War-Locked by Blood

Writing Prompt: You have decided to be the one to break the toxic cycle that has been running in your family for generations. Your children WILL NOT become warlocks.

Generation after generation the World has fed from our veins, from the blood of my father, my mother, aunts and uncles, cousins too. Magic is powerful, but not so powerful as the World we live in.

We are Warlocks, or rather we were. I can no longer abide the path that the Gods have chosen for my family, for my my heirs. I have a son and a daughter. Such beautiful, innocent creatures. They do not deserve the pain that awaits their bloodline, the desolation that this practice brings.

They call it an art, magic, and I suppose to some it is. The ideas that flow freely with the light of the land, summon a phoenix from the ashes of the sun, conjure water from the depths of a baron wasteland, raise the dead and heal the living, harness the power of lightening. There isn’t a thing that magic cannot do, that it cannot attain. And yet there is always a cost.

Magic is apart of the cycle of life, a war long fought between science and the religion of my people. Yet there is a common cause and effect that neither side can hope to deny. Call it energy, call it magic, call it what you will. There can be no gain without loss.

There is, you see, a balance to all things, a natural balance that cannot be disturbed. Where something is created, something else must die. Take the phoenix risen from the ashes of a sun, this is no metaphor, not fancy of words. In order that the phoenix might rise a sun must die, and with it comes the absolute demise of some distant civilisation. Not that we knew, not to begin with at least.

Now consider the water drawn from out baron lands, lands long dry since a time lost to legend. That water is not simply drawn from out the air. Once those lands were ripe with greener pastures, once those lands danced around gentle rivers and wide spreading lakes. Magic is what killed the land, and it is magic that will bring it back. One land must die for another to be born.

Raise the dead, and watch the living fall.

Heal the living, and watch their mother, father, daughters and sons suffer the ailment that had troubled them.

It was my own kind, a Warlock who thought himself a God reborn, that caused what is now known as the Black Death. He sought to rid the world of hunger and disease, yet only served to move such things to plains further afield.

And what of lightening? A natural power harnessed from the skies. In order that my kind might harness the elements themselves they must first give up a part of who they are. A memory. Some knowledge of the World. There are those that even choose to forgo the physical in aid of power, for what is a limb to the potential of fire, of wind, of water, earth and lightening?

You see, there is nothing at all glamorous about being a Warlock. There is no gain in seeking power. We watch our loved ones perish in aid of such things. We only serve to sicken these mortal lands, move magic, or energy, or whatever it may be, from one place to another. What little we might achieve is far outbalanced by what is lost.

And yet we cannot help ourselves. It is in our blood, our parenthood, our nature. We do not control the magic that flows within us, the magic controls us. We are vessels, vacant ships thrown asunder by the sea.

I do not mean to bore you with our legacy, nor do I seek forgiveness for what I will do – and know that I will do it – I simply wish to help you understand.

Soon we will be at peace.

I shall see again my dearest Evaline, and we will one and all be reunited.

Mother, father, daughter, son.

You may call it what you must, but the fact remains I act from love.

What I do, I do for them.

My children.

To keep them from a fate far worse than…

Let it not be said, let it just be done.

It is what comes next that matters most.

We are moving on.

Farewell.

Copyright © K R Perry 2019

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