Work Text:
Maddie had always enjoyed the quaintness of the forest.
It was her quiet corner, so to speak. Instead of the scornful gaze of the town, she was met with indifferent woodland creatures. Whenever she was a tadpole and felt isolated from her peers, she’d stroll to her corner, later dubbed her Witch Hut, then sit and read whatever interest caught her attention.
Botanical books, detailing the seemingly impossible healing properties of herbs and mythology books, filled to the brim with nuanced tales of magic and mystery were among her favorites.
Though her absolute favorite was her mother’s worn, leather-bound spellbook. Sometimes, when the tadpole had nightmares, her mother would lull her to sleep with a story about witches. Powerful magic users protecting their friends and families from harm with charming spells and playfully petty potions. Fantastical tellings of the lore behind real spells contained in the book.
It’s one of the only memories she has of her mother before the Heron attack. The day she disappeared without a trace, leaving behind a just-turned froglet Maddie and three young tadpoles to one Mr. Flour.
She doesn’t remember much of the months that followed, but what she does remember was her infatuation with the spellbook. Whenever she couldn’t sleep, she would browse the spellbook, running her hand along the mustard colored entries, certain pages seemingly springing to life with her mother’s storytelling voice. The earth smell emanating from the book grounded her, tethered her to the present, thus she read on. Countless hours reading and rereading pages that never once lost their impact.
A reminder of simpler times. Back when being a social outcast was the worst of her worries.
——
Now there’s a flying castle and metal abominations prowling around the entire continent. Thundering footsteps, whirring engines, steel joints creaking in anticipation before ionizing an innocent village.
Not even Maddie’s neck of the woods, surprisingly mostly untouched by the war, feels safe anymore. She still sneaks out of the bunker once a week, hoping some casual spell work would help burn off her overwhelming nervous energy.
As she mixes a more advanced resurrection potion in the cloak of night, workstation only lit by the crimson moon, her mind inevitably wanders to the last time she had attempted such a feat.
Specifically how it was only made possible by her friend and apprentice, Marcy, along with how they helped in the disaster her sisters’ caused thereafter. They were the first person to take an active interest in her hobbies, even embracing her “weirdness” to boot.
She hadn’t heard anything about her friend for a while now and she was beginning to get restless.
Despite being prompted frequently by Maddie’s insatiable curiosity, Sasha remained still as stone. All she would say was that Marcy had been captured and was being held prisoner.
The way she stiffened, only for an almost incomprehensibly swift moment, formed a smile far too tight, and took on a tone not dissimilar to their metal foes did not escape Maddie’s eye.
She really, really missed her friend. It wouldn’t have been nearly as bad if she didn’t see their presence everywhere.
Marcy would’ve loved analyzing the new ingredients that she had from rebel sympathizers, plucking them from their boxes and running tests of quality and origin that Maddie didn’t quite understand, but supported nonetheless. Making slight variations of known combinations, yet making something entirely different in her process. The way she’d found the repeated motion of mixing spells to be soothing to her whirling mind. The way she’d let out a victorious whoop! and punch the air excitedly then move to quickly scribble in her journal.
She hopes she can see them again soon.
Maddie shakes her head and sighs as she carefully pours the emerald liquid into a flask, quickly labeling it in block letters.
RESURRECTION LVL6
Maybe she should try a simple possession spell after this.
Lost in her thoughts, she doesn’t notice the crunch of armored footsteps approaching from behind.
A monstrosity lightly whirring.
A broken body being piloted by something greater than it should ever have to bear.
She spins around, knocking over her cauldron in the process, and meets the burning gaze ten eyes. Ten hellish fires glowering at her from under the blood red light of the moon.
A horrible amalgamation of voices, a voice she recognizes among them, taunts her, wearing a smile that is not right for its body.
“Why, hello there.”
Her screams fall on the deaf ears of the night.