DEL-ightful

Now it was an almost fortnightly occurance, with merchants tattling on about the elusive Dragonborn, the fabled hero that would slay the beasts and restore peace to all of Tamriel. The thought almost made the market trips sad.

The Witch Of The Woods wasn’t the most original name, but it was as neutral of a name as the folks of Whiterun could give when said Witch wandered into town for Spriggan Heart or Void Salt. Neutrality would grow to positivity when the trips became exchanges, freshly brewed health potions were in high demand when Dragons were always at the door. Really, the Dragons were quite welcome, in their opinion. Alchemy had never been more profitable.

When the telltale shake of the ground shook the shelves of jars, the Witch had the cauldron boiling and the glass bottles lined up. Butterfly wings, Black Warbler Eggs and Blisterwort sunk beneath the rolling bubbles, stirred and crushed until at last the final ingredient could be added.

The empty jar of Imp Stool caught a stray ray of afternoon sun in the Witches hand, shining smugly.

The potion couldn’t be reboiled, and on its own was as useful as a Skeevers tail. All they could do was forage from the surrounding woods and hope to be lucky.

Outside, the forest was quiet, only a rare bird call in the distance accompanied the Witch as they trekked forward, eyes scanning the swaying grass and scattered sticks. It should’ve felt eerie to tread through such foreign silence, but it felt peaceful, akin to walking in a serene dream with no destination, only the journey.

Time slipped past as the sun warmed the trees, and the Witch only stopped once a heavy, rhythmic breathing drew itself out of the silence.

No one strayed this far off the path and into the woods, that's why the Witch liked the little nook so much, and had they not been so used to the distinct noises of the critters that claimed the land as home, they might’ve been none the wiser.

Only a few steps away, slouched and shielded against a boulder, head drooped against his broad chest, was a man. Quickly the Witch whipped their head around, but could see no sign of forest fire, the scent of smoke would’ve warned them first. And yet the man was singed, soot covering half his face, marred by streaks of sweat. The cloth underneath the dented armour had wilted patched, blackened ends fraying from the fabric yet stuck to him with dark, clotted blood.

It was as if a portal from the Daedric realms had spat him out randomly and left him for dead. Or for them to find. Regardless of how he had stumbled here the once steady breathing was becoming strained and blood was starting to pool from unseen wounds.

Quickly the Witch crouched, tapping his face in an attempt to rouse him. It worked, briefly, as the man lifted his head enough for his charcoal eyes to stare with an intensity they hadn't experience before. The man huffed a breath through flaring nostrils, an armoured hand raising slightly to shoo the Witch away before his entire arm went limp and a wince crossed his features.

“Go away. ‘M fine, just need… to rest.” The thick accent was entirely foreign to the Witches ears, although not unexpected. The tanned, olive skin was a contrast to the pale populace of Skyrim, yet not as dark as the typical Redguard. Wherever the man hailed from was not of concern, everyone died the same when blood trickled down their side so freely.

“You’re bleeding out. Come, I can heal you.” The Witch tried to be as gentle yet persuasive as they could be, hand cupping the mans shoulder.

“No, I’m just… resting. It’s just a scratch.” He protested weakly.

“Your scratch is making a pool beneath you. Come, before you become a Skeevers dinner.”

His response was unintelligible, a grumble rolling off the tongue, but he heaved himself up regardless, straining through his teeth at the effort. The well-worn armour groaned as the man leaned against the Witch, nearly toppling them both over.

“Mierda… the hell are you doing this far into the forest anyway?” He drawled out, chin still resting on his chest.

“I’m the Witch of The Woods. And you?”

There was the beat of silence the Witch expected, until the shaking of the man's broad chest led them to noticing the amused smile tugging from underneath his black moustache.

“I’m just Jake."

The rest of the limp back to the cottage was silent, and as soon as the Witch directed him to their bed Jake fully collapsed, physically and mentally, leaving the Witch to unbuckle his armour and cut away the torn clothes beneath.

The gash in his side was a searing red, made by something large and sharp. It was nothing some special salve and stitches wouldn’t fix, but it caught in their mind all the same.

It wasn’t until the moon was high in the sky that Jake stirred, groaning and hissing out foreign words that could only be cusses. The man seemed much more aware than he had been in the woods, the dark eyes whipping around the room before narrowing onto The Witch. Then they almost softened.

Silence reigned again, the crackling fire and boiling cauldron providing a small ambience.

“I thought witches were meant to be those ugly Hags.” The rough drawl was much clearer now, although the words themselves took The Witch by surprise.

They stirred the cauldron patiently, adding in diced mountain flower and herbs.

“Hags are exclusive to covens, to which I am not a part of.”

Jake merely hummed in response, eyes now on the cauldron.

“That some freaky potion you plan to kill me with?”

The Witch almost snorted.

“This,” they took a small wooden cup and dipping it into the dark green liquid, “is a herbal tea, it restores health.”

Jake eyed the cup warily as it was brought to him, the herbal scent almost pleasant. Had the attractive person before him hadn’t admitted to being a witch, he might’ve been more forgiving.

“A tea? I was under the impression health restoration was alchemized into potions, not tea.”

“And I was attempting to forage some Imp Stools to make a batch of potions. That was before I saved your life and all but carried you into my home.” The retort was final, two sharp stares burrowing into the other until the opposite surrendered.

Jake was never one to back down, let alone surrender, but Jake also tended not to have life-long scars in the making raked down his torso.

The cup warmed his calloused palms, yet it was the Witches brief touch that brought heat to his chest.

“You often adopt wounded strangers from the woods?” Jake asked before sipping the tea. It was as herbal as it smelled, but the little surprise of honey soothed his throat.

“Only the handsome ones that kill dragons.”

The tea spluttered out of him as he choked once, then twice. For the third time since meeting them, his eyes locked their the Witch’s, hoping to gleam a wisp of their soul, their thoughts. All he found was warmth, a cosy, quiet abode. He smiled.