Mike had all the implements ready. The moon was in Aquarius. The consecrated knife with the life Kabbala etched on its blade was beside the cup of fresh spring water. Frankincense burned in the censer. The grave dirt sat in a special plate with sea salt sprinkled over it.
His blood that he would use for the spell still coursed in his veins. It’s not that he couldn’t bring himself to cut the vein needed to spill the blood.
He felt wrong about it.
He knew it was hubris.
He had meditated and scryed and read all the oracles he knew. None came out good. All came out that he failed.
Mike knelt in front of the altar and closed his eyes. This spell went against everything he knew.
You never tempt the gods like this. You never go against their fate. You never try to become one of them.
He rested his forehead against the marble of the altar, trying to will his doubts away. I will invoke my will, my strength, my love –
“It’s not enough,” he said with a sigh, as he rested back on his haunches, staring at the smoke of the frankincense.
Mike knew it. Mike knew deep down in his bones that to become a god, he had to have the true will to do it.
“I’m sorry, Mikael.” It would have to be a civil ceremony. He would also die someday.
Slowly, he put the implements away. He tossed the grave dirt and the salt together and put it in a wooden box. He let the censer burn out. He drank the spring water, and carefully wrapped the knife in a white silk cloth, setting it next to the wooden box.
He put the knife and box together in a linen bag, and tied it tightly at the top. Maybe someone else would put it to good use, but not him, not now.
Maybe never.