I know you. Teary-eyed and shudder-breathed, you grasp at the void and find only me. Your ritual components are laid out before you. You expected this to be harder. I can tell because your eyes widened as I clawed my way into your world. I can hear your breath catch. Perhaps you're afraid. Maybe the image of my exposed sinew, pulsing and grey, startled you. It might have frightened you when I smiled- wide and uncanny. I have so many of mankind's teeth. You do not call me beautiful when you compose yourself. Not like the flatterers who ask me for pacts to cure their puppy's plugged nostrils or bring back their lost child or whatever vain, flimsy things men lean on to pretend their ambitions are different than ours.
You ask me my name, and I give it. I am Marettia. You, I already know, are Mel. I have been watching since you breathed your resolve in the frigid Sharlayan air. You would kill Lakoth, you decided. Your cheeks were flush with the chill, lips pouting and quivering like a frightened child. You'd kill him for what he did to you, to your love. It's not fair that it's fallen to you.
You breathe out a chuckle as you scramble to fetch your reagents. An athame wet with your own blood, a crystal that glints black in the purple candlelight. The candles smell like small, bunchy purple flowers whose name I've long forgotten. There are no pretty purple flowers that grow in home's enduring darkness. Your room is bright to me, even in its shadowiest parts, and warm like the sun. I barely remember the sun.
"I'm Mel," you tell me, and I can hear your inexperience. That's not how these conversations start, little one. It makes me think, for a moment, how lucky you are that I have use for you. You don't know I know.
"I know," I say. And now you do. Your grey eyes squint behind your spectacles. I had spectacles once. "I've been watching."
"Watching? Why?" Oh, you're so dull.
"Lakoth," I hiss. His name is odiously sour in my mouth. My tongue revolts at the prospect of speaking his name. But I must, I must. And I do. You wince when I lean forward. I'm looming over you. I'm as powerful as three of you.
"I'll kill him," you tell me. You're kneeling on the ground in your sleeping clothes. Pink little catlike creatures dot your white cotton shirt. Your bare knees are red on your wooden floor. You look so small, but your eyes are steely. Your face sets with anger, and you work your jaw. I could -feast- on the aether your hatred could pull out of you. I can see your rage. Your balled fists and stiff shoulders. To drink deep of your aetheric wellspring would be so sweet. So sweet. So sweet. But I cannot taste. If I taste, then the deal is done. There is nothing special about you. But I see the rage in your face, and I do not doubt
you when you say you will kill him.
"I will too," I tell you. And I will, I will. For all he has stripped from me. For all he has stripped from us. We will kill him. I can taste his flesh already. I ache to rip him apart. I yearn to feel his flesh split beneath my teeth like leather pulled taut beneath a blade's point. I will drip the aether from the marrow of his bones and let him watch me grow with his stolen power. I will devour him. He will fight me for control, and I will subjugate him. I will hear him beg. The thought waters my mouth.
"What do you want from me in return for your aid?" You ask. I frown.
"Rend and tear the bodies of him and his disciples. Let me taste the blood of the sycophant and the flesh of their master. Let me destroy him. And then we will be done."
And you understand that. You know me. And I know you. You look upon my face, and you smile. You see my suffering as I can see yours. Revenge-maddened, livid, and yearning for blood between our claws and teeth. We will find peace only in the aftermath of the slaughter.
