Witch of Iria

To break a curse

The night is a dull knot of twisting flames warming the room and the overly comfortable bed. But my body is wound too tightly and I find that I'm already tired of comfort. My mind lingers on Dorcha, trapped in his stable. My hands clench the blankets and my body unwillingly longs for the danger of the forest. Where we would huddle, guarding each other. From dangerous creatures and insidious whispering brooks. It's odd, but I would take a thousand nights like those just for us to be together. This place....the shadowy edges of the furniture and the downy pillows spin an illusion of safety. It's like one of the fae stories my mother told me about as a child. The princess spelled to sleep or the witch luring children with candy. She always called that one ridiculous. I allow myself a soft smile. This story involves a handsome lord and an evil witch trapped with her familiar. At least, that's how they'll tell it.

I like you...but that doesn't mean I trust you.

Of course he doesn't trust me. Why would he? I'm a weapon to be wielded, an object to be controlled. I sigh and scowl at the memory of Naomi scarpering off. My heartbeat flies faster and it's hard to breathe for a moment. She finally remembered to be wary of me. The evil curse ridden witch. My heartbeat is a hummingbird now and I feel as if something is pressing against my chest. I tear out a dark strand of hair and let it fall onto the cover like a line of shadow.

My body feels restless and I'm trapped here in this cage of comfort. I try to close my eyes but the image of my mother haunts me. The great padding of paws assaults my mind, threatening to become real. Other memories dance through my mind. Braden and his wild grin, spinning me in circles.

It's too dangerous.

Braden's eyes were awkward and wary when he said that, when I cornered him. I knew I'd ceased to be a beautiful thing and had become something that could get him in trouble. Hunted by some unbearable creature. Some fae my mother offended, no doubt. We were always being chased. But the stain of that judgement marked my body. I knew I wouldn't feel the same about myself; that my reckless days of joyful abandon were finished. His words ended that. I stopped loving myself. Because those words meant that I wasn't worth the danger. That I wasn't worth it.

A ragged sob tears through my lungs. My eyes shoot open and I know I can't sleep. Panic claws its way through my airways and my veins. I can't take this smothering comfort.

I slide out of the covers and pull a plain dark dress over my head. I go barefoot to the door and peek my head out. Guards lean against the walls, half asleep. Some security. My panic lessens and I want to laugh. The one closest to me has his eyes fully closed. He slumps against the wall, his mouth open. But the other man is almost there, his eyes half shut. The walls are a pattern of grey blocks, lit up by blazing torches. The guards' magic lies dormant, sleeping cats with claws retracted. I weave a thread of power into my palms, focusing on keeping it low key. I don't want them to wake up. If Finn finds out about this...but he won't. I don't care about his threats. I'm going to see my deer.

I quickly knot a sleeping spell together and loop it around the tired guards. The gloopy, dark threads protest but they do my bidding. The one who is half awake just slumps against the wall, his body sliding down to the floor with a bang. I cringe, thinking someone will hear. But nothing happens. They begin to snore softly.

I tiptoe past them, taking care to avoid their sprawling legs. I make my way down the hallway, the floor cold against my bare feet. It's like walking into an underground cave. I descend down a set of stairs and walk through an open door which is plain and made of oak. I'm afraid I've found another entrance to the gaudy ballroom for a second but it's another room altogether.

It's massive and a warm coppery colour. My eyes go wide as the faint torch light illuminates shelves lines with books. I've never seen so many. I feel like beauty in the castle of the beast. A library fit for kings. My mother had taught me to read and write with her own texts but the forest isn't a place for letters. Row upon row of books are filled with stories and facts and lovely slanting words. Gold lettering makes them beautiful. I love the scent of pages which tease my nose and I step forwards, running my fingertips over the spines. But Dorcha...I hesitate. I'll go in just a minute. No more than that.