GRETHEL

VIER | GRETHEL

THEY HAD SINCE SETTLED in the house in the woods. Grethel would tend to the gardens whilst Hansel, with no need to hunt, was confined to the house.

Grethel's witch sat on the lonely tree stump and she sang as she threaded daisies into a chain. Rays of sunlight punctured through the canopy and played with the curls in her hair. Her needle fingers made quick work, brows creased ever so slightly, but her voice didn't falter a single note.

Grethel sat up, arms coated in a film of dirt. "What's that song?"

She paused, thin nails pressed between the stem of the umpteenth flower she weaved, and said in a voice of gold, "It's called Verrückt. They say Wiegenlied der Hexe — they being men — so we called it Verrückt, to frighten them into thinking we indulged in witchcraft and sorcery." As she winked, Grethel giggled. "If they bothered to hear our words, biene, they might realise that we're about der wald und die blumen. Prosperity in nature."

The forest wept at such beauty. Raining green tears as the trees hugged each other close, arms wrapped up in each other. Togetherness hung thick from the branches.

The house called out, wearing Hansel's voice, "What is that you're singing?"

Grethel took off down the little stone path and caught herself in the doorway. "It's the witch. Isn't she beautiful, Hans?"

Where famine had sharpened the angles of his face, Hansel's frame had now filled out into that of a young man. His resemblance to their father was uncanny, and his voice more so. "Ja, what is she singing?"

"A tale of witchcraft."

"Witchcraft isn't real, Grethel."

She ignored him, and produced a handful of flowers from her apron. "I picked these today."

Despite the brooding lines of his face, Hansel managed a smile. "You picked those? They really are beautiful, Grethel. There's a vase on the dresser, go get them some water."

Giggles of childish glee chased her and snapped at her bare feet. Wherever her steps fell, a pulse of new energy flowed through the homely halls, and yet it all seemed fake. Perhaps it was real, and she'd been living in false content all this time. For now, as the darkness closed around her, she decided the shadows were real. They were alive, as the flowers in her hand had been.

White – that was the colour that stained each petal, each lick of a painter's brush, mouth quirked in concentration as to perfect every stroke. White hadn't been around in their quaint cottage. White was the opposite of the darkness that had accompanied her every night, whispers in her ears, that twisted dreams into faces and monsters beneath her bed, but still held her hand throughout. That was real.

As real as Hansel. As real as the house. As real as her witch.

"Grethel!"

Her charcoal thoughts faded from the walls and the sun weaselled through the cracks in the blinds.

Hansel shouted her, and she found him elbow-deep in an accumulation of pots and pans, clinks and clanks rummaged through, and the iconic scent of fresh pastries lingering once again.

Home lingered with Hansel; it clung to the cracks in his nails, his voice, the shadows beneath his eyes, and the warmth to his hands, as if the blood of his hunt never left his guilty hands. Home meant a little mess, times spent together, caring for one another in those invisible ways, and though Grethel never thought much of it, she knew her hands would sooner shrivel than go a day without protecting her home.

Perhaps her youth would one day lend to that.

"Did you enjoy the cake I made for you?"

Words often coiled in his throat, hissing, an asp poised to strike, and he found this time no different if it weren't for Grethel. Poor Grethel.

Even now she looked the part, as she folded her hands in front of her. "He loved it."

The witch smiled, pleased, and thanked the girl. A mindless tune hummed from her pursed lips, and as much as the silence tried, it found no way to twist and curl around the sound.

"Hansel, could you check if the oven is heated?" Grethel, stood at the window, turned to face him, a finger curled at her corn locks.

The forest raised its branches at the house.

Hansel's voice was quiet. "The oven?"

"Please."

He crouched beside the oven, hands braces on his knees, and the witch closed in on him with eyes full of wonder.

He scratched at the beard still in its youth. "I can't tell."

"Get closer." The suggestion came from both the witch and Grethel.

Hansel has never been one of slow wit. In the dead of night, when optimism and pessimism clashed with silent metal and words formed without lips, he often questioned if he would ever need to use the steel for anything more than deer and hares. He'd never had to before. The latter he prayed remained true.

"How do you suggest I do that?" He gestured to his broad shoulder, eyes stormed with blizzards yet to strike.

Grethel glanced at her witch, who chewed at her lip and offered, "Like this."

Crooked hands descended on Hansel, and she steadied herself as she bent to a crouch, silk shivering, before the oven. Embers danced in the blacks of her eyes. When Hansel leaned forward, so close the length of her hair consumed his arm whole, running in rivulets of black ink, her hands seized his shirt and his own seized their opportunity.

Her nails ripped at Grethel's skin. Her resolve screamed. Before Hansel could stop her, fingers still splayed in shock of what he'd done, Grethel had been dragged into the iron cage.

The forest burned in the fire around her. It snaked across her skin and left black in its wake. In it, she saw her witch, and the fire soothed her. Shrouded in a metal grave was how she'd die. Her witch beside her. White tears, Hansel cried.

Grethel burned to death in the oven.

❖

Verrückt – Insane
Wiegenlied der Hexe – Lullaby of the Witch
Biene – Bee
Der wald und die blumen – the forest and the flowers

❖

so i've started (british) college, the avalanche of stress is falling on my blissfully unaware self, and my already fucked writing schedule will suffer even more. sorry peeps :(
pls feel free to throw feedback in my face