Malachite – Back story work

Beginnings

The ancient sorcerer stood up and stretched his aching back. It had been a long time indeed since he had wrought a potion as complex as this. Indeed, a long time since this potion had been attempted by anyone, and rightly so, but necessity drove him to this desperate measure.

He could it feel in the hum of the world around him. He could taste it in the air. His time was coming to an end at long last. His great vigil was ending, and without result. The other sorcerers of the council would have claimed it as a triumph. They believed that if the threat did not return within Einion’s lifetime then it would not return. Not that any of them were left.

At the final fall of the enemy, it was he who had been tasked with watching for signs of their return. He was just a boy then, barely old enough to reach a great cauldron’s edge. So very young. Now Einion was older than old – his life magically extended to aid in his ceaseless watch for the enemy. Now, after so many ages, Einion had neither the will nor the magic to continue. Yet he did not believe that his task was complete. The enemy were defeated but not gone. Some sense that he alone seemed to possess told him that their evil was biding its time, building over long centuries to return one day to the doom of all.

And so, this terrible potion. Einion’s last effort to preserve the watch. One final attempt to thwart the will of the great evil that his colleagues on the great Council of Wizards believed defeated long ago. It was not forbidden, as such, but no one with the skill and power to create it had had the hubris to use it in a long time. This power was not for men to wield. But his time was up, and he needed it not to be.

His wrinkled hand lifted a bottle from the table and, with a tremble that had nothing to do with age, scooped a portion. Almost reverently he stored the bottle on a shelf over his desk, it’s green glow shimmering with an inner life cast flickering shadows across his workspace.

With a nod, he turned his attention back to the small cauldron. Nearly half empty now, there were still at least one full measure left. With a gesture and a flash of titanium will he sealed the cauldron. Not one drop of this precious potion could be allowed to fall into the wrong hands. He gathered his will once more, grabbed the cauldron and with a thrum of sorcerous power thrust it into one of the great flagstones that made up the floor.

#

Einion dropped heavily into his seat. Creating the True Awakening potion had taken more strength than he’d thought he had left. But his work was still not over. The potion would not protect the future on its own.

He sighed and considered moving, but his weary bones protested at the idea. Perhaps a longer rest was in order. Although Einion didn’t have long, neither did he need to hurry. In fact, it was better that he did not. He couldn’t afford to fail before his task was complete. The enemy wouldn’t return and catch him napping. That was the whole point this last, desperate effort.

When Einion had begun his watch, stone circles had been the latest in architectural fashion. In his prime he had helped young Merlin raise Stone Henge. His thin lips quivered into the ghost of a smile at the memory of the lad planting ‘archaeological fibs’ to leave future generations guessing at how the huge boulders had been dragged from far off mountains. Merlin had been a strange boy, back in the day. Always claiming glimpses of the future, though they had never seemed particularly useful. He’d once said that Einion would never see the enemy rise, but that his efforts would triumph against them. Perhaps he should have paid the lad more heed.

The Roman Empire had risen and fallen long after his lonely vigil had begun. Einion had seen over four-hundred Christmases since the old ways had been set aside. In all that time there had been no sign of his ancient foe. No hint that they had not, in fact, been defeated all those ages ago. And yet Einion knew, to the core of his soul, that they had not perished.

Magic had extended his life, but for all his arts, he could not cheat death, merely sidestep it for a while. His soul now felt so thin that he imagined one might see through him in the right light.

He shook his head, shedding the cobwebs of past days. Time to pass on the torch. Einion pushed to his feet, creaked upright, and faced the dark basalt statue beside his desk. The figure loomed seven feet tall, stern and near black. Its severe aspect was broken by two joyful glints of green. The polished orbs of malachite that formed the man’s eyes. Einion smiled up at his creation. His final work would be his greatest. He would have to be.

Raising his arms, Einion summoned his magic. He opened channels of power to the Earth and the Sun, the sink and source of all sorcery in this world. He called upon the life of the forest and the endurance of the stone tower which surrounded him. Briefly, he gloried in the thrill of it all, that nexus of powers joined within him. But only briefly. It was not for him.

Einion stepped forward and clutched his stone man in a tight embrace. Power, life, and magic flowed into his creation. With it flowed his own hopes and fears. His own strength. Einion gave all he could so that this statue could carry on his work. So that this person could live.

The beautiful green eyes flared with sudden presence. Volcanic black arms stirred. The statue – the man – hugged Einion back.

The old sorcerer could feel his strength fading. He did not have much time left. He breathed a silent prayer that it would be enough.

Called by the last of the wizard’s magic, the bottle of True Awakenings flew to his outstretched hand. Einion pressed it desperately into the stone man’s grasp. He pulled in a breath that ended in a ragged cough. Fear finally forced words past his lips.

“In the age of all knowledge, wisdom will be found. Through strength and weakness, a power will rise and halt the theft of souls or bring about the end of all who know.”

Einion looked into the stone man’s eyes and suddenly knew the person within. His creation. His Malachite.

“Choose, Malachite…” he whispered as his body crumbled into dust at last.

#

Malachite looked down at the empty robes in his arms, then past them to the bottle of vibrant green liquid that sparkled with an inner life. Somehow, he understood what had happened. What the bottle was for. That was strange, as he didn’t remember anything. He felt an odd knot in his throat, which was ridiculous. He was made of stone. He had no need of a throat, and yet there it was.

“I will choose,” he said softly to the empty robes. “I hope I choose wisely…Father.”