Return

“The only way to never die —” The crone hacked and spat on the dirt. The air reeked of decay. Even with windowed moon and fire lit, her crude hut but dimly flickered.

She spoke in a nearly indecipherable accent, long from the plains or hills. “— is to never have been borne.”

She began coughing uncontrollably. Her withering body wracked over a rough wooden chair, wispy layers of garb moving like the counting wings of a preter. I shuddered.

Remembering myself, I gave a blessing to the present candles for their glim. To my unknowing. The shadow of a curved blade flickered beside a foaming cauldron.

Finally her rattles settled, as did her hands upon armrests.

In an instant she was upright and moving toward me.

She showed no frailty, and approached without even seeming to walk. One of her hands appeared before my face, contorted to reflect an unknown rune. Fingers rotted by the scent.

How her silver eyes found mine, I cannot say.

“Know you the riddle?”

Her voice was a hissing spectre. Thin form now heavy and unbendable. A shadow forged. Her face, having come so near to mine, was deeply written with age. Like ancient stone.

By the matrons, I now know naivety. I rote what so long you have taught.

“I am my father’s daughter…”

She grabbed my face with her witch-grip. Began crushing. It was all I could do to sputter.

“So this I do for she.”

Fled I hence. Lashed and whipped by the dark forest. See my wounds if you must, to know. But I am returned.

Mother. Please reach back. I know you are weak.

Her grip is cold. She cries out and clutches her belly.