Hopes of Witches

IV.
Hopes of Witches

Laionne is fond of fairy tales. Any time she had trouble sleeping back then—which happened quite often due to nightmares or various pains resulting from the excess mana poisoning her blood—I would sit at her bedside in her sad, empty room, and narrate a half-remembered story I had heard from the fairies. The moonlight bathed her face in silver in these intimate moments, and I couldn’t resist gazing down at her with an affectionate calm, resting a soothing hand on her forehead as I spoke aloud. In further, spiteful selfishness, it made me cry from time to time, because I myself had desperately longed for similar comforts in the past—before I had accepted my exile as a witch. I’m not sure if my storytelling ever actually helped her with falling asleep, because she’d remain intently listening with her piercing eyes affixed to the ceiling, refusing to drift off until she’d heard the very last of it, but I’m certain it made her happy.

“Do you feel like you’re a knight, who came to whisk me away from my castle?” She startled me by blurting out a ridiculous question, forcing my heels to spin around. I’d assumed her to be engulfed in the land of dreams as I crept away, resulting in an undignified jump at the sound of her tired voice. She ignored it and continued, “Although you have no horse after all. That’d be arduous.”

My eyebrow twitched. ‘I could buy a hundred horses with the money I scammed from your stupid parents if I pleased!’ I almost retorted with an unwarranted outburst, but I wasn’t daft enough to mistake her genuine line of reasoning for an insult. I can’t deny that I struggled at first with misunderstandings, but I quickly realized her thinking is just a bit different from the norm—more literal and analytical. If you had told her in the past that the Moon is made of cheese, she would ask you questions like, ‘how come is it white and not yellow,’ or, ‘then why can’t we smell it from the sky?’ She wouldn’t think you’re messing with her or telling a joke, but genuinely try to discern whether the Moon could feasibly be a ball of rotten milk. If you then told her that it has a white skin and floats too far away to smell, she would even accept your theory, and scrutinize it fully until you ran out of lies (though she wouldn’t see them as such.) In the end, no amount of fancy vocabulary or scientific intellect could stop her from being a child.

You might've caught on that I haven't used the word 'magic' at all when telling Laionne’s story. That is because; undoubtedly; magic does not exist in this world. Combining these factors, it was awfully cruel of me to lead her on with fables of its existence.

“Tonight, would you like to hear the story of the Mage of Miracles?” I had asked her because she had looked particularly shaken that night, clutching herself in tears in spite of her passive expression, as if she wasn’t allowed to express her pain beyond what her body betrayed. Whether they were tears or merely sweat, the sight of her had been unbearably pitiful. I wanted to comfort her, and so following our usual routine… I offered her a false light. She couldn’t muster anything beyond a small nod.

“Long time ago, when the Ælves still ruled the human kingdoms, there lived a boy in a destitute village.” I began my narration, describing the story of a peasant-boy who saw his family, neighbours and friends crumbling away from poverty. He had never heard of witches—who can only draw their power from outside sources in the act of borrowing we call witchcraft—but longed for a miracle to bring salvation to those he cherished. One day, a plague befell his hometown, and exacerbated its issues while snuffing out its lives one by one. The boy knew he had to act. Hearing from the local crone that a man dwelt in the mountains who could cure any illness, he set out to find him, lest everyone in the village succumb to the disease. However, even after scouring the mountain and braving its peak, the boy could not find him. He was desperate. He cried out to the heavens, but nobody would answer him. That is when he decided he would become that man himself, and a golden light awoke in his soul. He created a miracle with his own power in his very own heart. After descending the mountain, he cured everyone in the village, and although his family begged him to stay, he set out on a journey to heal all those who suffer in the world.

“He gained thus the moniker ‘Mage of Miracles,’ and some say he still roams the earth to this very day.” I concluded the story, thinking nothing of it until I saw the glimmer in her eyes.

“If the Mage is still alive, do you think he could he cure me too?”

My eyes had widened, and my hand tangled a bit too harshly in her hair. What could I have said? It had been a question born of her innocence, and I could either crush it outright or offer a non-existent cure. The Mage of Miracles couldn’t exist. Magic isn’t real; humans cannot cast spells with only their own power, let alone miracles that could undo universal laws. Yet, I was a child too at the time. Not only did I not want her to be sad, but maybe I also… wanted to believe.

“Mhm. In fact, I bet I can find him if you’d like. Can’t be very agile since he’s gotta be a grumpy old man by now.” Why did I have to tease and boast at such an inappropriate time?

“An old man? If he’s the Mage of Miracles, then he must’ve also healed the illness of aging. I would like to meet him. One day. . .”

This exchange marked the start of an errant goose chase, that would go on to waste too much of the precious sand in Laionne’s dwindling hourglass. I suppose she didn’t see it that way, though. In her eyes, it was simply ‘hope,’ and she was happier chasing it than rotting away at the castle and weeping.

It was fun, and…

Apologies, it’s getting harder to write. I must’ve knocked over a vase and spilled water on the pages.

Better leave them to dry for now.