This is an early draft of a (faked) past-life regression that appears in one of my stories. I had to edit this scene significantly to fit with the rest of the story, but I thought the original version was too good not to keep it around in some form.
Rita had no idea who she would turn out to be, but she was eager to find out.
“Both of you, clasp my hands,” Mauricio said. “When I start the chant, the vision should fade in gradually.” When they obeyed, he began to recite a rhyme in a strange, harsh language. (He'd never answered anyone who'd asked where he'd learned it—it certainly wasn't in any language still spoken today.)
Besides the chant, there was no sound at first, just a blurry image of a manor on a hill. Two armored men stood watch, both clearly bored with their duties. On the road up the hill, only sundown approached.
The hooded man did not appear with a blinding flash of light, nor did he ride up on a skeletal horse. He simply arrived, in the time it took a disembodied eye to lidlessly blink. The guards waved their spears threateningly at him, but with a mere gesture, both dropped to their knees, stunned.
At his touch, the door swung open, and the vision followed him through the halls to a small but lavish dining room, in which the manor's lord and lady had sat down to eat. Rita had never seen their faces before, but something in the way they moved was as familiar to her as her own heartbeat.
“Who are you?” the lord demanded, standing from his seat. “What are you doing here?”
Rita watched from behind as the intruder removed his hood. Both lord and lady screamed, as much in pain as in horror, but an unearthly laugh drowned out their voices. Blackness descended over the dining hall, and when it left, both the hooded man and the lady were gone. All that they left behind was a single message, spoken in a voice like wind through a canyon. “Follow us if you dare.”
The blur of battles and challenges that followed was well-known to Rita—the story had changed little in the centuries since it had first seen print, collected by a traveller for a book of children's fables. Both Rita and Eric had loved it in their youth, and their mother had read it to them many, many times. She watched eagerly as the tale neared its close, the lord at last entering the hooded sorcerer's dungeons.
There were no torches, but a strange blue light filled the air. The lady lay on a bare stone plinth, not moving, barely breathing. Dozens of coffins leaned against the walls, all of them closed.
This wasn't in the story . . .
A coffin slid open, and the lord watched in confusion as his own likeness stepped out. “I married her for her estate,” the copy said. “I barely even knew her before I said 'I do'.”
Another coffin slid open. “Ten years we've been together, and she's borne no heir. Who will inherit when we die?”
A third coffin. “Sir Tristram's wife would have slept with me, if I'd asked her to. If only I hadn't been so loyal . . .”
Half the coffins opened, and the occupants of each said things the lord had once thought. They advanced with swords drawn, but the lord was faster, and each vanished in a spray of blood. He barely hesitated from one kill to the next, even when he finally screamed at the pain—he's killing his own heart, Rita realized.
When the last of his sins was gone, he slumped to his knees. “Sorcerer! What horrors do you have left for me? I will face the Devil himself, should he stand between me and my love!”
Another coffin opened, and the lady stepped out. “I didn't want to marry you. I was scared of you.”
Another coffin. “I never enjoyed the nights we spent in bed. I was always faking my pleasure.”
Another coffin. “I knew the fever left me infertile, but I never told you. What might you have done had you known?”
The lady and the lady and the lady, an endless stream of her, marching towards him with no weapons but sharpened fingernails and unbridled rage. His sword would have made quick work of them, but he dropped it without a word. He tried to rush past them, but his armor slowed him down, and their knife-sharp nails tore through metal and flesh—
“I love you!”
It was the lady. The real lady, awakened from her slumber in his time of need. “I love you,” she said again, and the copies dissolved into mist. “I always will.”
“Let us leave this place,” the lord told her, “and return to our home. We can start all over—”
Her sudden shout gave him warning, but he was already badly injured. The sorcerer merely touched him from behind, and pain lanced through his chest.
“Milady has a home,” that inhuman voice said. “A home with me. She still denies the magic within her heart, but her power will someday be even greater than mine. She has no need of a foolish mortal man to hold her back.”
“Heal him!” the lady screamed. “I'll stay with you—I'll do whatever you want—but heal him!”
“That is your power, not mine,” the sorcerer said. “But you have refused to learn it, and so you cannot save him. It's almost farcically tragic.”
“I'll find you,” the lord gasped, “in the life to come . . .”
With another touch, the vision faded to black.
Rita had no idea who she would turn out to be, but she was eager to find out.
“Both of you, clasp my hands,” Mauricio said. “When I start the chant, the vision should fade in gradually.” When they obeyed, he began to recite a rhyme in a strange, harsh language. (He'd never answered anyone who'd asked where he'd learned it—it certainly wasn't in any language still spoken today.)
Besides the chant, there was no sound at first, just a blurry image of a manor on a hill. Two armored men stood watch, both clearly bored with their duties. On the road up the hill, only sundown approached.
The hooded man did not appear with a blinding flash of light, nor did he ride up on a skeletal horse. He simply arrived, in the time it took a disembodied eye to lidlessly blink. The guards waved their spears threateningly at him, but with a mere gesture, both dropped to their knees, stunned.
At his touch, the door swung open, and the vision followed him through the halls to a small but lavish dining room, in which the manor's lord and lady had sat down to eat. Rita had never seen their faces before, but something in the way they moved was as familiar to her as her own heartbeat.
“Who are you?” the lord demanded, standing from his seat. “What are you doing here?”
Rita watched from behind as the intruder removed his hood. Both lord and lady screamed, as much in pain as in horror, but an unearthly laugh drowned out their voices. Blackness descended over the dining hall, and when it left, both the hooded man and the lady were gone. All that they left behind was a single message, spoken in a voice like wind through a canyon. “Follow us if you dare.”
The blur of battles and challenges that followed was well-known to Rita—the story had changed little in the centuries since it had first seen print, collected by a traveller for a book of children's fables. Both Rita and Eric had loved it in their youth, and their mother had read it to them many, many times. She watched eagerly as the tale neared its close, the lord at last entering the hooded sorcerer's dungeons.
There were no torches, but a strange blue light filled the air. The lady lay on a bare stone plinth, not moving, barely breathing. Dozens of coffins leaned against the walls, all of them closed.
This wasn't in the story . . .
A coffin slid open, and the lord watched in confusion as his own likeness stepped out. “I married her for her estate,” the copy said. “I barely even knew her before I said 'I do'.”
Another coffin slid open. “Ten years we've been together, and she's borne no heir. Who will inherit when we die?”
A third coffin. “Sir Tristram's wife would have slept with me, if I'd asked her to. If only I hadn't been so loyal . . .”
Half the coffins opened, and the occupants of each said things the lord had once thought. They advanced with swords drawn, but the lord was faster, and each vanished in a spray of blood. He barely hesitated from one kill to the next, even when he finally screamed at the pain—he's killing his own heart, Rita realized.
When the last of his sins was gone, he slumped to his knees. “Sorcerer! What horrors do you have left for me? I will face the Devil himself, should he stand between me and my love!”
Another coffin opened, and the lady stepped out. “I didn't want to marry you. I was scared of you.”
Another coffin. “I never enjoyed the nights we spent in bed. I was always faking my pleasure.”
Another coffin. “I knew the fever left me infertile, but I never told you. What might you have done had you known?”
The lady and the lady and the lady, an endless stream of her, marching towards him with no weapons but sharpened fingernails and unbridled rage. His sword would have made quick work of them, but he dropped it without a word. He tried to rush past them, but his armor slowed him down, and their knife-sharp nails tore through metal and flesh—
“I love you!”
It was the lady. The real lady, awakened from her slumber in his time of need. “I love you,” she said again, and the copies dissolved into mist. “I always will.”
“Let us leave this place,” the lord told her, “and return to our home. We can start all over—”
Her sudden shout gave him warning, but he was already badly injured. The sorcerer merely touched him from behind, and pain lanced through his chest.
“Milady has a home,” that inhuman voice said. “A home with me. She still denies the magic within her heart, but her power will someday be even greater than mine. She has no need of a foolish mortal man to hold her back.”
“Heal him!” the lady screamed. “I'll stay with you—I'll do whatever you want—but heal him!”
“That is your power, not mine,” the sorcerer said. “But you have refused to learn it, and so you cannot save him. It's almost farcically tragic.”
“I'll find you,” the lord gasped, “in the life to come . . .”
With another touch, the vision faded to black.
