Darkened doorways

... this being the story of a wizard, the sixth part, continued from Dragonslayer ... it began in Return of the wizard.

He awakens momentarily to gather his surroundings.

In his tower, the day, a blue sky outside, at least to his wizard's eye, looking back to the past with the spell he cast ages ago.

The window scene, showing only moments after the passing storm, the dragon already having flown away.

A break in his reverie, his eyes adjusting, then shifting to the past once again, eyes closing.

Remembering darkened doorways this time.

This Triptych of Fear, he thinks, throwing colors on his canvas.

The light from the shards of glass from his mirror, broken only a few years ago now, catching the dancing candle flames, a shifting light, full of portent and wonder.

A soft, intermittent breeze blows through his high window in the tower.

A mostly cloudless night, the pure light of stars inspiring, helping to shape his vision.

The Mother.  The Demon.  The Dragon.

Her face a warm embrace on this night, turning towards colder--both her and this early spring night.

The Demon, beginning to be captured on canvas, the second of the panels.

The Mother, showing her dark face in shadow, lit up around the area of her mouth in light colors, a garish smile almost, creasing the canvas.

She had come from the memory of his own mother, but the darker vision of her he never knew or saw or thought existed.

Perhaps not her but a darker version of queen Mother, which his mother never embodied, her being of more light and more light all the time.

The Dragon had yet to be painted, feeling he needed its actual blood to do so.

... the last One I sundered.

He would kill it and complete his panels once he had done this.

Clouds gathering in his mind, on canvas, and outside.

A thick dollop of grey-black paint to begin working into the fabric.

The Demon's shining eye a literal jewel painted over with a white tint.

Green emerald, to go along with the darkened black body.  An embellishment of the truth.  Neither of its eyes ever so distinct or shining.

The Mother and the Goddess, perhaps synonymous in his mind, as he had painted the first of his panels.

But the Demon ... what to say about this dark figure?

If those other two had made their presence known more than he would have liked, and if memory served correctly, often around the same time, what about the Demon's appearance?  Did it ever cross the threshold into reality, past any imagined fancy or fever-soaked mind, or beyond the confines of any dream-addled time?

Yes, and he remembered the younger woman he had known when it first appeared.

Copyright © 2022, Mark Newlon