Coffin Without Honour

The Hekate of the Circe Coven placed the traditional circlet of the goddess carefully on my head. As she did, the weight of the symbolism felt as if it had been transferred to my shoulders.“The Ceremony will begin soon; another will come for you when it is time." The Hekate murmured, as if I didn't already know. Every witch knew the Rite of Passage inside and out by the time they turned sixteen. It would be folly not to. She spoke the ordained enchantments and the feel of magic pulsed under my skin, the spells mingling with my own primordial power till they resonated in synchronisation. Protective blessings. I never really understood why these were needed before the rite was performed, but I wasn't about to question centuries of practice.

With the magic churning in resonance, The Heakte satisfied, bowed her head and departed.

A sign of respect to one who was about to ascend higher and officially be inducted into the coven. It would probably be the only time she'd ever bow to me. The sound of the door closing sounded ominous to my ears. I was finally alone.

My reflection stared back at me from the obsidian vanity mirror, the eerie glow from the

specially selected moon cycle candles flickered across my skin, illuminating and emphasising my otherness. Idly, I twisted my fingers in a complex dance, whispering arcane words as I did. An emerald green flame sprung to life out of thin air, hovering perfectly over my cupped palm. I murmured more words to it, watching it shift into a flaming horse, frog, bat. Anything to keep me distracted from the preparations going on all through the quarters. The Rite of

Passage was treated with as much pomp and splendour as a wedding, though most witches

I'd spoken to would attest the Passage as being the more important of the two. It was something you really didn't want to mess up and what I feared happening the most.

An involuntary sigh escaped my painted lips and the green fire changed into a swampcoddler in response. I directed a frown at it. A swampcoddler. Really? By Nicneven herself, I hoped this wasn't a bad omen. A quick wave of my other hand and the flame turned back to normal. How long was I supposed to wait? Did they not know the longer I was here, the more my heart thrummed under my chest? Of course they did. It was likely the whole reason for sitting here waiting to be called like a damned dog. A healthy dose of nausea to test the ascendee's will. All the tomes I'd studied never specified how long the wait would be. And I'd studied many.

A rambunctious knocking echoed suddenly through the room startling me from my thoughts,

the rhythm at odds with the serious atmosphere. With enthusiasm like that, it could only be one person. The door swung open and the grinning face of Lixiss met my sight. "You ready?”

"As I'll ever be,” I answered truthfully, taking a deep breath and rising to my feet.

"You look damn beautiful Corisande," she said sincerely, "Like one of those elven mages.”

"Apart from the fact elven mages spit on us and I'm wearing a black gown.”

"Details, details," Lixiss waved her hand dismissively. "Well shall we? Can't keep the coven waiting.”

"I hope whoever fetched you last month was as enthusiastic as this.”

"I had Murnot come and do this part. I don't think the man would know enthusiasm if it came and gorged a chunk of flesh from his side.”

“That's the truth of it all right.” I agreed. In fact, I didn't think Murnot knew how to express any emotion.

Lixiss continued to lead me through the corridors. I knew where we were going. I'd

attended countless Rites of Passages and other ceremonies, each of them held in

the same chamber. Though admittedly, I'd never gone adorned in such finery and

priceless coven artefacts. 

Eventually, we came to a stop outside the only door crafted from oak wood and infused with

sage and other crushed herbs. It projected a cleansing aura, chosen on purpose to represent cleansing your old life and starting anew after passing through it. Lixiss turned to face me. "Well, you know the next bit I'm sure. Just wait for it swing open ok? And good luck in there.” She smiled before pulling up the hood of her robe and passing through the door as if she was some kind of phantom.

Beyond this door was my future, in every sense. It would be my ascension officially into

the coven and the only time I would ever get to see a glimpse of my destined fate. An honour and a privilege bestowed upon witches since the beginning, when it was said the sorceress goddess Nicneven wandered the land. No pressure then. Before I had time to dwell further, the doors swung slowly open.

I stepped through, descending the staircase as gracefully as I was able. More moon cycle candles lit up on either side of the stairs as I passed their black iron stands, the flames as pale as a wraith. The giant chamber spread out below me as I approached the base of the stairs, a circle made entirely of the Circe Coven's robed figures greeted my sight, a solemn chant emanating from them and echoing around the monstrous room, each word saturated with magic. By the time I walked through the circle opening, the air was so thick with woven spells it felt as if it would be difficult to breathe.

I took my place in the centre and immediately glowing lines of green flame erupted and

formed the symbol of the solar cross around me on the marbled floor. Only when it was fully intact, did the chanting cease and the coven pulled back their hoods. The Hekate was directly in front of me of course, but I managed to sneak a peek at Lixiss and she shot me an encouraging smile before she wiped it from her face, the serious expression returning.

"Corisande of the Circe Coven, you have come of age and as tradition dictates, your ascension is to begin." The Hekate began, before handing me a goblet and dagger. "Before we start, your blood must be offered to Nicneven for with this, the goddess will be able to divine your fate and reveal it to you, as with all witches who come of age.” She nodded and resolutely, I slit the palm of my hand, wincing at the sharp sting. I tried not to think about the dagger tasting the blood of hundreds if not thousands of witches before me. I placed my palm down over the goblet and the echoing drips of my blood as they hit silver resonated across the magic intertwined throughout the room.

After a sufficient amount had spilled, I moved my hand away. It couldn't be healed until after the ceremony, something about keeping the connection to the goddess open, even though I was already giving her enough drops. The Hekate peered into the goblet and nodded, confirming the amount was appropriate. "The blood has been offered freely and willingly by the witch Corisande, may the goddess grace her with her presence. Now we weave the spell of summoning. Corisande, hold up the cup and join us in our casting.”

I did as bid, raising the cup up high with my left hand and ignoring the stinging sensation

as the air licked my right. There was no point in worrying about it. It would be healed soon enough. The Hekate uttered the arcane language, her tongue moving as if she was testing the word out for the first time, even though she'd said these phrases half a dozen times. I knew from my studies that the arcane language was unlike any other known language, it was temperamental, the very mood of a single word changing each time it was spoken. You coaxed the arcane and it aided you, you did not control it. Once The Hekate got to a certain point, other voices joined in and then more until finally my voice rose in conjunction with the others.

The fire making up the solar cross suddenly burned brighter and the flickering grew more

intense, but we still continued casting. The silver goblet began to tremble in my grasp and I kept my gaze steady as the droplets of blood rose from the cup and twisted in the air. I'd seen the Rite so many times before, but to actually be the one it was happening to, despite all the reading and going over and over it again in my head, nothing could prepare me for the bolts

of power, swirling like half formed chaos and taking root inside me. The crimson blood gently drifted down, still orbiting each other until they were consumed by

the flame.

Abruptly, one of the flaming lines rose to create a perfectly square but tumultuous wall

of green. My heart hammered drastically against my chest. I could do this. I would do this. Whatever fate waited for me, I was ready to see that glimpse divined by Nicneven. The wall of fire almost appeared as if it was breathing, when images flickered to life before my

eyes, using the wall of enchanted fire as a backdrop.

 A betrothal contract, signed in ink but with deep red stains by each illegible name. The image changed again, a woman stood there, familiar features in a strange body. It was myself and already I could sense something had happened to me before this contract. There was a man

offering a betrothal gift, but his back was to me and I couldn't see his face. Vision me could however and took the gift. The flames moved again an involuntary gasp escaped me at the new image.  

The man was still in the same position, but I was lying on the floor, surrounded by pooling

blood, eyes blank. If that wasn't disturbing enough, my head had been detached from my body.  The man's body language didn't seem concerned. Even though I was still blind to his face and features, I strongly got the impression this was expected by him. 

This was my fate? Death came to everyone eventually; I was no different true but the decapitation? Why? As the image faded away, renewed and stronger nausea coiled in my gut as the true sense of what I'd seen struck me like a bad hex.

I was going to be murdered. At the hands of my fiancé.