I’m held by my arms contorted in painful positions. The two hooded men kept me on my knees before the master of these so-called ceremonies. The master held a book and was reciting in a serious but screeching voice. Candles framed the room. I reeked of sticky washes and incense ash. Behind me, outside the warding circles, other hooded figures watched in silent anticipation and relief it is not them on their knees.
I’m shuddering. I was drugged and brought here. What could not be accomplished by narcotics is now being attempted by will. I can’t get my footing, mental or physical. I’m held captive.
I don’t know the language. It sounds Greek, but it is removed from every academic sounding I know. I do know what is expected of me. I can recognize a summoning ritual in almost every culture. You have some ass that thinks he is in complete control. Some henchmen that think they are immune. Some voyeurs that think they are entitled to secrets. Some markings on the floor that are supposed to keep the sacrifice from escaping, keep the audience from participating.
I vomit. My body is not pleased with the combined effects of drugs, smell, and arrogance. But I can’t leave. I’m caught fast and can only shudder and tremble as my body tries to shake off the lingering effects of the drugs.
It’s dark in here. Lit by candles and a few ineffective braziers, the light is concentrated so the MC can read his book. The vomit is cleaned up. My face is roughly washed. Silly idiots. The supplicant that broke the wards was now just as much a target as me. I dismiss them as inept fools and wait for them to just slit my throat already.
This is not how it’s done. A golden man kneels before me, lifting my head. He shines from within, his tunic filtering the light like sunshine. He smells of honey and flowers. He tilts my face towards him gently and I realize I am the only one that sees him. You are not supposed to be forced into this. Where is your [payment]? You should be on a soft bed, surrounded by wine and sweets. Not held as if condemned to death. At his touch, I stop hurting. I stop feeling all pain. His light caresses me, pulling at me as if to remove me from this horrid dream.
I’m brought back to the room when the henchmen force something bitter and astringent in my mouth. I gag on the taste. The golden man watches, his face furrowing with displeasure. The book reader realizes something has happened, and strikes me. He screams in the Grecian dialect but I do not understand. He calls for something. A large knife is brought to him. He takes it, and with a changed tone begins drawing symbols in the air above me. Time to die, I suppose.
The golden man, with golden hair, with a wreath of gold leaves, reached and barely tapped the wrist of the speaker. The knife falls from the suddenly withered hand. He means to kill you because you have failed. He doesn’t understand that he undone everything himself. You have done as you were meant to do. He wishes me, he shall have me. And then I shall remove you from this impious offensiveness.
The golden man lifted my head again so that I looked in his eyes. I felt no pain. I felt nothing. His golden eyes swirled like the clouds of Jupiter and I was lost to them. He is so beautiful. So handsome. I wanted to gaze on his loveliness forever. He placed his hand on my throat and I felt my voice surrender to him.
The golden man spoke in the ancient Grecian dialect, and my voice spoke with him. Sound for sound, tone for tone, it was clear that my voice was not my own. I do not know what was said. The language and meaning completely escaped me. I saw nothing else but the overwhelming beauty of the golden man. I heard some sudden commotion, but I didn’t care what it was. I only wanted to gaze on this perfect beauty.
The golden man finished speaking. He leaned forward and kissed me. My body burst into flames and consumed itself in seconds. But the golden man held my spirit in his arms. He carried me like one carries a sleeping child. Shafts of light pierced the stone ceiling. He rose, carrying me, and the dream ends.