( magic is no different than any other skill — it is learned through hard work and discipline; through study and trial and error. and while once upon a time it may have been taught by masters, that practice was as outdated as the early european witch trials. probably because of the trials, actually. now there was no hogwarts, no brakebills; no platform nine and three quarters, no magic school bus. if one had the luxury of being born to the magically inclined, they probably received some sort of home school education on the do's and don't's of wizardry, but otherwise?
it was kinda just a crap shoot.
which means lydia martin of beacon hills, california — with decidedly normal parents, and uninspiringly normal friends — has spent a great deal of her early adult life trying to learn about herself. which meant a lot of reading, a lot of dusty old books, a lot of guesswork, and a lot of time alone. she's fallen down so many rabbit holes on Internet forums, and spent so much money on different types of candles and herbs, and for the most part she's been alone in this frustrating endeavor to reach the bottom of whatever murky powers lived within her. that is, until two years ago, when she'd turned around in a dark park and watched a dog turn into a man. familiars had been a superstition she'd written off after reading margaret murray's unofficial anthology on them, but something that made absolute sense after touching derek hale's face had caused all the street lamps to snap, intensify, and explode along the beaten pathway. and having him around had helped — not just in the magical ways.
no, sometimes it was just nice to know she wasn't alone.
they'd bonded. emotionally, and then quite possibly for life when she'd accidentally burnt matching triskelions into their shoulder blades with a celtic spell gone wrong. it'd hurt a lot, and while there hadn't seemed to be any immediate negative effects — only positive ones, like that little window that's opened in their minds that allows jumbled thoughts and emotions to be shared nonverbally — lydia had still resolved to be more careful in her experimentation. if not for her own self, than at least for him.
it's a weight in the bottom of her stomach that twists every time she thinks about possibly hurting him, about losing him. it grounds her. and prevents her trying any dangerous spells. at least, when derek's around.
which is why she'd sent him to the store. sent him with a list as long as her arm, ranging from body wash and eggs to frog legs and lavender roots, and then settled down in the living room of her small apartment, crossed her legs and lit a candle. when she closes her eyes and starts to chant rhythmic latin under her breath, the world goes dark. she's swallowed up by it, feels like she's melting through the threadbare carpet and sinking through a cold, suffocating emptiness. it feels like hours that she's dragged down, hours until stocking feet touch stick wet earth, and when she opens her eyes on the astral plane of the dead, she's standing in a muddy pit with a door inlaid in the rock around her. there's no handle on the door, no hinges, and it takes all of her strength and resolve to cross to it and push. it's made of old, rotting wood that ought to splinter under the battle spell she sluggishly casts, but doesn't. and so she tries, tries again until the weight in the air and exhaustion have her on her knees.
and it's only when she knocks faintly, in one last attempt to shove, that the door finally shudders, creaks, and swings open like it's well oiled and light.
inside, there's darkness. but in that darkness, something's alive and moves and breathes. it moves, and fear sets in to lydia's tired bones. this adventure, this learning experience suddenly feels like a huge mistake, and she tries to stand, tries to reach back up into her physical body on the planes above, but — can't.
whatever's breathing inside that pitch room is moving closer, grunting with the effort and emanating something... something evil, something wrong, something disgusting. and she can't move, can't flee, can't pull the door closed. can't do anything except kneel and stare until whatever is back there whispers —
thank you.
and then something white hot and sharp cuts across her chest and she screams and screams and screams until the walls around her shake.
back on earth, back in a tangible reality, it's probably been around twenty minutes. when derek returns from shopping the candle is still lit, the sun is still streaming through the windows. but that's the only thing that looks peaceful, as the rest of the apartment is in disarray, with books flung from their shelving, tables and chairs upturned and broken, and lydia sprawled on her back with dark, wet mud oozing out her nose. )
for: dramaticsigh
it was kinda just a crap shoot.
which means lydia martin of beacon hills, california — with decidedly normal parents, and uninspiringly normal friends — has spent a great deal of her early adult life trying to learn about herself. which meant a lot of reading, a lot of dusty old books, a lot of guesswork, and a lot of time alone. she's fallen down so many rabbit holes on Internet forums, and spent so much money on different types of candles and herbs, and for the most part she's been alone in this frustrating endeavor to reach the bottom of whatever murky powers lived within her. that is, until two years ago, when she'd turned around in a dark park and watched a dog turn into a man. familiars had been a superstition she'd written off after reading margaret murray's unofficial anthology on them, but something that made absolute sense after touching derek hale's face had caused all the street lamps to snap, intensify, and explode along the beaten pathway. and having him around had helped — not just in the magical ways.
no, sometimes it was just nice to know she wasn't alone.
they'd bonded. emotionally, and then quite possibly for life when she'd accidentally burnt matching triskelions into their shoulder blades with a celtic spell gone wrong. it'd hurt a lot, and while there hadn't seemed to be any immediate negative effects — only positive ones, like that little window that's opened in their minds that allows jumbled thoughts and emotions to be shared nonverbally — lydia had still resolved to be more careful in her experimentation. if not for her own self, than at least for him.
it's a weight in the bottom of her stomach that twists every time she thinks about possibly hurting him, about losing him. it grounds her. and prevents her trying any dangerous spells. at least, when derek's around.
which is why she'd sent him to the store. sent him with a list as long as her arm, ranging from body wash and eggs to frog legs and lavender roots, and then settled down in the living room of her small apartment, crossed her legs and lit a candle. when she closes her eyes and starts to chant rhythmic latin under her breath, the world goes dark. she's swallowed up by it, feels like she's melting through the threadbare carpet and sinking through a cold, suffocating emptiness. it feels like hours that she's dragged down, hours until stocking feet touch stick wet earth, and when she opens her eyes on the astral plane of the dead, she's standing in a muddy pit with a door inlaid in the rock around her. there's no handle on the door, no hinges, and it takes all of her strength and resolve to cross to it and push. it's made of old, rotting wood that ought to splinter under the battle spell she sluggishly casts, but doesn't. and so she tries, tries again until the weight in the air and exhaustion have her on her knees.
and it's only when she knocks faintly, in one last attempt to shove, that the door finally shudders, creaks, and swings open like it's well oiled and light.
inside, there's darkness. but in that darkness, something's alive and moves and breathes. it moves, and fear sets in to lydia's tired bones. this adventure, this learning experience suddenly feels like a huge mistake, and she tries to stand, tries to reach back up into her physical body on the planes above, but — can't.
whatever's breathing inside that pitch room is moving closer, grunting with the effort and emanating something... something evil, something wrong, something disgusting. and she can't move, can't flee, can't pull the door closed. can't do anything except kneel and stare until whatever is back there whispers —
thank you.
and then something white hot and sharp cuts across her chest and she screams and screams and screams until the walls around her shake.
back on earth, back in a tangible reality, it's probably been around twenty minutes. when derek returns from shopping the candle is still lit, the sun is still streaming through the windows. but that's the only thing that looks peaceful, as the rest of the apartment is in disarray, with books flung from their shelving, tables and chairs upturned and broken, and lydia sprawled on her back with dark, wet mud oozing out her nose. )