Phoenix

Robbie Daymond cannot keep getting away with this.

They made a deal with that witch. They wanted a son, and they got one. A son, one made out of clay and wood, flexible enough to grow but sturdy enough to withstand its destined path, enchanted to look like a human child. The witch asked for only one thing, and that was for their daughter.

They left the girl readily.

The witch raised her as her own, and called her Thyme. The princess grew up unknowing of her heritage, grew up calling the witch Mama, and the witch did her very best to earn that title.

She was taught magic, and how to forage in the woods, how to build sturdy wooden structures and how to make the most delicious stews. The girl had a good life, and the witch was pleased.

The girl grew into a woman, and learned more and more powerful magics, grew stronger from hauling wood and stones and animals to cook, grew smarter as the witch taught her more.

She learned to deal with the people in the villages nearby, learned how to brew remedies and medicines and how to treat illness and injury, and learned how to tell when someone was lying. 

Every time the pair went into town, the people would remark at just how similar Thyme was to her mother. 

(Thyme does not know who and what she is. She does not know that she was born a princess, that she was sold. She only knows that one night after her mother read her a story about princesses and dragons, her mother had asked her if she ever wanted to be a princess.)

((Thyme only knows that she very quickly answered no. She likes being a witch, thank you very much, she likes the power that comes with it and the way that she can look at things and know their true nature.))

The witch starts preparing the ritual early, starts collecting the necessities in the winter so they can be ready by the fall equinox. Her daughter helps, and does not ask what this is for, just knows that it is important.

The witch looks at Thyme, both their hands raised into the air over a complicated array of plants, tended carefully to grow into a circle, and says, sorry.

The golem Prince hauls himself out of the lake, once again, having healed wounds with River clay that should have killed him. He’s often wondered why is that what heals him. Why he does not bleed 🩸 as other men do.

His parents have told him a highly suspicious story about how he was destined to save the kingdom, destined to keep the land safe, and that is why the land will heal him. Something about “the land knows,” and “that’s his destiny.”

But there’s always something about their faces when they’ve said this to him, a shiftiness around the eyes or mouth.

Of course he knows his parents lie, they’re royalty. He just wishes he could understand the truth. Especially since he’s been half killing himself in this war against people who keep attacking for reasons that he doesn’t understand.

His parents never spared the martial training, he has been training with knives and swords and lances and shields and wrestling and boxing since he was a toddler. But somehow he never gets included in the councils of war. Which you would expect a prince would be, wouldn’t you?

He’s climbing out of the lake yet again, limp-limbed with exhaustion. Each foot feels like it weighs 20 pounds. His men on the bridge are still fighting. He fills his lungs with air, and starts to climb the steep slope back to the castle.

Behind the invasion forces, he spots a dark robed person emerging from the treeline. The figure has long silvering dark hair (rather like his parents’ hair, he thinks absently.)

The figure walks with a long staff, which they use to gently redirect enemy fighters and horses from their path towards the castle. Somehow none of the enemy fighters realize there’s a …person, just walking through the middle of the battlefield. Just… Walking through enemy lines as though nobody notices them at all?

The strange figure with bushy silvering hair reaches the far end of the bridge. From here, the prince can see enough to suppose that they are a woman, and still she walks forward, though swords clash ⚔️ and axes whistle.

None harm her, though the fighting is furious all around her.

She walks through the defending forces as though the bridge is empty, the fighting always moves to somewhere she is not, and she finds her way to the top of the secret stairway he was about to climb up, to return to the fighting.

With his leaden limbs. And his mysterious war wounds that were healed by clay, and never bled. Wounds that would have felled any other man, forever.

She steps down from the last stair and regards him with a gaze that would look like grief, if he’d ever met her before. If she had any reason to feel anything for him.

If he still had open wounds on his chest and shoulders, as he had before returning to the lake… Perhaps that would make sense.

She tilts her head, regarding him closely, with that curious sadness in her eyes.

“Aren’t you tired, my boy?” Her voice is soft.

He is confused.

Of course he’s tired, he’s been battling to save the castle, the kingdom, for what seems like, feels like YEARS. But nobody asks that.

Nobody calls him “my boy” with open affection. Just as nobody has ever tended his wounds, or comforted him from impossible dreams in the night that used to wake him.

Princes must rely only on themselves. It’s what his parents have always told him.

“yes…?” He replies.

“Do you know who these are, attacking the castle, who seek to unseat the king and queen? Do you know why?”

He looks down as he admits, “I do not know. The king and queen do not include me on the war council.”

She moves a step closer, raises his chin with her hand. She is gentle as she meets his eyes.

“Theirs is an unjust reign, my dear. Those on the far side of the bridge are your countrymen. The king and queen are cruel. They and their councillors care nothing for the land or for their people, only what will enrich them further.”

She holds his face in her calloused, gentle hand.

The prince’s stomach sank. “How do you know this to be true?”

She drops her hand from his face and he feels an odd sense of loss. Then: “How do I know that you go to the river to heal yourself with clay? How do I know that you do not bleed like mortal men? And how do I know, my son, that you are tired near unto death?”

“Son?” His voice falters.

Her face shows misery, and she glances away from him. “I did not choose this life for you. I would never have chosen this life for you. You suffer, you fight. You’re wounded. You get back up again to heal yourself, only to be thrown right back into the battle: the endless fighting, and the pain.”

Her expression smooths out, hardens. “That choice was made by the king and queen. They do not care for the land and the people.”

Her lips are thin, her eyes sad when she looks back at him again. “They do not care about your pain either, do they?”

He might be shocked if he weren’t so battered and so exhausted. But as he takes a moment to think over his life, he realizes this woman is right, his parents (or so he thought), selfish, cruel and uncaring.

His eyes seek her face. His mother?

“I am called Thyme. I brought you into this world. You ARE my child.” She runs her fingers through his muddy hair. “What will you do now, my son?”

He’s so tired. Exhausted, and he tells her so. The black feeling of realizing his parents’ nature and ambitions, drags him down even further.

“I’m so tired of fighting,” he falters. “I just want to rest.”

“I can bring you respite, dear one. You have suffered enough.” Thyme strokes his hair again, cups his face in her hand.

It’s the most kindness he’s received since he can remember.

“Here, sit down on the step, I will hold you and you can rest.” They sit, and he leans against her with a sigh.

“Mother?” He breathes.

“yes, my son?”

“thank you for telling me the truth.”

She strokes his hair till his eyes close from exhaustion, kisses his forehead.

She holds him up for another few moments, and gently removes her magic.

The heap of clay and branches that remains no longer resembles a person. One branch pokes out from the pile, a green bud just beginning at the end. She smiles, pats the branch, and rises to climb the stairs back up to the bridge.

As she walks through the commotion above, fighters slow and cease, not remembering why they were fighting in the first place. It’s like a rock dropped in a pond: the ripples of peace spread out in her wake.

The castle defenders surrender. The other fighters accept a truce, and move into the castle to excise the cause of the bloody conflict.

***

Years later, in describing the civil war, the historians recount that the prince went down to the lake to miraculously heal himself again, as he’d done many times before, but sadly, died on the lakeshore instead, turning the tide of the battle.

At the foot of the bridge, a graceful tree now spreads its branches out over the water. Its roots grow, half on the island and half into the lake.

They say that if you ever have to make a decision that might change your life forever, you should sit beneath The Prince’s Tree. With your feet in the water, you will make the right decision.