Mystic: Because the ending of Chilling Adventures of Sabrina royally pissed me off and Lore Olympus is kinda doing all of the gods dirty. Yeah, I said it. Fight me.


"Assistance, my lady."

Hilda looked up from her needlepoint, the fabric draped across her lap like a kitchen apron. The finished design did indeed intend to be an apron for the express purpose of tossing around herbs and spices in Kuja's grand kitchen. (She was not sure about that phrasing; it sounded dirty. Shame on her frustrated mind.) Her captor held out his hand like the Dark Lord, only with a touch less class and without a glass of whiskey.

"With what?" she asked, slightly hesitant.

His smile though, was exactly like the Dark Lord's. "Now that we have spent sufficient time together, my lady, I feel you can be trusted to guard my soul as I practice seer-work."

By Hades' bride ... "You wish to play the seer?"

"Play? Oh, no. I wish to master the seer."

Years and years ago, when Hilda was a fledging mage just beginning to grow into her spells, she spent time with a Red Mage who liked to wear thick black collars and leather vests with thigh-high boots. Therefore, the word 'master' sometimes meant different things to her experienced ears. Then she remembered who she was dealing with and decided not go that route. "Seer-work is unreliable, sorcerer. You awake with a garbled mind unable to translate what the ancients supposedly showed you."

Kuja shrugged. "That's only because the ancients have yet to meet me."

She appreciated healthy egotism, but Kuja's ego wove high into the clouds with nary a ladder in which to climb down. It stayed elevated and flighty. "And why trust me?" she finally asked.

"Because you have yet to try to run."

For someone who has not made a contract with Hades, he certainly acted like someone who had. Hilda made a mental note to search through Kuja's Book of Shadows again. "Alright," she sighed. "I will guard you."

When her captor kissed her cheek, the lady thought of the appropriate sacred geometry in which to hold him safe. Then she wondered why she wanted him safe at all, and why his safety was her first thought.


Her artistry in the profane arts always impressed him; it was partially why he kept her alive when he found her. That, and her eyes turned black when she was moved to anger. And that upside-down pentagram on her Book of Shadows (drawn in her own blood, by the way.) And when she immediately set out to build an altar in her room when he brought her back to his palace - an altar with black candles, grinning skull, and open bottle of pomegranate wine ("It's for the bride. Please do not drink from it.") And she danced under the full moons by a dancing flame.

There were lots of reasons he kept her alive. None of them had anything to do with fear, of course. Never. There was no reason to be fearful of the woman who casted a circle with her own blood. Never.

Not once did Hilda ever drip blood on her skirts. Her heels lightly danced around the drops from her palm as she went widdershins in the desert outside his palace. Her circle was even and delicate, the pattern inside meant to protect him from a pissed off ancient spirit. Softly she chanted under the shadow of the red moon, her voice rivaling that of a siren luring sailors and sky pirates. The melody certainly took him to task, causing confusion as to why he wasted his time with the little Alexandrian canary.

Garnet's spells were not like her aunt's. At all.

Like the coldest winter chill, heaven beside you; the hell within.

Like the coldest winter chill, heaven beside you; the hell within.

Like the coldest winter will, heaven inside you.

"Step inside, sorcerer, and I shall close the circle. May the daimons of our Dark Lord guard you."

"Your dark lord." He stepped inside, watching her close.

She narrowed her eyes. "If you want safety, you will show Hades respect."

Kuja noticed how her palm had stopped bleeding with nary a bandage or scar. "Very well, lady," he said. "Shall I leave a gift of gratitude on your altar?"

"That would be ideal."

He nodded. "I am ready."

Hilda handed over the parchment and quill as the desert air turned crisp and southerly. It rustled the both of them, crinkling her skirts, and tangling his feathers. Kuja knelt, palms together, then slammed his hands into the ground. When his light eyes began to cloud over, his captive calmly pulled up a seat and crossed her legs. She had his Book of Shadows and patiently began to read to bid her time.

After a few moments, his body collapsed, but she quietly turned a page. He still breathed; he was safe.

After another few moments, his body began to levitate as if unseen hands from the abyss held him in the ages. Again, the lady read because Kuja still breathed.

Then he began to write.


He knew that seer-work danced on the line between dangerous and deadly, so it shocked him when he came to with nary a headache or sore back. There was a hollowed needle in his hand, and he traced the tubing connected to it with his eyes, following it to the glass bottle that hung from a pole. Clear fluids dropped from the bottle, into the tube, then into him.

"Good job," came the siren voice.

"Lady?"

"Seer-work can leave one weak and dehydrated. I might have worked my own spells to prevent you from feeling the effects."

Lady Hilda could have left him abandoned in the desert, vulnerable to angry spirits. She could have run, knowing it would be a few hours before he could give chase. Nay, not his Hilda. This mistress of the Dark Lord watched him and healed him. "Thank you."

She did not answer with her siren voice; simply cupped his cheek and kissed his forehead.

"Do you have what I foresaw?" He wanted to hear that siren voice. He wanted to be lured to the dangerous waters and the rocks that destroyed ships. (Again, he kept her alive for so many reasons that did not involve fear. Truthfully.)

The lady snerked. "You proved my point that seer-work is unreliable."

"How so?"

"The translation is gibberish, like something a child wrote after falling down and hitting their head too many times."

Her siren voice was truly enchanting. Smiling, he held out his hand (the one without the needle). "Well? Do not keep me waiting."

Etched in his perfect penmanship, coded in the language of the mystery cults and translated by her equally beautiful script: You spin me right round, baby, right round. Like a record, baby, right round, round, round. I want your loooooooovveee!

"Pardon. What?"

"I did inform you of this, sorcerer."

"Is it a metaphor for the act of love?"

"What is a record?"

I want your loooooooveee! I want your loooooovvvee! You spin me right round, baby, right round ...

"Lady, did this happen to you when attempted seer-work?"

"Oh, sorcerer," she laughed. A siren laugh. She patted his hand, giving it a squeeze. "I never discovered the meaning of mine. Something about a safety dance."

From below, the Dark Lord lounged on throne. Sipping his drink, he growled, "Mortals better be thankful I restrained myself to the nineteen-eighties."

His bride refused to use her throne for its intended purpose. The cushion was her own personal dance floor. You can dance if you want to, you can leave your friends behind. Cuz if your friends don't dance and if they don't dance, well then they're no friends of mine!

The Dark Lord needed more whiskey.