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rainbowfic2016-08-15 11:54 pm
wallwalker) wrote in rainbowfic2016-08-15 11:54 pm
Chestnut 5; Color Party 39
Writer: wallwalker
Title: Great Mother Blackthorn
Verse: The Witch and the Tower
Colors: Chestnut 5. Path; Color Party 39. Ferruginous.
Styles/Supplies: Canvas, Graffiti (Shooting, Boxing and Fencing)
Word Count: 2517
Rating: SFW (contains description of injuries)
Warnings: Injury, blood.
Summary: The village Woodsman comes back to town badly wounded, and the Witch may be the only one who can argue for his life.
---
The Witch knew something had to be horribly wrong the moment she saw the village’s Woodsman drag himself back into town, one hand pressed against his side. He was even paler than usual, and his yellow beard was flecked with rust-colored blood, but the most telling sign was the absence of his old axe.
She was the first to see him, since her Aunt had given her the dubious honor of examining and, when necessary, strengthening the enchantments around their village. She remembered because she had protested, at first. “Why must I do this, Auntie?” she’d said - she had been old enough to realize some of the power in the forest, but not so old that she could yet command it on her own. “What if I do something wrong?”
“I’ll be along to examine your work later, dear,” her Aunt had replied in her usual matter-of-fact tone. “As for the reason, well, you’re old enough now to see some of the power in this place, are you not? I’d be doing you a disservice, letting you believe that life here is simply about wandering and gathering curiosities.”
The Witch remembered she had grumbled for a few moments, gathering her supplies all the while. For all of her Aunt’s love and kindness, the Witch had learned as a young girl that she was a dangerous woman to defy. Best to do what she could, she thought, instead of exaggerating her ignorance in the hopes of getting out of it; her Aunt would not be fooled, she’d been sure.
Her Aunt’s words jumped unbidden into her head as she watched the familiar old man collapse just outside of the magical wards, and again when she ran and dropped to her knees next to him and realized that the hand that had fallen from his side was stained with blood. He stared up at her, eyes trying to focus and failing, his breathing weak and unsure.
“Help me,” he whispered in a faltering voice. “Please.”
“I... I...” She took a deep breath, tried to take stock of the situation as her Aunt had taught her. He was still bleeding, and what she could see of the wound was deep and jagged, though she dared not touch it to be sure. Her Aunt had taught her to dress scratches, but this was far beyond her. “I’ll find help!” she finally blurted, pushing herself back up from the ground. “I’ll be back. I promise!”
“Thank you,” he said, moving his hand back to his side. “Please... hurry....”
She rushed back into the town, not stopping until she’d burst into her house. Her Aunt was sitting on the floor, examining some collection of powders and bits of dried plants. She looked up at her, eyes flashing, no doubt preparing a lecture that died away once she read her niece’s expression. “What is it?” she asked instead. “What’s happened, girl?”
“The old Woodsman,” she gasped. “He’s been stabbed!”
Her Aunt jumped to her feet, abandoning the reagents. A vial of some powder spilled on the floor, but she barely noticed. “Take me to him, quickly!”
The Witch had never seen her Aunt go so pale as she did that day; nor had she seen her run so quickly. Their flight attracted the attention of other villagers, who followed them to the outskirts of town where the powerful old man still lay, barely conscious with pain and blood loss.
The Witch watched as her Aunt pulled a vial from a pocket in her cloak, one that she’d never seen before. She could smell it from there, strange and pungent, and wrinkled her nose as her Aunt waved it under the Woodsman’s nose. The effect was both immediate and startling, and she couldn’t help but jump back as the Woodsman’s eyes opened wide. “What did this to you?” she asked, her voice barely audible over the anxious hum of the crowd.
“Old Blackthorn,” he said in a stronger voice, albeit a monotone that chilled the Witch to the bone. The people around her fell silent, and all eyes were on him now.
“Blackthorn!” Her Aunt made a sign, one that the Witch had never seen in her waking hours - three fingers in a quick circle over her heart. She had dreamed it in her dreams of daylight and the past, once, before their desperate flight to the woods. “What did you do? Of all the foolish -”
“I tried to appease her,” he protested in the same dead voice. “I made offerings. I only wanted one of her children’s wood, a new handle for my axe. I thought -”
“You thought!” she spat. “You cannot merely think of appeasing the ancient mothers - you must be sure!” She was more scared than angry, the Witch thought, and was searching in her cloak for something else.
“I know,” he said, voice weaker now. “I was foolish. The thorn that stabbed me... I don’t know if....”
“Hush,” she said more gently, examining the wound carefully. She pointed at a few of the stronger bystanders. “We must take him to my home. You will help me.”
The men and women rushed to the Woodsman’s side, preparing to lift him. The Witch stayed back; she knew she wasn’t strong enough to help carry him, but she stayed close, because she knew her Aunt would need her help sooner or later. This wasn’t the first time she’d seen an injured person, but this was, by far, the worst she had seen.
She wasn’t needed to help with the injury itself, it seemed. Her Aunt pressed others into service, people who were more experienced with the work of healing, and they were busy for hours, trying to help him. She wanted to help, but every time she tried to enter, someone shooed her away.
Finally her Aunt came out to find her. She had cleaned her hands and was wearing a fresh robe, but she couldn’t disguise the haggard look in her eyes. “He will live through the night,” she said. “Beyond that will depend on the will of the Old Blackthorn.”
“What can we do?” the Witch asked, thinking of the stories the old man had told her, the way he always smiled when she laughed. He might’ve been foolish, but seeing him die for this? No, she wouldn’t let it happen, not if she could do anything to help.
“There’s only one thing we can do - appeal to Her on his behalf. Hurry and make sure that you are ready. We must go quickly.”
---
The Witch had never visited Old Blackthorn before, but she was sure she could’ve found her way alone. But there was no need for her to search; the Woodsman had left a path of disturbed brush and leaves behind him, occasionally flecked with drying blood. The two of them followed it quickly, taking no time to speak; the man’s life depended on their swift journey.
Her Aunt stopped her before they walked into a thickly-wooded grove, full of trees with black leaves. “Here we are,” she said. “Be careful, my dear. Allow me to speak; if there is something you wish to say, you must ask for permission, and you must not show anger or displeasure, because of all of the ancient mothers, Old Blackthorn is the most temperamental.”
The Witch wanted to ask her why she was there for a brief moment, but she looked in her Aunt’s eyes and saw the haunted look in her eyes, the barely-hidden fear, and instead she simply nodded.
She followed her Aunt into the grove, and the branches parted for them. The leaves were dark and thick, even for their woods, and the trees that grew around them were perfectly black and smooth, their bark thin and papery. She could see the thorns for which they were named, long and wicked; she saw no blood, but she shuddered as she imagined one of them piercing her skin, embedding itself deep into her side.
They stopped before a giant black trunk, its bark peeling away to reveal perfect dark wood below. It stretched high above them into the forest canopy, but she could see a few branches that bent down from above, with even more massive thorns.
She could not help but fidget as they stood before the tree. The air around them was charged, somehow, and the tension was so great that she could barely fight the urge to turn and run away. But she thought of the tangle of smaller trees that they had passed through, and their sharp thorns, and she forced herself to stay, tried to calm herself.
“Great Mother Blackthorn,” her Aunt said beside her, “we come to you to plead for the life of one of our village. Will you allow us to speak on his behalf?”
The branches of the tree rustled, and suddenly the Witch could hear a voice. You may speak your case, the voice rasped, once I have spoken mine.
“I understand,” her Aunt said softly. “Why were you displeased with him, Mother Blackthorn? We have come with offerings, if his were insufficient.”
No, the rasping voice said. He made his offerings. But they meant nothing from a selfish heart. He sought the life of one of my children for nothing more than a handle for a single axe.
“Did he?” Her Aunt’s brow furrowed, and the Witch could hear the worry in her voice.
He had no need of such a thing, and yet he wished it. He was punished for his insistence.
“I see.” Her Aunt took a deep breath. “Our village will be under considerable hardship if he were to die, however.”
Perhaps. But he cannot be allowed to take my children’s lives unpunished, and he has been a Woodsman for a long time. He must have understood the price of his actions. His selfish deed has caused all of us great hardship.
Her Aunt fell silent again, and the Witch realized with horror that she had nothing to say. But it wasn’t fair! Surely there had to be something they could do! The old man had told her stories about that axe, she knew how much it had meant to him. Didn’t that count for anything?
Young one, the raspy voice said, more gently now. Do you have anything to say?
Her Aunt was staring at her now, her face a ghostly white. What had she done? She had tried not to say anything, but the tree had known all the same that she was unhappy! How could she have known? “I... yes,” she said, trying to recover. “I... I do, if I could be allowed.”
Go ahead, the tree answered. What do you know of this man’s actions?
She coughed, trying to clear her head. She had to tell the truth. “I... I know the stories he’s told me. I know that the axe... it’s very important to him. It’s been passed down from Woodsman to Woodsman for years, every time a new one is trained.”
How does this explain what he wished to do?
The tension still crackled around them, fierce and angry. The Witch tried to stand tall, but she could feel her legs shaking. “He... he said that he was about to retire,” she managed through her fear. “He’d told me stories lately about what he wanted to do when he didn’t have to be a Woodsman anymore, and about how he was almost ready to choose someone to follow him. And he said... he said he wanted them to realize how important it was, how the job was handed down from person to person. I... I think that he wanted to make sure the axe was ready before he gave it to someone else.”
Hm. The stooped branches waved, though there was no wind to move them. He said nothing of this, the voice said slowly. So you believe he wished to preserve a legacy?
“Yes,” she said. “I do.”
That, the tree rasped, is not so selfish as I believed. Perhaps he deserves another chance, in that case.
Her Aunt looked up at the tree, her eyes widening. “You will allow him to recover?”
For now. But he must be more forthright in the future. If he does so, perhaps I will grant his request.
The Witch nodded her head. “I... thank you, Mother Blackthorn,” she said. “I... I was afraid for him. I know he made a mistake, but -”
It is well, child, the voice interrupted. You were right to speak. Be more cautious with your thoughts in the future, however; you tread on dangerous ground. The tree’s branches rustled again. Go now, both of you. I must have time to think on this.
The Witch started to say good-bye, but her Aunt grabbed at her sleeve, shaking her head. She led her back through the grove, back into the more familiar reaches of the forest.
“That was dangerous, what you did,” her Aunt finally said as they walked back to the village.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to say anything,” she said, shaking her head. “I just... I didn’t know what to do.”
“You are fortunate that the Mother was merciful. They are not always so kind.” She paused, staring back toward the village. “Still,” she said, “you saved a man’s life today. You did well.”
“Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “Was... was that why you wanted me to come with you?”
“I had hoped you would have some sort of perspective on this, at least. I was pleased that I was right.” Her Aunt smiled slightly. “Come on. We must hurry back.”
---
The Woodsman woke up hours later, with the Witch sitting by his side. Her Aunt had pronounced him out of danger when they arrived back, and had her watching over him as she tried to complete her work.
“Hey,” he said, looking up at her, who had rushed to his side as soon as she’d heard him stir. “I... what happened?”
The Witch looked down at him, blinking. “Do you remember anything?”
“I... I don’t know. I was going to... I was finally gonna get my old axe ready to pass on. 'Bout time for me to give it up, after all... I didn't wanna pass somethin' on that wasn't ready. But then I...” He moaned, and she saw him press his hands against his side. “What in th’ world happened to me?”
“We can talk about it later,” she said. “Right now, we’re just glad you’re okay.” But she found that she was smiling, in spite of herself. She had been right! She was so happy, and relieved; if he had been selfish, if he had done all of that only because he wanted a better axe, she didn't know what she would've said to Mother Blackthorn. If she ever saw her again, anyway.
"Aye," he said, closing his eyes again. "Ah, it hurts... will ye fetch your Aunt for me, lass? I think a few of her medicines would help a bit for this."
She jumped up. "Of course," she said. She would be so happy that he was all right. The rest of it, the story of what had happened, that could all wait for later. "I'll be right back!"
wallwalkerTitle: Great Mother Blackthorn
Verse: The Witch and the Tower
Colors: Chestnut 5. Path; Color Party 39. Ferruginous.
Styles/Supplies: Canvas, Graffiti (Shooting, Boxing and Fencing)
Word Count: 2517
Rating: SFW (contains description of injuries)
Warnings: Injury, blood.
Summary: The village Woodsman comes back to town badly wounded, and the Witch may be the only one who can argue for his life.
---
The Witch knew something had to be horribly wrong the moment she saw the village’s Woodsman drag himself back into town, one hand pressed against his side. He was even paler than usual, and his yellow beard was flecked with rust-colored blood, but the most telling sign was the absence of his old axe.
She was the first to see him, since her Aunt had given her the dubious honor of examining and, when necessary, strengthening the enchantments around their village. She remembered because she had protested, at first. “Why must I do this, Auntie?” she’d said - she had been old enough to realize some of the power in the forest, but not so old that she could yet command it on her own. “What if I do something wrong?”
“I’ll be along to examine your work later, dear,” her Aunt had replied in her usual matter-of-fact tone. “As for the reason, well, you’re old enough now to see some of the power in this place, are you not? I’d be doing you a disservice, letting you believe that life here is simply about wandering and gathering curiosities.”
The Witch remembered she had grumbled for a few moments, gathering her supplies all the while. For all of her Aunt’s love and kindness, the Witch had learned as a young girl that she was a dangerous woman to defy. Best to do what she could, she thought, instead of exaggerating her ignorance in the hopes of getting out of it; her Aunt would not be fooled, she’d been sure.
Her Aunt’s words jumped unbidden into her head as she watched the familiar old man collapse just outside of the magical wards, and again when she ran and dropped to her knees next to him and realized that the hand that had fallen from his side was stained with blood. He stared up at her, eyes trying to focus and failing, his breathing weak and unsure.
“Help me,” he whispered in a faltering voice. “Please.”
“I... I...” She took a deep breath, tried to take stock of the situation as her Aunt had taught her. He was still bleeding, and what she could see of the wound was deep and jagged, though she dared not touch it to be sure. Her Aunt had taught her to dress scratches, but this was far beyond her. “I’ll find help!” she finally blurted, pushing herself back up from the ground. “I’ll be back. I promise!”
“Thank you,” he said, moving his hand back to his side. “Please... hurry....”
She rushed back into the town, not stopping until she’d burst into her house. Her Aunt was sitting on the floor, examining some collection of powders and bits of dried plants. She looked up at her, eyes flashing, no doubt preparing a lecture that died away once she read her niece’s expression. “What is it?” she asked instead. “What’s happened, girl?”
“The old Woodsman,” she gasped. “He’s been stabbed!”
Her Aunt jumped to her feet, abandoning the reagents. A vial of some powder spilled on the floor, but she barely noticed. “Take me to him, quickly!”
The Witch had never seen her Aunt go so pale as she did that day; nor had she seen her run so quickly. Their flight attracted the attention of other villagers, who followed them to the outskirts of town where the powerful old man still lay, barely conscious with pain and blood loss.
The Witch watched as her Aunt pulled a vial from a pocket in her cloak, one that she’d never seen before. She could smell it from there, strange and pungent, and wrinkled her nose as her Aunt waved it under the Woodsman’s nose. The effect was both immediate and startling, and she couldn’t help but jump back as the Woodsman’s eyes opened wide. “What did this to you?” she asked, her voice barely audible over the anxious hum of the crowd.
“Old Blackthorn,” he said in a stronger voice, albeit a monotone that chilled the Witch to the bone. The people around her fell silent, and all eyes were on him now.
“Blackthorn!” Her Aunt made a sign, one that the Witch had never seen in her waking hours - three fingers in a quick circle over her heart. She had dreamed it in her dreams of daylight and the past, once, before their desperate flight to the woods. “What did you do? Of all the foolish -”
“I tried to appease her,” he protested in the same dead voice. “I made offerings. I only wanted one of her children’s wood, a new handle for my axe. I thought -”
“You thought!” she spat. “You cannot merely think of appeasing the ancient mothers - you must be sure!” She was more scared than angry, the Witch thought, and was searching in her cloak for something else.
“I know,” he said, voice weaker now. “I was foolish. The thorn that stabbed me... I don’t know if....”
“Hush,” she said more gently, examining the wound carefully. She pointed at a few of the stronger bystanders. “We must take him to my home. You will help me.”
The men and women rushed to the Woodsman’s side, preparing to lift him. The Witch stayed back; she knew she wasn’t strong enough to help carry him, but she stayed close, because she knew her Aunt would need her help sooner or later. This wasn’t the first time she’d seen an injured person, but this was, by far, the worst she had seen.
She wasn’t needed to help with the injury itself, it seemed. Her Aunt pressed others into service, people who were more experienced with the work of healing, and they were busy for hours, trying to help him. She wanted to help, but every time she tried to enter, someone shooed her away.
Finally her Aunt came out to find her. She had cleaned her hands and was wearing a fresh robe, but she couldn’t disguise the haggard look in her eyes. “He will live through the night,” she said. “Beyond that will depend on the will of the Old Blackthorn.”
“What can we do?” the Witch asked, thinking of the stories the old man had told her, the way he always smiled when she laughed. He might’ve been foolish, but seeing him die for this? No, she wouldn’t let it happen, not if she could do anything to help.
“There’s only one thing we can do - appeal to Her on his behalf. Hurry and make sure that you are ready. We must go quickly.”
---
The Witch had never visited Old Blackthorn before, but she was sure she could’ve found her way alone. But there was no need for her to search; the Woodsman had left a path of disturbed brush and leaves behind him, occasionally flecked with drying blood. The two of them followed it quickly, taking no time to speak; the man’s life depended on their swift journey.
Her Aunt stopped her before they walked into a thickly-wooded grove, full of trees with black leaves. “Here we are,” she said. “Be careful, my dear. Allow me to speak; if there is something you wish to say, you must ask for permission, and you must not show anger or displeasure, because of all of the ancient mothers, Old Blackthorn is the most temperamental.”
The Witch wanted to ask her why she was there for a brief moment, but she looked in her Aunt’s eyes and saw the haunted look in her eyes, the barely-hidden fear, and instead she simply nodded.
She followed her Aunt into the grove, and the branches parted for them. The leaves were dark and thick, even for their woods, and the trees that grew around them were perfectly black and smooth, their bark thin and papery. She could see the thorns for which they were named, long and wicked; she saw no blood, but she shuddered as she imagined one of them piercing her skin, embedding itself deep into her side.
They stopped before a giant black trunk, its bark peeling away to reveal perfect dark wood below. It stretched high above them into the forest canopy, but she could see a few branches that bent down from above, with even more massive thorns.
She could not help but fidget as they stood before the tree. The air around them was charged, somehow, and the tension was so great that she could barely fight the urge to turn and run away. But she thought of the tangle of smaller trees that they had passed through, and their sharp thorns, and she forced herself to stay, tried to calm herself.
“Great Mother Blackthorn,” her Aunt said beside her, “we come to you to plead for the life of one of our village. Will you allow us to speak on his behalf?”
The branches of the tree rustled, and suddenly the Witch could hear a voice. You may speak your case, the voice rasped, once I have spoken mine.
“I understand,” her Aunt said softly. “Why were you displeased with him, Mother Blackthorn? We have come with offerings, if his were insufficient.”
No, the rasping voice said. He made his offerings. But they meant nothing from a selfish heart. He sought the life of one of my children for nothing more than a handle for a single axe.
“Did he?” Her Aunt’s brow furrowed, and the Witch could hear the worry in her voice.
He had no need of such a thing, and yet he wished it. He was punished for his insistence.
“I see.” Her Aunt took a deep breath. “Our village will be under considerable hardship if he were to die, however.”
Perhaps. But he cannot be allowed to take my children’s lives unpunished, and he has been a Woodsman for a long time. He must have understood the price of his actions. His selfish deed has caused all of us great hardship.
Her Aunt fell silent again, and the Witch realized with horror that she had nothing to say. But it wasn’t fair! Surely there had to be something they could do! The old man had told her stories about that axe, she knew how much it had meant to him. Didn’t that count for anything?
Young one, the raspy voice said, more gently now. Do you have anything to say?
Her Aunt was staring at her now, her face a ghostly white. What had she done? She had tried not to say anything, but the tree had known all the same that she was unhappy! How could she have known? “I... yes,” she said, trying to recover. “I... I do, if I could be allowed.”
Go ahead, the tree answered. What do you know of this man’s actions?
She coughed, trying to clear her head. She had to tell the truth. “I... I know the stories he’s told me. I know that the axe... it’s very important to him. It’s been passed down from Woodsman to Woodsman for years, every time a new one is trained.”
How does this explain what he wished to do?
The tension still crackled around them, fierce and angry. The Witch tried to stand tall, but she could feel her legs shaking. “He... he said that he was about to retire,” she managed through her fear. “He’d told me stories lately about what he wanted to do when he didn’t have to be a Woodsman anymore, and about how he was almost ready to choose someone to follow him. And he said... he said he wanted them to realize how important it was, how the job was handed down from person to person. I... I think that he wanted to make sure the axe was ready before he gave it to someone else.”
Hm. The stooped branches waved, though there was no wind to move them. He said nothing of this, the voice said slowly. So you believe he wished to preserve a legacy?
“Yes,” she said. “I do.”
That, the tree rasped, is not so selfish as I believed. Perhaps he deserves another chance, in that case.
Her Aunt looked up at the tree, her eyes widening. “You will allow him to recover?”
For now. But he must be more forthright in the future. If he does so, perhaps I will grant his request.
The Witch nodded her head. “I... thank you, Mother Blackthorn,” she said. “I... I was afraid for him. I know he made a mistake, but -”
It is well, child, the voice interrupted. You were right to speak. Be more cautious with your thoughts in the future, however; you tread on dangerous ground. The tree’s branches rustled again. Go now, both of you. I must have time to think on this.
The Witch started to say good-bye, but her Aunt grabbed at her sleeve, shaking her head. She led her back through the grove, back into the more familiar reaches of the forest.
“That was dangerous, what you did,” her Aunt finally said as they walked back to the village.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to say anything,” she said, shaking her head. “I just... I didn’t know what to do.”
“You are fortunate that the Mother was merciful. They are not always so kind.” She paused, staring back toward the village. “Still,” she said, “you saved a man’s life today. You did well.”
“Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “Was... was that why you wanted me to come with you?”
“I had hoped you would have some sort of perspective on this, at least. I was pleased that I was right.” Her Aunt smiled slightly. “Come on. We must hurry back.”
---
The Woodsman woke up hours later, with the Witch sitting by his side. Her Aunt had pronounced him out of danger when they arrived back, and had her watching over him as she tried to complete her work.
“Hey,” he said, looking up at her, who had rushed to his side as soon as she’d heard him stir. “I... what happened?”
The Witch looked down at him, blinking. “Do you remember anything?”
“I... I don’t know. I was going to... I was finally gonna get my old axe ready to pass on. 'Bout time for me to give it up, after all... I didn't wanna pass somethin' on that wasn't ready. But then I...” He moaned, and she saw him press his hands against his side. “What in th’ world happened to me?”
“We can talk about it later,” she said. “Right now, we’re just glad you’re okay.” But she found that she was smiling, in spite of herself. She had been right! She was so happy, and relieved; if he had been selfish, if he had done all of that only because he wanted a better axe, she didn't know what she would've said to Mother Blackthorn. If she ever saw her again, anyway.
"Aye," he said, closing his eyes again. "Ah, it hurts... will ye fetch your Aunt for me, lass? I think a few of her medicines would help a bit for this."
She jumped up. "Of course," she said. She would be so happy that he was all right. The rest of it, the story of what had happened, that could all wait for later. "I'll be right back!"
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(Sorry this has taken me so long to get back to. Haven't had much time to write lately.)