Sparkling Ivy

27

Abigale glanced behind them before shutting the door. No one in sight. Thank fuck. The witch's throat bobbed, neck aching with pain.

She didn't dare to look Telemachus in the eye. He deserved nothing from her. Abigale clutched the fabric of her dress tightly as she crossed to the cauldron. Furs and such were still draped over it, the memory of fear still lingering. With a wave of gusto, the girl swiped away the covers.

Telemachus cursed softly. His eyes grew large as grapefruits as he peered into the depths. Swirling, sparkling green danced in emerald shadows upon his face, illuminated his shock. Abi snorted and pushed him aside. "Don't touch it. I'll get a pot."

The man didn't deign to reply, his mouth still ajar in wonder. Abigale rolled her eyes, trailing to a shelf of empty clay pelikai. Her fingers trembled slightly as she grasped the first. Don't be stupid. He can't see your fear.

"How do you get it in there? Is it safe to touch?"

Telemachus glanced at her as Abigale set the vase down beside the pot of shimmering poison. The witch grinned, eyelashes batting slowly. "Only if you enjoy it clinging to your skin and melting your flesh."

She shrugged airily and snatched a metal ladle from a hook on the wall. Telemachus stepped back, lips twisted with disgust. He grimaced as Abi leaned over the potion, not a shred of worry behind her eyes. "Just get it in witch."

"I see we have adopted new pleasantries," Abigale drawled, slowly lowering the great spoon. As soon as the metal brushed the surface a loud fizzing sound gurgled from the cauldron, wisps of silver mist rising. Abi bit her lip, arms steady as possible as she guided the first spoonful into the pelike.

Telemachus let out a low hiss. His eyes were pinned to the witch's hands as little by little she ladled out the poison. Again that sweet syrupy aroma wafted through the air. It was richer this time, heavier.

Abigale grit her teeth and poured the last drop into the vase. The witch nodded curtly and hurried to another crowded corner of the cottage. Telemachus trailed behind, eyes full of apprehension. "I can't carry it in the open like that - what if it spills on me, huh?"

"As much fun as that would be, I'm not that daft," Abigale snapped, grabbing thick canvas and string. The witch shoved past him and crouched down, slowly covering the pelike opening with the canvas and tying it with the string. She nodded, wiping her hands on her dress. "There. That should be good enough - so long as you don't fall over while carrying it; it's not a viscous potion - it moves fast."

The girl cocked her head and took a wide step backward, heart hammering as Telemachus bent down. His arms wrapped tightly around the vase and with extra caution he rose to his feet. The man didn't bother to meet her gaze. Coward.

Without another breath he fled from the cottage, eyes wild and jaw set.

Abigale sighed and peered into the cauldron. It was still half full with the pulsing liquid, a faint glow still emanating. Abi wrinkled her nose and stalked to a table full of bottled herbs and blood. With nimble fingers she plucked up the oregano, rubythorn and sheep's blood.

Abi paused for a moment, lump in throat. She glanced over her shoulder at the beautiful poison. It had taken so much work... She grabbed an empty vial resting in a dusty nook.

"I'll take only a little."

Abigale stalked back to the cauldron, heart hammering. She rested the herbs and blood bottles on a nearby stool and leaned over, empty vial in hand. Now the tricky part. The witch slowly took up the ladle still slick with glittery residue. With trembling fingers she lowered the spoon, only scraping the very surface. "Careful stupid, careful..."

She turned the spoon slowly, stomach knotted as the fat drips slowly entered the vial. In a moment it was full. Abigale grinned and pressed a cork in the top, hastily settling the bottle down. She'd find a spot for it later.

"Right. Now for the fun part."

The witch smirked and popped off the corks of the herb vials, green eyes flashing. First went a pinch of oregano. Abigale sprinkled it into the cauldron, voice low as she breathed, "The mixing is done. Take the power back."

The room grew dark, a haze of black shadows settling over the windows. A light icy breeze weaved through her curls and the Serpent-spit began to bubble. Abigale sucked in a sharp breath.

She took up the rubythorn, eyes squinting through the growing haze of cold. With cautious fingers she pried out a single scarlet thorn from the bottle, lips shaking as Abi gasped, "The stirring is done. Take the power back."

White sparks spat up from the cauldron's depths. Abigale screamed and toppled onto her back as a rush of violent wind thrust into her. Oh gods. Don't be mean to me. The witch hissed, arm cradling her neck as she sat up slowly.

The house had gone pitch black. It was like the very night had slithered in and taken hold. Abigale swallowed, throat still aching with pain. That drowning bitch, Telemachus and now this - why do the gods hate me?

Abi groaned and staggered to her feet, teeth grit. She grasped the edge of the cauldron and heaved herself forward, head hanging over the swirling bright mass. One touch and her flesh would melt into a bloody soup. Lovely.

The witch snarled and reached for the last step - sheep's blood. The bottle felt warm in her hand, like it had just been drained right there and then. Hopefully that was a good sign.

Abigale wrenched her head away from the cauldron, nostrils flaring. A weight pressed on her chest as she slowly uncorked the bottle. The shadows grew denser, she could feel them caressing her cheek, running their spindly fingers through her hair. Gods be good.

She held the vial over the pot, eyes hazy and heart heavy. Abi breathed in the air; it was no longer sweet, but stunk of wine, rain, fresh summer grass. Here we go.

Time seemed to slow as two red drops fell into the bubbling mixture. Abigale's voice was frail as she said, "The deed is done. Take the power back, whichever god will claim it."

Her skin felt like ice. The shadows grew closer, snagging on her skin. Abigale couldn't move. A great flame encircled her, wrapping her in golden, shining warmth.

And then she heard a voice. I claim it Abigale Medea.