Chapter Text
The forest was dark and damp. Thin, almost black, trunks stretched towards the sky where their branches formed a canopy so thick, only the smallest slithers of light could creep their way through. Underfoot, brittle sticks and wet leaves formed a damp blanket over the earth, broken only by moss-covered rocks, jutting up from underground. As the sun gave it’s last kiss to the earth and the moon took its place, a thin sheen of mist ebbed its way from the darkness and draped itself along the ground. With the mist came the chill of night that had Bellamy tugging at his cloak, desperate for warmth. As his breath came in white puffs there was only one thing on his mind.
Save her.
A soft chant, that beat in time to his heart.
Save her.
Perhaps he was insane—death can do that to you—but he didn’t want to be. Hope was a fragile thing, capable of cutting him deeper than any blade. But he held it close, let it warm his chest, even if it offered little heat—for hope was all he had.
He had always clung to his optimism, to the utopian belief that it would be better this time. Time and time again this had only brought him hurt. But he was following it again, like a moth to a flame. And he was the moth— he moved to the light no matter how much it burned him, because he needed it. How else could he convince Octavia that she was a gift to their family when the other villagers called their mother a whore for having her? How else could he turn stealing into a game so light-hearted Octavia would never question its morality? You see, the moth moves to the flame because without its light, it would loose itself to the darkness.
So he allowed himself to believe in magic and this was his flame, he was just hoping there would be no burn this time.
Magic was hard for him. He wanted it to be real so badly, but every fibre in his body rejected the notion. He had believed in the magic of Christmas and had awoken to only frostbite in his toes. He had believed in the magic of fairies and elves and he had listened, entranced, as his mother wove stories of tiny creatures filled with joy and good. He had turned over every leaf and flower and come up with nothing.
But magic was his hope, his flame, embodied in The Witch of Eldenborough Woods, and he needed it to be real. Some parts were easier to grasp than others. He could believe in the more physical things like potions and even rituals. But there were other things that were harder to believe in. Like the idea that the Witch’s cottage was enchanted, that a parade of men on horses could scour every square centimetre of the woods and not find a single scrap of evidence of the Witch’s existence, yet a single man could be deemed worthy of the Witch’s help and stumble upon the cottage with little effort. That didn’t sit well with him as it meant that magic was intangible, an unnatural force, and it was capable of assessing the worth of someone. It was madness, really, but he would give in to madness if it meant getting his mother’s health back.
He had walked quite some time now and this, combined with the frosty air, made his bones ache. All he wanted was to set up camp and let the damp ground act as his pillow. But he needed water first as his canteen was nearly empty, and he’d surely wake with a dry throat. He was almost certain, at times, that he could hear the soft babble of a nearby creak, but it never seemed to get any closer no matter how many steps he took, so maybe it was part of the Madness. With heavy legs he chased the sound as it danced at his ears before fading to nothing over and over again.
His knees were almost ready to buckle when the sound of the creek roared to life again, so loud it was as if it were flowing right past his ears. Madness—it had to be. How else would he be able to hear water so clearly yet see nothing but dark wood and mist? Or was it magic? That thought had his stomach fluttering and his steps quicken.
The cacophony grew louder still until he was grasping at his ears, desperate for relief. And then—silence. So distracted he had been by the noise that he hadn’t noticed that he’d stumbled into a clearing. Around him, the trees formed a dense wall, but disappeared completely in the small circle of the clearing. Here, the moon shone down, illuminating the grass in an eerie blue. And, at the back of the clearing, nearly covered by the line of trees, a cottage. The cottage itself had a sloping roof covered in a thick blanket of moss. It was made of pale grey stone, etched with gaping cracks and spots of mould. The door and window shutters, made of dark, rotting wood, were tightly closed, but the thinnest streaks of yellow light slipped through the gaps in the shutters. A chimney, constructed from stone and cement, sent plumes of smoke up towards the stars.
He cautiously made his way across the clearing until he was standing in front of the door and hesitantly drew up his fist to rap at the door. It was of little use, apparently, as the wood of the door was so rotten that he was only able to produce a soft thump. Instead, the door slid open a fraction, letting out a comforting warmth that wrapped its way around Bellamy’s frozen fingers. He debated going in for a moment because—unless he had collapsed somewhere in the woods and this was all a vivid dream—he was standing in the doorway of a witch. In the end, the promise of heat and the possibility of his mother’s recovery won over and he found himself pressing his palm to the door and edging it open as it creaked with the movement.
“Welcome,” invited a low, feminine voice, and he (pathetically) jumped a little. It came from a woman standing with her back to him in the centre of the space. As she turned to face him, Bellamy was a little stunned. He had been expecting a crocked nose and gnarled fingers, yellow teeth and protruding warts. Instead he was met with a fresh-faced woman, with fair hair that tangled down past her waist and bright blue eyes. She was barefoot in a flowing deep blue dress that was tattered, yes, and caked with mud along the hem (his mother would have a heart attack) but beautiful all the same. The cottage, from the inside, also took him by surprise. Where the outside had looked largely derelict, the inside was warm and cosy. Shelves lined every available wall space, crammed with ancient-looking books that he’d love to get his hands on. There was a tiny kitchen that was really just a stove, a sink and a small amount of bench space, an oak dining table covered in lace, and a few cots, crowding the space. Inside the fireplace, a large fire crackled and cast a flickering orange glow across the room. Nearly every available space was taken by something, but it didn’t feel claustrophobic. “What brings you here?” she asked him.
He cleared his throat. “My mother. She’s ill. We’ve tried everything and still… we need your help.”
“And where is your mother?” she asked, stepping forward and tilting her head.
“She’s at my home, my sister is taking care of her while I’m away.”
“You will need to bring her to me.”
And there it was—the burn. He knew the light looked too welcoming to be safe.
“What?” he asked, disbelief and worry erasing some off the gruffness of his voice. “She’s dying. I—don’t you have a potion or something I can take to her?”
“I will need skin-to-skin contact if I’m to heal her,” the Witch said bluntly, emotionlessly. “You will have to bring her here.”
“She’ll never make it,” he breathed, pain building up low in his stomach. “Can you come to her?”
“I don’t live in an enchanted home just to go gallivanting off with some strange fellow. I need to protect myself.”
“She’ll die if you don’t help her,” he tried again, his voice almost pleading.
“This may come as a surprise to you, but I have no emotional attachment to your mother. Her death will not weigh heavily on me.”
“You are a cruel, cruel woman,” he spat, rage running hot in his veins.
She grinned, a twisted thing full of venom. “I’m a witch. What did you expect?”
+
The stubborn part of him wanted to refuse her when she’d offered one of her cots for him to spend the night on. But he was sore and tired, so he shrugged off his outer layers and curled up on the thin mattress. It took a while for sleep to come, because there was an aching in his chest, and he felt helpless, hollow. He’d let himself build up hope, felt the way it fluttered in his stomach as he neared the cottage, but it was all for nought. Because once again he’d been left in the dirt with only himself to blame.
When he woke, the fire was still going and his skin was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, so he kicked off his blankets. The Witch, it seemed, was nowhere in sight. He pulled on his coat and then his cloak, before tugging on his socks and stuffing his feet into his boots. He was in the middle of lacing up his shoes when the door creaked open and the Witch slipped inside.
“You’re up,” she stated as she pulled her hood off her head. “I made you breakfast, you’ll need the energy. Ohanzee will escort you out of the woods when you’re done.”
“Ohanzee?” he asked, following her towards a large black cauldron that simmered above the fire.
“Yes,” she answered shortly while using a ladle to transfer broth from the cauldron into a bowl. “He’s waiting outside. Now, eat."
He reluctantly took the bowl from her hands and began shovelling it into his mouth. It was yet to cool so it burned down his throat but that didn’t stop him from noticing how good it tasted. He just wanted to finish it so he could get out of the damned place.
She watched him as he ate, as if ensuring that he was finishing it all. When he cleaned it all off, she silently held out her hand and he passed the bowl back. She dumped the bowl in the sink before making her way to the door, expecting him to follow.
“This,” she said as she opened the door, “is Ohanzee.”
As if summoned, an inky black panther slinked its way towards the door. It was massive with its hulking frame and thick bands of muscle, and looked up at Bellamy with pale green eyes that held an almost human intelligence.
“I think I should be fine to head back by myself,” Bellamy breathed, scared to make too much noise. “I’ve already done it once.”
“My home moves,” the Witch said. “There is no guarantee that the way you came from is the way back. Ohanzee will show you the way.”
With that, the beast sauntered away, disappearing into the trees behind the cottage (admittedly in the opposite direction Bellamy had intended to go). Hesitantly Bellamy followed, with one final glance back to the Witch who stood in the doorway, her hands clasped in front of her, and was once again engulfed in the dark wetness of the forest.
With the beast as his guide, the journey was straightforward. At one point he grew weary and Ohanzee seemed to pick up on it and, without Bellamy having to say anything, led Bellamy to a shallow, slow-flowing creek for him to fill up his canteen. They reached the edge of the forest in less than half a day and as the trees began to thin out, Ohanzee slowed to a stop. Unsure of the correct protocol for dealing with a panther, Bellamy nodded and mouthed his thanks. Ohanzee, seemingly satisfied, turned back and wove his way back into the dark trees.
It took another full day for Bellamy to make the trek from the forest to his village and by the time he arrived, he was so exhausted he all but collapsed inside his hut.
“Bell!” Octavia called, voice so full of hope it made Bellamy’s stomach sink. Her open excitement visibly faded as she took him in. He gave her a small shake of his head and suddenly she was gripping him tightly, burying her head in his chest and clutching at his cloak as they stood in the doorway. “Oh, Bell. At least you tried,” she said, her voice muffled by his chest. He could tell she was trying to be encouraging but he didn’t miss the way her voice was close to cracking.
“I met her,” he said and Octavia untucked her head to look up at him questioningly. “She said she needed skin-to-skin contact to heal mother and I’d need to bring her to the cottage.”
Octavia stepped out of his arms and frowned down at the ground as if trying to work something out. “Why don’t we?” she said finally, looking up to direct a determined stare at him. “Why don’t we take mother to her?”
“O, she’s dying,” he reasoned. “She’ll never make it.”
“So what?” Octavia burst out, something close to anger or desperation tinging her voice. “If she’s going to die anyway, why not try all that we can? What’s the difference between her dying here or dying in the woods?”
“The business…” he hedged.
“Is not important. Why are you fighting me on this?” she demanded. “This is our mother’s life we’re talking about. The business can be damned.”
“I just—” he sighed, running a hand through his hair as he tried to gather his thoughts. “It won’t be easy. I’m trying to be reasonable.”
Octavia set her jaw. “When have we ever given into reason, Bellamy? We’re Blakes, and so is she,” she announced, thrusting her arm towards their mother’s bedroom. “We’re fighters. We're passionate. We are not governed by what is reasonable," she spat before straightening her shoulders as resolve took over her features. "You say it will be hard, I say bring on the challenge.”