The Sphere
But the Lord said to him "Not so;
anyone who kills Cain will suffer
vengeance seven times over."
Then the Lord put a mark on Cain
so that no one who found him would kill him.
(Gen. 4:15)
Prologue
The knife was approaching.
"No, it's useless. He's been stuck there for two days already."
The pain was like in hell itself. Worse than that were only those damned voices from the corridor.
They distracted him.
Distracted when he had to SEE.
He had to do everything FLAWLESSLY.
Every damn cut needed to be performed with surgical precision.
"You don't say…"
"Albert! Albert! Are you asleep there already or what?"
The knife pierced the tortured flesh yet again.
This night has been far too long.
It seemed to drag on for all eternity.
"You'll sleep through your whole life you fool! You've heard the news, right?"
Those fools. Pathetic fools, ever-busy with their petty schemes. Even vermin would act with more dignity! How disgusting it is to realize that even here, in the Sea of Astray, they won't leave him alone with their news from the mainland…
He had nowhere to hide from the world.
Only anger surpassed his pain. That… that trash. How dare they, calling themselves Magi! His noble ancestors would spin in their coffins if they learned what peasants defile the Art with their dirty hands nowadays.
Still, the last generation of his family wasn't really all that different in terms of manners…
Recalling his family, he felt a surge of such bitter, suffocating hatred, that he nearly bit the rag in two.
"Whatever," One of them sighed. "Stay there all you like."
The steps disappeared in the distance.
At last.
Another cut. Warm red stream touches the floor. The rag in his mouth clenched with renewed strength.
True to the manuscript's warnings, the last limb turned out to be the most difficult part. Heeding the advice from the book and his own common sense, he left the arms for the last.
It was incredibly hard, cutting his last untouched limb with an already maimed arm. Bloodied, crooked, it was leaking more and more red, rapidly going numb and unresponsive. However, this could only be done all at once. Otherwise it would all have been in vain and he would simply die of blood loss.
A torn paper with the Scheme was laid upon the open book. A book, which was quite well known amongst regular people, perhaps even too much, one would say. To see such book in a magus' workshop was amusing, ridiculous even, especially so when the said mage had taken a refuge in the cold and indifferent Wandering Tomb.
And yet he'd never make it this far without it. In fact, it gave him far more, than all the arcane grimoires and metaphysical works on the Art.
It gave him an Idea.
The lighting in his closet was very poor, but with some effort, one could still read the book. Even though the Scheme was already imprinted in his mind, he cast one more glance upon it, then looked through the pages and returned to his work.
The knife slowly slid forwards. Just a little more…
Now all he needed was the words.
He felt nauseous, hand trembling. In a few moments he will collapse… should have tied himself to the chair.
No, that way the ropes would tear into the Pattern carved upon his flesh. The Pattern must not be defiled before it is finished.
Indeed, one can only touch the Pattern with a blade.
His teeth unclenched, his spasmed face convulsed even further, his lips spat out the rag.
He only needed one word.
His pale lips twitched.
"…accept."
He finished tracing the Pattern and the knife fell out of his weak fingers.
Its owner followed it shortly. His naked and bloodied body curled up on the cold stone floor.
He was dying.
Yet he was smiling.
He'd laugh if he had any strength left.
"I accept," He repeated, his body curled up in fetal position basked in the spreading warmth. "Accept, accept, accept."
He made it.
He knew the price, it was high – enough so that he will be paying it for all eternity.
Yet he smiled with triumph.
Because that was the moment when his time to shine began…