The day was exceptionally cool for spring, as if the bite of winter still held its grip on the season and refused to bid farewell. Sage walked through the wood — her solace, her home. She knew the earth under her feet, felt the veins of its life as it beat with power, uttering its stories of times past. Her soul was one with it, joined by blood and by magic.
The melody of the dawn hour carried, the quiet of the morning mist brushed at her face, bringing a subtle smile to her lips. Her long, curly black hair moved as she walked, a simple wildflower held between her thumb and her forefinger. She gazed at its virginal color, the firm petals vibrant with life even though it had been plucked.
She edged toward the creek, singing softly, just enough where it gave her soul happiness.
It was an ancient ballad she sung, one she had found tucked away in her mother's old books; one she had memorized. She only sang it while alone, never when her mother was present. She had been forbidden to view the coven books. But she did, and she'd never tell.
Her bare feet touched the cool water, her toes skimming the milky rocks that lay on the creek bed. She delighted in the feeling, felt home with the woods and the earth.
She breathed in a heavy sigh, the cool air hitting her lungs. That was when she heard her woodland splintering by a mortal.
Her eyes snapped open, one black; one blue. Quickly she parted, soaring over the creek's shallow depths and into the breadth of space where one dared to breech.
She saw him there, fracturing the boundaries of mortal and immortal land.
A rush of wind rustled the leaves that lingered on the greenery, causing the man to look at her. He did not speak as she walked toward him, only stared at her in awe.
When she stopped before him, neither said a word, they merely stood assessing one another as if they were warriors on a blood filled battlefield, ready to ravage. When he moved to step closer, Sage raged.
She lifted her palm, intending to pierce his mortal heart with her deadly magic, yet the look at which he gave her was that of a man humbled and sorrowful— the song of joy stripped from the blue of his eyes. Sky eyes, Sage thought as she looked inside of them. They mirrored the sky on a warm spring day. She was taken aback in that moment, lost in a sea of unknown enchantment, beholden by eyes that pleaded, and by a heart she could hear beating in her ears.
She dropped her hand, fisted it against the white of her dress. "You dare come to my forest?" she asked, her voice edged with wrath.
Creek O'Farrell bent to one knee then, his right hand held up in mercy. The black of his hair grazed the edge of his shoulder, the wind that still rustled about, causing it to lift.
"Forgive me," Creek said, his eyes holding hers.
Sage said nothing, only lifted her chin with hate. Bloody mortals were all alike with their greed and their wars. She wanted nothing to do with them ; ever.
"Your eyes are bewitching," he uttered as he slowly stood.
"They are magic, Creek O'Farrell," Sage bellowed.
His head tilted to the side. "How do you know my name?"
He neared her then, his broad frame carrying something that Sage became restless with.
Her hand lifted again, the palm of it facing him. "I know because I see your heart," she stormed, and continued.
"I see your story in the windows of your eyes."
He was closer now, enough so that he could reach out and touch a tendril of her hair.
"You're the Wood Witch."
She could execute him right this moment, she thought, but she yielded and simmered her magic.
"You must leave."
He shook his head. "I cannot," he whispered, "you called me here."
Sage stood back. "I did no such thing!" she hissed.
He smiled, his gaze drifting toward the forest behind her. "You sang an ode that was a thousand years old. An ode that has brought me to you."
Sage narrowed her eyes. "You dare elude a witch of the woods?"
He laughed softly, the sound of it carrying on the wind. "No, I wouldn't be so bold."
"Why are you here?" Sage snapped.
He began to pace in front of her. "Some say that a song hidden away for centuries gains power, forges a strength within the lyrics," he shrugged as if it were irrelevant.
Sage grew impatient. "Your answer, sir," she requested.
He rounded in front of her, his eyes changing to black; the color of the murky depths of the deep sea.
"But it matters not," he claimed, circling around her.
The bloodstone in his palm burned, the one thing his father warned him to not allow the wood witch to see. It shielded him from her magic, veiled him from her intrusion for truth. Gazing at the witch now, he was enamored, bewitched even.
He loathed himself when he saw she was not a revolting witch at all, but an enchantress, a beautiful woman of the wood.
But duty called, and he was to bring her to the castle; her magic to be used for the coming battle. If he abandoned his task he would face death himself.
The sun filtered through the trees, illuminating the bloodstone in the warrior's hand.
Sage's eyes widened, but it was too late to cast.
Some say when you crest the boundary of land between mortal and immortal, you can hear the screams of the witch that was carried from her land.
The wildflowers that once bloomed are wilted and without color. The wind no longer whispers with life — the water of the creek no longer flows. The forest stands still until the Wood Witch is returned.
