Hushing through the rain, a young witch, cloaked by the dead of night, hastily made her way through the streets, searching for the hunter's house. For he was no regular hunter, he was after her head, a witch to add to his trophies. Rumors had been circulating, whisper passing from ear to ear, that the hunter's wife had fallen pregnant, a lad that will pass on his fathers' legacy. The young witch clutched the dagger in her hand, looking at it with a disdained frown. This wasn’t something she would be proud to do. But it was what mother ordered, even if against her own will, and she must obey to live, and to not be brought to stake like her kin.
The house of the hunter was stunning, it was something she had always admired when passing during a stroll at daytime. But in the nights embrace, it looked haunting, it reeked of cruelty and death. The roses, once blooming so beautifully in a pure red that reminded her of love and gentleness, seemed to now have adopted a shade of red that reminded her of blood. Within its petals, closed off from the rest of the starry night, seemed to echo the agonized screams of women as flames would dance around them, devouring them whole. A shiver ran down the young witch's spine as she remembered the towns spectacle last month, every man and woman alike gathering to watch a witch get burned, cheering and applauding the hunter, observing the fear in the witch's eyes as the flames crept closer in their burning death, until her vocal cords became too strained from her cries. The last sign of life was when her green eyes, the shade of a lush forest, darkened with disappointment as she shot a glance at her kin, until they closed for all eternity.
A gust of wind hit the young witch, pulling her out of her reverie, and she tightened her coat around herself as she made her way to the backyard of the hunters' house, and snuck in through a window. Glancing around the living room, she saw some papers. For a second, the young witch thought she's hit the jackpot, and she could take the documents and head home. No evidence, no execution.
Yet to her demise, those weren't what she needed. It was lists of possible witches that were hiding amongst townsfolk. Scanning over it, she was relieved to find that none of her families names were on it. Not her own name, not her little brothers name, not her mothers name. Yet the relief was only temporary when she turned the page and found the names on the “documented evidence” list. The young witch stumbled back a step in fear, her hand flying over her mouth to stifle a noise, her heart pounding faster than it had ever before. With a breath she held in, she tiptoed upstairs to the bedroom of the couple. The hunter always kept everything important in the bedroom, all the papers she needed.
Stepping close to the door, she listened to any sign that the hunter, or his wife, was awake. Pressing her ear against the thick oak door, she could make out what sounded like snores, coming from the left side of the room. That is where their bed seems to be. Turning the doorknob, the young witch snuck inside, and there, on the right side of the room was a desk with some documents. The ones that she needed.
With deft fingers, she skimmed through the papers, and was startled by the hunter turning in bed, the rustling of the sheets being enough to make her jump a little. Yet her fear came true when she saw the hunters wife, staring at her wide eyed.
In her fear, she swung her hand into the direction of the woman, thinking of a sleep spell. The spell should have had a sparkling, green string, weaving itself around her, yet instead of green it turned a dull shade of purple, almost pink, and didn’t weave itself around her but instead around her big stomach, around the child.
The young witch couldn’t think, it all happed way too quickly for her mind to even begin to comprehend. She quickly grabbed the papers, and jumped out the open window, forgetting her mothers command. It was the least of her worries at the moment.
Rushing home, she ran over the cobble streets, the only light source she had being the moon hidden beneath the clouds, guiding her home. Oh, how she prayed to the gods, something her mother has always told her doesn’t exist, that she didn’t hurt the woman or the child. But as the adrenaline wore off, she hoped she didn’t break her foot with that maneuver either, starting to feel the strain with each step.
Opening the door to her house, battered and bruised but alive, she saw her mother near the cauldron, brewing something. As the young witch stumbled in, she stopped inspecting the vial with some green herb, put it besides her book of spells and made her way to her daughter.
Guiding her to sit down on the nearby chair, the older witch asked, “have you found everything I have asked you to, Cassiopeia? Is the heir dead?”
The young witch saw the pained expression on her mothers face. She knew she didn’t want the child dead, but something must be done to ensure their own survival. And the survival of many of their kin. She nodded slightly, blue eyes, holding a myriad of troubles as deep as the ocean, darting to the side as she handed her mother the documents. “I-I did, mother. But… I didn’t get to the heir, I beg your forgiveness. The woman awoke, and I accidentally cursed her, I-I…”
She took a deep breath as her mother stroked her hand softly, the stolen papers laying besides the both of them. “I wanted to put her back to sleep, but I accidentally cursed her, the spell that should’ve been green turned into a purple, or even pink…I think its fertility and malice, is that possible?” she whispered, head lowered in shame. “And I think I hurt my foot when I escaped…”
Her mother smiled softly at her, pale skin crinkling at the corners of her eyes, and with no word, got some bandages from some shelves aswell as some light blue paste. The young witch held up her foot, letting her mother spread the paste with gentle hands, and once bandaged up, held her hands around the ankle and let some magical power flow through her, something that the young witch didn’t fully understand. She tried to apologise, “I am truly sorry mother, I will practise my spells better, I-“
She shook her head. “Shhh, Cassiopeia. It is quite alright. Just let me heal you. The most important thing is that Marshall doesn’t have the documents.”
YOU ARE READING
Crescent Shaped Soul - Amethyst of Deception
FantasíaA curse, passed down from generation to generation, ending up in the royal family after nearly 600 years. A king that separated his daughters, their tragic reunion, all while the witch that cursed them is near them, not as a foe but friend
