Love As It Was Made to Be: 1.
Mar. 24th, 2012 09:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clare_dragonflyThe boy climbed the hill to the witch’s cave. It was night, the night of the dark moon, when, it was said, the witch would take any and all petitioners. He hoped it was true. No one but a witch could help him.
It had rained during the day, and the grass was damp; his skirt dragged in it and picked up water, so he wrapped it around his fist, uncomfortable. He could smell the faint, sweet scent of night flowers. They grew elsewhere in his village, but nowhere so thickly and abundantly as here, by the witch’s cave.
He found the entrance and stood there for a moment, gathering his courage. Then a voice issued from inside: “What is your name?” the witch demanded.
He stopped short, only at the mouth of the cave, and squinted into the blackness. There was just enough light that he could see the roiling smoke that filled it; how did she know he was here? Nevertheless, he cleared his throat and said, in the high-pitched voice that he hated, “Lavender.”
The witch laughed, sounding truly mirthful. “Strange name you have given yourself, boy. Well, come in, do not waste your time and mine standing about outside.”
Disbelieving, he stepped forward, into the smoke. “How did you—” He stopped suddenly, confused, when he came through the smoke and found that it was only a wall or curtain, and the inside of the cave was well-lit with lanterns, draped with curtains and well furnished. The witch sat on a wide wooden chair. She was nothing like what he had expected: so far from a crone, she was only a few years older than he; her hair was bound up about her head, and she was dressed neatly and modestly in a full skirt, a shift, and a tightly-laced bodice. Only her feet were scandalously bare. It was hard to believe that the cracked voice had come from this lovely young woman. The laugh, though, he thought fit her.
She smiled to see him, seeming to mock his confusion, or his surprise. “How did I know that you are a boy? Am I not a witch, and see what is in men’s hearts, and women’s too?” He only nodded, his throat too dry to fully respond.
“Your name,” she continued, “is not Lavender. The name I have seen for you is Journey.”
The name seemed to shake him from his head to his toes. He had not chosen a new name for himself; he had not had the courage. And the name was not one that was inherently masculine, like some he had toyed with—Valiant, Moon, Jaguar. But this name fit him so neatly and perfectly that he knew he could never answer to any other, from this moment on. He fell to his knees, still shaking. “I thank you, lady, for that name.”
“It is a gift, given freely,” said the witch, and her smile deepened. “But tell me what you would of me. I know you came here not only for a name.”
He lifted his head and clutched his skirt, wanting to wipe the sweat from his brow, but not wanting to appear disrespectful. “Lady, they say you are capable of all manner of transformations—animal to man, or man to animal, or even plant to animal…”
“My name is not ‘lady,’ but ‘Cicatrix,” she said. “They say many things of me, but this one is true.”
He swallowed. “Then please tell me, are you able to turn me truly from girl to boy?”
She stood from her chair and circled around him where he knelt on the floor, as though evaluating him. “I am,” she said at last. “But you will not be able to return to the life you had, and there is always a price.”
He nodded, staring at the spot of floor in front of him, where lay a rug worked in strange red-and-white patterns. He tried hard not to stare at her feet. “I have no need to return to my life. It is not a happy life. I will pay any price you wish—surely you knew that?”
She laughed again, and the sound was beautiful. “I knew, yes, that your need was great. But it is not for me to choose for you whether you will pay my price. Are you ready to hear it?”
“Of course.”
“You must escort me to Atash.”
He looked up, confused, even shocked at the price she demanded. This would take a year of his life or more, perhaps his entire life; they would have to cross mountains that, as though the weather and rocks were not dangerous enough on their own, were said to be infested with bandits. Not to mention that the last war between Atash and Skareya had ended less than four years ago, so tensions were still high. And he did not know what use he would be… “Lady—Cicatrix—if you are certain this is what you wish of me, I will of course accompany you. But I do not know what use I will be. If I were a man…”
“Oh,” she said, seating herself once more in her chair, “the transformation shall certainly predate the journey. I need a strong man for protection, and so you shall be, for the spell will create your new body as it would be had you been born with it, and you, my dear Journey, would have worked hard with your man’s body, and strengthened every muscle.” Journey nodded; he knew it was true. “And after all, it is in your name.”
“It is true,” said Journey. He felt his heart was so full it would burst. To be a man… even to live as a man for only a year and die protecting a witch in the mountains, it would be worth it. It would be worth any pain. “I will escort you.”
“If you agree to this, Journey, rise, and take my hand.” He did so. Her hand was dry and papery, like a much older woman’s skin. “I swear,” said the witch, “to give you the body you should have been born with. Now you must swear.”
“I swear,” said Journey, “to escort you to wherever you wish to go in Atash, and return, if you wish and I am capable.” A shock ran through his arm, freezing his hand for a moment, and then the witch released him. He felt shaken, and lighter.
“Please sit,” said the witch. She gestured toward a pile of cushions, the only seating other than her own chair that Journey could see. “It will take me several days to prepare the spell, though you have come at the right time to begin it. I know you have left your family, so if you wish, you may stay with us until we have begun the journey.”
Journey sat and began to smile, but then her words struck him and he was forced to frown. “Us?”
“Yes,” said the witch. “The reason for my desire to go to Atash.” She leaned back and called out, “Hemlock! Child, you may come out now and meet the man who will escort us, if you wish.”
Journey watched, astonished, as a child emerged from the darkness behind the witch’s chair. He was no more than six years old, with a solemn, wide-eyed face, and the witch’s dark hair but pale blue eyes that did not match her depthless black ones. He was dressed neatly and well, but his feet, too, were bare. He stood by the witch’s chair and stared at Journey.
Journey swallowed. “You wish to bring a child over the mountains?” If he had known she wished to bring a child into Atash, he might have argued… but he knew, even as he formed the thought, that he would have agreed, no matter what. He needed too badly to be rid of his female body.
The witch smiled and rested her hand on the boy’s head. Her nails, long and pointed, seemed cruel, but the boy seemed happy with the attention. “As I said, he is the reason. I must bring him to his father.”
Journey shook his head. “I don’t understand.” How could the child’s father be Artash? When would the witch have met such a man?
“I thought you said a man would be bringing us to Atash,” said the child, with a clear, petulant voice. Journey crossed his arms in front of his breasts, hunching his shoulders as he had been used to, hiding his woman’s body the best he could. He had not realized until this moment that he had been standing, in the witch’s presence, relaxed and free as he never had since he had been a child Hemlock’s age.
“Journey is a man, my child,” said the witch. “Remember what I have taught you, that all is not always what it seems.”
“Your mother,” Journey said, trying to pitch his voice low though he was unsure, “is going to give me my right body in exchange for my help.”
Unexpectedly, the boy smiled. “That will be nice. She is good at magic.”
Journey nodded and looked to the witch again. “Why is it that you wish to go to Atash?”
“Hemlock’s father is an Artash warlord,” said the witch, and Journey understood. The war had swept over this land, and the Artash had not taken their rage out only on fellow warriors. The thought made his skin crawl. How could the witch desire to bring the boy to his father if he had violated her in such a way?
But when the witch continued, he found that he had not understood at all. “When the moon is full, it is a blessing for a witch to encounter the Horned God in a man; the Artash know this, I have found, though he seemed to believe the blessing was for him. In this sense Hemlock is the son of the God, and blessed for this reason”—she stroked the boy’s face, and he smiled—”but he has a physical father. I do not know his name, but I have seen that he has no other sons, and because the Artash blame the woman for that, his marriage to his wife is threatened. I will bring him his son so that he may remain wed to the woman he loves.”
Journey stared between the witch and her son. He could not imagine choosing such a great, selfless act, but if he were a father and unaware of it he would be eternally grateful to the mother for bringing his child to him. “It is a great thing you do,” he said softly. “I am honored to be able to assist you with it.”
“We’ll have a fun trip,” the boy said, finally smiling so that his face matched the age his body appeared to be. “Are you going to stay here with us?”
“Yes,” said Journey. “I can’t go back to my village. I have already made that decision.”
Hemlock ducked from under his mother’s fingers and ran to Journey, reaching out to clasp his wrists. “Let me show you where you’ll sleep. Mother doesn’t want us around, she wants to get the spell started.”
There was no strength in the little arms, so Journey pushed himself up with his feet, then staggered forward as though Hemlock had pulled him so hard he couldn’t stand. “Be careful!” he said playfully. “You’ll pull my arms out of their sockets!” Hemlock giggled and ran ahead to the back of the room, where darkness fell over the cloths and cushions. Cicatrix simply smiled as they passed.
Main. | Next.
It had rained during the day, and the grass was damp; his skirt dragged in it and picked up water, so he wrapped it around his fist, uncomfortable. He could smell the faint, sweet scent of night flowers. They grew elsewhere in his village, but nowhere so thickly and abundantly as here, by the witch’s cave.
He found the entrance and stood there for a moment, gathering his courage. Then a voice issued from inside: “What is your name?” the witch demanded.
He stopped short, only at the mouth of the cave, and squinted into the blackness. There was just enough light that he could see the roiling smoke that filled it; how did she know he was here? Nevertheless, he cleared his throat and said, in the high-pitched voice that he hated, “Lavender.”
The witch laughed, sounding truly mirthful. “Strange name you have given yourself, boy. Well, come in, do not waste your time and mine standing about outside.”
Disbelieving, he stepped forward, into the smoke. “How did you—” He stopped suddenly, confused, when he came through the smoke and found that it was only a wall or curtain, and the inside of the cave was well-lit with lanterns, draped with curtains and well furnished. The witch sat on a wide wooden chair. She was nothing like what he had expected: so far from a crone, she was only a few years older than he; her hair was bound up about her head, and she was dressed neatly and modestly in a full skirt, a shift, and a tightly-laced bodice. Only her feet were scandalously bare. It was hard to believe that the cracked voice had come from this lovely young woman. The laugh, though, he thought fit her.
She smiled to see him, seeming to mock his confusion, or his surprise. “How did I know that you are a boy? Am I not a witch, and see what is in men’s hearts, and women’s too?” He only nodded, his throat too dry to fully respond.
“Your name,” she continued, “is not Lavender. The name I have seen for you is Journey.”
The name seemed to shake him from his head to his toes. He had not chosen a new name for himself; he had not had the courage. And the name was not one that was inherently masculine, like some he had toyed with—Valiant, Moon, Jaguar. But this name fit him so neatly and perfectly that he knew he could never answer to any other, from this moment on. He fell to his knees, still shaking. “I thank you, lady, for that name.”
“It is a gift, given freely,” said the witch, and her smile deepened. “But tell me what you would of me. I know you came here not only for a name.”
He lifted his head and clutched his skirt, wanting to wipe the sweat from his brow, but not wanting to appear disrespectful. “Lady, they say you are capable of all manner of transformations—animal to man, or man to animal, or even plant to animal…”
“My name is not ‘lady,’ but ‘Cicatrix,” she said. “They say many things of me, but this one is true.”
He swallowed. “Then please tell me, are you able to turn me truly from girl to boy?”
She stood from her chair and circled around him where he knelt on the floor, as though evaluating him. “I am,” she said at last. “But you will not be able to return to the life you had, and there is always a price.”
He nodded, staring at the spot of floor in front of him, where lay a rug worked in strange red-and-white patterns. He tried hard not to stare at her feet. “I have no need to return to my life. It is not a happy life. I will pay any price you wish—surely you knew that?”
She laughed again, and the sound was beautiful. “I knew, yes, that your need was great. But it is not for me to choose for you whether you will pay my price. Are you ready to hear it?”
“Of course.”
“You must escort me to Atash.”
He looked up, confused, even shocked at the price she demanded. This would take a year of his life or more, perhaps his entire life; they would have to cross mountains that, as though the weather and rocks were not dangerous enough on their own, were said to be infested with bandits. Not to mention that the last war between Atash and Skareya had ended less than four years ago, so tensions were still high. And he did not know what use he would be… “Lady—Cicatrix—if you are certain this is what you wish of me, I will of course accompany you. But I do not know what use I will be. If I were a man…”
“Oh,” she said, seating herself once more in her chair, “the transformation shall certainly predate the journey. I need a strong man for protection, and so you shall be, for the spell will create your new body as it would be had you been born with it, and you, my dear Journey, would have worked hard with your man’s body, and strengthened every muscle.” Journey nodded; he knew it was true. “And after all, it is in your name.”
“It is true,” said Journey. He felt his heart was so full it would burst. To be a man… even to live as a man for only a year and die protecting a witch in the mountains, it would be worth it. It would be worth any pain. “I will escort you.”
“If you agree to this, Journey, rise, and take my hand.” He did so. Her hand was dry and papery, like a much older woman’s skin. “I swear,” said the witch, “to give you the body you should have been born with. Now you must swear.”
“I swear,” said Journey, “to escort you to wherever you wish to go in Atash, and return, if you wish and I am capable.” A shock ran through his arm, freezing his hand for a moment, and then the witch released him. He felt shaken, and lighter.
“Please sit,” said the witch. She gestured toward a pile of cushions, the only seating other than her own chair that Journey could see. “It will take me several days to prepare the spell, though you have come at the right time to begin it. I know you have left your family, so if you wish, you may stay with us until we have begun the journey.”
Journey sat and began to smile, but then her words struck him and he was forced to frown. “Us?”
“Yes,” said the witch. “The reason for my desire to go to Atash.” She leaned back and called out, “Hemlock! Child, you may come out now and meet the man who will escort us, if you wish.”
Journey watched, astonished, as a child emerged from the darkness behind the witch’s chair. He was no more than six years old, with a solemn, wide-eyed face, and the witch’s dark hair but pale blue eyes that did not match her depthless black ones. He was dressed neatly and well, but his feet, too, were bare. He stood by the witch’s chair and stared at Journey.
Journey swallowed. “You wish to bring a child over the mountains?” If he had known she wished to bring a child into Atash, he might have argued… but he knew, even as he formed the thought, that he would have agreed, no matter what. He needed too badly to be rid of his female body.
The witch smiled and rested her hand on the boy’s head. Her nails, long and pointed, seemed cruel, but the boy seemed happy with the attention. “As I said, he is the reason. I must bring him to his father.”
Journey shook his head. “I don’t understand.” How could the child’s father be Artash? When would the witch have met such a man?
“I thought you said a man would be bringing us to Atash,” said the child, with a clear, petulant voice. Journey crossed his arms in front of his breasts, hunching his shoulders as he had been used to, hiding his woman’s body the best he could. He had not realized until this moment that he had been standing, in the witch’s presence, relaxed and free as he never had since he had been a child Hemlock’s age.
“Journey is a man, my child,” said the witch. “Remember what I have taught you, that all is not always what it seems.”
“Your mother,” Journey said, trying to pitch his voice low though he was unsure, “is going to give me my right body in exchange for my help.”
Unexpectedly, the boy smiled. “That will be nice. She is good at magic.”
Journey nodded and looked to the witch again. “Why is it that you wish to go to Atash?”
“Hemlock’s father is an Artash warlord,” said the witch, and Journey understood. The war had swept over this land, and the Artash had not taken their rage out only on fellow warriors. The thought made his skin crawl. How could the witch desire to bring the boy to his father if he had violated her in such a way?
But when the witch continued, he found that he had not understood at all. “When the moon is full, it is a blessing for a witch to encounter the Horned God in a man; the Artash know this, I have found, though he seemed to believe the blessing was for him. In this sense Hemlock is the son of the God, and blessed for this reason”—she stroked the boy’s face, and he smiled—”but he has a physical father. I do not know his name, but I have seen that he has no other sons, and because the Artash blame the woman for that, his marriage to his wife is threatened. I will bring him his son so that he may remain wed to the woman he loves.”
Journey stared between the witch and her son. He could not imagine choosing such a great, selfless act, but if he were a father and unaware of it he would be eternally grateful to the mother for bringing his child to him. “It is a great thing you do,” he said softly. “I am honored to be able to assist you with it.”
“We’ll have a fun trip,” the boy said, finally smiling so that his face matched the age his body appeared to be. “Are you going to stay here with us?”
“Yes,” said Journey. “I can’t go back to my village. I have already made that decision.”
Hemlock ducked from under his mother’s fingers and ran to Journey, reaching out to clasp his wrists. “Let me show you where you’ll sleep. Mother doesn’t want us around, she wants to get the spell started.”
There was no strength in the little arms, so Journey pushed himself up with his feet, then staggered forward as though Hemlock had pulled him so hard he couldn’t stand. “Be careful!” he said playfully. “You’ll pull my arms out of their sockets!” Hemlock giggled and ran ahead to the back of the room, where darkness fell over the cloths and cushions. Cicatrix simply smiled as they passed.
Main. | Next.
no subject
Date: 2012-05-11 05:05 pm (UTC)