#bonefires

Witch Maidens

On All Hallow’s Eve, when the night is dark and the moon is high, out come the witch-maidens to frolic and dance around bonfires on the shores of lakes, rivers and the oceans— depending on where their coven resides.

They wear crowns of flowers and weave aromatic herbs into their loose hair. The tribute maidens cover their young, delicate bodies with gossamer robes that lick their ankles and float in the air barely hiding their figures, lets one of them catches the Moon Prince’s eye and gets whisked away in a whirlwind of weather and nature. This girls are tokens of gratitude to the gods of harvest, hunt and fertility for a year in which the land is blessed and prosperous.

But the Prince hasn’t picked a maiden in centuries to bear his children that then will litter the sky with their twinkling lights.

The young witches begin their ritual with chantings praising the moon, and the stars, and the powers that be; a rhyme as ancient as time itself passed down from mother to daughter and so on and so forth. They twirl with their arms in air, the flowy fabric of their long sleeves adhering to their skin as they hop gracefully around the fire, and their voices grow louder, less inhibited, more playful and carefree.

One witch laughs as her long blonde hair trails in the wind like a wild creature made of light. She lift her hands above her head and spins, spins, spins, all the while begging for a plentiful harvest for her village. More strawberries would be ideal, but she’s not selfish, and wishes for every crop to grow equally healthy to laden every table of her neighbors.

Another one, with hair deep red as a maple leaf in autumn, joins prancing merrily and singing enchantations as she goes. Her sea green eyes hold a sweetness hard to ignore. But there’s a secret desire of copper hair and sun-kissed skin all of her own even as she prays that if the Prince chooses her, her child would turn into the brightest star in the sky, and that every womb in her coven be blessed with a healthy child of their own. More children should a the smile of a certain sailor she knows, but she doesn’t include the thought in her spoken prayers.

One third one cackles at the moon. She dares it to choose her. She whips off her flimsy gown over her head and uses it as a banner that she waves in the wind while her perky pale breasts, topped with pink pebbled nipples, bounce freely under the moonshine while she flat out runs in circles around the pyre, shouting to gods for fair weather. She hates the rain; she loathe the water; if she feels as much as a light sprinkle fall over her, she fears she’ll melt into a puddle of despair; but she knows crops need rain, and water, and sun. So she asks for fair weather, and a comfortable shelter to hide in as well.

The last one of the year’s tributes starts out awkward and clumsy. Her inky dark tresses fall down her back in shiny waves as the flutter of raven wings. Her hair smells of fresh pine needles and freedom. Her strong legs gain confidence the longer she scampers around the bonfire with a song of her own in her mind, until she’s the most graceful of all of the maidens in the ring. Her earnest invocations are made on soft whispers. Her full, pink lips barely move as she asks for fruitful hunts. For plenty game and sustainable prey. She smiles singing her plea instead of chanting it when her voice finally joins that of her sisters.

As the ritual nears its close, more witches join the dance and provide their own requests, voicing their own promises of gratitude. In time, everyone is worked into a frenzy of humming and mingled sighing. Then the pledges take place.

Each witch in the coven gathered a gift of some kind for the gods: a small bunch of sage; the severed tail of a rodent; a few sprigs of lavender; a holly twig with blood-red berries; the lucky foot of an unlucky rabbit; a whole lizard; a posy of belladonna leaves and nightlock berries; a small bouquet of bright yellow dandelions, the thorns of a white rose in bloom.

The witches reach for their bundles and gifts pressed to their bosom under their gossamer gowns, and casts them into the bonfire to be consumed by the flames.

As each offering burns, slow tendrils of smoke rise to the sky, curling and stretching into intricate, mesmerizing designs. As the smoke and the sparks of the fire ascend, all dancing slows to a more subdued swaying.

All the witches fall into the same rhythm and a new chant begins. As their voices gain strength, the witches lift their hands at their sides, each pressing a palm to the hand next to them until the whole coven, old and young, has joined hands palm to palm.

Every eyelid grows heavy with the mixture of odors from the burnt offerings. It’s not unheard off that at the end of the ritual, a witch or two would be laid out unconscious at the feet of the pyre. But then, a sound like thunder shakes the earth beneath the women’s feet. A few of them shriek startled, but they mostly just gasp in unison when lightning strikes in the middle of the fire, and the blinding light flashes cross the shore of the lake, bathing in an otherworldly glow. It’s over faster than it takes a crow to caw.

The Moon Prince, mysterious, imposing and cloaked under darkness, strides from amidst the tongues of fire, regal, strong, and commanding. His only visible features are the twin bright blue rings under the hood of his cloak that seem to scan the coven and read their hearts deepest desires. He struts deliberately in the direction of one particular witch-maiden. His eyes, those burning blue rings boring into her leave the youth breathless. Flustered.

“Hear me Coven of Panem. You have been faithful servants and true keepers of the magic in this land. Your fervor has been noticed and your prayers have been heard. You have earned the favor of the gods in the sky, and by my honor, your pleads will be answered. There for, I’ve come to you. I’ve made my choice and came to take home what’s mine. Your tribute for my graces!”

A murmur overtakes the quiet, and whispered praises are recited out of silent lips. Soon the witches bow and curtsy to the prince, and promptly step aside from the raven haired maiden, until she’s the only one standing on the Prince’s path.

Suddenly, the Moon Prince turns his head to one side and speaks to the auburn hair witch with the secret wish. “Behold your sailor approaches. Keep him from the rotten sewers of the city, and he will live to old age with you by his side, baring him many children.” The witch’s knees give out, and a relieved sob escapes her throat as she hides her face from the prying eyes of her sisters.

The raven haired witch breathes heavily when the hooded head of the Moon Prince turns back to her, and his searing gaze swipes over her once more. She doesn’t dare look directly at him. Although she knows what he’s here for, she’s afraid of what he will ask of her. Yes, she knew what dancing in the moon with her sisters was about, but she never thought the Prince would even consider her at all. She thinks herself plain and awkward, and even a little boyish. She doesn’t have the same shapely form that her peers boast of, and while the young maidens in the ring of witches have to be virgins to volunteer as tributes, she’s more prudish and reserved than the rest of the coven sisters.

The prince hooks his index finger under the maiden’s chin and gently tilts her face upward to meet his gaze. He must've pulled his hood off while her head was downcasted, for now aha can stare at the ashy blond hair that fall on his forehead in waves. She’s too distracted by lashed of his eyes, so long and pale, she absentmindedly wonders how do they not tangle when he blinks. Then she realizes his eyes are actually a serene deep blue, like a warm summer sky.

She takes a quick surveying glance at the rest of him: perfectly chiseled face, with a strong jaw, pert nose, full eyebrows and skin as pale as marble. His lips twist in a smirk that causes her stomach to free fall, but it’s his eyes what she can’t get over. She concludes the prince is not as intimidating without the hood. In fact, he seems to be a sweet fellow.

“Beautiful Katniss, I've come for you, love.” He says staring into her disbelieving wide eyes.

“You know me, sire?” She asks in a raspy voice she barely recognizes as her own.

The prince chuckles heartily while the rest of the coven watches enraptured. Still holding her chin delicately, he says not unkindly, “My dear, I’ve watched you for years, waited until your time came to dance under the moon. I’ve been enamored with your sweet singing voice since your powers manifested at 16.”

“I— I don’t sing much anymore, sir.” She said nervously. “Not since my father’s passing.” Then a question twisted Katniss pretty features into a mask of worry. “What is to be of my family when I’m gone? Surely you know they need me to provide sustenance.”

“Your mother will prosper in her healing endeavors, and your sister will be even more powerful than your mother one day. Neither will ever want or need for anything. As my lover and princess, you have license to bless who you will.”

“My Lord! You’re a generous master! Thank you.” She drops to her knees in gratitud, but the sight sits unwell with the prince who promptly takes both her hands and brings her back to her feet.

“Katniss,” the Prince seems to caress her name as he speaks it, “Soon you’ll be carrying my children in your blessed womb. Together, we will make entire constellations of our offspring to guide the mortals below the sky. There is no need for formalities between us. We will be equals. Please, don’t call me sire or lord anymore.” He begged.

“What should I call you then, your highness? You haven’t given me your name.” She snaps with a defiant fire behind her gray eyes.

The Prince cannot look away from those eyes that remind him of the full moon as seen from Earth. He’s momentarily sidetracked by the way Katniss seems to sizzle in her annoyance and he’s not mistaken when he thinks the fire in the pyre hisses in response to her moods. The monicker Girl of Fire comes to mind and he likes the sound quite a bit much. He wonders how many other ways he can discover to make her flames come forth and burn them both as one… maybe she’d be the next sun, and he’ll just reflect her light. What a wondrous future he could foresee with her by his side.

But Katniss immediately clamps her mouth shut and tries to escape the prince’s hold on her hands no avail. She fears her impudence has cost her much more than her chance to spend the rest of All Hallows’ Day in the presence of the prince. But instead of punishment for her outburst, she gets yet another deep laugh.

Suddenly his lips brush her cheek, swiftly climbing until they reach the shell of her ear. His warm breath curls around the back of her neck as he whispers ever so softly. “My name is Peeta. And for now, that name is only for your ears.” He steps back so his eyes fix on hers. “And later,” he murmurs a lover’s secret, his thumb ghosting over her lips, “Once you’re spent and fully loved in my bed, the name will belong to your lips, and your skin, and the your heart as it beats.”

“Then why do we linger here still?” She didn’t mean to be rash, be she was inexplicably eager to find out what would it feel like, to be spent in his bed and thoroughly loved by this beautiful, generous, god prince.

Peeta smiled a self satisfied grin. “Then we’ll take our leave. Might you wish to see your family before we travel to my realm?”

“If it’s alright you, my prince. I shall like that very much.” And though she didn’t say it aloud, he could hear her thoughts in her breathy voice, ‘Take me with you so I can try the sound of your name at once. Maybe my own name will master the best of your heart in turn.’

Prince Peeta smiled indulgently. “Of that, my love, I have no doubt.” He said with a wink of his sparkly blue eye.

Before the new Princess Witch could draw breath, and her head clue her in that her thoughts were just read, a gust of wind wraps her whole lifting her from the ground. She feels steady, strong arms coil around her as well, in the blink of an eye, the Prince takes her away in a display of lightning and thunder and rain. The smell of burning pine needles, cinnamon and dill permeates the lake shore for miles around. Only a shimmery sand, like diamond powder, marks the spot the young witch stood on. After a minute of confused silence and vision adjustment, the reality of of the moment settle in on the coven.

The Moon Prince has taken their tribute, and their pleads for the coming year will be positively answered in full. A new star will shine in the skies by the next All Hallows’ Eve, and if his new partner pleases the Prince, she may stay with him for eternity.

3 track album