as lightning lights the sky, thunder echos into the future.
there once was a city beside the sea that, within it’s ever-climbing walls, held a tower which reached for the ever-unyielding sky. this tower, an imposing glittering figure against the grey murk of its sea, was the setting of a betrayal most painful; a betrayal most painful, yes, but a betrayal most necessary. this is what the betrayer tells herself as she plunges the sword forward and as her body unravels: vines of green and petals of the passion fruit flowers that bloom along the walls of the tower revealed, turning to cinders. bundles of flowers, carnations and chrysanthemums wrapped in bloodied twine, fall at the crumpling body of the betrayed-- her soul clatters, ornate and curved, beside her. the betrayed, eyes a fire of green, her fingers curl around the hilt; her fingers the only steady and sure part of her, now, as her body trembles. as her mind stretches and flashes and tries to find a way, any way, to survive this. the smell of charred sage, of burnt cedar, of rosemary and mint all fill her senses. a cloud of smoke between her ears as she pulls herself to her feet, a gallant hero even in her most desperate of moments. the judge, with her fingers laced before her, tilts her head-- audience to this play, this tragedy unfolding. her smile is lazy, assured. “oh, noble swordswoman of the kote tribe,” she says, “how this must all not be how you had dreamed it to be.” the tribeswoman remains silent, lips pressed together. the fire does not waver, even as her sibling’s fists hit the door behind her. the archer pleads, whispered in a language only they know, and yet the judge’s smile quirks. a twitch of recognition. “would you not like to leave?” the judge pauses, before a huff of a sigh escapes her. “to, perhaps, exit this monstrous stage of cataclysm?” the betrayed’s fingers tighten around the touch-warmed metal of her soul, but her eyes soften. a temptation, private and warm; a murmur from the mouth of what had might been a motherly figure, perhaps. a comforting presence in a city most alien, the embodiment of advice in a marriage unknown and unwanted. the judge’s smile grows soft as well, a smooth motion. “and what--,” the swordswoman cuts in before the judge can continue her offer. “what of the bride? or, rather,” she shifts, mouth twisting, uncomfortable with such a poisonous word, “what of the witch?” “and what of the witch?” the judge echos in another sigh, as she shakes her head. “what a soft heart you have. what of the witch. look at your feet and you will see what remains of what i have tried to keep trapped here, what i have tried to keep the world safe from.” in a jolt, the betrayed’s gaze pulls downward, and what she sees is this: viscera, churning within its vernal prison. roots, once white and spindly, now a dull red and curling around the heels of her boots. twigs of birch and elder wood cracked open to reveal a marrow, oozing from between what fibers remained. what bundles were there, of carnation and chrysanthemum and of rosemary and sweet mint, the charred streaks of cedar and sage, and what shattered remains of her soul-- the tribeswoman could now see, were skewered with countless swords of light. these pieces of what was once the witch did not move, frozen and perhaps, she thinks, frightened. the judge’s laugh, though small and sad, echoes and cuts through the smoke between the betrayed’s ears as she jumps away, as the smell of sweet mint grows sickening. as her stomach churns in her body. as her burns and aches and squirms at where it was once pierced, but now bleeds. “now, do you see? what a witch truly becomes.” the judge’s face grows sympathetic, again, a liquid motion. “i wish to see you safe, to ensure your safety.” the archer’s fists, surely bloodied now, have not ceased-- and nor have their pleads. sister, sister, please. sister, we must leave this cursed place. sister, please, i cannot lose you. this gives the swordswoman, the betrayed, the tribeswoman pause. “safety? what do you promise?” for a flicker, the judge’s eyes deaden, and she motions for the betrayed to come closer; fingers a gentle flap of wings that, even in the ringing of the betrayed’s ears, sound like the tolling of a church’s bell. she obliges and the judge turns away, to clatter through bottles of salve and rolls of bandages-- “i promise,” she says, “to heal you. to ensure you and your sibling leave her. all i ask is that you never come back to this city. this stage.” she turns back, hands full of herbs of small clay pots that bear the seal of the tyrinia family-- a gift, perhaps, from that distant winter kingdom. the tribeswoman’s mouth runs dry then. she does not understand why but her gut, it pulls and twists. “never come back?” she asks, her heart aching in her chest. “and what of the others?” the judge huffs again, shaking her head. “again, again? with your soft heart, you might be the death of yourself.” a sigh as she begins to lay her utensils out before them both upon her desk. “the others will stay, as they are here to help me. it takes a village, after all.” the tribeswoman’s ears ring louder, then. “a village?” “yes,” the judge says, as the betrayed then sees a glint in her hands, “a village, to raise a child.” the betrayed strikes out, then, her soul piercing through the throat of the judge-- who still manages a thick choke of a laugh before her knife clatters to the floor. she watches the judge, then, sink to the floor, her laugh continuing even as the blade is pulled. “you fool,” she hisses, a bubble from her chest. “you are a fool, child.” the swordswoman, then, cannot find it within herself to back away despite knowing what the judge had intended, despite knowing of the second betrayal she had managed to stop. she cannot find it within herself to speak, mouth a flower in the desert, as she watches the judge defy death’s call. “child, you know not what you toy with,” she steadily intones, despite what froth pours from her mouth, “charmed by a witch who planned this. do you think you are the first to meet this conclusion? the first to have fallen to this witch’s whim.” she tries to pull away, to escape the accusatory gaze, but the judge’s fingers still reach for her-- weak, featherlight, but yet still grasping at her sleeves, teeth stained as she smiles. bitterness and hatred now laid bare, the liquid calm stripped in death. “you’ve doomed us all.” it is then that the swords of light, of which pierced what the witch once was, begin to hum. the hum fluxing as the spatters of viscera evaporate from the floor, low then high then low again as the betrayed approaches. slow and sluggish now, stooping to retrieve what fragments remained of the witch’s soul. the judge doesn’t stop laughing, even as the betrayed tries to strike at the bramble covered chest in the back of the tower’s room. utterances of fool and imbecile floating from where the bleeding body lay as nightshade and hemlock wilt underneath the fury of the sun’s soul. the thorns, the bramble, the streaks of ivy and vine: they do not budge or cut or falter. they remain, stalwart and as unyielding as the tower they rest within. and so, with what strength remains in her failing body, the betrayed pulls at them with hands laid bare. wrenching them away as thorn cuts into flesh, as bramble scrapes, and as the vines lick away what blood is shed. it is only then, with such sacrifice of self, that they begin to allow purchase. tendrils releasing their captive of millenia, thorns putting down their weapons at last. at last, they seem to sing, someone to take our place. someone to protect this body. the betrayed finds herself pulling back the lid of the chest, fingers now shaking with the rest of her body. in the darkness, the shadows, she sees the witch’s body: folded, and bent, and made to fit. with little flourish, she reaches out, dropping what shattered remains of the witch’s she could find, into the gaps of exposed rib she could see. it’s only then that the witch’s eyes fly open, a flurry of movement: eyes like coals, like lamps, like fire focusing on the dying body before her. the witch says her name, then. a whisper laden with disbelief as the betrayer reaches out to touch the betrayed. she says, “this is not the end.” the betrayed chuckles, as that’s all she can manage as she slumps over the lip of the chest. “oh bride, oh seal, oh witch.” her voice is a reed now, thin and bending in the wind. “how i wish that could be true.” the witch leans forward then, body of tatters but body of flesh, to press her lips against the hero’s. “we will meet again, someday. i swear it.” her words fell on a corpse’s ears, but as she lifted her body from it’s wooden prison, she knew them ultimately to be true. ------------------------- a book creaks, protesting as it’s closed with a soft thud. a woman with eyes like coals smiles at her audience of one, a young girl by the name of fadia, who leans forward-- as expectant as ever. “so?” she prods, finger reaching out to press against the witch’s hand. “what happens next?” an amused chuckle echos from the kitchen, and the woman shrugs in response. “what happens next? isn’t it clear?” the child’s face twists, indignant and impatient. “i mean, sorta.” a huff, which blows her bangs away from her face, “they live happily ever after, right? the witch and the hero.” a new figure emerges then, from the kitchen, dropping candy into fadia’s hand and offering the woman a cup of tea. “i dunno, kiddo,” she says, grin flashing like the sun. “i guess that’s up to the writer, right?” the woman’s sigh rolls her eyes, but the smile that grows is unfaltering. she reaches out to touch the hero’s hand, lacing their fingers. “i suppose they’re doing alright. the witch did promise, after all.” the hero’s grin grows, as she presses her lips against the witch’s knuckles. “and a promise a witch always keeps.”
