We Meet At Last
DAISY.
The air is heavy with tension as we stand outside the cottage, the mist swirling around us in a cloak of uncertainty. The rising sun, hidden behind layers of mist, casts an eerie glow on the surroundings. I can't tear my gaze away from the makeshift grave before us. All I can think of are a woman's hands, shaking, as they carefully place the stones that entomb the corpse of her child.
Bastian's presence beside me is both reassuring and unsettling. I can feel the tension radiating off him. Ahead of us, I'm vaguely aware of the front door of the hut creaking open, the sound piercing through the fog of my thoughts. It's barely a whisper, a glimpse, but I can't stop looking at the grave, as if some invisible thread ties me to that spot.
As the door opens fully, my attention remains fixed on it. The gnarled wooden post, the rough-hewn stones, the earthy scent of soil. There's an ache in my chest and a hollowness in my stomach that threatens to consume me.
A presence stirs in the corner of my consciousness, a hum that seems to vibrate in the very air around us. It tugs at the edges of my thoughts, like a whisper just out of reach. I recognize that feeling.
Instinctively, I grasp Bastian's hand tighter, grounding myself in his touch as I finally tear my gaze away from the grave and look toward the hut.
She's here.
The Witch of the Dark steps out. The mist swirls around her, giving her an otherworldly appearance, as if she's a specter born from the fog itself. Her beauty is haunting, a paradox of pain and power. Her wide-set black eyes are like obsidian pools, reflecting nothing but the utter absence of light. Her hair is way and blonde, ashier than Bastian's but sandier than my mother's, and it cascades down her back like a waterfall of moonlight. She wears a tattered, dark red cloak that billows around her, its edges dissolving into the mist as if they're one.
Her fair skin seems to glow like morning dew in contrast, marred only by the intricate black tattoos that wind across her arms and collarbone like ancient markings of power. Those were not there when I saw her in my dream, and I wonder if she concealed them from me deliberately or if I simply did not notice.
There are other things I did not see before, too.
Now that I'm looking at her in the flesh, I can make out dark circles under her eyes, etching exhaustion onto her face. She is thinner than she appeared in my dream as well, her angular features sharpened in a way that looks jagged and unnatural despite her elegance. The pallor of her skin is drastic and almost corpselike, accentuating the shadows cast by her defined collarbone, high cheeks, and long neck.
Thin lips press into a smile that might once have been sweet if not for the cold in her eyes.
As she steps forward, her movements are graceful yet deliberate. Her beauty is undeniable, yet it's a beauty that has been twisted by darkness, forged in the crucible of pain. Beside me, Bastian sucks in a breath. I steal a glance at him and see the wariness in his gaze. He knows her, knows something that I don't. It has never been more obvious. The familiarity as they look at each other makes me nauseous.
The Witch gazes at us with eyes that seem to pierce through the mist, locking onto me. She doesn't speak, and the silence between us is a living thing, pulsating with unspoken questions and a sense of foreboding. She looks at me the way a lion might look at its supper, and Bastian stiffens at my side, muscles going taut.
There's a humming in the back of my thoughts, a distant murmur that grows louder with each passing second. The air is charged with an energy that's not just magical but primal. It's as if she is trying to peer into the very depths of my soul, seeking out my thoughts, my fears, my vulnerabilities.
The mist swirls around my legs, and the humming in the back of my mind grows stronger, a discordant melody that threatens to drown out everything else. I clench my free hand into a fist, my nails digging into my palm as I fight against the intrusion. Bastian steps forward protectively, but the Witch's gaze remains fixed on me, and I can almost feel the weight of her scrutiny pressing against my mind.
Bastian's voice is a low murmur, a lifeline amidst the cacophony of my thoughts. "Don't let her in."
The Witch's lips curve into a half-smile, a hint of amusement dancing in her eyes. But there's pain there, too, a depth of suffering that I can't ignore. She's both a victim and a villain, a curious creature of contradictions.
‘Silly boy.’ The Witch's voice reverberates in my mind, an unsettling presence that creeps into my thoughts like tendrils of darkness. ‘Don't listen to him, little princess. Let me in,’ she purrs, her tone dripping with honey.
No.
‘If you want, I'll let you in,’ she goes on. ‘You must be so tired, after all. You've lost so much, sacrificed so many. Margaret. Derek. Matt. Luke. Alice. You left them all to die so you could get here.’
The sound of those names in her voice makes me want to vomit. My fists are clenched so tight that my nails dig into the palm of my hand, drawing blood. I feel like I'm going to crush Bastian's fingers with mine, but he doesn't so much as flinch.
‘You've come so far, little princess. Wouldn't you like to be with them all again? Uncle Nico. Your grandmother, Vanessa. Auntie Amara. Your wonderful father... Tristan. Don't you want to see them? You're so tired, little princes. So tired and so very alone.’
I'm shaking, struggling to resist the urge to cover my ears. Her words are like poison, seeping into my mind and burning me from the inside.
‘I'm not alone,’ I counter, throwing the thought at her as if it were a spear. ‘I have my mate.’
Laughter echoes in my mind, a chilling sound that makes my skin prickle.
‘Silly little princess, thinking she's found her little prince. But you don't even know the boy standing beside you. I'm trying to do you both a favor. Mates are a lie. The bond you think you feel with him will bring nothing but betrayal.’
She's wrong. I've seen the bond. I've seen the love between my parents, and it is true.
The Witch's smile turns into a snarl as she slips in between the cracks of my thoughts.
‘Your mother, the flower, wasn't always all pretty petals. The only reason your parents are heroes is because I took them away from you before they could become villains.’
Lies. Nothing but more lies.
But her words strike a chord. I cannot help but think of my mother's scars and how trauma can shape a person. What would have happened to Iris if Tritan hadn't come along to help her grow? What if she'd been betrayed, like the Witch was? My parents share an epic love, and they bring out the best in each other, but the Witch never had that. Instead, she lost the only love she ever knew.
A daughter who lost her parents is an orphan, a wife who lost her husband is a widow, but there is no word to describe a mother who lost her child.
I despise that I am drawn to this woman that has caused so much misery. But evil is not born. It is made. As much as I want to stop the Witch, I cannot bring myself to hate her.
Does that make me a monster? Or perhaps I am just as mad as she is.
I glance at Bastian, his gaze locked on the Witch with a mixture of sorrow and anger.
‘Sebastian understands. He knows that suffering can only beget more suffering. That is the way of the world,’ she coos.
"Stop it," I hiss out loud, pulling my hand out of Bastians to grasp the hilt of my dagger.
‘Who is he, really?’ the Witch taunts. ‘Would you like to know who you traded your friends and family for?’
A surge of anger courses through me, and I slam my mind back against the Witch's intrusion, but she creeps forward further.
‘He's been lying to you, and you know it. You can't pretend not to notice it anymore. The secrets. The darkness in him,’ she insists, her voice a whisper that snakes through my thoughts.
My heart races, and I struggle to push away the feeling of her thoughts seeping into mine. Bastian's secrets, the weight of them, have been looming over us for a while now. But facing the Witch of the Dark, her power and promise, makes me wonder if I'm truly ready to uncover them.
‘Smart little princess, too clever for her own good. You've stopped asking because you're afraid of the answers. Shall I give them to you, once and for all? Come to the grave.’ The Witch's voice takes on a softer, almost soothing tone, seducing me with her words. ‘Come to the grave and learn the story of the man you think you love. If you're going to die here today, better you die knowing the truth.’