J.T. Ellison - The Immortals

It was nearly time. They had a great deal of work to do. He led the four to the oak.

“Who comes to call Azræl?” he cried.

They stepped forward in turn, beginning with the tall girl.

“It is I, Fane. Blessed be.”

“I am Thorn. So mote it be.”

“It is Ember, the bright spark. Blessed be.”

He stood with them, head thrown back to the sky, speaking slowly and carefully. Their names conjured great power—he could already feel the ripples of energy coursing through the air.

“I am Raven, leader of this coven. In the name of the God and the Goddess, so mote it be.”

He struck a match and touched the flame to a stick of jasmine incense, then lit twelve black candles, three for each of them. The clearing began to glow. They’d already set out the stones: a violet amethyst, melanite, dark tiger’s eye and a piece of jet. The elestial stone, their record-keeper—a jagged piece of milky quartz—sat on top of the pile. It would be buried near the site after the ceremony, a permanent archaic tie to the earth.

Contact with the netherworld was meant as a silent meditation, but Raven had written a beautiful oral spell in his Book of Shadows, had copied it out neatly three times for his coven. They’d memorized it silently on the way over, each poring through the letters until they’d committed the words to heart.

They shed their clothes, kicked the dark stacks of cloth well out of the way of the candles so there was no chance of fire. They worshipped skyclad, naked in the cool night air, never feeling a moment’s embarrassment. Their bodies were astral temples, and beautiful despite any superficial cultural flaw.

They drew cords from their bags, each nine feet in length, and took up their athamés and wands. They shuffled a bit, from foot to foot, shaking away any last bits of energy that would disrupt their ritual. Focusing.

Raven glanced at his watch, looked to the moon-blank sky. It was time.

They lined up in their corners, facing one another in a circle, silent and serious. The dark was broken only by the shimmering candles that reflected the glow of their pale flesh.

Raven began the ceremony. “We come together in perfect love and perfect trust. So mote it be.”

“Perfect love and perfect trust. So mote it be,” they repeated after him, speaking in practiced unison. He used his athamé to draw a wide, invisible circle at their feet, chanting, “Cast the circle, draw it right, bring the corners to us tonight.” He walked in a wide arc, sprinkling salt water to create the borders of the circle. Fane followed behind him with the lit incense, sanctifying their footsteps. The circle was where they practiced their magick—inside the consecrated space, their prayers could be heard.

Once the circle was cast, Raven stepped inside, bade his coven to follow suit. When they were secure, he called the corners, using his athamé to trace specific angled pentacles in the air, each slightly different, depending on the corner he was calling.

“All hail to the element of air, Watchtower of the East. May you stand in strength and bless our prayers. Powers of the air, we summon you to join our circle.” He turned to his right and drew in the air again, forceful slashes, purposeful. Practiced.

“All hail the element of fire, Watchtower of the South. May you stand in strength and bless our prayers. Powers of fire, we summon you to protect our circle.”

He turned again, and again. “All hail to the element of water, Watchtower of the West. May you stand in strength and bless our prayers. Power of water, we summon you to guard our circle.

“All hail to the element of earth, Watchtower of the North. May you stand in strength and bless our prayers. Powers of earth, we summon you to provide us guidance and success in our ministrations.”

The calls complete, Raven reached into the bag next to him and sprinkled the magickally charged earth they’d taken at the last new moon around the circle in a slow dribble. This would open the portal between the two worlds while keeping them safely grounded in the now.

“May the Goddess and the God look upon us in favor. All hail the Goddess. All hail the God.”

The group spoke in turn. “All hail the Goddess. All hail the God.”

He kissed the blade of his athamé, the others followed suit. Then they took up their cords, intertwining them, feeding them through each other’s hands until they were bound together. Raven caught each eye, nodding slightly. It was time to call Azræl. Time for their reward.

They pushed their personal energy into the earth, grounding, then reversed, bringing the earth’s power into their bodies. The force of it made them shiver. With their hands facing into the circle, they directed their power to the center and created an invisible cone, then walked widdershins, counter-clockwise, three times, pushing that energy down, toward their goal, ending back in their original spots. There was great danger in casting a widdershins circle, but Raven had assured them that the best, most direct route to Azræl was through a negative portal, downward, not upward to the light. Besides, they were guarded by the four Watchtowers and the God and Goddess. He was confident they were safe.

He reached behind him and withdrew a small finger bone from his bag. Death liked bones—it was the soul’s truest form. Death understood that he was a part of all natural life.

The four of them turned to face the west, and Raven carefully, gently laid the finger bone in the dirt beside their stones. They breathed slowly, modulating their breath to match their partner, calming and balancing their energy. Deeper breaths now, with pauses in between to help them overoxygenate their blood and raise their consciousness. Raven could tell when they were all perfectly attuned, and he began to chant. The others followed a fraction of a second later. Their voices carried through the graveyard.

Azræl Azræl Az-rah-el.

Azræl Azræl Az-rah-el.

Azræl Azræl Azzzz-raaaah-elllll.

Angel of darkness, come bless us.

Angel of darkness, come bend us.

Angel of darkness, bring our true natures to the fore.

Bring us your power, and a sign of your blessing. We call to you, O ancient one, who dwells beyond the realms.

You who once reigned in the time before time. Come, hear our call.

Assist us to open the way, give us the power!

They repeated the poem three times, building into a tuneless chant.

Then Raven spoke, his arms spread wide, his head thrown back. “Bless us for finding the strength to rid the world of those who hurt us, who deceived and tortured. Fight our oppressors—punish those who are cruel to us. Allow us to know your divinity, to understand your ways, to find a painless path to keep us from shame. Show us the way, oh, Azræl. Night and need give life to your helping fire. Rectify our darkness, spread your wings of shadow through our souls. Watch over our houses, deflect their ire.”

At the end, they repeated their nocturnal God’s name over and over and over, turning in circles, winding themselves around each other, sinuous as snakes, then at the moment they felt the energy peak, consecrated their prayers with the Great Act. Raven and Thorn were so attuned to each other that they were able to climax at the same time. Their energy, like their seed, spilled into the earth, sanctifying their pact. The girls kissed, and the boys. They smeared the fluids along each other’s bodies, intricate glowing trails of symbols, then switched partners. The men writhed together while the women brought each other to a wild, breathless climax. They were all so good together, so right. The strongest magick was cast during the Great Act at the moment of shared orgasm.

Panting in the dust, they allowed their minds to come back. They stood, shakily, and unbound their cords. Raven thanked the corners, bid them hail and farewell. He closed the circle, careful to walk deosil, clockwise, to close their downward portal.