Work Text:
The time had come.
After decades of research, discipline, and such unbearable waiting, the night of the ritual had arrived. He had travelled to the bowels of the Earth to learn the secrets of summoning the dark goddess of insanity, and today the tree of his quest, a tree he worked tirelessly to prune and water on a meticulous schedule, would finally bear fruit – and he couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into its flesh.
The room was just as the old spell book portrayed (he had worked extensively to recreate it): walls of a deep burgundy, reminiscent of the richest wine; red velvet curtains flapping violently in the wind of the open full-length windows as if jittering in excitement over the elder goddess’ imminent arrival; and the pentagram, which he drew in chalk on the mauve carpet with as steadily a hand as a fourty-eight year old man who was preparing to summon an elder god could. It was almost ready. He was so close, he thought he was going to puke.
The final piece of his perfect puzzle, embarrassingly, had gone wrong. The pentagram needed black candles, preferably obtained from an abandoned monastery/convent, but the nearest was over a thousand miles away and he had spent all his travel funds on attending a communion of fellow votaries. Nevertheless he persevered, and purchased chunky, white, holiday-themed candles from the craft store around the corner. The goddess wouldn’t mind, right?
With a deep breath, he stepped off the mahogany hardwood and onto that circular purple carpet which bore the symbol he depicted. With his breathing becoming sharper the candles were placed, and then lit by a kitchen match. The final stage had now arrived: he pulled a blue marigold (obtained from a supposedly cursed island off the coast of Vietnam) out of the long black sleeve of his robe furthermore began to pluck its petals and drop them into the centre of the pentagram. As each petal fell the storm outside howled louder, the curtains screaming in anticipation as though a crowd of adrenaline-hungry sports fans cheering him on.
“This is it.” He thought, cleanly tearing the last petal from the stalk. “Tonight’s the night I, Samuel Randall, sell my soul.”
The petal fell. The curtains stopped moving. The candles went out. Their smoke hung in the air like an untold confession does the heart.
She was different than Samuel expected.
As the smoke cleared and Samuel spaced himself from the carpet, a lump built up in his throat - he wasn’t just looking at the dark goddess of insanity, The Mother of Madness. No, something much more than that. He was looking at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
She had a slender physique, but with the hips of a woman contorted by childbirth. Her hair – her gorgeous hair! – was a rich dark chocolate and impeccably straight, running down from her scalp and far over her shoulder blades like streams over a cliff to make a majestic waterfall. Her dress was a velvet fabric the texture of silk, in a sapphire shade that complimented the blue marigolds woven into her hair. Oh, and her eyes! Eyes with depth, eyes that held secrets and realities that would obliterate Samuel’s mind. He didn’t care. She had answered his call, and he was damn well going to listen to anything she had to say.
“Mother of Madness, Dark Goddess of Insanity. Your presence here is more than a mortal like me deserves.” ...Is what Samuel attempted to say: the sounds that escaped his lips were more like a beached whale’s.
The Mother of Madness bent down and picked up one of the cheap candles at her feet, examining it while cradling it in her hands.
“Oh god oh god oh god,” Samuel panicked, regretting ever laying eyes upon those cylindrical nightmares, “she’s offended, isn’t she?”
The elder goddess pocketed the candle into her flounce sleeve.
“H-hey!” Samuel chirruped, making eye contact - and those iridescent eyes shot and pierced his very soul. “What are you doing?”
She shrugged off his interjection. “What? They’re vanilla bean scented.”
Samuel, flabbergasted by the goddess’ laid-back response, could not find the words for his response. So, with a delicate sigh (and a small rub of the temples) she broke that awkward silence.
“Alright. Samuel Randall. Why do you want to sell your soul?”
Samuel thought about asking “You know my name?” or “How did you know that was my goal?” however figured an omnipotent goddess got that a lot, and decided to not waste her time. He took a weighted, almost burdensome breath, and recited his clause:
“It all started when my dad died. I was nine – too young to take care of myself. My mom tried her best to look after me, but once she met my step-dad everything changed. He would mock me, smoke around me even though I had asthma, disregard my privacy… And my mother would just let him. I want the satisfaction and happiness of growing up in a healthy environment, and yeah, I’d sell my soul for it.”
The goddess shifted uncomfortably, and a watery glass formed over those entrancing eyes. She stepped towards him, dress trailing behind, with an unnatural fluidity that would make one think she was on a moving platform.
She spoke softly, her hand on his shoulder - the grip was tight and cold, though not altogether unpleasant. “I’m sorry about your childhood. Truly. But these things need therapy, not magic. You may wish to be aided by a god like me and finally fix your past, but the ability to move on and grow stronger is something uniquely human. Sure, I could give you the fulfilment you crave, but you wouldn’t learn from it. I don’t want your soul, Samuel. I want you to be happy.”
The floodgates Samuel didn’t know were closed suddenly exploded open, and soon his collar was soaked in tears. “…Thank you. I needed that.”
The Mother of Madness stroked his wet cheek, and with a final, genuine smile she planted a kiss upon it. “I’m keeping the candles.”