I'll figure out a title later

Except the colours change rapidly constantly. And it floats around lazily like a random hair on water, getting longer and thinner sometimes. Actually it's been getting longer for a while now. Portrait update:

edward elric, the dude who punched the gate of truth open just so he could yell a little longer at his little brother

edward elric, the dude who punched his own dad in the face, his dad, who’s kind of immortal

update: somehow it got impossibly more wholesome

But lucky for the both of you, Meg had powerful lungs, and the witch was nearby.

Now, your father told you it was simply your imagination, and your mother said it was luck. But the next thing you knew was that you were on the river bank, and you could have almost sworn that the water was frozen in place, almost like ice.

And before Meg caught your hand to pull you home, you know you saw a woman in a starry cloak tip a pointed hat, in the direction of the you and your sister, and wave.

You waved back.

The next time you saw the witch, you were nine and with the rest of your family at the circus. It set up every harvest festival, and you’d begged to come.

There was a tent, striped purple and gold, in a back alley (you didn’t question the placement at the time, but a few years later, you thought to wonder). Stepping in, you recognized the woman immediately.

“I know you!” You exclaimed. “You’re the woman who saved Meg and I from the river!” You’d always known, really. There was no way the river turned to ice at the right moment, when two young children were on the surface, all on its own.

“That’s certainly a kinder way to be known, usually people call me the witch.”

“I suspected. Why do you have a tent at the circus?”

“I read fortunes for those who don’t run away in terror at the sight of me.”

You held in a gasp. Witchcraft was a means for execution at best. But you were fascinated nonetheless. “Will you read mine?”

The witch nodded. “Hold out your hand.”

But at that moment, you heard your mother calling for you. “Maybe another time,” the witch said wisely.

The last time you saw the witch accidentally was when you were twelve. You were in the forest again. Meg didn’t come this time- ever since the river, she’d refused to go in. You thought it was silly to be so scared after a whole seven years.

You were hiking, the hem of you dress dragging in the mud. Good, you thought. Let it get messy. The forest was a quiet place, where you could be yourself. If you wanted to get muck all over your best dress, then you wouldn’t let anybody stop you.

You saw a frog, a beautiful orange one with green swirls on its back. Thinking it an odd- but beautiful- sight, you followed it.

Followed it all the way to a little hut, nestled next to the largest, most colorful, beautiful tree you’d ever seen. You did the sensible thing, and knocked on the door.

The witch opened it. You were a bit surprised- the amount people talked about her, you expected her to live in town.

Or at least someplace spooky, not this… pastel treehouse. But it suited her, in a strange sort of way.

“Hello,” you said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Nor I you,” the witch regarded you expectantly, despite her statement. “Are you here to for that palm reading from the fair?”

“Uh,” you said, remembering the last conversation you held with the witch, every word emblazoned into your head, despite the fact that it was three years prior. “Sure?”

The witch laughed- it was a warm sound, like your father used to laugh, before the moment started rolling in and he became so detached. “Come on in then. Oh, don’t worry, I don’t bite.”

You figured your little pocket knife would protect you if she tried anything, and besides, she seemed nice every time you met. You stepped inside.

It was cozy, but there was a table with two chairs, and enough butter and bread for comfort. You sat down and waited.

“All right, no interruptions this time, right?” The witch quizzed you, with a twinkle in her eye and a laugh in her tone. She was a surprisingly jovial person, this witch.

“All right, hold out your hand.”

It was illegal to practice magic, punishable by death. People hid in their houses when the witch came by, hoping a neighbor would get proof of her magic. Fortunately for the witch, nobody had ever found evidence that she knew magic, and that meant she couldn’t be executed yet. But even at twelve, you had a healthy hatred for the men in charge who kept insisting on objectifying Meg, even though she was only fifteen, the men who came to your house with slimy smiles and poisoned proposals, bouquets of empty promises of love. You had seen the way she shivered when they took her arm or hand, the way she got rid of their presents as soon as they left, the way she cried into to pillow and your mother’s arms.

You held out your hand.

The witch took your small soft one in her own wrinkled warm one, and closed her eyes. “I see hardship. Much of it… but the near future is bright… and after the hardship… I see many possibilities. There is no definite way past that.” She closes them tighter, trying to see more, see further.

The room is a hazy gray. The teacup’s on the shelves shake in their places, books wobble on the table and pictures rattle on the walls. And then you feel yourself instinctively pushing outward with your soul, and there’s a flash of white light, and when you open your eyes (you didn’t realize they were closed) there is a starry cloak on your shoulders and a pointed hat on your head.

You stare into the witch’s eyes. “What just happened?” You ask her.

“I think,” she says slowly, her head nodding slowly, “That I have an apprentice now.”

“Cool,” you say. You didn’t expect it, but nobody ever expects to be a witch. “What does that mean?”

“I train you. And when I die, you take over as village witch. Protect the innocent. Take revenge on the evil. Be a guardian, basically.”

“Will I learn magic?!”

“So much magic,” promises the witch.

“When do we start?”

“Well, I need to prepare. Come back next time you’re in the woods, and we’ll get to work.”

Nodding furiously, you hoist up your skirt and rush back home. It’s later than you thought, and your mother fusses over you.

You have the sense to lie.

Two years go by, taking lessons in the woods whenever you get a chance. The witch grows weaker. One day, you and the witch are careless. You take a walk in the woods together often, but usually you stay away from the village.

Straying too close, a villager spots you. Cries out, “The witch, she made magic! She’s enchanted the child!” You try to stop the police.

But you aren’t able to defend yourself, let alone the witch. And she’s led away in chains, and you’re sent home, where Meg hugs you and murmurs about how unfair life is. She lets you twist her golden engagement ring- the one she’s tried to melt in the hearth three times- until you calm down.

The next morning, everybody is in the town square, including your family. Well, mostly. Meg’s fiancé (who you would quite like to punch in the face, repeatedly) has dragged her off to stand with his household. But you’re with your parents, at least.

The worst day of your life, and you’re only fourteen.

You forget caution when they bring the witch out. You cry out to try and stop them, but it’s passed off as you being “enchanted” yesterday. You try to shove to the front of the crowd as they tie her to the wooden stake. You sob as they put hay around her feet, scream a scream that’s lost in the rioting crowd as they throw in the torches.

There’s no body to bury. You and Meg- she doesn’t understand, but she wants to support you, and she’s among the few that don’t think you’ve been hypnotized- make a basket of mushrooms and fruit and medicines and bury it beside the treehouse.

A month passes. One day, your father mentions causally that a date needs to be set for Meg’s wedding. You clutch your fist so hard around your glass of water that it shatters, and the sky rumbles with thunder.

Meg, frozen with shock, doesn’t notice. Your parents jump, nervous, but seem to convince themselves it’s a coincidence.

It storms, and Meg’s wedding is postponed.

Trying out your newfound power, you start to make it rain on purpose. Every day that it storms is a day Meg can’t get her life tied down.

There is nobody left to tell you, “Apprentice, be responsible with your magic.”

It rains for a year. No crops can be grown in the soaked, easily washed away soil. Then, when they begin to discuss holding Meg’s wedding indoors, you send a heat wave.

By now, you’ve moved into the witch’s cabin in the woods. You wish your parents had tried harder to stop you, but they were too busy obsessing over Meg’s wedding. It’s cool there, and you invite Meg to stay there until the whole wedding ordeal is over and done. She cries with happiness, and when you show her your magic by destroying the ring, she throws her arms around you and tells you that she couldn’t have a better sister if she lived in paradise.

People panic when Meg disappears, but mostly they’re trying to survive the heat. It’s a drought, the rainwater long since gone.

You have no mentor to advise you, “Listen to your conscience, that’s where your morals are.”

After the heat stops being such a problem for their plans, you switch to snow. Pounding blizzards into the ground every day, you show no mercy. The only spots left untouched are the treehouse and a circle where a basket is buried. The snow piles highest on the long gone spot where a witch once burned for trying to teach.

When they get used to snow, you send wind. It blasts the houses, and many crumble. They build stronger, but you make it blow harder.

People speculate, say it’s a curse from killing the witch, that she’s send her revenge from beyond the grave. They’re half right.

Meg can’t hide forever though. One day, they manage to grab her. She’s twenty five now, and you’re twenty two. You search the library, calling creatures from the forest- foxes, bears, even a hawk- to help you search faster. Eventually, you find it, in a book of dark magic.

You lay out the candles and some blood, (the butcher can spare his whole supply, for all you care) and you start to chant.

Raising the dead isn’t easy, and eight years between death and rebirth is a long time. But you had a good teacher, and determination plays a big part.

When the witch wakes up, she looks at you knowingly. “I saw what you did.”

“I lived it. Now are you going to help me stop this wedding?”

“I’d like nothing better,” replies the witch. “Let’s go save Meg.”

A master and a prodigy are a dangerous pair- you’ve got a morally gray aura now and coming back from the dead has left the witch a bit unhinged.

Together you set off towards the village, armed with spells and a horde of forest friends.

Here's some of the language from the new post about AO3's police on commercial promotion:

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There is a wide variety of things that are not allowed under AO3's non-commercialization rules.

Any other language which one might interpret as requesting or having requested financial contributions, whether for yourself or others. This covers indirect references, euphemisms, or other language intended to get around the TOS. Some examples of this include:

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*Last I checked, it isn’t officially illegal to write for-profit fanfiction. It isn’t officially legal, either. It’s a grey area that hasn’t had a lot of litigation or legal precedent yet. Fanfic in general is still largely in the grey areas. Most of the time when authors have sent lawyers after fic writers, it’s resulted in the fic writers caving without it ever properly going in front of a judge (because fic writers do not tend to have the kind of money to afford a legal battle against the likes of Anne Rice). Which isn’t a great situation for the fic writers and has absolutely ruined lives, but again, hasn’t established much in the way of precedent. Which leaves us still stuck in the grey.

The Organization for Transformative Works (which runs AO3) has a lot more resources than the average individual fic writer, and is ready and willing to properly go in front of a judge to defend the concept of fanfic. For various cultural, practical, and lawyery reasons, they have decided that their line in the sand is not-for-profit fanworks. This is what they have chosen to prioritize. This does not mean that for-profit fanworks are necessarily illegal. It does mean that the OTW is not prepared to defend their right to exist in court the way it is prepared to defend not-for-profit fanworks. And therefore—you’re not allowed to acknowledge writing fics for profit on AO3, because if the OTW do go to court and they haven’t taken an incredibly firm stance on not hosting for-profit fics on their site, that hugely jeopardizes their entire argument. Which jeopardizes their odds of winning. Which is bad news for the OTW, for whichever individual fic author they were defending, and for all of us if precedent is set against us.