Hestia Crow

Howdy everyone! Welcome to my main writing page, where I post all things relating to my writing, including commissions! However, it won't just be my commissions that I'll be promoting here, but also those of my partners, Alexis and Raven, too.

Let's start with Raven's, shall we? She makes bracelets, specifically crystal ones, with designs ranging from a single kind of crystal to being inspired by fictional characters, and has so many options. Literally, at the last count, she had 125 different types of crystals to use in her bracelets. To add to this, she is also thinking of experimenting and branching out into using the same crystals to make DnD dice! Raven has three different categories for her crystal beads: regular, manmade, and VIP (these are slightly higher quality than the other two, but there are fewer options). Here's the link to her Ko-Fi:

ko-fi.com/corvuslunacreations

I'll put the full list of her options in another post to save space here, but here's some pictures of some of them.

Onto Alexis. He is an artist currently studying illustration, and he does both traditional and digital art! He even drew my profile pic! His Ko-Fi is here:

ko-fi.com/alexisthomas0418

Here's some of his stuff to give you a taster:

As for me? My commissions are all written. I do character letters, DnD backstories, short one-shots, and I'm thinking of maybe expanding into making DnD maps once I'm a little more confident. Here is my link:

Here's some letter examples. I'll post some examples of my other work here too, but here's some to start you off:

It has been a long time since we last felt safe. Safety isn’t a thing we really know now. It’s a thing of the past, an ill-conceived notion of something we’ll ever have again. It hurts, yes, it does hurt. It hurts to know that we’ll probably never know safety again, not after everything we’ve lost.

We trapped ourselves underground years ago, when the surface was no longer safe. It’s too dangerous to go up there, child. Never go up there. There aren’t many alive today who remember what actually happened. Our lifespans are much shorter than they used to be.

They came late at night, as most unprecedented things do. Their bombs spread their poison over the surface, infecting everything it touched with its ugly sickness. Those who could sealed themselves inside a room, blocking all possible cracks in the walls. Many did not wake up in time. They suffocated, and those who didn’t were consumed by the poison.

It took fear and time for anyone to even consider where they could go. Some tried to make face coverings to keep the gas out, but it seeped into their bodies through their skin. Nowhere was safe, not really. If only one seal had a single crack in it, the poison would make its way in and kill whoever was inside. I have seen many fall in its path.

Thankfully, someone, we don’t remember who, found a network of abandoned underground facilities. Anyone who could came and found a safe place here in these caverns. We made a new home beneath the surface, safe from the poison and from them. Of course, we had to leave a lot behind, family, friends, that one teddy you had since infanthood, but we did. We came and we hid and we shut ourselves off from the surface.

Don’t worry, child. We are safe here. The seals here are checked every few hours for gaps. Yes, I know everything looks bad. I know it sounds like there is no hope for us. That there will never be hope for us. There will always be a struggle to find hope, and it will always hurt, one way or another. But without hope, we wouldn’t have discovered these facilities. We would still be choking to death on an unknown poison on the surface.

Yes, we were terrified. Yes, we feared for our lives and the lives of those we cared about. We are still terrified, even after all this time. We never found out who or what caused the poison, but what we did do was came together. Old, young, black, white, gay, straight, it didn’t matter. We all put our differences aside and worked together to survive, because that’s all we could do. If we had not cared even a little about one another none of us would have made it.

Now you know the story, child, and you must continue it from here. Your future is yours, nobody else’s. You must survive. Like everyone else, we care for you, and because we care for you, you must survive. For our sake and yours, and for the sake of your children. Stay safe, child. One way or another, we will make it someday, somewhere.

Inspired by a line in James Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time

A young traveller drove down the narrow, winding road leading to Broad Haven, his car filled with all the belongings he thought he would need, clothes, snacks, bodyboard, wetsuit, the basics anyone would take when heading to a beach village. It wasn’t a large town by any means, you could probably walk from the bay to the hills overlooking it in twenty minutes, thirty if you were a slow walker, but all the same it was a lovely town. He had many fond memories of it from his childhood, from splashing in the waves to wandering up the cliffs at sunset.

The road to Broad Haven was often quiet. Usually the most the traveller had to deal with was a couple of other cars coming out of town, needing to only occasionally dip into one of the many passing spaces that lined his road. This time, however, he came across a small child sitting all alone at the side of the road, her face in her hands, trembling like a leaf in an autumn gale.

Curious, he pulled up beside her, careful not to block the road, and rolled down his window, “Are you alright, little girl? What are you doing out here all alone?”

The child lifted her head, curiously staring him in the eye, “What are you doing,” she responded, “alone with so much to transport?”

Taken aback, the traveller answered her, “Oh, I’m heading to Broad Haven. My grandparents live there.”

“Ah,” said the child, “take me too.”

Carefully, the traveller got out and opened the passenger door, mindful of any oncoming traffic, “What is your name, my little girl?”

She climbed inside, already clipping on her seatbelt, “Don’t have one.”

“Oh…” the young man got back behind the wheel, starting up the engine, “Where did you come from?”

“Nowhere.”

Confused, he carefully moved out into the road once more, a hundred questions buzzing around his mind, “How old are you? You can’t be more than seven, right?”

“I have no age.”

The questions didn’t cease, swirling in his mind like a wild storm, “Why are you here?”

The child did not look at him, staring at the road ahead as the glitter of the sea crept over the horizon, “I have been waiting for you.”

“How long have you waited?” now even more puzzled, the young traveller decided that it was obvious he wasn’t going to get any closer to figuring out who this child really was. Perhaps it was time to just shrug and move on.

“For more than a hundred years,” came the answer, confirming his thoughts and drawing a soft laugh from his throat, “Take me to the town.”

“Alright, if you insist,” together, the child and the traveller arrived in Broad Haven, just in time for the annual carnival. Children and their parents ran through the streets, dressed in costumes of foxes, dragons, cats, bears, lions, tigers, you name it, somebody probably had it as a costume. There were floats decorated as huge shoals of fish, sparkling fabric tied down as waves, or paper cut to mimic the grass of a savannah. Elderly relatives laughed and cheered from the pavement, waving at their families, and the occasional teenager begrudgingly took pictures of their parents and siblings. The traveller parked his car at the youth hostel, out of the way of the parade, watching in confusion as the child he had picked up waved goodbye and fled deeper into town. She followed the crowds to the school field, giggling as she wove between couples and adoring parents. Barefoot, she danced on the grass, drawing the attention of almost everyone, including the mayor himself, and they all cheered when she finished. The mayor approached her, clapping his hands loudly.

“Little girl, that was wonderful! What is your name?”

“I don’t have one, sir…” she looked away, rubbing her arms sheepishly, “I came to find someone who… I dare not ask, I am afraid.”

“Oh, don’t be afraid, we are all friends here!” he told her, “What did you come looking for?”

Embarrassed, the child mumbled her answer, “I came to find someone who would look after me… Will you let me stay?”

The mayor let out a happy cry, “Of course I shall!” and quickly offered her a place in his home. She was named Morwyn Tlys by him and the people of Broad Haven.

Very quickly did Morwyn Tlys become the best in the town at every creative task when she enrolled at the school. She could sing and play any instrument she was given. Her painting skills surpassed all of her classmates, and her embroidery and work with fabric surprised all the seamstresses and weavers many years her superior. Her written words moved whoever read them to tears or laughter. Hundreds of characters danced to her tune, and she knew well the legend of St David and the tales surrounding the Carningli mountain. The townsfolk nicknamed her the Wonder Child, the Jewel of the town.

And the mayor loved her as his own daughter.

Over the years he forgot his duties as mayor, obsessed with his Morwyn Tlys. Constantly he kept her by his side, growing defensive if anyone dared to approach her, and overly passionate about her skills in every subject, so much that his people grew afraid to speak to him. His obsession ran deep, so deep that he grew ill and listless, and no doctor or remedy cold do anything to cure him.

The people feared some dark curse had been placed upon him, but nobody knew who or what had caused it, “What could have caused all this?” they asked each other, “It must be some witchcraft, if no medicine can help him. What if it kills him?!”

The mayor ignored their words, regarding them as nothing more than mad, worrying fools, “As for myself and my dear Morwyn Tlys, we shall do what we want.”

He was mad for Morwyn Tlys.

He took her to his second home up on the cliffs, overlooking the sea, away from his people, and prepared a feast for her. Only his assistants and close family were permitted to attend, and they all came, bringing words of praise for Morwyn Tlys, who had grown into a beautiful young woman, and her adopted father. She wore dresses of fine red and gold, the finest that could be found in the county, and helped serve her friends and family, much to the mayor’s surprise and despite his insistence that she should be served instead. Instead, she shook her head, carefully pouring his wine from the bottle.

He looked into her eyes.

“Morwyn… my dear Morwyn Tlys… Nobody compares to you, my daughter,” he said, “There is nobody here worthy to touch you, Morwyn Tlys…”

He spoke loudly enough for everyone present to hear him, and they all laughed bitterly at his words. Morwyn Tlys, however, tried to hide her face.

“Father, please…”

The hours passed as they ate together, and the sky became overcast with black clouds that hid the night sky. The waves crashed wildly at the cliffs below them. The wind howled around the house like some broken beast, blowing the windows open and knocking ornaments and pictures from the walls and shelves. Rain poured in torrents through the windows, soaking the curtains and covering the floor in a thin layer of freezing water. The lights went out, sending almost all in attendance into a panic, their screams dragged away by the wails of the wind. Tables and chairs were overturned, dishes and glasses shattered on the floor, the wine bottle split open on the tiles, the red liquid inside mingling with the rain. It wove around Morwyn Tlys’ ankles, and as it touched her skin, a blinding green-gold light began to shine from her, streaming in wild tongues of fire from her body.

The mayor cried out for her over the wind, his voice strained and cracked, “Morwyn Tlys! Morwyn Tlys! Morwyn Tlys!” and as the last word left him lips, he collapsed to the floor, shivering and feverish, in a deathly trance.

He remained in the trance for many days, in a worse state than his mad obsession with Morwyn Tlys, seeming either asleep or dead, and nothing, no human or superstition, could awaken him.

The council met to discuss how they could possibly help the mayor, but none could think of a remedy they hadn’t already tried. No matter what they came up with, no medicine or superstition, nothing would bring him back. Morwyn Tlys was no help; she hid away in her room, locking the door and not allowing anyone to enter.

The mayor’s assistants gathered together, pondering over the lists of everything they had attempted. They had almost given up when there was a knock on the door. When they opened it, a murmur rippled through the gathering when a child, seeming around the same age as Morwyn Tlys, walked in, holding a strange silver stone.

“Child, what are you doing here? This is no place for you.”

The child didn’t say a word. They took a piece of paper from their pocket and handed it to the mayor’s personal assistant, before turning away and running back into the town. Curious, the assistant unfolded the paper, finding a message scribbled in red crayon.

“I found this while exploring the field at school. Everyone saw something weird a few weeks ago out there, so I went to look and found a message on a big rock in the trees. The stone was next to it. The message said ‘do not trust those who you know nothing about.’”

“What does it mean?” One of the younger assistants called out, her voice trembling and nervous.

“It means,” the mayor’s personal assistant replied, “that we have trusted someone we should have cast out from the beginning.”

He took the silver stone in hand and fled from the meeting hall, running back up to the mayor’s home. The other assistants followed him, muttering in concern. He led them up to the room of Morwyn Tlys, where the young woman sat, looking out of her window.

“Oh,” she said, “I didn’t call you all here. What is it you need?”

“Morwyn Tlys,” said the assistant, “A child gave us a gift for you. I hope you’ll accept it.”

“I am in no mood for gifts, no matter who they are from,” she responded, “when Father is sick or dying.”

“But it is from someone who could be a friend! Please, Morwyn Tlys, take it.”

“Well, if I must …” she said.

The assistant held out the stone, watching Morwyn Tlys for a reaction. She recoiled, lifting a hand to shield her face as she bristled at the sight of it.

“Where did you get that?”

“So it’s true…” the assistant looked at her in horror, “We should never have trusted you!”

In a fit of rage, he threw the stone at Morwyn Tlys, and when it struck her arm she let out a piercing wail. The stone latched onto her skin, tiny claws digging into her flesh, and from it, silver and green scales spread over her. Her hair became fronds, like some strange antennae sprouting from the back of her head. Her fingers became webbed, and she shed the gown she wore, revealing more scales. Panicked, she leapt from her window, fleeing the house, through the village, until she reached the school field and hid herself under the stone the child had told the assistants about.

The mayor immediately recovered from his sickness, and the whole town was relieved at the miracle.

However, soon horrible things were noticed surrounding the stone in the school field. All plants surrounding it shriveled and died, no matter what anybody did to try and sustain them. The children and teachers at the school started reporting severe sickness, and many had to stay home. So many left that the school closed, and the building was quickly emptied. The birds and animals living in the trees and grass fled or died, the flowers withered, and the stone itself turned black. The people of Broad Haven nicknamed it the Death Stone, or Carreg Marwolaeth, and it remained that way for several decades.

On the 50th anniversary of the creation of Carreg Marwolaeth, the child who had brought the stone to the mayor’s assistants, now grown, returned to the village and their home. The few villagers who remained begged them not to go anywhere near the south side, for anyone who got too close to the stone in the old school field fell ill or died. Their only response was a smile and the promise that the village will not remain in fear for much longer.

With that, they led the villagers to Carreg Marwolaeth, though the terrified people hung back on the seafront. They made their way to the school field, unarmed, and though they began to cough as they approached the stone, they called out, “Come out, old friend. I mean you no harm.”

A blaze of green and silver fire engulfed Carreg Marwolaeth, and it split in two. The flames gathered together in the centre of the broken rock, curling into the form of a woman. She stared at them for a moment, regret in her eyes.

“You call me old friend, yet we were never friends. Why now?”

The grown child did not respond, only held out their hand to the woman, who had silver and green scales glittering all over her body and fronds sprouting from the back of her head. She recoiled a little. There was a small stone lodged in her arm, and she scratched at it with claws that belonged to no known animal.

“Why? You were the one who told them about me. Had you not this would not have happened, and this place would not be abandoned.”

The child regarded her with a sorrowful gaze, “I know. Come to me, and let me fix my mistakes.”

“I wouldn’t call saving my father from sickness a mistake.”

“And yet I doomed you,” the child took a step closer, a cough catching in their throat, “You were no more than a child, like I was.”

The woman stared at them, curious, wary, “I was the cause of Father’s sickness. You did what you had to then. Why return now to help me?”

“I see your regret. I see you have changed, and you have no malicious intent. You did not know what your presence would do, friend,” the child held out their hand, watching the woman closely, “Morwyn Tlys, will you do me the favour of freeing you from this curse?”

“You cannot free me entirely,” Morwyn Tlys stepped down from Carreg Marwolaeth, reaching for her friend’s hand, “But please, at least rid me of this hideous form.”

The child smiled as Morwyn Tlys took their hand and pulled her in for a hug. They let her hold them tightly, 50 years of isolation and fear seeping through the cracks of disbelief. Gently, they grasped the stone set in her arm, poking at the tiny claws that had plunged into her flesh until they released their grip, and they slowly pulled it away from her. Immediately, the scales and fronds retreated from Morwyn Tlys’ body, and she sighed in relief. They slowly pulled away, stone in hand.

“Go, old friend. Lift the curse from this place.”

Morwyn Tyls flashed them a grateful smile and fled the field, fled past the villagers who gasped as she went by, fled into the sea, into which she dived and disappeared from the sight of humans.

The child smiled as they watched her go. Colour immediately returned to the field and the trees, wildflowers bloomed, the animals returned to their homes. Carreg Marwolaeth remained split in two, and the black stone turned grey once again. They looked down at the rock in their hand and saw that it had been weakened by the removal. Quickly, they clenched their fist and crushed it to dust in their palm, intent on never allowing it or themselves to harm anyone like that again.

My dear, It hasn’t been long since I saw you last, They told me you’ve gone to another place Another world, perhaps. But they said you’d be back in a year. They won’t tell me where you’ve gone though Won’t give me an address, I can’t send you my letters. I can’t tell you I miss you, But you’ve probably already figured that out. I won’t keep you long. You probably have things to do there And that’s alright. I’ll keep my letters for you Waiting for when you come back

My dear, They still won’t tell me where you are I’ve wandered all over the city Looking at the places we used to meet, The club you love, the park Where you threw petals at me Before you tackled me to the ground A blushing mess, both of us. You hid your face in my shoulder, Flustered, shy. I laughed and held you close, Until you lifted your head And kissed me for the first time. I know you were nervous: Your hands were trembling When you clutched at my jacket, And you refused to let go even after we stopped laughing. All the way home you didn’t let go And I could swear my heart was branded With your smile. I… I miss you.

My dear, Where did they send you? I don't understand. They always tell me to leave Whenever I go to ask. Am I annoying? Is that it? I miss you. Why did they decide to cut our contact While you're gone? You must be lonely In that other world. I wish I could visit Or at least know where you are. I'm sorry I can't reach you.

My dear, Where are you? You've been gone for so long. I fear you won't… I fear you won't come back. Why won't they tell me anything?

Silence scared me. It had a habit of creeping up my throat and crawling over my skin. Silence meant uncertainty. Silence meant someone was plotting something. Silence meant something wasn't right.

Not that noise was any better. There was no lively chatter anymore. No bustle of the city, no twittering birds, no laughter of children as they chased each other through the streets, dodging between lefts and knocking over signs. Now it was just beeps and electronic buzzing and the occasional rumble from the surface as yet another bomb went off.

No wonder everybody panicked when the quiet grating noise of the downstairs generator went quiet. 

Everyone had gone mad with fear. If the generator was quiet, it wasn't working. Alex had done the necessary checks that morning, and he was probably the most thorough, so nothing could have been blocked by dust. That could only mean mechanical failure or… an intruder. 

As people often do, everyone around me immediately assumed the worst, and became clamouring to escape, climbing over one another in their wild and desperate attempts to get away. Legs kicked out, hands clawed at the cold metal of the bunker, eyes went wide and mouths contorted into terrified screams. I tried to push my way through them, searching.

"Kiara!"

It wasn't safe to be alone in the bunker anymore. Apparently humans don't have the ability to come together when it's needed. Kiara needed me, and I needed her. We always stuck together and stayed by each other's side. Nerves tingling with that 'something's very wrong' feeling, I shoved against the current of bodies, scanning the crowd for the familiar bush of curly hair. 

"Sara!"

A hand grabbed my arm, dragging me to the side of the corridor and away from the writhing mass. Arms curled tightly around me, and something tickled my nose, making me sneeze. Yep, that was Kiara. I returned the embrace, pulling her into a small alcove away from the madness.

"Are you alright?"

"Sara, I'm fine…" she refused to look at me, grey eyes staring down at the floor instead.

"KiKi…"

Kiara was terrified, I could tell that much. She wasn't fine. Nobody was fine. Not anymore. Another rumble came from the surface, strong enough to almost shake the bunker, and I pulled her closer to me.

"Everyone's panicking so much… we don't even know why the generator is quiet!"

Kiara finally looked up at me, pupils tiny and quaking, "It's an intruder, it had to be!"

"We don't know that for certain! We have to at least check!"

Her hands clutched at my sweater, fingernails digging into the fabric, "Sara, no! That's a death wish!" 

"We'll just take a look! In and out, then we'll run, ok?"

She sighed, arms dropping to her sides, defeated. Her eyes met mine, hesitant, still terrified, still shaking, but she nodded.

“Fine. If it’ll help calm everyone down.”

I took her by the hand, racing down corridor after corridor, scrambling down the stairs, the metal clanging underneath my feet. Kiara was slower, quieter, more tentative. The basement was never a fun place to be in, always smelling like raw sewage and gasoline, never a good combination. There was always the quiet dripping of some liquid that probably wasn’t water somewhere, and the hum of the generator could give anyone a headache within 5 minutes. This time, there was no hum, just drip, drip, drip.

“Sara… we really shouldn’t be here…”

A smile broke over my face, and I squeezed her hand gently, "It's alright, KiKi, there's nothing here except the usual stuff!" 

Nervous, she followed me in, and we approached the generator. Nothing was grinding or groaning, which usually meant a mechanical fault, which was odd.

"Sara…"

I turned to look at her, smiling to comfort her, but she wasn't looking at me. She was staring at something behind us, grabbing my sleeve and pointing with a shaking finger.

"Poor kids… let me free you from this world," a low growl of a voice cut through the silence, shaking me to the core. The clatter of footsteps made me turn, and everything slowed down.

It wasn't a mechanical fault after all.

A man almost twice my size was lumbering towards us, the glint of metal in his hands. I couldn't quite see his face; it was covered by a mask, but there was no hiding his intent. He moved too fast for us to react, and the next thing I knew, I was skewered through the chest and pinned to the generator. Kiara's scream of agony echoed around the basement, but there was nobody to hear her.

"Be free, children…" 

The stranger released his grip on whatever metal he had been carrying and turned on his heel, leaving us behind. The breath rushed from my lungs, and with the last strength I had, I turned my head to look at Kiara.

"I'm sorry…"

I didn't hear her response, if there was one. My ears began ringing, my vision went dark, and then… nothing. I felt numb.

Stupid war… it either puts you in a killing rage or tosses your body aside as the life leaves you forever.

I wasn’t thinking properly when I left the house for my usual walk. It was the same as any other day, grey, overcast with a possible threat of rain later on, but I should be done by that time at least. The plan was I would take my usual route, past the old pub and the building site next door that nobody really knew was for, through the park, drop off a new printout for Ameera, pick up a couple of things from one of those stores that basically stocks everything you could ever need, stop and say hi to Amy, maybe ask her if she wanted to go to that pizza buffet down the street at some point, then cut back through the park and head home. Perhaps I’d miss a few steps but at that point I didn’t mind, I would cross those bridges when I came to them.

I had been very careful to wear black that day, especially a black hoodie. Standing out in a crowd was never my thing, and most people my age in this town wore black anyway, nobody was going to notice another person in a black hoodie. My usual bag was over my shoulder, with my purse and the printout inside. The pub and the building site went by in a blur. It was like I had tunnel vision, like there was some other force controlling me that was not my body. I had been furious during the night, but I thought I had calmed down since then.

A cold wind swept over my ears. I pulled my hood up. I never liked having cold ears, they made me feel numb. At least the hood stopped my hair getting in a mess like usual. Whenever I went out on a windy day like that my hair would always end up as tangled as a bird’s nest. I stopped at Ameera’s house, digging the printout from my bag before I knocked on the door. She answered within a minute, frizzy hair wrapped in a red towel that was starting to go damp, droplets of water still splattered across her hairline. She must have been chilling after taking a shower.

“Another finished one?” she asked me, looking me up and down as I passed her the printout.

“Yeah, thought you’d like the newest one before I sent it to the others.”

Ameera laughed a little, but cut herself off, “What’s with the all black? You look like you’re about to commit some ridiculous crime.”

I smiled, shuffling my feet, “Nah. I just felt comfy in black today.”

She laughed again, the same crystal clear laugh she always had. Her eyes scanned me again and she looked me straight in the face, her voice lowering into a tone I knew she only used when she was deadly serious.

“Don’t go doing anything stupid, you hear me?”

I laughed shortly, “’Meera, it’s been two years since that. How long do you think I can hold a grudge?”

With a sigh, she started to close the door, “If I know you as well as I think I do, longer than that.”

The door closed and I turned away. Maybe I was going to do something stupid. Maybe I wasn’t. I headed back down the path and stepped back onto the pavement. Next stop, the store. I went in to get some thread. I needed some more red and orange for a project I was working on at home. It didn’t surprise me when I got a nervous look from the cashier when the thread I needed was joined by a baseball bat. I just told them my friends and I were planning on going camping and I just needed something to take for fun.

As I left the shop, my movements became automatic. Amy was still living with her parents, having very little money and no idea where to go. I never stopped worrying about her, which is why Ameera and I moved closer to her, so we could all see each other and make sure she was alright. Everything had been fine up until the previous night. Once again, she had called me, just like two years ago, and she was panicking a lot. According to what I had heard, her father had been yelling at her mother again, before turning on Amy herself, calling her names, telling her she was nothing without him, things along those lines. I may have let it slide a little in the past, but this time? He was going to have a serious discussion with me, and if he didn’t like it, he was just going to have to put up with it. This talk was long, long overdue.

I shot a quick text to Amy, asking if her dad was home. I didn’t really know what I planned to do, or even what I planned to talk about, but somehow I was going to change Amy’s life no matter what I did. Her response confirmed his location as home, followed by a confused ‘why?’. I told her not to worry about it, to come downstairs if she wanted. When I knocked, I greeted her mother with a smile and a quick hello. She invited me in, asked if I wanted some tea of coffee, but I refused. I’d only be staying for a quick chat anyway. Amy’s father was sat in the living room, drinking… something. I really didn’t want to think about what he did in his own time besides yelling. Amy’s footsteps clattered down the stairs and she stared at me in shock. She hadn’t been expecting me and considering how she had heard me talk the previous night, she probably didn’t like that I was there. Her panicked eyes glanced between me, my bag and her father, and she shook her head. Her mother had gone back into the kitchen. I shrugged my shoulders and went into the living room. Amy’s father, the jerk, looked me up and down with a disgusted look on his face.

“What’s this emo kid doing in my house?”

I let out a short, humourless laugh. Ameera was right. I was going to do something stupid.

“The so-called ‘emo kid’ has a name, you know. And I’m pretty sure you remember it, sir.”

Perhaps the ‘sir’ was a little too far at the beginning. I couldn’t help it though. I couldn’t help but mock him. He wanted my respect? He would have to earn it, and from what I knew of him, he deserved none at all.

“What was that?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could just about see Amy hiding behind the door. Given what had happened, I wasn’t surprised she was terrified. Seeing her best friend face off against her father probably was the most skin-crawling, spine-chilling thing she could have even considered, and she played horror games on a daily basis. I took a deep breath, bringing the rage I had felt both that night two years ago and the night before back up to the surface.

“That, sir, was the voice of a very concerned friend of your daughter. The daughter, I might add, you should be properly caring for, considering you were the one who decided to have a child in the first place,” I couldn’t contain the venom I was putting in my voice. We were only a couple of minutes into the conversation and I was already losing control. This was bad. This was really bad.

“Are you… did you really come here to lecture me on how to care for my daughter? My daughter? My daughter who could easily leave at any moment she wants to?”

I had to bite my tongue a little at that remark, “Easily, huh? Easily?! You call having nowhere to go and very little money to support herself if she leaves easy?!” my voice started to rise in volume as I watched him stand from his chair, “You call having such bad mental health that even the thought of getting a job is terrifying, but the knowledge that a job is entirely necessary to survive in this world easy?”

He was walking towards me, trying to interrupt me and yell over me. I had been quiet for too long. Amy had been quiet for too long. Let the whole street hear me scream over him, I didn’t care. They would at least know what he had done and what Amy was going through. They would know she needed help, no matter what happened to me.

“You call struggling through every night listening to you yell and scream and shout because you don’t feel like you have control over this house easy?!” I watched him come closer, my feet planted firmly on the carpet, “Let me tell you something, buddy. Here, you have more control than anyone. Here, you are what is known as ‘the man of the house’. A few decades ago, this entire household would have relied solely on you. You would have been the only person out earning money. Your wife would always be at home, doing chores, looking after whatever children you had. Amy would be helping her, looking after any siblings alongside her mother, learning to cook and raise a family. They would all be completely reliant on you.”

He was stood directly in front of me. I didn’t move. I didn’t even let him speak. He didn’t deserve to. Not after what he had done to hurt Amy. I didn’t want to think about what he could have said to her mother.

“So don’t tell me you have no control here. Don’t come to me and say you don’t have control, that you never had control here. You have the most control of anyone. So don’t come to me like some hypo-“

I didn’t see the hand coming. Granted I was blinded by rage at the time but I probably should have seen him raise his arm. One second I was going off in his face like a wild firework, the next I was face to face with a wall, cheek stinging and my left eye watering a little. Amy let out a shrill cry behind me and I could feel her father’s shadow weighing down on my back. He was talking, yelling, but there was a fog in my head and I couldn’t hear him properly. He was probably chewing me out for coming into his house, talking to him in such a rude manner, the youth don’t respect their elders these days, all the classics a stuck up, hypocritical jerk like him would use. Well screw respect. He wasn’t going to get it from me.

“So…” I murmured, hand on my now reddening cheek, my legs already moving to get up, “So you would lash out at someone outside your family. You would hit someone barely an adult for standing up to you when nobody else will. You know how that makes you look?” I was back on my feet, back to staring him in the face; he probably expected me to get knocked down and stay down, “It makes you look pathetic. You rely on your fists and ‘superior strength’ to assert your authority over those who talk back.”

Watching his face twist from enraged to surprised that this little emo kid had dared to speak up, even after being struck was the greatest feeling I had ever had in my life. Some sick part of me wanted to see it more, and that sick part spoke to the enraged part of me that had the most control of me. My legs started to move forward, forcing him to move further and further back, away from Amy and her mother. I was not about to let him hurt them again.

“You know what you are?” I asked him, watching this much older, taller man start quaking at the sight of my approach, “You are a sad, twisted, pathetic hypocrite who can’t handle it when someone decides you don’t deserve what you think you do. If I’m entirely honest with you, I should have come here two years ago and put you in your place before you caused any more damage!”

He didn’t expect me to lay a hand on him. I didn’t expect myself to lay a hand on him. In a fit of blind rage I shoved him backwards. A scrawny five foot three girl, barely out of her teens, who lives off pasta and hides herself in a darkened room for most hours of the day should not have been able to push a grown man more than twice her age that hard. He fell backward, landing heavily on the carpet by the window. Amy yanked on my arm, hearing his roar of anger. She dragged me away, up towards her room, and I lost my grip on my bag. It fell to the bottom of the stairs, the bat sliding out a little. Amy’s father came screaming out of the living room, saw the bat on the floor and grabbed it, racing up the stairs towards us. Amy was already running for her room down the hall, but I tripped on the last step. Rolling onto my back, I watched him rushing up the stairs towards me, bat in hand, still in its packaging. He swung it down at my head and I rolled onto my side, dodging it by millimetres. The corner of the packaging scraped the back of my hoodie. Without thinking, I scrambled up to the top of the stairs and caught the bat as Amy’s father swung it at me again. My fingers strained against the plastic as it scratched at my skin. He yanked the bat backwards, pulling me off balance. I stumbled forward, knocking into him. He tried to grab my arm, to pull me back, but he also stumbled.

Physics can be a nightmare.

The momentum from the collision between the two of us mixed with the strength he used to pull the bat away from me toppled him backwards. Amy ran back to me and grabbed my hand, hauling me back to the top of the stairs, away from her father. He, however, was not so lucky. He lost his footing, flailing his arms wildly, and the bat flew from his hand. It landed somewhere near the living room door, I think. Amy’s father tripped backwards, falling down the stairs. To us, it was like he fell in slow motion. Amy reached out to catch him, but it was too late, and he let out a harsh cry as his body tumbled down, down, down. There was a sickening crunch when he hit the bottom and my blood ran cold. That sounded horribly like bones cracking.

“Freyja… what have we done…?”

I looked up at Amy, watching the tears fall. She was staring at her father’s body, shaking like a leaf. I clutched her hand, trying to at least give her some comfort. We watched in horror as her mother rushed to his body and pressed two fingers to his neck. She looked up at us, eyes already welling up.

“No pulse. His neck must have broken in the fall.”

Amy’s wail cut my heart in two. I turned and quickly wrapped my arms around her trembling frame, feeling her cling tightly to me as her tears soaked my hoodie. I was numb. I was stupid. What had I done?

I first found out what had happened over the phone on a Saturday night. Amy’s only words over the Instagram chat had been ‘Can anyone call’, and I practically spammed the call button until she answered. I was worried sick, pacing up and down my room while I waited, the rough carpet rubbing against the soles of my feet. Amy had always struggled with the people in her family, especially her father, who, though I’d never met him, seemed as abrasive as he was loud. He’d never talked to her directly whenever I was on call during the day, but I could still hear him yelling in the background. Based on all the stories I had heard from Amy, he treated her the worst out of her family.

That was the main reason I desperately wanted to help her get out of there.

She had been sobbing when she answered the call, having left the house to try to get help under the guise of going for a walk. She told me she had already called the police and was waiting for a response from them to tell her they were on their way, but she was still struggling to keep herself calm. I quickly sat down, trying to give her ideas of ways to soothe her – white noise, breathing exercises, diverting her focus, anything I could think of. From what I could tell they helped a little, slowing her erratic breaths until she could speak coherently again. Amy told me she no longer felt safe at home, but she could only stay out on her ‘walk’ for half an hour before she had to go home.

“If they don’t call while I’m out here, I don’t know what I’ll do,” she told me.

“I’ll stay on call with you until they do,” I promised her, “You’ll be alright, just keep breathing.”

Amy did keep breathing and we talked about whatever came to mind for half an hour. The police still hadn’t responded by the time she had to go home. I stayed silent while she slipped past her parents and went straight upstairs, where we kept quiet just in case something happened. The call came, and so did the police.

They were gone in 5 minutes, and Amy was distraught.

They said they couldn’t do anything, that Amy would have to sort things out with her parents. I was blinded by rage.

I was in tears when I read Amy’s messages. Her texts lacked the usual life she had, like being stuck with people she knew would emotionally hurt her again had sucked all the colour out of her, leaving her a black and white shell of herself. I cried in my sleep that night, terrified of what could happen to her. She was one of my best friends, close enough for me to call her my daughter. I was a 6 hour train ride away, and she was trapped at home. Anything I wanted to do to help her was out of the question, especially during a pandemic.

As I write this, I’m still debating whether or not this is a good idea. It probably isn’t, but to be honest, I don’t care anymore. Amy’s life and emotional state has been toyed with far too much, and I am not going to sit by and let others continue to reduce her to tears. She’s been hurting for too long now. I think it’s time someone did something about that, and if the police won’t do their job and be that someone, I will.

A young traveller drove down the narrow, winding road leading to Broad Haven, his car filled with all the belongings he thought he would need, clothes, snacks, bodyboard, wetsuit, the basics anyone would take when heading to a beach village. It wasn’t a large town by any means, you could probably walk from the bay to the hills overlooking it in twenty minutes, thirty if you were a slow walker, but all the same it was a lovely town. He had many fond memories of it from his childhood, from splashing in the waves to wandering up the cliffs at sunset.

The road to Broad Haven was often quiet. Usually the most the traveller had to deal with was a couple of other cars coming out of town, needing to only occasionally dip into one of the many passing spaces that lined his road. This time, however, he came across a small child sitting all alone at the side of the road, her face in her hands, trembling like a leaf in an autumn gale.

Curious, he pulled up beside her, careful not to block the road, and rolled down his window, “Are you alright, little girl? What are you doing out here all alone?”

The child lifted her head, curiously staring him in the eye, “What are you doing,” she responded, “alone with so much to transport?”

Taken aback, the traveller answered her, “Oh, I’m heading to Broad Haven. My grandparents live there.”

“Ah,” said the child, “take me too.”

Carefully, the traveller got out and opened the passenger door, mindful of any oncoming traffic, “What is your name, my little girl?”

She climbed inside, already clipping on her seatbelt, “Don’t have one.”

“Oh…” the young man got back behind the wheel, starting up the engine, “Where did you come from?”

“Nowhere.”

Confused, he carefully moved out into the road once more, a hundred questions buzzing around his mind, “How old are you? You can’t be more than seven, right?”

“I have no age.”

The questions didn’t cease, swirling in his mind like a wild storm, “Why are you here?”

The child did not look at him, staring at the road ahead as the glitter of the sea crept over the horizon, “I have been waiting for you.”

“How long have you waited?” now even more puzzled, the young traveller decided that it was obvious he wasn’t going to get any closer to figuring out who this child really was. Perhaps it was time to just shrug and move on.

“For more than a hundred years,” came the answer, confirming his thoughts and drawing a soft laugh from his throat, “Take me to the town.”

“Alright, if you insist,” together, the child and the traveller arrived in Broad Haven, just in time for the annual carnival. Children and their parents ran through the streets, dressed in costumes of foxes, dragons, cats, bears, lions, tigers, you name it, somebody probably had it as a costume. There were floats decorated as huge shoals of fish, sparkling fabric tied down as waves, or paper cut to mimic the grass of a savannah. Elderly relatives laughed and cheered from the pavement, waving at their families, and the occasional teenager begrudgingly took pictures of their parents and siblings. The traveller parked his car at the youth hostel, out of the way of the parade, watching in confusion as the child he had picked up waved goodbye and fled deeper into town. She followed the crowds to the school field, giggling as she wove between couples and adoring parents. Barefoot, she danced on the grass, drawing the attention of almost everyone, including the mayor himself, and they all cheered when she finished. The mayor approached her, clapping his hands loudly.

“Little girl, that was wonderful! What is your name?”

“I don’t have one, sir…” she looked away, rubbing her arms sheepishly, “I came to find someone who… I dare not ask, I am afraid.”

“Oh, don’t be afraid, we are all friends here!” he told her, “What did you come looking for?”

Embarrassed, the child mumbled her answer, “I came to find someone who would look after me… Will you let me stay?”

The mayor let out a happy cry, “Of course I shall!” and quickly offered her a place in his home. She was named Morwyn Tlys by him and the people of Broad Haven.

Very quickly did Morwyn Tlys become the best in the town at every creative task when she enrolled at the school. She could sing and play any instrument she was given. Her painting skills surpassed all of her classmates, and her embroidery and work with fabric surprised all the seamstresses and weavers many years her superior. Her written words moved whoever read them to tears or laughter. Hundreds of characters danced to her tune, and she knew well the legend of St David and the tales surrounding the Carningli mountain. The townsfolk nicknamed her the Wonder Child, the Jewel of the town.

And the mayor loved her as his own daughter.

Over the years he forgot his duties as mayor, obsessed with his Morwyn Tlys. Constantly he kept her by his side, growing defensive if anyone dared to approach her, and overly passionate about her skills in every subject, so much that his people grew afraid to speak to him. His obsession ran deep, so deep that he grew ill and listless, and no doctor or remedy cold do anything to cure him.

The people feared some dark curse had been placed upon him, but nobody knew who or what had caused it, “What could have caused all this?” they asked each other, “It must be some witchcraft, if no medicine can help him. What if it kills him?!”

The mayor ignored their words, regarding them as nothing more than mad, worrying fools, “As for myself and my dear Morwyn Tlys, we shall do what we want.”

He was mad for Morwyn Tlys.

He took her to his second home up on the cliffs, overlooking the sea, away from his people, and prepared a feast for her. Only his assistants and close family were permitted to attend, and they all came, bringing words of praise for Morwyn Tlys, who had grown into a beautiful young woman, and her adopted father. She wore dresses of fine red and gold, the finest that could be found in the county, and helped serve her friends and family, much to the mayor’s surprise and despite his insistence that she should be served instead. Instead, she shook her head, carefully pouring his wine from the bottle.

He looked into her eyes.

“Morwyn… my dear Morwyn Tlys… Nobody compares to you, my daughter,” he said, “There is nobody here worthy to touch you, Morwyn Tlys…”

He spoke loudly enough for everyone present to hear him, and they all laughed bitterly at his words. Morwyn Tlys, however, tried to hide her face.

“Father, please…”

The hours passed as they ate together, and the sky became overcast with black clouds that hid the night sky. The waves crashed wildly at the cliffs below them. The wind howled around the house like some broken beast, blowing the windows open and knocking ornaments and pictures from the walls and shelves. Rain poured in torrents through the windows, soaking the curtains and covering the floor in a thin layer of freezing water. The lights went out, sending almost all in attendance into a panic, their screams dragged away by the wails of the wind. Tables and chairs were overturned, dishes and glasses shattered on the floor, the wine bottle split open on the tiles, the red liquid inside mingling with the rain. It wove around Morwyn Tlys’ ankles, and as it touched her skin, a blinding green-gold light began to shine from her, streaming in wild tongues of fire from her body.

The mayor cried out for her over the wind, his voice strained and cracked, “Morwyn Tlys! Morwyn Tlys! Morwyn Tlys!” and as the last word left him lips, he collapsed to the floor, shivering and feverish, in a deathly trance.

He remained in the trance for many days, in a worse state than his mad obsession with Morwyn Tlys, seeming either asleep or dead, and nothing, no human or superstition, could awaken him.

The council met to discuss how they could possibly help the mayor, but none could think of a remedy they hadn’t already tried. No matter what they came up with, no medicine or superstition, nothing would bring him back. Morwyn Tlys was no help; she hid away in her room, locking the door and not allowing anyone to enter.

The mayor’s assistants gathered together, pondering over the lists of everything they had attempted. They had almost given up when there was a knock on the door. When they opened it, a murmur rippled through the gathering when a child, seeming around the same age as Morwyn Tlys, walked in, holding a strange silver stone.

“Child, what are you doing here? This is no place for you.”

The child didn’t say a word. They took a piece of paper from their pocket and handed it to the mayor’s personal assistant, before turning away and running back into the town. Curious, the assistant unfolded the paper, finding a message scribbled in red crayon.

“I found this while exploring the field at school. Everyone saw something weird a few weeks ago out there, so I went to look and found a message on a big rock in the trees. The stone was next to it. The message said ‘do not trust those who you know nothing about.’”

“What does it mean?” One of the younger assistants called out, her voice trembling and nervous.

“It means,” the mayor’s personal assistant replied, “that we have trusted someone we should have cast out from the beginning.”

He took the silver stone in hand and fled from the meeting hall, running back up to the mayor’s home. The other assistants followed him, muttering in concern. He led them up to the room of Morwyn Tlys, where the young woman sat, looking out of her window.

“Oh,” she said, “I didn’t call you all here. What is it you need?”

“Morwyn Tlys,” said the assistant, “A child gave us a gift for you. I hope you’ll accept it.”

“I am in no mood for gifts, no matter who they are from,” she responded, “when Father is sick or dying.”

“But it is from someone who could be a friend! Please, Morwyn Tlys, take it.”

“Well, if I must …” she said.

The assistant held out the stone, watching Morwyn Tlys for a reaction. She recoiled, lifting a hand to shield her face as she bristled at the sight of it.

“Where did you get that?”

“So it’s true…” the assistant looked at her in horror, “We should never have trusted you!”

In a fit of rage, he threw the stone at Morwyn Tlys, and when it struck her arm she let out a piercing wail. The stone latched onto her skin, tiny claws digging into her flesh, and from it, silver and green scales spread over her. Her hair became fronds, like some strange antennae sprouting from the back of her head. Her fingers became webbed, and she shed the gown she wore, revealing more scales. Panicked, she leapt from her window, fleeing the house, through the village, until she reached the school field and hid herself under the stone the child had told the assistants about.

The mayor immediately recovered from his sickness, and the whole town was relieved at the miracle.

However, soon horrible things were noticed surrounding the stone in the school field. All plants surrounding it shriveled and died, no matter what anybody did to try and sustain them. The children and teachers at the school started reporting severe sickness, and many had to stay home. So many left that the school closed, and the building was quickly emptied. The birds and animals living in the trees and grass fled or died, the flowers withered, and the stone itself turned black. The people of Broad Haven nicknamed it the Death Stone, or Carreg Marwolaeth, and it remained that way for several decades.

On the 50th anniversary of the creation of Carreg Marwolaeth, the child who had brought the stone to the mayor’s assistants, now grown, returned to the village and their home. The few villagers who remained begged them not to go anywhere near the south side, for anyone who got too close to the stone in the old school field fell ill or died. Their only response was a smile and the promise that the village will not remain in fear for much longer.

With that, they led the villagers to Carreg Marwolaeth, though the terrified people hung back on the seafront. They made their way to the school field, unarmed, and though they began to cough as they approached the stone, they called out, “Come out, old friend. I mean you no harm.”

A blaze of green and silver fire engulfed Carreg Marwolaeth, and it split in two. The flames gathered together in the centre of the broken rock, curling into the form of a woman. She stared at them for a moment, regret in her eyes.

“You call me old friend, yet we were never friends. Why now?”

The grown child did not respond, only held out their hand to the woman, who had silver and green scales glittering all over her body and fronds sprouting from the back of her head. She recoiled a little. There was a small stone lodged in her arm, and she scratched at it with claws that belonged to no known animal.

“Why? You were the one who told them about me. Had you not this would not have happened, and this place would not be abandoned.”

The child regarded her with a sorrowful gaze, “I know. Come to me, and let me fix my mistakes.”

“I wouldn’t call saving my father from sickness a mistake.”

“And yet I doomed you,” the child took a step closer, a cough catching in their throat, “You were no more than a child, like I was.”

The woman stared at them, curious, wary, “I was the cause of Father’s sickness. You did what you had to then. Why return now to help me?”

“I see your regret. I see you have changed, and you have no malicious intent. You did not know what your presence would do, friend,” the child held out their hand, watching the woman closely, “Morwyn Tlys, will you do me the favour of freeing you from this curse?”

“You cannot free me entirely,” Morwyn Tlys stepped down from Carreg Marwolaeth, reaching for her friend’s hand, “But please, at least rid me of this hideous form.”

The child smiled as Morwyn Tlys took their hand and pulled her in for a hug. They let her hold them tightly, 50 years of isolation and fear seeping through the cracks of disbelief. Gently, they grasped the stone set in her arm, poking at the tiny claws that had plunged into her flesh until they released their grip, and they slowly pulled it away from her. Immediately, the scales and fronds retreated from Morwyn Tlys’ body, and she sighed in relief. They slowly pulled away, stone in hand.

“Go, old friend. Lift the curse from this place.”

Morwyn Tyls flashed them a grateful smile and fled the field, fled past the villagers who gasped as she went by, fled into the sea, into which she dived and disappeared from the sight of humans.