Wicked After All

Silver hair stuck to Maeve’s damp face as she raced across the field, her worn boots slipping in the mud that hadn’t hardened from the frost yet.
Breath caught in her lungs, cold and desperate. Intense agony swelled through her small legs as she clenched her teeth through the burn. A growl escaped as she willed them to carry her further, to the safety of the tree line at least.
Pulling her slight body tightly against a nearby tree trunk, Maeve dug her fingernails into the soft bark and waited. Fire bobbed in the distance, far away for now, but they were coming.
She’d ran so far already. A whimper escaped her gasping mouth as she longed for the villagers to leave her be.
“Please.” Maeve begged repeatedly to the world around her. “Help me?”
Taking a few wobbly steps backwards, the young girl stumbled over a root. As she fell to the ground with a thud, she came face to face with a hollow at the base of a tree.
The shouts of villagers grew louder and Maeve’s heart struggled to slow. Taking a swift glance behind, she quietly sunk amongst the dead leaves that gathered in the hollow.
Safely blanketed by the browning foliage, Maeve slowed her breathing, her heart beat, her tears.
She waited.
After some time, the voices subsided and the gentle sounds of the forest returned.
Maeve lifted herself from her hiding place and brushed the dirt from her once-white dress, before taking in the forest. Her new home.
The glimmer from the moon drenched the world in white as the beauty of the dense forest reflected in her wide dark eyes.
The hoot of an owl and the scurry of paws through dry leaves stilled her anxiety, and she was able to shed the feeling of survival she wore like a shield.
Maeve wished she’d grabbed her woolen cloak from beside the door of her family home, but there hadn’t been time.
Such vicious words had been spat from the mouth of her father, as her mother and sister cowered in the dark of their wooden home. Her sister’s eyes had shone in the flicker of the candlelight, unable to do anything but tremble at their mother’s side.
Maeve couldn’t explain away what she’d done. She knew why her sister hadn’t defended her, but the betrayal still stung.
Maeve had no choice but to turn and run. She ran through the village, gathering vicious words as she went. The peel of the town bell vibrated in her ears as she raced through the village walls and towards her beloved forest. The only place she’d ever felt calm; the only place she’d ever felt at home. Where she felt connected to the earth.
Maeve roughly swiped the tears from her gaunt cheeks and pushed herself from the spongey ground.
Anger sparked in her chest at the memory of her father’s face, spearheading the pitchforks and torches. She silently vowed to hold the memory of his ferocity in her mind always.
Maeve clenched her fists, determination set in the young child’s jaw as she concocted the most vindictive curses she could think of.
“I’ll come back, one day. I’ll curse you.” She began in a whisper. “I’ll curse you all!” She shouted and her anger echoed in the empty space all around.
Her fury ebbed as she waited for a noise; a crack of twig under-boot, a muffled voice.
Twisting her silver hair in to a bun, Maeve secured her locks with a stick atop her head, before stroking the trunks of the many trees nearby. The moss, wet from October rain, felt soft under her fingertips.
“Where do I go?” She whispered to her friends standing tall and groaning in the wind. The chill of the night air ate through her cotton dress and through to her shivering core.
Maeve glared up at the trees.
“Fine.” She stamped her foot. “Keep your secrets.” And she trudged deeper in to the forest, holding her dress above her knees to save it snagging. The branches stroked and clawed at her bare legs and ripped holes in her dress, regardless.
Her friend, her home, the forest itself seemed against her. She could accept the villagers and their hatred, but if the forest turned its back on her, Maeve didn’t know what she would do.
“Do you hate me now, too?” She screamed at the trees looming over her, judging her. Judging what she’d done.
An overwhelming feeling of solitude swelled in her chest; she couldn’t stand it any longer. Dropping her hem, Maeve stomped to a nearby collection of leaves and twigs, pulled her icy foot back before thrusting her leg forwards and through the bracken.
Thunk.
Maeve screamed in to the night with such ferocity, the nocturnal creatures scarpered as fast as their paws and wings could carry them.
After the sharp pain in her toe subsided to a gentle throb, Maeve inched closer to investigate what had gotten in the way of her rage.
Brushing away mud, branches and decomposing leaves, her black eyes widened with discovery. Grasping the protruding iron handle, Maeve grunted and, after some tugging, released a large lantern.
After cleaning the heavy item in a nearby stream, she scrutinised it’s cracked glass windows and  rusting metal.
“Looks like I found you in the nick of time.” She prodded the lantern and made to reach for the small piece of flint in her pocket.
Before Maeve had a chance to really think about lighting it, the lantern shivered in her grasp and in the blink of an eye, crackled with a warm inviting glow. Fire had erupted behind what was left of the glass and Maeve stood to her feet with a gasp. Though surprised, she didn’t release the lantern; the pull of warmth was too strong for her steadily freezing body.
“Great. Another witch.” Came a sarcastic drawl from behind.
Maeve did drop the lantern now, and the fire dampened in a thick brown puddle. As her eyes desperately became used to the sudden darkness once more, she scanned the forest for the culprit.
But there was no one.
She gave a shaky laugh as the trees seemed to sway with delight. “Not funny, guys.” She grumbled to her audience. “This isn’t the time to play jokes.”
Bending to retrieve the lantern, she pulled a face at the slime now embedded inside. “This’ll never light now.” She chastised the forest.
Before her words could fully form, the lantern erupted with a flame once more.
“Don’t drop me again.” Came that voice, but harsher now. Whoever it was, they were annoyed.
A young boy stood before her, his clothes seemingly from another time, and a flat cap sat jauntily above his ears, too large for his face. Maeve took half a step back, but grew rapidly intrigued at the boy before her.
“You’re not from the village.” She told the boy. She knew it to be true. It was in his young face with wisdom behind his eyes; it was in his odd clothes; it was in the haze that floated around the figure like an aura.
“You’re not going to hurt me.” She told him again.
“No?” The boy grinned menacingly, but Maeve didn’t frighten easily. “You don’t know my intent, little witch.”
The boy was playing with her, goading her, but she was no stranger to mean boys.
“Maybe I’ll simply…” Maeve held the handle of the aglow lantern in her fingertips, above the rushing stream.
“No! Don’t!” The boy held his translucent hands out in a plea.
Maeve gave her own grin of menace before strolling away from the stream and towards the boy.
“Now I have your attention, what’s your name, boy?” She circled the apparition, taking in the sight of him. Young, skinny, long.
“Witch!” He spat in her direction.
“Why do you call me that?” She’d been called many names in her childhood, witch was one that seemed to hurt the most.
“Because that’s what you are, isn’t it?” The boy knew he held the power once more at Maeve’s hesitation. His eyebrow cocked in a way that made her feel stupid.
“Why do you say that?” She couldn’t deny the thought had crossed her mind previously, especially after the carnage she’d unleashed in the village. “Witch!” The people had yelled as Maeve made her escape.
“You wouldn’t be able to hold that lantern if you weren’t a witch.” The boy crossed his arms and looked down his crooked nose at her.
So it was true, the villagers had been right to drive Maeve from her home. A lonesome life was all she deserved. Witches had become extinct over a century ago; hunted down when humans had had enough of their evil spells and wicked ways. Her actions in the village had been catastrophic, but she hadn’t done it on purpose. She’d simply lost control. Simply lost her temper.
“But, I don’t feel wicked.” Maeve all but whimpered. The boy pulled his crossed arms in more tightly, refusing to give in to her pity.
“Witch.” He spat again, but his words didn’t hold the same malice as before.
“My name, is Maeve!” She screeched. Exhausted, lost and alone, Maeve finally sunk to the damp ground and allowed herself the relief of sobs. Her fingers slowly loosened their grasp on the lantern now propped up by her side, and she began to let go. She knew when she did, the world would fall in to darkness once more, but maybe that was all she deserved.
“Please. Don’t.” The boy’s voice was soft and close by.
Maeve tilted her head and blinked away her tears. Unable to ask the question, she raised her eyebrows in invitation.
The boy gave a deep sigh and crouched before her, turning his attention to the lantern. Maeve tightened her grip and could almost taste the relief that washed over the ghostly figure before her.
“I was once lost amongst the trees. An old hag of a witch found me, lured me in to her home and trapped me in that lantern for eternity. I can only exist on this earth when a witch touches the handle.” There was a haunting in his features, a bitter resentfulness.
“Where do you go when the lantern is released?” Maeve whispered. The boy didn’t answer, only pulled his eyebrows together as if trying to focus his vision.
“What do you see when you’re not here?” She rephrased the question.
“Nothing.” The boy breathed, fear apparent in his features.
“What’s your name?” Maeve tried again.
Confusion spread across the boy’s face. He raised from his crouched position and glanced around the forest floor, as if he’d lost his name. As if he could find it amongst the foliage.
“Albert?” He didn’t seem sure of it, but Maeve thought the name suited him. Grasping the lantern’s handle tightly, she raised from the ground and came level with Albert.
“Where is your witch now?” She thought back to the state of the lantern in her mind’s eye, disregarded and shattered.
“She was chased through the woods and brought to justice by a nearby village. But when she dropped the lantern, I was no more.” Albert began walking through the forest, kicking at rocks and twigs, though his boots sailed straight through them. Maeve followed, lighting the way.
“The witch trials were over a century ago.” She tensed at the anticipation of his reaction.
“Then, that’s how long I’ve been in the Nothing for.” Albert shrugged but his expression didn’t read as nonchalant.
“Is there any way I can help? To free you?” She didn’t know any spells, but if Albert was right, if she was a witch, she could at least try.
Albert studied Maeve for a long moment, causing her to squirm under his scrutiny.
“Maybe you’re not so wicked, after all.” Albert smiled. “Keep up…if you can.” His smile turned in to a playful grin before he floated quickly through the forest.
Maeve didn’t struggle to keep up. The forest, her friend once more, cleared a path for her as she ran.
The children laughed in their chase until Maeve, with a shiver, swam through Albert as he halted suddenly. He held his arm out at a wall of sharp and tangled brambles.
“You’re new home.” He announced.
Maeve moved tentatively towards the vines and guided the lantern along the wall of foliage. Excitement flared in her stomach when she noticed a round door handle protruding from the undergrowth.
The moment her cold hands grasped the metal, the brambles shrank back to the trees, leaving a beautiful stone cottage beneath.
“Only a witch could do that.” Albert smirked by her shoulder.
Though his projection was chilly, she couldn’t help but feel a warmth at Albert’s closeness.
With a grin, Maeve moved over the threshold and held the lantern high. A soft flickering glow danced around a small cluttered room. Big enough for a young witch.
There was an unspoken horror in Albert’s shoulders as he floated around the room.
“These are her spell books, journals, ingredients.” His words were tight and Maeve grieved for his childhood.
The small home held an abundance of dusty books, candles, pots and pans, ingredients held in jars and hanging from wooden beams.
“I can find the answer here, I can set you free.” She felt her words were true in her soul.
Albert swept a shawl from the small cot on the far side of the room, and placed a pointed hat over Maeve’s tangled bun. The hat slid over her eyes and Maeve chuckled as she balanced it on her ears.
“I’m sure you can.” Albert smiled down at his witch savior.
“You can touch objects? I assumed you would pass right through them?” Maeve asked with excitement.
Albert feigned hurt when he replied, “Of course I can! If I concentrate hard enough.”
“Wonderful, now we can both read through these old books and I won’t have to do all the work.” The new friends laughed in the comfort of one another as the sun leaked its orange warmth through the dusty windows.

***

“We’ve looked through every book, Al. Every page. I’m beginning to think I can’t help after all.” Maeve threw herself down on the cot with a creak. Her legs that once fit in the frame, now dangled over the side.
“It’s okay, Mae, we have time.” Albert spoke gently. “Let’s play outside today, we can look again tomorrow.” He begged.
Maeve smiled sadly at her ghostly friend and down at the circular band of rusted iron on her wrist, the lantern flickering away happily, high on a bookshelf.
She gave in quickly to his distraction.
“Race you!” She sang, grabbing her shawl and bounding from the cottage and in to the bright forest.
Before chasing after her, Albert concentrated on tapping his toe on the corner of a loose floorboard until it groaned in to place.
He knew what was concealed below, he’d hidden it there years ago.
When the time was right, he’d place the book where Maeve could find it, when he had grown bored of playing with his friend. If that day ever came.

Choices Of The Worthy

As a child, the festive season was one of Edith’s favourite times of the year. She wouldn’t mind the hustle and bustle of the town, not with her hand safe in the warm embrace of her dad’s, and the promise of a hot chocolate when they were done.
The lights, dancing in their happy rhythm, alongside the local brass band, once filled her with a warmth of her own.
Now, as an adult and with children in tow, the lights seemed harsh and the band gave her a headache.
“Mum, I’ll be the only one at school without that bag.”
“It’s too expensive, Steph.”
“It’s so unfair! It’s like you want me to get bullied or something?!”
Teenagers are so dramatic.
“Do you have your sister’s hand?” There was no point carrying on the conversation. Edith had said her piece, and her eldest daughter wouldn’t let it drop. They’d been having the same never ending back and forth all the way down the street.
“Steph, do you have your sister’s hand!?” Edith couldn’t risk turning her head to check on her youngest, Deedee. Not when she was leading her pack through the busy street.
Edith leapt further on to the busy path, congested with overwhelmed and frustrated shoppers, to avoid a snowy sludge aiming right for her. Despite her evasive maneuver, her left jeans leg was now sodden and freezing.
“Mum!” Steph grumbled as she pulled her foot from beneath Edith’s.
Steady breaths. She reminded herself, but her mantra wasn’t working. She was struggling to fight the urge to scream at the top of her lungs until her throat was red raw and her children were embarrassed of her.
“Next time I’ll let the car hit me, to save your poor toes.” She rolled her eyes. Sometimes Edith felt like a teenager herself; they’re fluctuating moods were infectious.
“If I have a child, I’ll buy them everything they want.” Steph seethed, just loud enough for Edith to hear. Her heart gave a broken thud in her chest.
“I suggest you get a well-paying job, then. Kids are assholes, who ask and ask and ask.” She shouldn’t have said it. She knew before it left her mouth, but Steph had been an exceptionally irritating teenager today.
Edith abhorred this day each year. Christmas shopping. She’d left it later than usual, procrastinating the task until she had no choice but to drag her daughters out after a snow storm, the week before Christmas.
As a child, all you had to do was write a list to Santa; as a parent, it seemed your sole purpose was to make sure the entire family had a smile on their face. The pressure was overwhelming and Edith longed for an escape.
She’d asked her husband to watch the girls, in the hope that she could fulfil her shopping list and get home unscathed. He’d made some excuse or other, as always.
It had been a knock-on of events, leading to this very moment; Edith and Steph arguing in the middle of a busy street whilst Deedee looked on wide eyed and scared.
Edith’s arms felt as though they might rip out of their sockets if she had to carry these bags any longer.
“Could you take some of these bags please?” Edith asked her eldest, but it wasn’t nicely.
“First you won’t buy me the only thing I’ve asked for, and now you want my help?” Steph scoffed.
Don’t rise to her. Edith repeated in her mind, but the clenching in her jaw was beginning to hurt.
She could feel every passer by eyeballing their public debate and her cold cheeks grew hot with embarrassment.
She pulled her daughters to the side for a quiet word before it got out of hand.
“Steph, I’m sorry I bumped in to you. Are you okay?” Edith worked on keeping her voice level, fighting against the need to scream at the top of her lungs, whilst her leg grew numb from the cold wetness seeping further up her pant leg.
“Mmm.” Was all Steph gave as a response, with a sloppy half shrug and a face to match.
“I can’t afford that bag, I don’t know why anyone would spend that much on a school bag. But, if you get money for Christmas, I promise I’ll bring you back and you can buy it yourself. Fair?”
Steph perked up a little at that, but she didn’t grace her mum with a response.
“Deedee,” Edith booped her index finger on her youngest daughter’s red button nose, “you’re being a good girl, I know this isn’t fun.”
“Dad!” Steph flung her arm straight in the air, trying to grab her dad’s attention over the crowd.
Typical of Mark. Just as Edith had gained control of the girls, in swooped her husband to save the day. Edith fought against herself, not to roll her eyes.
“Dad, mum won’t buy me that bag I wanted. She’s making me buy it out of my own money.” Steph’s words were dripping in incredulity.
Edith felt the same. The betrayal that swirled inside at her daughter’s words felt as though they physically hurt.
“We can figure something out…” Mark’s words teetered off as he caught sight of Edith’s expression. Eyes wide and teeth gritted, her shoulders shrugged in to her ears as high as they could against the weight of the bags.
Steph made a noise in her throat as though she was trying to clear it. The noise coupled by an intense eye roll, Edith had learnt, meant the teenager was most displeased.
“Whatever this is,” Mark pointed between his wife and his eldest daughter, “keep me out of it.”
Steph made the noise again, which Edith imitated. She knew she shouldn’t have, but she was nearing the edge of her mega mum patience.
“Deedee!” Mark finally greeted his youngest by pulling her across the civil war and in to a hug that looked snuggly and warm.
Edith longed for that hug.
“What are you doing here? I thought you had errands?” Edith spoke quietly and monotone, her energy levels were depleting.
“I ran them.”
“In town? Your errands were in town?” Edith was about to explode; she could feel it bubbling under the surface. Mark was unaware of the danger he was in and nodded happily, almost smugly.
“Why in the hell didn’t we come together?” Sometimes it felt as though she was the odd one out in her family. As if she was the ogre who only knew how to destroy happiness and shout; and they the scared villagers.
“Calm down, Edith.”
Hadn’t anyone warned him, never tell a woman to calm down? This man was asking for it.
“I’ll take the girls, and you can carry on shopping alone. Hot chocolate girls?” Mark suggested.
Her husband was a lucky man, he’d dodged a bullet. This time.
“Could you take some of the bags at least?” She pushed, trying desperately to sound sweet though she could rip his head off at any moment.
“Sorry, we need both hands for hot chocolate.” Mark was already disappearing in to the crowd with their daughters, hands up in submission, his fingers wriggling as he spoke.
Edith turned and marched down the street.
That selfish prick.
When she eventually calmed down, she would secretly thank him for his complete uselessness, it made her independent and strong. But not now. Now, it was safer if she were alone, to seethe quietly to herself about her ungrateful husband and selfish teenaged daughter.

As the dull day turned darker and the lights harsher, Edith’s back was giving out, her arms shook with the weight on them, the cold began to take its toll on her exposed skin.
The overwhelmed Christmas shoppers had been replaced with merry Christmas revelers, and Edith’s body kept going on the promise of a sweet hot chocolate, topped with marshmallows and a swish of cream.
Edith stopped suddenly, as if she’d hit an invisible wall.
Unable to explain what had stopped her, she frowned. Before she could carry on down the street, a gust of wind, strong enough to push her in to the shop front, rounded the corner. She was momentarily blinded by her scarf billowing before her face.
When the sudden wind died down, the passersby seemed unaware of the attack.
Edith rearranged her scarf and hat the best she could with her full hands and pulled herself together.
As she did, her eyes lingered on the dark brown wood of the shop front before her. Edith had lived in this town all of her life and never noticed it before. The windows were dusty but she could make out a worn table with books displayed haphazardly.
The sign on the table read ‘Escapism sold here, at patrons own risk’, in loopy golden handwriting.
Edith squinted inside but beyond the dusty table of old books, was darkness.
Taking a step back in search of a sign, she found worn golden letters. As she let her eyes adjust, the peeling paint became pronounced.
Choices of the Worthy
Edith gasped as the heavy wooden door creaked open, seemingly by its own volition.
Years of reading fantasy made Edith feel fear, anxiety and excitement in equal measure.
Her heart pounded, her brain became numb and her feet moved her over the threshold.
The door creaked closed and Edith was left in darkness.
The only sound coming from her heavy breathing and beating heart.
Shit.
Before Edith had a chance to regret her decision, a spotlight shone beside her, showing an ornate brass coat hanger.
The warmth in the room after the bracing cold, had Edith propping her bags at its feet and unwinding herself from her coat, scarf and hat.
Darkness once more. She waited, hoping for another spotlight.
When none came, she let out a shaky, “Hello?”
Edith’s breath caught in her throat as her eyes widened at the sight that had been illuminated before her. A soft warm glow shone down on a large room, larger than what one would think by the shop front.
She made impressed noises as she looked above and saw the shop went up too many floors to guess.
Shelves upon shelves stretched further back than her eyes could see. Each dark wooden shelf was crammed with oddities and wonders.
Edith took a look behind her; the coat hanger had disappeared, but more alarmingly, so had the exit.
In place of the door, shone a golden sign that seemed to shimmer under the soft lighting.
When faced with a choice, it’s important to keep your head and listen to your heart.
Edith’s head spun at the sound of clicking footsteps on the white marble floor, somewhere in the shelving to her left.
“Hello? Is someone there?” Her words echoed through the room. When no answer came, Edith moved to where she’d heard the stranger last.
“Hello?”
There wasn’t a soul around.
Edith let her ears tune in to her surroundings, listening for another footstep. Instead, she heard a soft thrumming.
The sound quietened the loudness in her mind, and drew her in.
Closing her eyes, Edith followed the soothing tone, unable to resist the calmness it brought.
Edith’s eyes snapped open. It felt as though warm breath brushed over her skin. Her heart slowed when she realised she stood alone in the shop, though her spine prickled at the feeling of being watched.
Her feet had carried her amidst a sea of shelves.
On the shelf before her lay an impressive longsword on a golden stand, with an ornate hilt, golden and decorated with black onyx. Below it sat a small knife, similar in design.
Golden loopy words hovered in the air above the sword shelf, one letter at a time, as if someone was writing them before her eyes.
Willing to take blood, you must be willing to give blood.
This seemed to be a test of sorts. It wasn’t a difficult riddle, it was plain what the shop wanted from her, but was she willing to harm herself?
Edith took a look towards where the door should be, she wasn’t surprised to see it was still a solid wooden wall, the golden words shining brightly there.
When faced with a choice…
Edith took up the knife, closed her palm around the cold sharp metal and pulled quickly and firmly.
She hissed through her teeth at the pain and opened her hand to examine the damage.
Bright red liquid ran down her wrist and dripped on to the clean white floor.
Edith was plunged in to darkness for a single beat. When the lights came back, the sword and knife where tied neatly around her waist on a leather belt. Her hand had healed and all that remained of her choice was a neat scar across her left palm.
Edith felt empowered, and surprise at how natural the sword felt around her waist. All fear had been squashed by the feeling of her own strength.
Her celebration was short lived as it turned to delight when her nose sniffed at a familiar scent.
Hot chocolate.
The footsteps were back, to the right of the room this time.
As she followed the sound, the scent became stronger. Nostalgia swam through her mind.
On rare days out with her dad, he would take her to their special café, and Edith would always order a hot chocolate. They were decedent and rich, and for a moment, they helped her forget the pain she felt at his sporadic absence.
Edith stopped at a shelf. Amongst the clutter of wood, brass and crystal, sat a mug. It was out of place; a modern item, surrounded by old worldly bric-a-brac. The mug was familiar as she recognised it from their special café. Edith hooked her index finger through the handle and cupped both of her hands around the hot vessel.
She closed her eyes and breathed the chocolatey scent in deeply.
“It’s missing cream and marshmallows.” She laughed to herself through teary eyes.
As she spoke, cream appeared in a swirl and marshmallows dropped from a height, clinging to the white goodness.
Edith tipped the mug to her lips and drank the warm liquid with a gulp, allowing the cream to push against her nose, the way it did when she was a child.
A wide smile spread across her face and she used her hand to clean herself up.
As she went to place the mug back on the shelf, three large golden goblets had appeared before her.
Edith questioned her sanity as she was rapidly becoming comfortable with what could only be described as magic. Or delusion.
“What’s next.” She clapped her hands together and rubbed them back and forth. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt the buzz of excitement like this, that longing for electricity in every nerve ending.
Once again, golden words appeared one letter at a time above the goblets.
A single choice has the power to define us, the choices before us aren’t always what they seem.
This riddle was as obvious as the one before it. She must choose a goblet.
Lifting the first goblet, Edith looked over the rim. A dark maroon liquid oozed inside, it reminded her of blood but when she sniffed it, it smelt of red wine.
She placed the first back and took the second. Inside swam an almost clear liquid, save for a pearl effect swirling as she moved the goblet in a circular motion.
Pretty. She thought to herself.
The pearl-like liquid smelt of a meadow on an early summer’s day; sweet and fresh.
Placing the goblet down, Edith picked up the third, already sure she would choose the fresh smelling liquid.
The third goblet smelt strong, of mossy earth and something else. She couldn’t explain it, but this goblet smelt of…sacrifice. To protect another in place of herself. Edith pulled the goblet away and held it at arm’s length. It scared her. The scent reminded her of the hospital, moments after she’d giving birth to Steph. That overwhelming sense that she was now the sole protector of the small person thrust in to her arms, crawled over her skin.
Tentatively, Edith pulled the goblet towards her and peered inside. The liquid was a vivid green, a deep emerald. The colour of Deedee’s eyes.
Edith gently placed the third goblet with the others and stepped back, one hand on her hip, the other by her chin, a finger tapping gently on her lips.
…it’s important to keep your head and listen to your heart.
Mentally, Edith had ruled out the first goblet. The red liquid reminded her too much of blood to go down that route.
Although her heart was pulling her towards the second goblet, with its fresh smelling clear liquid, her head was telling her she should choose the third. Though it scared her, how could she not choose her daughters? Surely she wasn’t that selfish.
The words where the door should be didn’t help, her head and her heart were telling her different things.
The golden words above the goblets were erased and replaced with three little words.
This might help.
As the words appeared, so did etchings around the golden vessels.
The first, showed depictions of human forms laying at the feet of one; the sole form seemed to be walking over those lay on the floor, their limbs twisted in to uncomfortable positions.
If there was any doubt that she shouldn’t chose the first goblet, there wasn’t anymore as she shivered at the scene.
The second goblet had etchings of lovers, entwined with each other, becoming one in a blissful embrace.
She knew now, why her heart was telling her to choose the second goblet. A chance to have a great love, encompassing and beautiful. But not real. No love, not even great love, was without its flaws. Goblet two offered a fantasy and nothing more, though she couldn’t deny she longed for that fantasy above all else.
The third showed a single form grasping the hands of those fallen; the form’s back looked sore and heavy, the expression on their face pained.
With a heavy sigh, Edith rubbed her eyes and reached for the goblet on the far right. The emerald liquid seemed to dance as she tipped it towards her lips. It was the right choice, so why was she hesitating?
Her eyes didn’t move from the lovers goblet whilst she slowly inched the goblet in her hand closer and closer.
Before it reached her mouth, there came a scream from the floors above.
Her blood ran cold and the goblet dropped to the marble floor with a loud clang that echoed through the room.
“Steph! Deedee!” Edith cried. The screams were undoubtable those of her children.
As if responding to her needs, a spiral staircase grew along the walls and rose higher than Edith could see.
She ran, powering through stair after stair. Her legs burned but she persevered. The screams grew louder as she gained on her children.
“I’m here, I’m here!”
As Edith sprinted down a row of shelves, high above the ground, the screams stopped.
Edith skidded to a halt, trying to listen for her daughters over her desperate breaths.
Silence.
Anger bubbled inside of her chest. Someone was playing with her emotions. Testing her.
She wanted to scream, she wanted to fight. With a scraping sound, Edith pulled her sword from its scabbard. She would fight her way from this place if she had to.
She paused. The room was silent, there was no one to fight and no way out but through.
Her attention was grabbed by a wooden string instrument, seemingly out of place amongst the gold and brass around it.
Edith sheathed her sword and grabbed the short neck of the instrument, her left hand sat under the large bowl-like body. The instrument seemed out of proportion but when she plucked a single string, the sound it emitted danced through the air and caressed her ears.
The instrument hummed excitedly in her grasp.
Edith watched the space above the shelf, waiting impatiently for instructions. When no words appeared there, her heart dropped.
As she made to place the instrument back on the shelf, her ears longed to hear its gentle tone one last time.
She placed her fingers on certain strings and strummed a chord, as she did, a single word came in to view.
One
Edith played a second chord, but that single word hung in the air alone. She moved her fingers over the short neck, placing her fingers differently and strummed.
One final
The words appeared above her, taunting her.
She strummed again.
One final task.
An excitement thrummed through her. Luckily she’d learnt the basics of playing the guitar as a child, and it seemed the room wanted only the correct notes.
Edith played, over and over again. Note after note, until her fingers began to bleed. A new word would appear with each correct note.
One final task. A difficult test. To step over the threshold, or back through the door.
Edith felt as though something spectacular would happen when she had completed the pleasing melody, and she was sure she had played all of the notes. The floating golden words were plain, she could carry on or go home.
She leant over the spiral banister to the ground below, but the door wasn’t there.
She was missing something.
Edith marched back to the floating words, sat on the floor, placed the bowl of the instrument in her lap and tried to remember the order of notes she had played.
It sounded right, and as she came to the end of the melody, her head tilted upwards, hoping for more instruction.
There’s no going back.
The words hovered in the air for a split second before her lap became empty and the world around her dropped to darkness.
Edith slowly made her way to her feet and pulled the knife from her belt.
The darkness persisted and the echoes of many voices speaking over one another danced around her.
Worthy. The same word was spoken over and over, in different voices. Male, female, young and old.
Worthy. Worthy. Worthy.
When the light fought away the darkness, the shelves had disappeared. Edith was back on the ground floor, with marble below her feet and the many levels above her gone.
She stood in the small dusty shop, coat, scarf and hat back on. Her shopping bags once again digging in to her palms. A cold wind swam through the open door behind her and a warm breeze floated at her front.
Before her, stood a large free standing mirror. In place of glass, stood another world. Greens and blues as she’d never seen before. Rays of sunlight dancing down as though carrying crystals.
Was that a dragon in the piercingly blue sky?
Edith felt her body lean towards the peaceful scene through the mirror.
The sound of laughter moved gracefully through the crack in the door, the laughter of her daughters.
The bags grew heavier in her grasp and her back began to twinge as music could be heard from the other world.
Edith spun her head to the world she knew, full of pain and strife, but also love and laughter; and back to the new world, enticing her in with a peaceful promise and serene sounds. A world that promised adventure and magic. She could feel it, her body purred with a magic she couldn’t wait to unleash.
To step over the threshold, or back through the door.
Edith closed her eyes and made a choice, a choice she couldn’t escape from.
The impossible choice of living for others, or living for herself.
There’s no going back.
Edith loosened her grip and let the bags fall to the floor with a heavy thud.
“No going back.” She whispered to herself.

Forbidden Promise

The sunlight escaping through the canopy like crystals hit Hugo’s skin, drenching him in the warmth he’d been missing in the fairy realm.
A millennia without the sun was too long for his adventurous spirit.
He closed his eyes and breathed in the human world. It smelt mossy and heavy, his heart saddened for the storm he must have narrowly missed.
Hugo moved his pointed ears, listening for sounds of being followed. They hadn’t noticed he was gone, but they would soon. He had to get as far away from the portal as he could before then.
Hitching his longbow over his shoulder, he knocked it against his elegant quiver, and pulled his boots over his bare feet and up to his knees.
Not used to wearing human shoes, Hugo’s feet felt squashed and unnatural, and he longed for a stream to paddle in.
He tuned his senses in to the natural world, whilst bristling at the lack of movement and stability. He wriggled his toes in their cage the best he could, in defiance.
The breeze brought with it a strong seductive scent, with undertones of sweetness; cinnamon, almond and cloves. Hugo felt drawn to its scent like a deer finding its mate. Following his nose, Hugo sought out the owner of the aroma.
He would’ve liked to have said he crept through the thick forest, but the heavy boots made it impossible. He scowled down at them with every crunch of twig, every trip over a rock.
Before long, the scent became intense and the world exploded in to colours he’d never seen before; not in the human world and not in the fairy realm.
Discarding his boots, Hugo stealthily made his way through the fern and ivy. Soundlessly, hunting his sweet smelling prey.
A cottage came in to view, built of stone and held together with moss. Foliage of greens, purples, pinks and whites adorned the little window pane and hovered over the doorway, which was open. A stream of welcoming smoke plumed from the chimney.
He heard her before he saw her.
The sound of ringing bells on a cold winter’s morning, of birds singing themselves to sleep before sunset, of water dancing through the rocks. A hidden woman was singing a melody, drawing Hugo in with every note change.
He waited in the foliage until she came in to view; a slender woman with hair as red as nothing he’d seen before, which ran woven down the length of her back. The spray of freckles danced on her cheeks as she moved her expression with the song she sang.
What little sun fell through the trees from above, settled on her pale skin, and she glowed.
She moved, bare foot, towards a work bench, wiping her hands down her calf length patterned skirt as she did.
Hugo had been told by his kind that all humans wore shoes, and if he wanted to go unnoticed here, his feet must be caged for a life time.
Maybe this woman wasn’t human; maybe the fairies had been wrong. Maybe it was a cruel trick to keep his kind in the fairy realm.
He sunk his free toes in to the moss below and crouched in to a comfortable position.
There, as the sun rose and fell above them, Hugo watched his songstress.
She made potions with herbs, weaved wicker baskets and whittled small figures. Towards the middle of the day, she skipped inside the cottage and brought bread and cheese on a striped piece of cloth. She perched on a rustic wooden bench below the cottage window and nibbled at her food like a squirrel. A beautiful red squirrel.
Hugo felt he couldn’t leave; he felt a pull towards the woman and a fierce feeling of protection over her. He couldn’t approach her either. Humans were tricksters, masters of words. They will use a fairies power through a promise that would only serve themselves. That is what he had been told.
So he stayed, still as stone, in the tree line.
The longer he watched the woman lovingly create as she hummed beautiful tunes, twirling through the sparse forest around her home, the more Hugo wondered how wrong the fairies had been about humans.
As the day came to a close, the woman gathered her herbs, baskets and figures before the darkness drew in around her.
Hugo sat soothed at the candle light flickering in the window.
When the forest came alive with the sounds of the night, the candle went out and he felt a peacefulness wash over himself.
Knowing the woman was safely tucked up in her bed, Hugo made himself comfortable enough for sleep.
Before slumber could wash over him fully, Hugo’s ears pricked up at the sound of voices. Male voices. They were multiple and close by.
His body crouched and tensed, alert and ready to pounce if needed.
The men came in to view through the light of the moon, backs hunched and moving slowly, carefully. Hugo scoffed as loudly as he dared. The human men thought they were moving quietly, but to his sensitive senses, they were like giants moving through an autumnal forest, crunching as they go.
Hugo watched and waited, not wanting to get close enough to the humans for them to start speaking. Although his heart was hammering and the hairs stood to attention over his skin.
The men in the night were gaining on the cottage door. There was no candle light in the window. The woman didn’t seem to be expecting the men.
A low growl started at the base of Hugo’s throat and escaped through his pointed teeth. His body wanted him to lunge forward and snap the necks of the men, his fingers twitched to reach for his bow, but his mind held him back.
What if this was a human trick he’d been warned about?
So he stayed, and he watched, and he waited.
The door creaked open and then there was silence.
Hugo held his breath.
A scream sounded from inside and echoed off the trees, high pitched a terrified.
Hugo lurched his body from his coiled position and in a second he was inside the cottage. Both men lay bleeding on the floor, the woman stood over them holding a knife. The shock in her eyes held Hugo stilled for a few heartbeats.
When she went to open her mouth to speak, Hugo held a finger up before him.
“Don’t. Don’t speak.”
He knew he should be wary of the human and her words of trickery, but there was an innocence in her that he couldn’t ignore.
“You’re name?” He demanded. “And only your name.”
“I don’t have a name.” Her green eyes peered up at him, wide with anticipation. She’d forgotten about the men on the floor or the knife in her hand. She was looking at Hugo now, like he was something from a dream.
“Maybe you could gift me with one, stranger?” She grasped the knife tightly, but she didn’t seem afraid.
“You won’t ask me for a promise instead?”
“I’d rather have a name.” She placed the knife down gently on the kitchen side and clasped her hands together before her chest.
Hugo glanced around the cottage, dark and dusty but with smells that tickled his nose and made his head spin.
“What’s in here?” He pointed to a red powder lay forgotten in a clay bowl. He’d followed that scent through the forest, that scent led him here.
“Cinnamon powder.”
“It’s as red as your hair.” He purred and the woman pushed her loose hair behind her ear.
“I gift you the name, Cinnamon, if you’ll accept it.”
Hugo’s eyes narrowed and awaited her response, and after what seemed an age, she finally smiled a smile that reached to the corners of her face.
“And what may I call you?” Cinnamon stepped closer, careful to avoid the bodies below their feet.
“Hugo.” And he gave a small bow whilst resting his palm to his broad chest.
“Could I trouble you for help, Hugo?” She gave a shaky laugh and although she wouldn’t look, he knew she meant the bodies.
Hugo grabbed the first by each hand and easily dragged the corpse through the front door and out in to the forest. When he came back for the second, Cinnamon was scrubbing the blood from the wooden floor, seemingly in a trance.
Hugo quietly pulled the second corpse to lay eternally by the other.
On his return, she was hunched on the floor, sobbing in to her nightgown.
“Who were they?”
He didn’t enter the cottage, but stood in the doorway, braced for a quick escape after his open ended question.
“Men from the nearby village.” She sobbed. “I’d sold their wives potions to help them in their marriage. I knew it would make the men angry. I knew it would make them come.”
“I didn’t know humans could react so quickly.” And then it dawned on him. “You were waiting for them?”
“I’d heard them stumbling around in the nearby trees since midday. I knew they would come.” She repeated.
He was strangely angry with himself for not sensing the men hidden in the forest, but he’d been too enthralled in her beauty. Hugo took a large stride in to the cottage and lifted Cinnamon up gently by guiding under her arm.
“That was brave.” He lulled.
A new wave of tears sprouted from Cinnamon’s eyes and she let herself fall in to Hugo’s strength. He held her in the darkness, taking in her scent, until her cries ebbed away as exhaustion took over.
“I didn’t have a choice.” She whispered.
Hugo could feel the exhaustion falling from her in waves, he could almost smell it in the air. How many nights had she lay awake, waiting to be attacked?
“Sleep.” Hugo guided her towards the cot in the corner of the room and pulled his bow over his head. “I can watch over you through the night.”
“You won’t leave?” Her voice was barely audible. This was it, the human trickery. She wanted him to promise, and Hugo would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t want to bound himself to the sweet, scared woman before him.
“I promise.”
Cinnamon didn’t need any more persuading. She let her heavy body fall in to her bed and in a matter of moments, she was breathing steadily, deep in her slumber.

Hugo was gone from the cottage with the break of the morning sun through the canopy. He waited in his hiding place for Cinnamon to wake.
When the bird’s song became a cacophony of sound, she emerged in the doorway of her home, dressed and with her hair woven in to a plait once more.
“Hugo?” Her voice wavered as she sang in to the dewy morning.
He could leave and head back to the fairy realm, with stories of how he escaped a human’s trickery, and enough sun leeched in to his skin to last another millennia. But something made him stay. She made him stay.
The feeling was strong, so strong he wondered if she’d managed to cast a spell without him noticing. He couldn’t leave, couldn’t turn his back on the capable woman before him, at the end of her tether and in need of help. He couldn’t turn his back on her scent of cinnamon, almonds and cloves.
With tense muscles, Hugo lifted himself from the ground and slowly walked towards Cinnamon. Whilst he closed the gap, neither spoke, neither broke eye contact.
“I thought you were a dream.” Cinnamon spoke low, as if admitting her fear would make it real. Hugo stood before her, silently, cautiously listening to her words and ready to cut her off if he needed to.
“Would you like some breakfast?” She spoke again.
“You don’t wear shoes. Humans are supposed to wear shoes. You are human?” He was wary of her, and he didn’t try to hide it.
Cinnamon wiggled her toes and glanced at the floor.
“You don’t wear shoes either.”
“I’m not human.” Hugo shot back.
Her bright eyes moved from his feet, to his pointed ears, sharp teeth and golden eyes.
“No, but maybe I’m not either. At least, that’s what the villagers think.” She gave a coy smile.
“Food would be nice.” Hugo nodded and moved himself to sit on the bench under the window.
“Breakfast outside, it is then.” And she skipped off in to the cottage.
Whilst Cinnamon was away, Hugo observed the forest and he stilled at a flash in the dense trees. As quietly as he could, he moved towards it.
“Mother.” Hugo greeted coldly.
“That looks like a human, child.” Her words where stern and sharp, and there was no love there to mask her annoyance.
“She doesn’t seem like the humans we teach about.”
“All humans are the same. You know this. They take what is not there’s and leave the fairies in despair.” Hugo’s mother straightened the snow white cape around her shoulders, as if her anger had left her feeling disheveled. “Now, come back to the fairy realm and we can forget this ever happened. You’ve had your fun, now come.”
“I can’t.”
“Of course you can.”
He knew his mother, she was growing inpatient and she was not afraid of violence if it meant she got what she wanted.
“I made a promise.” Hugo knew the news wouldn’t sit well with her, but he knew she couldn’t argue with a promise made.
Her skin grew as white as her cloak and dress.
“You’re lying.” Was all she could say.
“I’m not. She was in danger, I said I would stay. I promised I would stay. I can’t leave now.” Hugo held his head high. They both knew he was bound by fairy magic to his promise. There was nothing either of them could do.
“A promise to a human is forbidden. And for good reason. Have you any idea what you’ve done?”
Silence sat stale between them.
A thought ran behind his mother’s eyes and she gave a thin lipped smirk.
“How long was your promise?”
She had him there; he’d promised he would stay the night, but his mother didn’t know that.
“I promised I would stay until the next full moon.” Hugo lied. He longed for time to get to know Cinnamon, and until the next full moon would give him weeks.
“Fine! I expect you home by the full moon.” She leant forward, close enough for Hugo to feel her rancid breath. “In fact, I’ll come for you myself.” She turned on her heel and disappeared in to the forest, never making a sound.

Cinnamon jumped up from her perch on the bench at Hugo’s arrival.
“I was worried I’d scared you away.”
They sat side by side and ate their food in silence.
Hugo thanked Cinnamon as she cleared up their meal.
“It’s the least I can do after you watched over me last night. I appreciate your promise for the night, I won’t hold you here any longer.” She smiled sadly.
She was letting him go. He examined her whilst he wondered if she knew the importance of a promise.
“You’re a fairy?” She asked. Hugo nodded.
“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. I won’t take advantage of your gifts.”
Hugo sensed a pleading in her words.
“Do you live here alone?”
Cinnamon sat back down on the bench. “I do.”
“For how long?”
“I’ve never known anything else. I must have a mother, but I’ve only ever known living here alone. I don’t remember anything that came before. There’s a village about half a day’s walk that way,” she pointed off in to the forest, “it’s rare I venture that way. The villagers come to me.”
“Why do they come here?” Hugo cocked his head. The more she spoke, the more he wanted to know.
“To trade. I weave baskets, whittle deities, but my biggest business is in potions and remedies. The villagers will pay with what they can, food, fabric and such. But they never stay for long.”
“They don’t pay with what you require. Company?” Hugo guessed.
Cinnamon looked shocked at his words as she stood up, grasping the shawl tighter around her chest.
“I don’t presume to know you, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t presume to know me.”
Hugo was taken aback at Cinnamon’s sudden change in demeanor.
 “And, if I wanted to know you?”
There was a silence between them as the morning breeze danced through the forest.
“You’d have to stay with me.”
Hugo nodded, it was what he wanted but he couldn’t make another promise.
“I won’t ask you to promise, I trust you.” She reads his mind.
A warmth spreads through Hugo. It was a feeling of acceptance that he didn’t know he was missing. Come the full moon, he would be dragged back to the fairy realm and there was nothing he could do about it.
Except to make another promise, a forbidden promise. There was a twist in his gut; he knew that would be a terrible and dangerous decision.
Wouldn’t it?

The next few weeks went by in a blur of intense colour. Hugo stayed close by Cinnamon’s side, and they both quickly grew comfortable in each other’s company.
They hunted and foraged together, ate every meal together. Cinnamon taught Hugo how to weave and whittle. They laughed at how badly his creations were.
Although Hugo hid in the forest when villagers would come to trade, a rumour had spread that the witch in the wood had summoned a body guard from another realm.
They joked that it wasn’t an entirely false rumour.
At night, Cinnamon slept soundly in her cot, whilst Hugo slept in the doorway. He watched as with each day that passed, the moon grew fuller.
The longer he stayed, the less he wanted to leave.
Hugo was beginning to love Cinnamon, and he was sure she felt the same.

One night, Hugo gently rocked Cinnamon awake and together they headed out in to the forest, in search of a clearing.
“Wow. The moon is beautiful tonight.” Cinnamon exclaimed.
It was true, the moon was a perfect circle of silver, high in the night sky, peering down at them.
“What are we doing here?” There was an excitement in her voice. An expectation.
“I wanted to see at least one full moon with you.” Hugo took her hands in his, but she pulled them away, hurt apparent even in the dark.
“You’re leaving.” It wasn’t a question that she whispered.
“I promised I’d stay.”
“Only for that night.”
Hugo smiled, she was more clever than she would have the villagers believe. He motioned for Cinnamon to follow him to a nearby rock for them to perch on. She leaned her weight in to his strength, like she did the first night they met.
They sat in silence, feeling the warmth of each other.
“Cinnamon?”
“Mmm.”
“I promise to love you.” He felt free as soon as he said the words, but there was a tightness as he knew it wasn’t the promise either of them hoped for.
“I don’t need a promise of love, you can love me from another realm.”
Her words were laced in a sadness, but she wasn’t trying to trick him in to making a promise he couldn’t keep. He wanted to make a promise to Cinnamon. A promise that would last a lifetime.
There came a rustle from the trees nearby. He could sense his mother watching.
A growl started low in Hugo’s throat and Cinnamon sat up straight, clutching his forearm. Hugo placed his palm on Cinnamon’s cheek and steadied her with his eyes.
“I promise to stay with you,” a growl came from the tree line and the forest became angry as a storm began around them, “until the end of my days.”
As soon as the promise was set, the wind died down and he could sense his mother had gone. There was nothing she could do. Hugo had made a promise to a human.

***

“Careful.” Hugo caught Cinnamon under her arm as she stumbled in the forest. She thanked him with a smile and pulled the shawl further on to her shoulders. She wore her greyed hair in a bun on the top of her head, and the wrinkles on her face distorted her features, but Hugo knew those green eyes, that wide smile and those freckles that danced as she sang.
“You’re becoming more unsteady day by day.” An unchanged Hugo commented, with worry in his frowning eyebrows.
“You should have promised until the end my life, not your own.” A tear fell through the wrinkles on her cheek. “You could have lived another life. You could have loved another.”
Hugo knew what he was promising, all those years ago. He had no regrets.
“There’s no life, no love, beyond you.” He kissed her tear away and carried her the rest of the way to their home that was the cottage.

Cinnamon went peacefully in the arms of her love.
She was buried in the clearing by the cottage.
Hugo spends his days wandering the forest, as a ghost, mourning the loss of his love. Never venturing too far from her grave.
To this day, Hugo doesn’t regret his choice.
He stayed by her side, just as he promised.