#catthhay

They are a witch, or started that way. A witch that was intrigued, perhaps too much, by familiars. They loved the familiars they were so good at summoning and securing contracts with— those of both demon and fey origin. But their curiosity was something untamable, and their relationship with their familiars much more easily maintained than that of other iron-worlders like themselves. And since familiars, though wonderful companions to such a largely good natured witch, are seldom the best places to go for answers to hard questions, the witch began to seek out the fair folk. They had little fear and a healthy amount of respect— they knew the rules and stories and were no stranger to the gentry. Perhaps their magick specialty in familiars had already begun to lean towards more than just a toe dipped in the magic of Elsewhere. And many of the fair folk on campus had grown used to their presence by then, anyhow. None were surprised when the witch came to ask them for more than their usual trade of information or stories (though a witch first and foremost, their minor is in English. It just made sense).

And the witch perhaps was too confident in their ability to interact with the gentry. Just by a hair. Their desperation to understand the other humans, their classmates and teachers, temporarily dwindled their usual meticulous care for their wording.

So if you see a flame flickering out of place— several feet in the air in the middle of the Library, or at the edge of the woods, or taking up a concerning amount of space on the other side of a window— you might follow that flame to see a body underneath it. You might see a wick leading from the bottom of the flame into a head of jet black hair. If you look closely, you will see the topmost section of hair gently melting like wax. And the body underneath may not always look the same (if you happen to see them more than once), but that is normal. That is why they are they, not him or her. The wax melts and rehardens on the surface, constantly. They have grown to like it that way. Even if it occasionally leaves them looking not-quite-human.

And they aren’t, anymore. For they are a living candle, still attending classes and frequently visiting the library because of their ever present curiosity. There is little need to worry, despite the flame they are of little risk to the things around them. Paper will not burn unless deliberately put into their flame (which is rude. Don’t toss balls of paper into their fire, they still have their countless familiars. All of which are intensely protective).

They will never admit it outright, but they are protective of those who follow the Forbidden Major. If you fit that description, you are much more likely to run into them. You might even learn the name they go by. Just keep in mind— they are never found at The Denny’s. Something about that place repels them like iron for the Gentry. Everywhere else, however, they are welcome and may be found at. Even the pool, though they never get too close to the water. They like speaking to the silver-haired women that are often found there.

As long as you are respectful and kind, they will answer any questions you have for them. Be careful, as those answers may take hours for them to complete, but you will never get one that is half-told. Although, they are still a witch. And sometimes, not even they can fight their urge to give extremely vague and ominous advice. The sort you seldom discover the full meaning to until after the time it would have been useful.

“Hmm? I’m getting there, please don’t interrupt me. My train of thought is constantly melting in different directions, but it always reaches the right endpoint eventually.”

They are most useful for help with English homework, or inspiration for your fanfiction. Creative pursuits. But also for any knowledge you might want on the fair folk, of which they have plenty of experience with. If you are in need of magic aid, they offer some of the best enchanted objects on campus— mostly of the protective, emotional aid, and focus-improving variety.

And if you see them sitting down in the Library reading, you might be able to ask them the ever-present question; why are you a candle?

“And well, the answer was already given. I got careless with my words, and asked a certain member of the Gentry— who I will not name, I no longer hold any anger towards the event. Anger with no purpose only burns you down faster, you know. But I asked him to help me understand other humans, understand their drive and why they live as they do. And he did, for sure. While also intertwining a cruel, tasteless joke— I’m sure I warned you already about how they love their jokes, yes? Good. Good. Well, I am a witch. And I am burning alive,” they roll their eyes. “That is the joke part. It doesn’t hurt, no, don’t worry. This also answered my plea. Because the fire will eventually burn me down completely and go out. But it also keeps me going, from completely solidifying and being unable to move, to live. It keeps my brain working and thinking. It is my life, now, and my eventual death. But such is how a human works, as well. I am not bitter, because all life will eventually burn down and fade. Though I am always a bit miffed when someone tries shooting spitballs into my flame— I rather not increase its heat if you don’t mind. I still care about self preservation. But now I can sit here, and interact with you— a normal human— as casually as you please. Because I understand that we all have our invisible wicks burning, and our own ways of using the time we have until our flames go out. I was too familiar with Magick and too focused on my familiars as my only easily understood company. I became disconnected from the human drive to just live and experience. To work towards experiences. The desire to make the most of life instead of letting time merely pass as it may. Now, I am a bit more… fired up, when it comes to experiencing and learning and making more of my time. Don’t groan, it was a good pun. Now then, you promised a few sticks of sealing wax and some cotton thread, didn’t you? I appreciate your trade. Beeswax, too? That will get you a second question.”

…

“Oh! You may call me CandleWick. Wicky for short.”