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The lump of blessed chalk only to be used for incantation was gripped tightly by a frantic hand.
It was a mistake. It was just a mistake, but he has to take responsibility. Even knowing this, the glyphstone shakes in his hand as he draws the last sigil of the magic circle. Rozatte wasn't even sure if it would work, or if he would eventually remember what he had lost after if it did. His memories of the event- and maybe some from before- would surely be lost if his calculations were correct. More or less depending on the strength of his magic applied and the clarity of these glyphs.
Maybe it would be a good thing for him to forget more. Though, maybe it wouldn’t. We are doomed to repeat what we forget, after all. A bead of sweat drips down his neck as he rights himself, glancing over the spell over and over, the piece of paper on which he had sketched before it lying useless at his feet.
A memory erasure spell, a sealing spell, and a spell to fix his mistake, all in one. The cold night air was silent, and this forest was abandoned. He felt a twinge of fear and loneliness, and then hurry.
Magic can be cast in a variety of ways. Some are visual- simple magic circles can allow magic to take shape silently and quickly. Some require a verbal component- spells that needed to be sustained over a long period of time needed the guidance of a competent wizard’s word. Most are mental, though. Once you have enough practice, one can cast spells as if breathing.
This was an important spell, so for the sake of it working, he involved all three components. As failsafes. He raises his hands, shuts his eyes, and slowly chanted.
He remembers now. When he cast that spell, he lost any memory of creating that magic circle. He forgot the rush into the woods, filled with a sense of dread from the other side. He had been frantic. The archwarlock, now older, feels as weak as he has ever been, when faced by this specter of the past. If he were to forget anything, he wishes he could forget this feeling of being beaten by a version of himself that should have never existed.
“I wanted to have more fun with you, but I suppose that’s that, then.”
He grits his teeth, in frustration, humiliation and in pain. He wonders how this other Rozatte could be a part of him, how could someone so immature hold so much power- it wasn’t right… but there’s not much he can do, not in this state. Not after that blunder
He opens his eyes, bracing himself for the next attack, the one to finish him, his arms weak under him, thinking of the children… but nothing came.
“What… What are you waiting for?”
“Like I said, it’s just not like you. It’s not satisfying to beat someone who’s half dead. You really did sacrifice everything you had, huh?” The mirror image’s tone held a hint of concern at first, but turned scornful as he went on.
“...I must have.”
Rozatte faintly recalls that he was stronger than this. He can’t remember, but long ago he had the power to seal away something so powerful. The phantom of the past smiles wickedly as he tries his hardest to imagine what it had been like. Yet he's hesitating.
“Too bad. You made two mistakes- making me, and then making me powerful enough to defeat you.” He turns to look away from the archwarlock, feigning deep thinking, and then continues. “If this is all Pwurp Island has to offer, then I might do my comrades a favor. Their gratitude will have made the trouble worth it, after your last moments ended up so disappointing.”
He thinks of his students. He remembers his fundamentals- visual, verbal, mental. Fundamentals he teaches every day, and never hesitates to remind them of when they gets too caught up in the technical aspects, tangents or eccentricities of magic.
Rozatte sighs, gently. The fragile pieces of ice were quickly melting on the floor of the classroom. The teacher knows that, if his student were any less composed, he would have left the classroom with a click of the tongue, annoyance on his heels. Richard wasn’t the type, though. The young warlock just stared at his grimoire textbook, confused.
“Richard, magic is powerful, but only if you respect it alongside studying it. You’ll forget that if you don’t show it some reverence once in a while. Treat it as a friend.”
“A friend, huh… I’m sorry professor Rozatte. I just worry about it coming out perfect- if it doesn’t, it’s easy to tell. I just can’t understand what I’m getting wrong. It makes no sense to me at all.”
“Back to basics, then. Even star students need to review. Even your professor, sometimes. You’re caught up in the chanting of it all- how about we try writing it out?”
A few spent pieces of paper later, “There. Before you know it, you’ll be able to cast it without even thinking.”
He places his hand on the ground, enchanted chalk falling from where it was hidden in his sleeve, and he haphazardly draws a circle without thinking-
“Geoglyph.”
The phantom of the past smiles for a moment at the hoarseness of the professor’s voice, but it fades as he’s thrown from his feet by a pillar of stone and a cage of moving basalt draws in, peeled from the ground like claws. The spell is crude, rashly drawn, but his muscle memory doesn't fail him. Rozatte doesn’t look back as he runs- he faintly recalls Komone hightailing it in the same direction back when things really started going south. She seemed trustworthy enough.
He doesn’t stop, even as the branches cut into his robe, doesn’t look back to see if the shadow of the past is following him. He only can think of his pupils, who are in just as much danger is he is, with that… version of himself running about. He can see the light through the trees. When he cast that spell long ago, he had accepted losing a part of himself. He’s found the road again. The past could torture him all it wanted, but he would struggle to the end before he let the consequences of that mistake reach those most important to him. That trustworthy piece of chalk he had kept for so long was still held tightly in his hand. Those most vulnerable. He can see the school in the distance, just over the hill. I shouldn’t have let it reach this point.
Right, that was how he felt all along.