The Witch and the Scoundrel

I

Night blazed away, a blanket of darkness over the earth. The chirping of crickets and the rustling of bat wings filled the tranquil air. Candles melted away, the flames they carried lowering slowly like the moon in the sky.

For many, it was simply another tired evening during which they could finally be embraced by the gentle grip of sleep.

But for one lone being, the night did not exist. Nor did the day. It was all the same, for time is meaningless to a creature that does not know mortality. Isolation and grief held all the meaning in the world, just as time is crucial in the mind of a mortal animal living on borrowed time.

He knew many mysteries of the world, and had wisdom to rival the wisest of men. However, the greatest mystery is the one that breathes. The one that dances in the light of the moon and brings the world to its knees with her grace. The one that does not even know her own meaning.

She ran in fear, that mystery, on that night. She ran from the foolish men of the sword, who hated all mysteries and magic. She knew death and agony. She knew terror. Caused them.

He felt the presence of the greatest mystery on his soil - felt her feet dashing across his land of exile. For the first time in more years than any man can truly comprehend, he felt. He felt her animal terror and desperate exhilaration.

His name was Malcolm, and he was awake.

Cursing shouts from behind, the battle-cry of the wrathful reached her ears as she fled. They did not come closer when she crossed over into the land they had sworn against. Their pursuit was halted, and their bloodlust was left unquenched.

Malcolm was not the only one to sense the world-tensing proximity. Fate on its course, threads spinning.

This night had been forever meant to be - prophesised, foretold.

Like a wolf on the hunt, Malcolm emerged into the cool air, finally feeling the kiss of the moonlight on his pale, malnourished skin that stood out against his dark cloak. Each step was trembling and weak, as he had been for an agonizing eternity. But that night, he would find new strength.

He half-crawled to the edge of the cliff overlooking a serene lake below, a perfect mirror of the beautifully decorated heavens. When he reached it, he threw his head back and roared at the night. He roared hungrily, desperately.

She stopped in her tracks at the haunting, animalistic cry. Terrified tears rolled down her cheeks, glittering like stars.

Her name was Rowena, and she was alive.

He staggered through the trees, his hunt guided by scent and sound, for even the gentle shine of the moon and stars overwhelmed his sensitive eyes after so many years in complete darkness.

Hesitantly, she inched forward, eyes and ears straining in the stillness of the night. Through the trees she walked, her feet lightly and soundlessly treading through the fallen twigs and leaves.

Malcolm was drawn toward the sound of her pounding heart, the sweet metallic scent emanating from her. His strength was failing; he could barely walk.

She stopped abruptly as his growl rumbled through the air, the silence afterward occupied only by the whispering of the trees in the soft wind.

The hunt - if anyone could call it as such, had began. Stumbling weakly though the now unrecognizable woods that bordered his land of exile, he let his desperation guide him. This was certainly not the legendary, crowd-gathering return he had imagined during his long dormancy.

For one thing, he was still oblivious as to what had awoken him - what had broken his chains. Right now he did not care; he was too hungry.

Rowena kept walking, spotting the shadowy outline of a stone fortress through the trees in the distance. Hope filled her hurting heart, providing temporary relief and drive. She clutched her shabby shaul around her thin shoulders and began to walk very slowly. After hearing those animalistic roars and growls, she was very wary of the possible presence of predators.