Lovely Demons

Part 1

The Tholoss forest is feared by mortal and immortal alike.

You, though, have long grown accustomed to the way moss hangs from the trees like a shroud, brushing the forest floor with the tenderness of a lover. No longer does it frighten you how shadows stretch towards the sun and not from it, as though they seek desperately to blot out its light.

The Tholoss is a dark forest, a cursed forest and so, you belong here. Like calls to like, after all. It has been a long time since you were afraid of the woods but even so, you have a difficult time identifying your emotions as bravery. How can you be brave when everything you love has already been taken? Apart from your magic, of course and even that can't fully be called your own.

The most dangerous of creatures fear you, staying far away from your door, lest you ever come out. Your witch-hunter legacy precedes you, passed from the lips of demons who avoided your sword. For nearly a century, you've been tasked with hunting down creatures who escape from Hell's Maw and returning them to their rightful place.

Seated at your drab kitchen table, it's difficult to feel like a living legend. Rather, your mortality weighs heavily as you finish the dregs of your tea, carefully replacing the cup in its saucer. Bitterness clings to your tongue, although the tea you brew every morning is not without benefits. Since your banishment, you've grown adept in the art of potion-making – untaught at the Keep, since potions are considered masculine magic and therefore, lesser.

Magic, as with all things, is not without prejudice.

Spellcasting – charms, hexes, and curses – is viewed as feminine since it necessitates a greater amount of skill to perform. Women are by far better at magic than men. Potions, on the other hand, are masculine because, while tricky, their tasks can be accomplished without use of a spell.

For example, the tea you brewed (chamomile, peppermint, wormwood, and thistle) would boost your immune system even without the added magic. Magic takes the potion from human to something more – something other. Necessary magic, you've found, while living alone in the woods.

Since you left the Keep, you've become more open-minded about such things. Potions have their use as much as defensive magic, although the Council of Witches would have you think otherwise.

Standing from the table, you clear its surface with a flick of your hand, transferring your dishes to the sink to soak. The slightest of energy drains from your body, although you barely notice. Menial magic hardly takes a toll on you anymore. Even before banishment you were considered a talented witch and now, you've only grown stronger.

Exiting the kitchen, you pause at the door. Gaze traveling upwards, you take in the carved notches and sigh.

36,499 tic marks carved into the wood.

One for each day paid from your sentence. Reaching out a hand, you will a stone knife to appear in your palm. Bending to eye-level, you whittle the 36,500th mark in the wood.

Nearly one hundred years of penance has passed, forced upon you by the Witch Council.

Straightening, you examine the mark and find it to be satisfactory. Satisfactory in its uniformity, not satisfactory in its meaning. With another wave of your hand, the knife vanishes, reappearing in its place on your counter behind you.

This hovel you live in is held up by magic. Based on appearance alone, it should have long since crumbled but somehow, it stays. On mornings like this, you feel awfully similar to the house you live in. With no family, no friends, and only rogue demons for company, you're little more than a shell held up by duty and magic.

Coming to a stop in the hall, you remove your sword, Jemisha, from its shelf to strap around your waist. You suppose the benefit of banishment is now, you're free to dress however you want. At the Keep, apprentices are forced to wear white gowns for training. These distinguish you from commoners, mark you as elite practitioners of magic – and are wildly impractical.