filling in canon: sge oneshots

the witch of woods beyond

A/N: please be aware there's some mild/moderate gore in here! it's not too bad but if you're like me and funny about blood it's best to know. 

Something was wrong.

Magically wrong.

When Callis had lived in the Woods, it had often been so; someone in the Wardwell Clan's sprawling gothic manor would flub a potion and turn the cat into a toad, or knock themselves out, or something of the sort. It had been even more common at the School for Evil, with 120 amateur Nevers all in one castle.

But in Gavaldon? Never. The lack of magic in Gavaldon was potent, making the village seem even more dismal than it already was. Callis's potions, meager from lack of ingredients, were the only power in the entire village.

Apart from Kidnapping Day, that was.

After years with practically no magic, every Kidnapping Day was brutal. Aside from the fact that Rafal's magic was strong enough to make her, magic deprived as she was, feel unwell, Callis had always feared he knew she was there. The house was warded, aggressively so-- in fact, she'd wasted all of the ingredients she'd brought from Netherwood to do it-- and she never let Agatha out after dark, that day. Although she was too young for the School, Callis had never put it past Rafal to simply kill her, out of spite. Every year, they'd huddle under the covers of Callis's bed with cake and ghost stories, whilst rashes pricked on Callis's arms and her wards screeched in her head, letting her know that someone, someone she knew, was testing them.

Of course, he could get in, if he wanted. So clearly he didn't want to.

Not yet.

But this year, he'd changed his mind.

Agatha had been annoyed at her that night. Callis's enthusiasm about Evil and her ridiculous packing had clearly grated, and it was the last piece of evidence Callis needed to be sure; sure that knew Evil wasn't where Agatha was going at all. She'd refused their usual tradition and gone to bed in a bad mood, squirming when Callis tried to kiss her and muttering something about having a headache. Callis hadn't let go of her, though, no matter how much she'd wriggled, and had she bothered to look up, she'd likely have noticed that the expression on her mother's face was wretched.

She must have slept at some point that night, despite vowing not to, because Callis had woken up to broken wards and early morning. She'd been sure of what she'd find; an empty bed, a yowling Reaper, and conspicuously missing clumps. And that was what she had found...

But she'd not been anticipating the taunt.

Tense and trembling, she'd put a hand out and picked up the brand new storybook, lying on Agatha's abandoned bed. Reaper hissed at it, back arching.

The Tale of Callis and Vanessa. The tale she'd fled here to escape.

The pages were blank, aside from the handwritten note, scrawled on the very back page.

Commendable effort, Wardwell.

Commendable, but not good enough.

Perhaps your so-called daughter will be more skilled.

R.M.

Callis sank down to sit on the edge of Agatha's bed, fingers curling clammy around the pages, dampening and denting the crisp parchment.

Reaper started wailing from Agatha's pillow, pacing back and forth in agitation, tail lashing.

Shaking, Callis wrung her hands, sure it was a threat, sure she was going to end up waiting for a daughter who'd never come home, dead in an accident that had been too freak to be a real accident...