t actually need to be that neat—hesitated three or four times, then managed to force her feet to move.

 

As if she’d sensed her Mistress’ feelings, and acted upon them where she couldn’t, Lady Hissruuk had gently coiled herself around Madelyn, who was stroking the snake with surprising fondness, given their rather rocky start. Not reminding herself of the fact that ‘Ruuk was hostile to just about everyone save Sybil was pretty much impossible. Yet somehow Madelyn had won her over. A metaphor probably nestled itself quite neatly in there somewhere, but Sybil wasn’t in a position to unpack it. At the sound of her footsteps, Madelyn glanced up, uncertain, watery eyes met her own. Then Sybil’s felt her own begin to water. “I, um, the spell is ready, if you want to come watch, I don’t know, see the fruits of your labor.”

 

Madelyn stayed quiet for several moments, breaking eye-contact and returning her gaze to ‘Ruuk. “I guess I should come see. And then, uh, way back when you mentioned sending me back; if we do that, will I lose this body?”

 

Sybil wanted to lie, she didn’t, she couldn’t. “I can send you back, and I can find a way to make that body not go away.” 

 

A conflicted look that seemed to pendulum between relief and disappointment flowed back and forth upon Madelyn’s face. “No sense wasting any more time, then; let’s just get this over with.” With no apparent difficulty, Madelyn stood. Clearly she wasn’t lying about her wounds having healed; she followed Sybil into her study, lingering in the doorway, watching with unfocused eyes. 

 

Standing before the summoning circle as she had only days ago—it felt so long—Sybil did one last mental checkup to be sure everything was in order. The circle was drawn, the incantation memorized, and in her hands was the mortar containing her reagent mixture. It was an all too familiar picture, everything was accounted for—almost everything, her brain reminded her unhelpfully. The wight’s finger wouldn’t be necessary, though. Neither its purpose as a reagent, nor the type of magic it correlated to were needed here. That had to be the case. 

 

A deep breath in and out, Sybil glanced back at Madelyn one more time. ‘Ruuk had wound herself around her right leg; Sybil and Madelyn shared the sort of look which only two people who have a lot to say, but won’t say any of it, can share. Sybil faced forward, and began to speak. The mixture in her hands began to smolder, a heavy, herbal-smelling smoke pouring from the bowl. It popped, fizzed, flashed; Sybil felt the magic flow through her, ready to seek whomever was on the other side of the barrier she was about to pierce. Then it dissipated. It fell apart, never even probing the veil that separated Sybil’s world from Earth. For several seconds, Sybil was silent, she stared into the empty space in front of her, felt the magic within her scatter into nothingness. She heard a choked, pained cry in her own voice coming from somewhere far away, and slumped forward. “I failed. Again,” she croaked.  

 

Apparently seeing Sybil this way stirred something in Madelyn, despite everything. “What do you mean you failed? Nothing happened, did you even cast it?”

 

“No, I didn’t. That’s the point, it fell apart. And I know why. I don’t understand why, but I know why. I didn’t want to believe it, but there’s one more reagent we need.” She shuddered, sucking in short, stuttering breaths. The mere thought of doing that prickled her skin, curdled her blood. “I can’t ask you to do this, Madelyn.” She stared into the empty bowl before her, then up again into the empty circle. Madelyn likely hated her already, and without the wight’s finger, the spell would never work. It was this, or a life of bitter loneliness. “It’s dangerous, you’d have to do it alone ‘cause it would never show up if it smelled a witch and—”

 

“Tell me what it is.”

 

“A wight, a kind of spirit. We need one of it’s fingers to hold the spell together. You summon them around nightfall, they take you into their realm and from there things only get worse. They’re crafty, they’ll make deals or challenge you to games. But the deals never turn out good, the games are never fair. There’s a reason we can’t just go down to the market and buy one. People rarely escape from a wight with any sort of prize, assuming they escape at all.” The fact that she was even telling Madelyn any of this instead of just shutting down the conversation entirely filled Sybil with deep shame, endless guilt. 

 

“And you want me to go after one, right?”

 

“I don’t. I just—you don’t know what it’s like, being in love with someone the way I am. I think about her every night before I drift off, imagine little scenes of our lives together in the hopes it might conjure another dream. I don’t think it works that way though. Sometimes I still have doubts she’s even real. I know so little about her; she always feels so far away, but she means so much to me. And I’m just left clutching at the scraps of a better life.” Somewhere along the way, the tears she’d been trying to hold back had started flowing freely again, dripping off her nose and chin, plopping into the empty mortar which she still clutched tightly, as though the magic might still spring forth if she clung hard enough.

 

For what felt like minutes, she remained like that, quietly sobbing. Madelyn spoke. “You have a lot of books in here. Would any of them tell me more about wights?”

 

“Madelyn, don’t—”

 

“You don’t get to decide this for me, Sybil. I’m not looking to throw my life away, but maybe if I learn more I can help. After everything you just said, do you really expect me to not try? You’ve saved my life twice now.” Madelyn paused, agonizing over what to say next. “You mean a lot to me. You mean a lot to me, but I can’t be the one you need. If the best I can do is deliver you the one you actually need, then I at least want to know what it would take.”

 

“Fine, read all you like, all it’ll to do is convince you what a stupid idea this is.” Standing with a start, Sybil marched across the room to her bookshelf. Was this anger she felt? Anger at Madelyn for being this bull-headed? Anger at herself for allowing the conversation to even continue? Running a searching finger along the many spines of her collection, she plucked an old, leather-bound tome and set it upon the table. “There. You want to know about wights? This is a collection of survivor’s accounts. Read it, and you’ll never want to set foot outside this cabin again.” She spun on her heel, and left without another word.

 

Sybil sat in her front room, doing all she could to not think about what Madelyn was up to. There was no way Sybil would let her do it, even if she still wanted to after reading the horrific accounts transcribed within that tome. Yet, it was impossible to deny the fact that part of her wondered, what if? What if Madelyn did it somehow? If the visions from Sybil’s dreams really were pre-ordained and not simply glimpses into a possible future, that would mean she’d have to succeed, right? No, Sybil had no way of knowing whether that or not were the case. Foolishly, she’d spent more time trying to determine the hows than the whats or whys. Perhaps none of this would have happened if she’d simply taken the time to understand better. And what of Madelyn then? How could Sybil ever know that? 

 

There were too many questions, too many anxieties. Casting a shadow over all of them. there was the matter of the spell failing, specifically, the question of why it had failed. Why the wight’s finger was even necessary to begin with was beyond Sybil. Obviously, the syrkroot had failed to act as a potent enough binding agent, but, again, why? What was so different about this casting besides a few different reagents? All of Sybil’s experience suggested that the syrkroot should have worked. Theoretically, unless she were adding on an entire third type of magic to the spell, there was no need for a more potent binding agent. 

 

And even if that were the case, syrkroot still should have worked just fine. Realistically, to necessitate a reagent as powerful as a wight’s finger, Sybil would not only have to be adding a third type of magic, but beyond that, said third type of magic would need to significantly increase the spell’s complexity. Originally, Sybil’s spell combined a very simple scrying incantation with a much more difficult summoning one. If the wight’s finger really was necessary, a third magic type would not only need to exist within the final casting, but would need to be comparably complex to the summoning portion. 

 

One other possibility existed, that Sybil could just be wrong. Maybe somehow syrkroot wasn’t nearly as effective as Sybil thought it was. Admittedly, that seemed ridiculous; she used it all the time. But it was either that, or there was an entire dimension to this spell which she still hadn’t even considered. Frankly, neither seemed particularly likely, but something not seeming possible didn’t change the fact that the spell did not work. So what then? Go after a wight? It seemed like the only choice left. Internally, she recoiled, disgusted with herself for even considering such a course of action. It wasn’t an option. Sybil pushed the thought away; she wasn’t about to put Madelyn’s life in danger just to find the answer, so that was out of the question. Confronting a wight was too dangerous. It wasn’t worth it. The function it fulfilled in the spell simply did not matter because it would not come to be. There had to be some other way, Sybil would find it, but first, she needed to talk to Madelyn. 

 

Standing, Sybil returned to her study, then stopped short. The room was empty, the book open, and, more importantly, the window too. Outside, the sky began to darken. It was almost nightfall.