A/N: Forgive my horrible latin. Though no characters are named, none of them belong to me. Thanks to Lori for the beta on this, and for putting up with my strangeness. This is the oddest thing I've ever written, and whether you love it, hate it, or somewhere in between, let me know what you think. And, I think it's rather obvious, but who is the subject?
A blank canvas, a drawing board for the beginning of life - an old life being traded for a new one - sits, awaiting the stroke of a brush wielded by a talented and practiced hand.
Paints, mixed with living blood - drawn in the first week of life, and preserved for this purpose - are spread on a palette, thrumming with the need to be applied.
Brushes, ordained with magic - made of holly, and tipped with unicorn hair - lay on a small table, longing for the warmth of flesh.
A door opens, and in walks a man who knows the incantations. He has the talent necessary, and the will to work this particular brand of magic.
Infit tractus of vita qua vita has subsisto ut futurus
The words are spoken, as the first brush is lifted and placed into the paint. Long, broad strokes, gentle pressure, straight lines, a curve here or there, and slowly a face begins to take shape.
Sunken cheeks enhanced by protruding cheek bones, crows feet adorn dark eyes, thin lips, a light stubble surrounding dark facial hair. Long, black hair wildly frames a narrow face, and one eye blinks.
Resurrectio
A beat, barely a tick of the clock, and then…
Suscitatio
The twitching of pale lips, and a smile begins to form.
Anhelo
A gasp from the mouth, as the eyes widen, and realization dawns.
Actum
One last swipe of the brush, and the painting is complete. With one wave of the wand, the spell is sealed, and immortality has been granted.
Forem
A flat world, where sounds are muffled, colors are dim, laughter is hollow, and his soul is forever trapped in darkness. It is impossible to move into the next life, with one foot firmly planted in this one.