The pain that claimed Moira’s features unleashed a very weighted wave of remorse within the necromancer. Even as his own pain desisted and hers grew, he began to lose his nerve. His rational mind ticked steadily onward, however, reasoning that this method was the only method that could possibly work against a volatile student. How else could he demonstrate to her the gravitas of her gift than by impressing upon her skin the same scar she had given him? It was penance. It was justice. It was necessary. Tick-tick-tick whirred his mind, stentorian over the deep lances of pity that welled up within him. This was not the time or the place to show weakness. This was not the time or the place to develop a useless attribute like empathy. He had already felt what she was now feeling. He had suffered with it for days.
As he watched her mouth quiver, witnessed the whites of her eyes blossoming with fear, saw the streaks of tears and sweat redden her cheeks, he had to clench his jaw and steady his focus; he would not look away. He was going to endure this with her. When she fell to the ground, he was going to pick her up. When she recoiled and hissed at him to keep his distance, he would persevere. That was his method of instruction. Harsh and unforgiving, but patient and true. In the back of his mind, he could hear his old mentor’s voice ringing out above the muddled cries of his own conscience. Her position had always come from a point of balance, of nature, of chaos, of good and evil. He had respected her above all others in the coven, for her wisdom was unquestionable. In a lesson, years ago, she had delivered unto him words which had become a basis for his code as an instructor. A child may never be truly wary of the flame until it has been burned by it. This recollection fortified his resolve and he steeled his jaw. He continued, adamantly dismissing any notions of sympathy which might have risen within him, begged him to stop.
Just as he had reclaimed his convictions, he heard it. The sweep of booted feet through fallen leaves, then the very familiar voice of his fellow mentor. Immediately, he froze, eyes widening. His legs twitched as if willing him to run away, but that was not who he was. He had never in his life questioned, with any great sincerity, himself or his actions. Despite the circumstances and the general appearance of things, Micah hadn’t come here to answer a call of revenge. His motives were not self-serving at all. He had crossed the Adirondacks to this well-visited strip of time-shares so that he could teach a very valuable lesson. As Reagen drew closer, sending a shock-wave of his electric energy between himself and Moira, Micah’s only reaction was to shoot him a very vicious glare. Eyes, now bloodshot from expelling such a great degree of energy and power, narrowed darkly. Hooded irises were as black as pitch and did not reflect the world around him; they simply absorbed.
When that loud clap of thunder sounded, Micah released Moira just out of sheer frustration. In an instant, his power flared dangerously. New power. Unnatural and dark power. It sparked like a frayed wire and loomed around him in a protective shield. The spirits he’d conjured fell back behind him after relinquishing their hold on the young pyromancer. Otherwise invisible forms began to materialize in rank at his side. Seething, faceless phantoms. It was as if there was a breach between this world and the afterworld and that rift was Micah. In his palms, energy swarmed in orbs of necrotic purple.
"This has nothing to do with you, Reagen,” he snapped harshly. “This is a lesson I’m having to teach because you haven’t got the strength to do it yourself.” Micah regretted the words immediately and took a step back. A step away from the sizzling heap that was Moira. Away from the towering form that was Reagen. “How can you expect her to control herself if she has no concept of her gift — of what she’s capable? She’s a walking bomb, Reagen, and that’s your fault. I bear the scar that proves it.” The wound upon his arm had mostly healed; he had given it all to Moira. All that remained was a disfiguring scar; the warped outline of Moira’s hand. Again, that nagging sensation pulled at his chest. Should he feel pity for her? Should he take it all back? No. He would heed his own words in this and he would stand by them without fail.
Slowly, slowly, as if in undulating ripples, the power that surrounded him was reined in as if it were a fitful stallion. Those dark beings which had come into view slowly faded away and the eerie cloak of dark colours which hung upon him like a mantle was drawn within his skin. The passing of a few seconds was all he needed to swallow back the growing beast within. When he blinked his eyes once more, they were clear. That same, unassuming brown of tilled earth. As he spoke next, he went to Moira, hoping to help her up — to engage in a conversation. To make clear his motives, his intentions. He knelt beside her, reaching for her smoldering arm.
"This is your work, Moira, not mine. That’s your hand print.”
