#wncynwrig

thedarkwitch-cynwrig

Montague wrote to his mother regularly, reporting to her his thoughts and findings in his life and sneaking in one or two baits to fish for her opinions on the current politics though she rarely bit. It was his era and his responsibility now, she insisted. However Montague couldn’t help but wonder what his mother would think of it if she knew he was meeting with a witch in a vague conspiracy to hack another witch’s secret. It was one of the few major decisions he didn’t consult his mother about, and it arguably made him feel slightly uneasy, like he was doing something bad.

He wasn’t, of course.

He sat up straight at his desk and started to draft a note. “To Whom It May Concern, I would like to cordially invite to you to join me on ___ at 7 after midday at the manor to talk over the state of affairs we discussed. Though there will not be sufficient time for supper, snacks and tea will be provided. Sincerely, M.W.” He called for a messenger boy while he waited for the ink to dry. Reading over the note once again, he added another line under his signature: “P.S. The messenger has no knowledge of the content of this letter. He is instructed to await your response and relay it back to me unless told otherwise.”

Montague folded and sealed the letter with wax and a generic stamp. He gave the letter to the messenger boy with the instructions, and didn’t miss the horrified look in the boy’s eyes when he named the destination. A couple of extra marks was thrown in to convince the lad to run this errand. After sending him away, the lord looked out the window and watched until he could no longer see the back of the young man outside the gate.

He sat down again and opened a book, starting to read while a part of him waited with patience.

A single raven perched on a window sill, looking in to the Sanctuary. He regarded the scene with beady black eyes, older than most trees outside the black forest. And, for a moment, all was still.

Winter’s wind forced the doors open, breaking whatever lock might have held them in place. Black smoke and shadow billowed in like waterfalls, undulating and filling the space until nothing was left but the night. Shadowhounds raced in, barking and howling, oil dripping from their toothy maws. 

And through that night, a spider spun her web. Silver strands of light crawled out from her fingertips, lacing her pathway. The moonlight cowered from her, and even as the smoke faded, so that still nothing but silken light remained, carrying the words of an old and angry voice.

"Oh, Ahavti...” My Beloved. “Yalad yakar...” Precious boy. These were the words from a long-dead language, known only by those who lived in the times of oracles and priests, where gods spoke directly to their people. “You are so...terribly...weak.”

Bare feet padded through the threshold as the shadowhounds found their prey, circling around his feet and shepherding him to the center of the room. “Too weak, really. It’s a wonder that you’ve made it this long without my help.” The raven flew from the windowsill to perch on her shoulder. “Too weak-willed to defend yourself, too weak-hearted to keep your mouth shut. And now, too weak-minded to think threatening and insulting me is a anything but unwise.”

The Southern Isles had sandstone aplenty. Massive buildings and temples dotted the landscapes, dry and desert here, tropical and forested there. The palace was greater than any building, and constantly growing bigger. Ammut would accept nothing else. She was to be an icon for her people, a symbol of indomitable greatness to show them that they would never fear for rebellion or dystopia again. She was their queen. She was their rock. And she looked down at her kingdom, seeing all.

She wore little clothing. Jewels and silks here and there, painted to match the hieroglyphs and murals around her. Her breasts shone in the sun and her shoulders bore tallies of the days gone by since the last new year.

From her balcony, Ammut watched the world, mountains and valleys of city, out until the flatlands on the next island over. Her people moved about below her, going about their days. There was a wedding in one corner of the capital, and a murder in another. Neither of which interested her, not really. If someone wanted to come to her, begging them to find and punish the murderer, she’d deal with it then. Maybe.

Until then, there was only the matter of looking over her kingdom, ensuring no whispers spread through the streets, questioning her rightful claim to the throne, questioning her methods, questioning her. She had suffered to get where she was, clawed and crawled and slaughtered her way to the throne, to the power to protect those who suffered, like her.

No-one in her kingdom suffered like she had. Ammut had made sure of that.

She was still young. She was at least two hundred years old, but still very young. And she would devote her life to getting the power the gods owed her, the safety they kept to themselves, high up on their celestial thrones. Selfish, shameless things, they. Ammut would never be like them when she matched their power. No – she would be even stronger, because she knew suffering. They had no idea what their humans on earth went through.

Pain, grief, torture, love…O, love most of all. Her heart filled at the sounds of approaching footsteps. Her daughter, gold and silver and beautiful as the dawn, who would take the throne when Ammut was gone.

No, not gone. Just away.

Turning from her view, Ammut let her yellow hair fall over her body, masking more than the jeweled chains she wore, and smiling in only the way a mother could.

She should not have run. Within seconds, spots formed in her eyes, and she was gasping for air long before she left town. Dizzy and faint, Maeve wandered the wastes on the familiar road, half-buried in snow. She could walk the path blindfolded, though it took her almost twice as long as usual with her burst of effort at the beginning.

Night was approaching as she finally made it to the Sanctuary. The sky had turned golden, and the mountains cast long shadows over the land. She shivered uncontrollably, hair blown all astray. The bread was cold by now, but she hadn’t eaten a single piece. It was for Cynwrig, and he surely had a spell to heat it up. (He shouldn’t have to, she told herself. It was only right that he get hot bread for all the hard work he did.)

Half-dead (or more half-dead than she usually was), Maeve resisted the urge to take a short rest against the heavy door. She could rest her feet at home, once Cynwrig was content enough to send her away. After all, it would hardly be right to spend the night here. The thought didn’t even enter her mind.

The stars always caught Sophia’s attention. They were distant, and alone. Quiet and so very, very far from anything she knew. After all, she was the very same. Save for two or three people in the world, no-one understood her, even when it was perfectly clear how she felt, or what she wanted to communicate.

So when night fell and the crescent moon was barely there, Sophia took her warmest cloak and stole away to the Wastes to properly see the stars. No firelight, no magic, not even the low glow of rangers’ torches would interrupt her stargazing out here.

It was cold, like always, but today Jack felt it a bit more. One of the candles fell this morning and burned a hole in his jacket. He wanted to repair it but he didn't have the any sort of way to pay for the cloth and thread to get it fixed. His brother usually did so whenever Jack messed up his clothing. He could already see the reaction from Orrin whenever he would see the hole. It wasn't small but it wasn't too big to wear the jacket was unwearable.

C...Cynwrig...I-I've brought you a few ingredients.