Covenant
The Ten Minute Writing Challenge
Summary: He would be a fool not to feel any trepidation for what he is about to attempt; he's been told time and time again that to perform the ritual at his level unsupervised is a folly that will undoubtedly cost him his life. AU. Oneshot.
Notes: The idea behind this challenge was to write as much as you could in ten minutes, post that, and then post the fully edited/expanded version. If you want to see the first bit, feel free to check it out on my fic tumblr hollyroses-vault
He draws up his hood, casting his features in shadow as he crouches to inspect his handiwork a final time; the runes on the floor have been etched with painstaking care, the lines drawn are crisp with not a smudge in sight. He sets down the candles he's prepared at regular intervals, lighting the wicks with hands that tremble before rising again. It is not only his meticulous nature that causes him to exercise caution; if – when – he succeeds, his very life will depend on how precise the angles that make up his pentagram are.
He takes a deep, steadying breath, taking his dagger from the sheath at his hip. He would be a fool not to feel any trepidation for what he is about to attempt; he's been told time and time again that to perform the ritual at his level unsupervised is a folly that will undoubtedly cost him his life.
'My level?' His thoughts are filled with contempt as he inspects the blade for a moment before letting it nick the skin at the tip of his smallest finger. Allowing the precise amount of blood to drip to the centre of the pentagram is almost an art, and with a few muttered words the wound is tingling warmly and sealed shut. Even the slightest abrasion to his skin will be used as an opening against him at this point.
His voice is soft as he begins; each syllable heavy on his tongue before it rolls out of his mouth and into the open. The air sizzles with power, his chants gaining strength and authority as he continues. It's not a spell he should even be aware of; he's been taught the bare minimum, a combination of basic spells to ensure his survival and trivial spells that entertain those of non-magical decent.
'You have no idea of the things I am capable of.' The thought had been a constant echo through his mind as his brother taught him parlour tricks he'd learnt months ago as he'd scoured dusty tomes with but a lantern for company. He may be young, but his thirst for knowledge is unquenchable and it didn't take him long to move onto complex incantations requiring an abundance of skill and power.
His throat feels raw as he utters the final phrase, and he hears a faint crackle before the candle light flickers out of existence.
There's another presence in the room.
A moment of silence. Then a pair of crimson eyes are staring back at him, and he forgets how to breathe. There is intelligence in those eyes, and he feels as though they can see right through him; see all of his fears and desires and insecurities, and he has no way to hide them.
He feels the gaze flicker away from him for a moment and uses it to compose himself; it is he who has the control in this encounter. He absolutely refuses to be cowed. When the gaze returns, he stares back with cool defiance.
He feels as though his whole life has been building up to this moment. And perhaps it has; his life thus far has consisted mainly of solitude save for his brother's visits, which have become more sparse as time passes. His fills his days absorbed in books, his envy of the thrills spoken of in each tale growing as he flies through paragraph after paragraph.
He reads of faraway lands and exotic potions, impossible spells and fantastic creatures.
What really draws his attention, has him staring at walls deep in thought as his dinner burns, are the stories of sorcerers with familiars.
His ambitions are greater than simply acquiring a small, weak spirit to cater to his whims and act as a companion. No, what he has summoned is far greater, for he is destined for more.
"While the awe at my presence is understandable, and encouraged, I do not take kindly to being kept waiting."
He starts at the sound of the gruff voice, then scowls at the obviously amused tone. He's about to snap back a retort but is cut off by the voice again.
"What is it that you have summoned me for, human child?" He bristles – he's no child – but the subtle sensation of the bonds of his pentagram being pushed and stretched and tested to the limit holds his temper at bay as he concentrates on holding firm and not allowing his spell to break. The pressure on his mind eases, but his posture remains tense in the even that he is tested again. The voice hums in contemplation before speaking again. "Not an average human child then." The chuckle that follows is sinister, and although he can't stop the hairs from rising at the back of his neck he keeps his expression stony.
"Not average, and certainly not a child." The magic he had needed for his spell has scorched a path from his centre and up through his throat, making his voice hoarse as he speaks.
"That remains to be seen," is the response, though it still sounds vaguely amused. "And can you pay the price that your… request will cost?"
His hackles rise at the mocking tone. He forces a spike of power through the pentagram, and although the demon makes no sound of discomfort, magic crackles through the air surrounding it.
"It will be more than worth your while."
Because if it is not, it will mean his death, and though he may not be a child, he is not yet ready to die.
Those crimson eyes are now looking at him with renewed interest, revaluating him. "I suppose I will earn a meal out of this either way." The slight glint of sharp teeth from the darkness certainly does not send shivers down his spine.
He hears a slight scraping sound, and he knows he has won. The demon is scratching its mark in the only space available in the pentagram, signing its name in blood. There's a sudden flash of light, a loud crack as dust rises from the floor, and for a moment he thinks it has all gone wrong; that it may be his last day to live after all.
When his vision clears, he is greeted by the sight of a boy around his own age, perhaps a little older. Snowy hair frames an impish face, a feral grim slashing from cheek to cheek and those clever red eyes sparking back at him. "Before you ask, you will not be able to pronounce my true name; you may call me Gilbert."
For the first time since his evening began, he allows a little of the tautness in his muscles to ebb. "I am Arthur," he says, not bothering to say his full name. It will mean little to the demon by his side, nor will it matter in the near future. "And if nothing else, rest assured that your time here will not lack excitement."
Gilbert snorts. "That remains to be seen."
~Hollyrose~
Notes:
Soooo I was tagged to do this by WhiteWings9 in… yikes, July. I didn't touch it til August, but even then I'd only written the part needed for the initial ten minutes. I worked on editing and expanding on it through September and ended up abandoning it again as things got too busy for me and I was fandom hopping ^^' Today was the first time I'd looked at it since then, and I've finally managed to finish it!
The way that magic/summoning works in this is sort of a mishmash of The Bartimaeus Trilogy, the Black Magician Trilogy, the Old Kingdom Trilogy and a bit of Kuroshitsuji ^^' The 'price' mentioned is the magic within a person; since Arthur's magic is so strong, he recovers it faster than most with magic usually do, which is why he says it'll be worth Gilbert's while - he's going to be a reeeeally powerful mage when he's an adult!