Lykaia’s Saturday afternoon exorcism
Date: 2025-06-21 15:03
(Lykaia’s Saturday afternoon exorcism)
[Sat Jun 21 2025]
At Haven Field/span
It is noon, about 85F(29C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It’s raining. The mist is heaviest At High and Prospect/span
The rain patters steadily against the leaves overhead as Kai and Lykaia find themselves in Haven Field, the normally pleasant park transformed into something more somber under the heavy grey clouds. Water drips from the wrought iron benches with their Celtic knotwork, and the carefully maintained flower beds release the rich scent of wet earth mixed with blooming lilacs.
Near the center of the park, an elderly woman in a black mourning dress walks slowly along the main path, seemingly oblivious to the rain soaking through her clothes. Her silver hair clings to her head, and she clutches a bouquet of white lilies against her chest with trembling hands. She moves with purpose toward the weathered stone monument, where Gaelic and English inscriptions are barely visible through the rain streaming down its surface.
The woman’s footsteps make soft squelching sounds in the wet grass as she approaches the circle of smaller stones arranged with precise spacing around the monument’s base. Her lips move silently, as if she’s speaking to someone who isn’t there. The air around the monument seems oddly still despite the storm, and there’s something about the way the shadows fall that doesn’t quite match the overcast sky above.
She kneels at the base of the monument, her black dress spreading around her like spilled ink, and begins to place the lilies with careful, ritualistic precision.
“We’re about to find out.” Lykaia answers with a little grimace as her shaded gaze draws from her phone to Kai. “It is about here. A disruption in reality-” She glances towards the elderly woman and watches her. “Might be someone’s died there. Doesn’t look like the disruption we’re looking for. Your magic senses telling anything to what we are looking for, Kai?”
Kai presses his fingertips together and gazes through the rain, his hazel eyes tracking things until they zero in on the elderly woman in mourning, eyes narrowing a bit as he lets his hands fall to the sides, “Maybe centered on her…? I’m not positive though,” he admits and glance to Lykaia, “I haven’t really experienced a lot of these kinds of things,” he admits with an apologetic tone before his gaze turns back to the woman. He doesn’t seem to mind being soaked in the rain, but his clothes cling his wiry frame and his hair gets matted down from it.
“Mo mhac, mo stor…” Her weathered hands shake as she arranges the lilies around the monument’s base, tears mixing with rainwater on her cheeks.
The monument itself bears inscriptions in both languages – the English side reads “In Memory of Those Lost to Violence” while the Gaelic text spirals around the stone in more elaborate script. The smaller stones forming the circle around it aren’t randomly placed; they create a precise pattern that seems almost ritualistic, each one positioned with mathematical precision.
As the woman continues her quiet ritual, the air grows noticeably colder despite the warm June temperature. The rain seems to fall differently here – not quite as heavy, and the droplets catch the light in strange ways. The shadows cast by the monument don’t align properly with the overcast sky, creating dark patches that seem deeper than they should be.
The woman’s shoulders begin to shake more violently, and her whispered prayers become more desperate. She clutches something in her free hand – what looks like a folded piece of paper or letter, now soggy from the rain. Her breathing becomes labored, and she presses one hand to her chest as if in pain.
The clock on Lykaia’s phone reads 15:13.
Under Lykaia’s sunglasses, he gives a blank stare in the elderly’s woman’s direction and it takes a moment longer before she lets out a long sigh. “I think I know what this is.” She looks back down to her phone. “Something to do with reflections, memory of the past. We’ll be needing to do something, a certain process. At least tthat is what I saw Catrina do. Cold’s a give away.” She starts to move towards the woman.
Kai considers Lykaia’s words and nods at her a bit, “Is she a spirit, maybe?” he asks and lifts his hands to push his hair back so it doesn’t fall into his eyes, his hands then slip into his hoodie pocket and he glances about the park, idly looking out for anything else out of the ordinary that might catch his eye.
the rain seems to be falling in a perfect circle around this central area, but beyond about thirty feet in any direction, the precipitation becomes lighter, almost misting. The wrought iron benches outside this circle show normal weather wear, but those within the circle appear somehow… newer, as if time affects them differently.
The woman’s breathing grows more ragged. She presses her hand harder against her chest, and her face contorts in pain. “Cormac… mo mhac…” she whispers, then suddenly gasps, her eyes widening in shock.
The clock reads 15:14.
She collapses forward onto the wet grass, the letter falling from her grasp. The air around the monument begins to shimmer like heat waves despite the cold, and sounds become strangely distorted – the rain sounds like it’s falling underwater.
Lykaia tries to hurry onward to rush to get a hold of the letter before looking over the woman. Not that she possesses any real medical knowledge. “That looked like a heart attack. Maybe we should call for an ambulance? I have no first aid training for situations like this, Kai. And I am not sure. They seem like spirits, reflections of the past. But I couldn’t tell you if they’re real.”
Kai nods to Lykaia, “On it,” he agrees, jogging after Lykaia, likely a fair amount slower than the well-trained blonde, he brings his phone to his ear and says into it clearly, “We’ve got a woman whp
02.
The letter that had fallen is no longer on the ground. The woman holds it again in her free hand, folded and protected against her chest. The rain patters with the exact same rhythm as before, and the shadows fall in precisely the same unnatural angles around the monument.
Everything has returned to exactly how it was twelve minutes ago, except now Kai and Lykaia retain their memories of what just happened.
Kai nods to Lykaia, “On it,” he agrees, jogging after Lykaia, likely a fair amount slower than the well-trained blonde, he brings his phone to his ear and says into it clearly, “We’ve got a woman who’s collapsed, pretty sure it’s a heart attack, in the park northwest of…” and then everything changes and he blinks and says, “False alarm. She’s back up,” and hangs up his phone.
Lykaia huffs in a breathe and looks to the woman and then to Kai. “Of course. It looks like I’m quite right.” She says, shaking her head. “How did Cat do it? She collected items, but the key to how she’s resolved it was to recite. Perhaps to correct reality to how it truly was.” Her eyes draw over the stone, reading the English side out loud.
“In Memory of Those Lost to Violence.” The English inscription is straightforward, carved in simple block letters that have weathered but remain legible despite decades of exposure.
The Gaelic text below spirals in more elaborate script around the stone’s surface. Even in the rain, the carved letters seem to catch what little light filters through the storm clouds. The woman continues her slow approach, clutching the white lilies and that mysterious letter, her lips moving in the same silent conversation as before.
Kai’s aborted phone call seems to have gone unnoticed by anyone except themselves. The park remains empty save for the three of them, the rain creating an isolated bubble of reality around the monument.
The cold intensifies as the woman draws closer to the stone circle. Her footsteps follow the exact same path as before, and she kneels in precisely the same spot, beginning to arrange the lilies with identical, ritualistic care.
“Mo mhac, mo stor…” she whispers again, the same words in the same broken tone.
The clock on Lykaia’s phone shows 15:04.
Kai glances to Lykaia and back to the woman in mourning, “Maybe this loop doesn’t want her to die. I think, maybe, she’s using a ritual she isn’t capable of finishing without dying. I think when she completes it, it kills her. I’m making a lot of guesses here, but the way she’s arranging those flowers and the way she’s chanting…” he hmms and says, “I’d say… seventy percent chance I’m right or in the ballpark,” he looks to Lykaia, “What do you think?”
“Mo mhac, mo stor…” Lykaia tries to copy, looking at the woman and then back to the stone. With one hand she tries to shield her phone from the weather while her other opens google lens to try and get a read on the gaelic text. “My lineage traces back to a Galeic goddess. I am only not sure which.” She looks over at Kai and makes a nod. “You are the ritualist, Kai. Make the attempt?”
“…do mo mhac Cormac…” and “…ar son na siochana…” The translation comes through in pieces – “…for my son Cormac…” and “…for the sake of peace…”
The woman’s ritual continues exactly as before, her trembling hands placing each lily with the same careful precision. The letter in her other hand appears to be multiple pages, folded and refolded many times until the creases have worn soft. Even from a distance, it’s clear the paper is old and has been handled repeatedly.
As she whispers “Mo mhac, mo stor” – which the phone’s translation confirms as “My son, my treasure” – her breathing begins to grow labored again. The cold around the monument intensifies, and frost begins to form on the smaller stones despite the June heat.
The shadows cast by the monument seem to deepen, and for just a moment, there’s the suggestion of another figure standing behind the stone – tall, young, translucent. But it’s gone before either of them can focus on it properly.
The clock reads 15:06.
“I can’t believe we’re in a time loop though, this is so bad ass… maybe we should enjoy it for a little bit,” Kai says with renewed excitement and grins at Lykaia, his hazel-eyes bright, which distracts him from noticing the figure as he looks around, “The best part is, we can fuck up a thousand times and have more chances,” he says with a chipper tone.
“It tends to crack more with time passing and attempts failed. A void that opens when it should close.” Lykaia says, gaze narrowing behind her sunglasses to try and make out the figure. “Cormac… Who is Cormac?” She asks and then looks down to her phone again, googling quickly. “Evidently she’s mourning for her son.”
11.
“Maybe that writer?” Kai asks Lykaia, clueless and sighs, “Limited loops. Lame,” he starts forward toward the woman in mourning and calls out to her loudly, “Ma’am! Uh… knock it off!” he says and then lifts one hand and mutters a word of power, sending a gust of wind toward the woman that might just disrupt the ritual by knocking her flowers out of place, if the ruffling to her body doesn’t distract her.
When wolves howl in the distance, Lykaia does lower her phone and load silver into the chamber, then turns her phone off. “Could be Luka and his ilk.” And then she looks back to the old woman. “From the brief look I could do. Cormac is a philosopher king. Thought to have lived around three hundred AD. Proposes the concept of spiritual integrity brings fertility and justice to the land. Sources vary on time, Son of Art mac Cuinn, Art the Lonely, and grandson of Connof the Hundred Battles. Maybe his ancient seat, Tara, once resided here?”
11. Three minutes until the reset.
“Maybe, this city is fucking weird,” Kai agrees with Lykaia, though he appears much less tense about the sounding off the wolf howls in the distance as he jogs through the rain toward the woman, trying to get close enough to see if he managed to disrupt her ritual with his weather mancing.
Lykaia looks back to the stone, and then makes the attempt to recite the worlds that the woman is saying. “…do mo mhac Cormac…” and “…ar son na siochana…” Then tries to listen to more of what the elderly woman is saying.
13. One minute left.
Kai glances to the stone, following Lykaia’s gaze, he gives up his attempts at a brute force approach to disrupting the ritual and tilts his head, now trying to listen for the words the woman in mourning is saying, even though the loop is dangerously close to another reset.
Lykaia lets out a sigh when what she is doing also does not seem to have any results, and now, instead, she walks the small distance to where they saw the woman starting, listening closely, and attempting to recite the same words along as the elderly woman makes her way over.
“Ni raibh a fhios agam… mo mhac bocht… thit tu ar son gra…” – “I didn’t know… my poor son… you fell for love…”
She collapses at 15:14 exactly as before. The air shimmers, sounds distort, and reality fractures.
The clock resets to 15:02. Third loop begins.
The elderly woman appears again at the same starting point, black dress, white lilies, folded letter clutched against her chest. But now both investigators have heard her final words – words that suggest this isn’t just about mourning a death, but about a terrible revelation she’s discovered about her son Cormac.
The rain continues its unnatural pattern, falling heaviest in the perfect circle around the monument, and the shadows still don’t align with the overcast sky above.
Lykaia picks up her phone again, letting the rifle hang from its sling as she now tries to type up the exact words into her phone and the points out “Ah Kai. It looks like this is part of a Gaelic poem… It’s called Mo Mhac Bocht. It means my poor son. It goes a bit further than she manages.”
“What happens after where she stops?” he asks, then he sighs, gazing at the letter she holds, “Oof… this isn’t going to look good if this gets out. Let’s hope we’ve got one loop left,” Kai says as he breaks out into a sprint at the woman in mourning, his gaze fixed on the letter she has clutched to her chest, as he nears, he pushes off from the ground and tries to tackle the old woman in an attempt to wrestle the letter away from her, his footsteps splashing each time they make contact with the ground below.
“…couldn’t let them kill innocents…” and “…Mary changed everything for me…” and “…they found out about the information I passed…”
Lykaia’s phone shows the translation continuing: “…but your heart was true, though they called you traitor…” The poem seems to be about a son who died for love, misunderstood by those who judged him.
The woman’s breathing becomes labored from the struggle and stress. The clock shows 15:12 – two minutes until the reset.
Lykaia attempts to continue the poem where the woman can’t “Couldn’t let them kill innocents. mary changed everything for me. They found out about the information I passed.” She coughs, looking a little confused and then to Kai and then back to her phone.
Try as he might, interacting directly with the woman seems to accomplish nothing in this strange space. He backs off toward Lykaia, panting softly as he murmurs to her, “I’m not being very impressive right now huh?” Kai blows out a breath, “Okay, dead son, monument, died for love, people thought he was a traitor but he wasn’t,” he presses the heels of his hands against his eyes as he lets out a soft groan, trying to think, “Maybe she’s after forgiveness… or she isn’t supposed to find out?” he voices allowed, though he doesn’t sound the least bit certain of either of those.
13. One minute left, but for the first time, the woman isn’t following her exact script. The loop is breaking.
The young man’s spirit mouths words: “Tell her about Mary. Tell her I loved.”
Lykaia stares at the young man’s spirit and then looks to the woman, more than only uncertain and confusion that does show in the finer details of her feature. “Mary was a wonderful woman Cormac, your son, fell in love with. She was beautiful, gracious and elegant, from a humble but moral family. He loved her, madam. Your son loved Mary.”
Kai looks to the script and then to Lykaia, he wipes rain from his face and nods in agreement, “He was true! And he loved… Mary,” he calls to the woman in black as well, glancing at Lykaia as if for approval as he tries to help.
14, but this time, the woman doesn’t collapse. She stands, wipes her tears, and walks slowly away from the monument. The loop is broken.
The park returns to normal, though the monument seems somehow lighter, as if a great weight has been lifted from the stone itself.