The Forest Witch's Home for Magical Creatures

Chapter 8 : Home

The little witch had left him alone after the in-depth tour. There were several empty guest rooms. Weren't witches companion creatures like dragons? All the witches he's had contact with have all lived in covens, but this little witch lived alone. It wasn't healthy for dragons to live without nest mates, he wondered if it was the same for witches. It would explain why she was so desperate for him to stay.

He spent several hours exploring the television before he saw the witch again. The TV was amazing. There were endless options to watch, he didn't know where to start. He hasn't spent a lot of time amongst human or witch culture, besides being held captive by them or when he was murdering them. If he was going to stay, even for a short time, he needed to learn more about how their life works. He doesn't want the witch to have the upper hand.

He was completely focused on the show when the witch walked in. He didn't have to take his eyes off the screen to track her. He could hear her heartbeat as she got closer to him. She walked through the living room into the kitchen. He could hear her moving around and talking to herself. He kept his attention on the show. He didn't get much of the references or humor but he was understanding more of the social interaction between the characters the more he watched.

The witch joined him on the couch. She had a plate in both hands and she sat gracefully with her feet tucked underneath her. He took the plate that was offered to him. The sandwich was familiar, but the colorful sticks were not.

"Are you watching New Girl?" She crunched on one of her colorful sticks.

He took a bite of his sandwich and nodded. "Are all humans this loud?"

Her nose scrunched up when she laughed. She had a smear of dirt on her forehead and she smelled of soil. "Humans can be pretty loud."

He looked at her from the corner of his eye. "Witches too."

She noisily crunched on her edible sticks. "I'm loud?"

The sticks smelled like food. He took a bite of one. It crumbled messily, the inside was hollow like a dandelion stem. The flavors were subtle but enjoyable. He clicked his approval before eating some more. "You trample through the forest like a bellowing, daft, doe. It makes you easy prey."

"Nothing in the forest is going to hurt me, my familiar is a grizzly bear."

He snorted. " I could have snatched you up and gutted you before that grizzly bear knew you were in danger. "

She hummed around her bite of food and shrugged her shoulders. She had no survival instincts, baby rabbits were more prepared for danger than she was. After they finished their food, she took their plates back into the kitchen and brought back water in tall plastic cups with lids and straws. She stayed and watched an episode with him. She laughed freely and explained the nuances of human behavior. It was comfortable.

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The little witch kept busy and to herself the rest of the day. She came in after sundown smelling of sweat and dirt. She smiled with her whole face when she came in and saw that he was still there. She went upstairs and came back twenty minutes later with wet hair and smelling clean. He sat on one of the chairs at the kitchen island and watched her make dinner. She kept a stream of consciousness going the entire time. Talking to him, talking to herself, singing along to the music she was playing. She explained everything she was doing as she was doing it. Wren paid close attention, especially when she said undercooked chicken was bad for human and witches' health. They were so delicate. She let him sniff each spice before she put it on the chicken.

Dinner was good. He hadn't eaten this well in a long time. The chicken was well-seasoned and tender. It was served over rice with a creamy, white sauce. They ate while sitting at the coffee table in the living room. Massie continued to talk through the show. She took their plates to the kitchen and then disappeared into her workroom.

Wren moved through the house like a ghost. Each step was silent as he systematically searched every room. He opened cabinets and looked through drawers, careful to put everything in its rightful place. He patiently scoured the downstairs, making sure to keep away from the workroom. He found nothing suspicious, nothing nefarious, nothing dangerous. He crept up the stairs quiet as the night. He took apart each spare room and meticulously put them back together. The spare rooms were tidy, the beds made and closets bare. No sign that anyone frequented this witch's house. No sign that she was a part of a coven. The bathroom was spacious and clean. The cabinets were filled with human and magical products. The towels were soft and smelled good. He rubbed one against his face and clicked contently.

He stood in the middle of the witch's room. The curtains on all the windows were open letting the night in. He breathed in deeply. Her scent was strong here. A melody of flowers, honey, and soil. It was the smell of spring, soft and sweet. Her bed was unmade, a messy nest of blankets and pillows. He ran his fingertips across each one being careful not to snag the soft fabric on his talons. He picked up a particularly soft pillow the color of moss and rubbed it against his cheek. Her dressers and desks were cluttered with all sorts of things. He opened the drawers and felt the soft clothing inside. He touched the spines of books cluttering her shelves. He looked under her bed and through her closet. He opened every jar and bottle in her bathroom, smelling each one. He left her room how he found it, except for the green pillow he had tucked under his arm. He stopped by the hall bathroom to take the soft, yellow towel off the rack. Then he went to his room.

His room.

How long has it been since he had a room of his own? Not a place where he was kept. Not a cage, not shackled in a basement, not a cave or abandoned barn. A room that was his. A space to fill with things that sparked his fancy. A place to be safe. To be comfortable.

He had a place to belong, long ago. A nest filled with nest mates, with his brothers and sisters, with children and laughter. Then it was gone, scourged from the Earth and he was left alone and hunted.

He sat awake for a long time. He listened to the house. The stairs squeaked when the witch came up them. He heard her shuffle past his room and her door open and close. He listened as the house settled into sleep. The feeling of hope was foreign to him. He hoped the witch was true to her word. He was hopeful that he could be safe here. That he could stay here.

The hope bloomed and grew inside him. His whole being ached with longing as he curled up in his bed. A bed, not a slab of concrete, not the cold, hard ground. A bed, with blankets and pillows, one of which smelled strongly of the witch. The yellow towel was added to his nest. His body had healed but his wings itched and burned. He got as comfortable as he could and he slept.

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His wings were intolerable the next day. He didn't leave his room until after the witch. He lay in bed and listened as the house woke up. He waited until she was outside before he came down. The wounds were festering and the ones he could reach were hot to the touch. They ached and itched fiercely. It was hard to keep them still. They twitched and flared out from the uncomfortableness.

The witch had left a plate for him in the kitchen. It was a flakey pastry with sweet cream in the middle. He tried to sit on the couch and watch TV like he had the previous day but he couldn't get comfortable. He went outside and stretched in the sun. There was no sign of the witch. He stalked mindlessly through the wood. Usually, when his wings bothered him he would roll them in the dirt, spread them out in a stream, or if they were particularly bothersome, scratch them against a tree. None of those was a possibility with open wounds. His advanced healing usually took care of his wounds quickly but the damage to his wings was magical in nature.

He spent the morning skulking around in the forest. He walked and walked trying to ignore the increasing irritation coming from his wings. When walking wasn't a big enough distraction he ran through the trees. He ducked and weaved between obstacles and that kept his focus for a while but soon the prickling in his wings flared up again. He climbed into the canopy and flung himself from tree to tree but it was all in vain.

He had to ask the witch for help and that was almost as unbearable as the festering holes in his wings.