they called us witches

when we were magic, once, they called us witches. it was back when mystical pools swapped bodies and souls, and stars detached themselves from the satin of the cosmos to visit their favourite mortals. too often they left disappointed, white shifts and halos losing some of their gleam. the stars loved the witches, but the witches worshipped the stars. they named their children Sirius or Orion, and swaddled their babes in cloth drawn from still moonlit lakes. the stars gave thanks with gifts of glittering eyes or nimble fingers, things that became of witches.

    those they called witches were resplendent – you could tell by the fall of their locks that they were blessed. most stars were selective by who they chose, but Delphinius was flighty and impulsive. he stole away beautiful women and men for his starlit debauchery, then left the former's bellies swelling with an unborn witch-child. his blessings were frivolous, he handed them out like treats from a master to an obedient mutt. my mother was one of his bitches, scorned, spiteful and tarnished. i grew up swallowing fire and blinking back tears made of tar. she gave me hot coals to chew on and alcohol to wipe black stains off my cheeks. my mother was not a witch. she never swaddled me in moonwater cloth or prayed for my gifts or blessings. all she could taste was her burned tongue; all she could feel was her ravished womb; all she was left with was her shame, her mangled body, and a bastard daughter – a constant reminder of what she'd lost and what she'd become. when i was young and unsatisfied, i hated her for it. i don't know if i hate her anymore. there's no point getting too lost in the past to the point where you can't find your way back to the present. and you know what they say about the present. it's a gift.

    some things never change, when we were witches, you had wanted a cottage like your mother's – smelling of spices and feelings of love and home. she was a lovely woman, a different kind of lovely to you but lovely nonetheless. casks of wine and barrels of hot chocolate filled her pantry next to loaves of bread leavened on her kitchen table. her patchwork apron was like the tapestry of life – so full of patterns and colours that danced across its seams. the way she swept me into a hearty embrace the first time i met her, your effervescent grin serenading by the sidelines, continued long after you moved out of her home. i always admired her, with her strength and forward kindness, she taught me how a witch should be, though i was ever learning til the day i saw my last dusk.

    you dressed like sunrise – i once confused it for sunset, but you said no. you gave people new beginnings, not endings. i always adored your gowns and cloaks in silk and gauze and lace, floating sleeves and trains rippling behind your dainty steps. shades of pinks, yellows, reds – if only by mortal hands the craftsmanship would have rivalled Titania. but more often than not, she saw not to intervene. she kept to her realm and we kept to ours. a woman of contrasts, that faerie, cold as ice and harsh as a desert wind, yet her cloying perfume promised unnatural beauty and infatuation. i nearly went with her the first time. you made me potions after that. but both of us were smart enough not to eat the sugared tarts she brought to tea.

    you tucked your slight bough of honeycrisp behind your ear when you weren't using it. it winded itself in spiral strands, but the way the stray leaves rested in your gentle curls made me want to hold you close and breathe in your sweetness and comfort. even when you were away, the scent of the honeycrisp bough lingered. you were distraught when the orchard near our cottage burned down. i felt guilty that despite my efforts to save the grove, the taste of woodsmoke on my tongue was alluring – a lost promise of a place i’d never return to.

    i never missed it. no, i never wished to walk those halls again. but i’d think of it sometimes, late at night. you’d be fast asleep in my arms, keeping me grounded. you were the compass pointing me towards home, a beacon in my stormy seas.

    while you wore the sunrise, i wore the night. i did all the things i learned witches did; i washed my bare feet in morning dew; prayed to the stars and their sisters; sewed myself a dress from blessed moonwater cloth – i asked divine permission before daring to imitate their brilliance. i think part of the reason they granted it was because you were praying for me.

    you were a favourite child of Sun, the nearest star who blessed all those who beheld her, whether they worshipped her or not. earth sprang to life from her nurturing touch, and you cared for her creations better than any other witch your age. it took me a long time to find my calling – i knew not what my means of magic was, nor by which means to channel its power. i had gained a familiar by this point, a silky black cat who i named Juno and loved fiercely. she calmed some degree of my eagerness to discover my powers, while you encouraged such personal interrogation. you could have a crystal or an orb or something else, you’d say, but i'd insisted on a wand like yours. i wanted to be as good a witch as you, seeing the gratitude you received from the village folk made my heart melt with love for what you did, the healing you provided people. i knew deep within myself that i was not a healer, but i kept searching, travelling as far as a week’s ride from home for an ancient tome or spell or ritual that might reveal some meagre hint of my inheritance. but i'd always return to you. how could i not? you were my morning star, the one i could always return to.

    the evening chill did not bother me as it did you, my bare shoulders did not feel the cold as i'd lived without warmth for so long. my cold hands in yours made you shiver, but your laughter at such a sensation, so strange it was to you that my skin was cold to the touch when a blazing hearth dwelled beneath your own palms. i'd kissed you then, and you murmured into my lips that my mouth was as warm as the spark Prometheus stole, that i melted you with Venus’ embrace. you ran your fingers through my hair and i was lost.

    i always awoke later than you. i could not help it, for as the scorpion must sting, i must wander through the night – it was my nature. but finding my way back to our bed before the morning arrived, Dawn lighting the east with rosy fingers, i always revelled in the feeling of your impossibility beside me – how could one be so strong yet so soft? i never needed to know the answer, for i'd known my demeanour was akin to iron before you reduced me to a puddle of molten particles, all focused on you.