#of doom

He stood there, unmoved in the gust of wind blowing through the grass blades, the sharpening air and the smell of storm. Maybe Baba Cloanța was going to take his life, or maybe she'd finally give it to him. 

And he waited, until the sky grew dark and dotted with stars, and the woods grew quiet. And finally the little door opened, and a beautiful young girl came to sit upon the stone steps, and started to thread wool. 

For a while she just sat there working, eyes downcast on the milky face and a red flower in her black braid, bare legged under the rough cloth dress, hands small but busy, all of her dainty being oddly bathed in moonlight. 

The prince only stood and waited, knowing that the illusion would come to an end. Baba Cloanța had no need of pretty girls to thread her wool, as she had no use for servants of any kind. 

Or rather, anyone could be bent to her will, and made to be her servant. No one, in this land or under heavens, was as powerful as Baba Cloanța. 

It was nothing like in the fairytales people told. The girl didn't beg for his help, didn't ask that he fight for her and take her away, just to lure him in. Baba Cloanța simply waited, in quiet temptation, but eventually lost her patience with this strange boy who was yet too young to know of love or to seek glory. 

Instead he sought death, and Baba Cloanța glanced at his yet soft face and well-enough body and didn't understand. 

"Aren't there other ways to die?" she asked simply, tossing aside her tools and standing at last. "No poison bitter enough to sip, no branch sturdy enough to hang from? No sharp sword to fall upon, if you must?"

The prince pressed his lips tight, holding back the word come to mind; he wouldn't call her 'Grandmother' as those who sought her help or advice hopeful she'd be in good spirits. She was no grandmother. Instead he took a small bow and simply said:

"I will not tell you who I am, for you already know. You know my good mother has passed for a while, that my father is cruel and my brothers wishing I too would be in the nether world. You know that my life is torment and suffering at every step. Thus, if you wish for my bones to rest at the foot of your house, so be it. Otherwise I am still a prince and I'm offering you my hand in marriage."

At that, Baba Cloanța laughed in earnest. 

And as she laughed, she went down the steps and with each step she took, her body grew longer and yet more hunched, her clothes turned to rags, her skin to old parchment, her hair into a tangle of weeds, her hands into long blackened claws and her teeth into sharp fangs. Lastly, her eyes went the bright, clear golden of wolf eyes. 

The prince stared, his stomach churning in fear, but then remembered what his home was like and kept himself from faltering. 

"You are young enough for me to boil you in the soup, you flesh yet tender enough for me to munch on," Baba Cloanța told him. "Do you still want to marry me?"