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random_ficceryTitle: The Witch's Child
Rating: PG
Word Count: 935
Warnings: Not much, mentions of dark magic? Pretty safe.
Original Prompt: "He grew like a wicked bloom, sweet smelling and colorful and above all poisonous." - Writing-prompt-s on tumblr.
Summary: The witch's child grew up learning dark magic and light from his mother, until one day he had to make a choice.
Author's Notes: I veered a little left of the prompt, I think, since I feel like it was implying the 'he' in question should be mostly evil, but still, the Muse just asploded this out of my fingertips and - given how hard it’s been to write lately - I didn’t argue. Hope some of you like it.
The witch’s child, born of magic and malice, thrived within the herb-scented little hut at the center of the dark forest. All manner of lesser-favored plants adored him, noxious vines twining lovingly about his ankles when he passed or curling about his fingertips to blossom at the touch of his breath, but the more classically favored wild things seemed fond of him, too.
At his mother’s side, the child learned herb-lore and magic. The secret names of the most magical plants fell softly from his lips along with his first full sentences, and the witch dandled him upon her knee as she brewed potions in the big, black cauldron on her hearth, whispering knowledge into his curls, coppery red where they had been rich gold at his birth. He knew the order and strength of each ingredient as well as his mother by the time his tousled deep-red head reached her shoulder, by which time he could recite all the basic spells and curses as well as bake a perfect loaf and simmer a nourishing broth.
He basked in her pride from his earliest memory. His eyes the vivid green of the algae at the edges of the pond, his skin the middling brown of one of the toadstools that formed rings in the shadowed clearings of the dark forest’s deepest nooks.
Bats fluttered about his tousled head and took insects from his fingers on moonlit nights, while the undergrowth rustled with nocturnal creatures following along in his wake. While he learned to weave malice and ruin with clever, graceful fingers, his face held nothing but innocence and subtle wonder, for he did nothing out of hate or evil, but to win the favor of his mother and to feel the tingle of magic running through him like the bubble of a wild stream. Hand-in-hand with magical knowledge of harm and hurt, he learned spells of healing and cleansing, of how to mend torn flesh and purge sickness from the body. Though he seemed to have a natural ability for the darker forms of magic, he sought to learn all that he could, even so. His skills met and eventually surpassed his mother’s, and her earth-brown face creased with proud smiles for her child’s prowess, though sometimes her expression would grow troubled, too.
Until there came a day when the witch’s child was tall and lean and strong, grown to manhood, and his mother shrunk only a small measure with age; when she drew him along with her in the hush of the blue glow before dawn, following trails only the larger animals like wolves, deer, and bears trod until the midday sun fell through the widening gaps in the trees, revealing a rutted road at the edge of the dark forest.
“My son, you may travel a week’s journey along this road, keeping always toward the setting sun, and you will eventually come to a fine town at the base of a strong castle. It is there you would find your father, now the king of the land, and his lady wife, the queen. By rights, the throne should be yours when he passes, as you came before the two boys and three girls since borne of his queen. You are a man grown, my son, and should know the truth. You could claim your place; secure yourself a life of luxury and finery. None could prevent you, with the right of your birth, all the gifts you possess, and the knowledge I have given you.”
The witch’s child—now a man, as his mother rightly spoke—looked along the road, smelling the lingering scent of dust and the faded ghosts of creatures and people who had passed along it in the last few days. His gaze went around to the forest on either side of the worn road, and back to his mother’s cautious moss-green eyes and soft red lips, now pulled into a tight line of apprehension. Finally looking up to the gorgeous blue of the sky showing through the branches, seeing the flit of a forest bird across the gap, almost too fast to catch, and hearing the soft cries of its young as it alighted in its nest. The witch’s son took a deep, deep breath and returned his attention to his mother.
“If it’s all the same to you, Mother,” he said in his slow, deep voice, “I would rather stay here in the forest with you.” Tilting his head, his rust-colored brows rising, he added in a softer, more hesitant tone, “Unless that is your wish? That I go on such a journey and do such things?”
With a little gasp and rapid blinking to push back sudden tears, the witch shook her head and reached up to gently ruffle the silky dark auburn hair atop her son’s head, perhaps wondering how much darker it would grow as he matured. Her voice cracked a little as she replied, “No, my dear child. I only wish that you know the truth. What you do with it is truly up to you.”
Curving an arm around his mother and pulling her close, the witch’s child buried his face in the greying waves of his mother’s once-black hair and sighed. “Then I will stay here, in my home, with you and all the little friends I have made. The king and my half-kin don’t matter here.”
“Oh, my boy,” whispered the witch, voice choked with pride, and held him close for a long moment before leading the way back to their little hut at the heart of the dark forest.
~~~
.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 935
Warnings: Not much, mentions of dark magic? Pretty safe.
Original Prompt: "He grew like a wicked bloom, sweet smelling and colorful and above all poisonous." - Writing-prompt-s on tumblr.
Summary: The witch's child grew up learning dark magic and light from his mother, until one day he had to make a choice.
Author's Notes: I veered a little left of the prompt, I think, since I feel like it was implying the 'he' in question should be mostly evil, but still, the Muse just asploded this out of my fingertips and - given how hard it’s been to write lately - I didn’t argue. Hope some of you like it.
The witch’s child, born of magic and malice, thrived within the herb-scented little hut at the center of the dark forest. All manner of lesser-favored plants adored him, noxious vines twining lovingly about his ankles when he passed or curling about his fingertips to blossom at the touch of his breath, but the more classically favored wild things seemed fond of him, too.
At his mother’s side, the child learned herb-lore and magic. The secret names of the most magical plants fell softly from his lips along with his first full sentences, and the witch dandled him upon her knee as she brewed potions in the big, black cauldron on her hearth, whispering knowledge into his curls, coppery red where they had been rich gold at his birth. He knew the order and strength of each ingredient as well as his mother by the time his tousled deep-red head reached her shoulder, by which time he could recite all the basic spells and curses as well as bake a perfect loaf and simmer a nourishing broth.
He basked in her pride from his earliest memory. His eyes the vivid green of the algae at the edges of the pond, his skin the middling brown of one of the toadstools that formed rings in the shadowed clearings of the dark forest’s deepest nooks.
Bats fluttered about his tousled head and took insects from his fingers on moonlit nights, while the undergrowth rustled with nocturnal creatures following along in his wake. While he learned to weave malice and ruin with clever, graceful fingers, his face held nothing but innocence and subtle wonder, for he did nothing out of hate or evil, but to win the favor of his mother and to feel the tingle of magic running through him like the bubble of a wild stream. Hand-in-hand with magical knowledge of harm and hurt, he learned spells of healing and cleansing, of how to mend torn flesh and purge sickness from the body. Though he seemed to have a natural ability for the darker forms of magic, he sought to learn all that he could, even so. His skills met and eventually surpassed his mother’s, and her earth-brown face creased with proud smiles for her child’s prowess, though sometimes her expression would grow troubled, too.
Until there came a day when the witch’s child was tall and lean and strong, grown to manhood, and his mother shrunk only a small measure with age; when she drew him along with her in the hush of the blue glow before dawn, following trails only the larger animals like wolves, deer, and bears trod until the midday sun fell through the widening gaps in the trees, revealing a rutted road at the edge of the dark forest.
“My son, you may travel a week’s journey along this road, keeping always toward the setting sun, and you will eventually come to a fine town at the base of a strong castle. It is there you would find your father, now the king of the land, and his lady wife, the queen. By rights, the throne should be yours when he passes, as you came before the two boys and three girls since borne of his queen. You are a man grown, my son, and should know the truth. You could claim your place; secure yourself a life of luxury and finery. None could prevent you, with the right of your birth, all the gifts you possess, and the knowledge I have given you.”
The witch’s child—now a man, as his mother rightly spoke—looked along the road, smelling the lingering scent of dust and the faded ghosts of creatures and people who had passed along it in the last few days. His gaze went around to the forest on either side of the worn road, and back to his mother’s cautious moss-green eyes and soft red lips, now pulled into a tight line of apprehension. Finally looking up to the gorgeous blue of the sky showing through the branches, seeing the flit of a forest bird across the gap, almost too fast to catch, and hearing the soft cries of its young as it alighted in its nest. The witch’s son took a deep, deep breath and returned his attention to his mother.
“If it’s all the same to you, Mother,” he said in his slow, deep voice, “I would rather stay here in the forest with you.” Tilting his head, his rust-colored brows rising, he added in a softer, more hesitant tone, “Unless that is your wish? That I go on such a journey and do such things?”
With a little gasp and rapid blinking to push back sudden tears, the witch shook her head and reached up to gently ruffle the silky dark auburn hair atop her son’s head, perhaps wondering how much darker it would grow as he matured. Her voice cracked a little as she replied, “No, my dear child. I only wish that you know the truth. What you do with it is truly up to you.”
Curving an arm around his mother and pulling her close, the witch’s child buried his face in the greying waves of his mother’s once-black hair and sighed. “Then I will stay here, in my home, with you and all the little friends I have made. The king and my half-kin don’t matter here.”
“Oh, my boy,” whispered the witch, voice choked with pride, and held him close for a long moment before leading the way back to their little hut at the heart of the dark forest.
~~~
.
