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The Witch seethes, the rage boiling under her tongue quiets only with another flick of her quill as she scratches the letters into her parchment. Her eyes turn down to the page but those of the dove miles away, whom she watches through closely, stay keen to the palace. The bird cocks its head to the side as horns blast the arrival of nobility. It struggles against The Witch’s grip, but the tendrils of her magic wrap around its mind. She wrenches its head back with a nasty crack. The dove falls still, pliant.
Smiling faces drift down carpets of purple lace, their feathered wings draped in finery. The Witch's scratching grows faster, impatient. Hastened by their joy. Their faces split by merriment of which she was denied. Her incessant writings stop for a moment and she sighs, she cannot finish this if she loses herself. She cannot let her sister take this moment from her too.
When she opens her eyes she sees a foggy darkness. Her dove has failed her it seems, perhaps she was too rough, small creatures did not last long, their bones easily breakable under her ministrations. Then she replaces her quill to its inkpot and stands. She pulls droppers and vials from weathered shelves with shaking hands and quickly mixes the components into a thick glossy tincture. She whispers her enchantment to the potion as the dropper fills with it. Holding her eyes open as she drips beads of glowing light into them. She blinks, once, twice, and senses small minds all around her, she passes quickly through, her gaze fracturing into one and two and one once more. As she searches for a creature near the palace courtyard and finds a rat, scurrying underfoot of servants as food is rushed to and fro. She delves into its mind and takes control of its small frame. Changing course she leaps onto the shoulder of a scrawny human scullery maid and waits.
The tinkle of laughter and light music once again drowns her as they enter the courtyard. And she hops from her perch and scampers again to a lamppost. As she perches atop, her view of the castle steps, and the delicate stage thereupon, is once again unblocked. A wicker cradle sits there. A pang of sadness fills her chest for the little thing, but her anger returns as she turns the rat's head to see the two figures standing beside. Crowns resting upon their heads as they smile wrapped in each other's arms. Those eyes glimmering with pride resemble her own. But they are missing the light behind them. The deadened glare she sees is so obvious to her now.
She breaks from her stupor, and the rat tumbles from the lamppost scurrying away. She hunches again over her page and finalizes the last arcs of the symbols scattered across it. She gathers up the papers packing them into her satchel carefully as she can before slipping a wax sealed envelope gilded in the Royal colors from her desk. With a heady breath turns to the chalked symbol on the floor behind her. She wrinkles her nose at the squiggled lines and illegible writing. Her magic now was a tedious process. Putting those thoughts aside she steps into the centre of the circle. The cabin fades, and in a delicious moment there is quiet, as she bundles her wings tightly around herself. And then slowly, light filters through the dark and she is standing in front of the palace courtyard. She walks forward showing the guards at the entrance her invitation and continuing inside. The patrons of the saining glance at her, perplexed likely by her disheveled state but mostly unperturbed by her presence. The Witch 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 that, some of them must recognize her, beneath the worn robes, no doubt some ridiculous crooning bréc from her sister whispering falsehoods in their memories. It makes bile rise up in her throat at the mere thought, perhaps to these people she's a madwoman, nothing more than the jealous delusional her sister loved to make her out to be.
At least, she mused, a grin spreading across her face, her sister had the decency to look frightened. Gráinne went wide-eyed upon seeing her and muttered something inaudible in her wife's ear. The queen turns towards The Witch with a carefully hidden glare, her feathers puffed. The couple made no move to greet or welcome her as she made her way up the steps, the guards flanking the sides eyeing her warily. The nobles scattered about the gardens appear too absorbed in their own mindless chatter to question the tense scene.
“Gráinne”
The Witch gave a flourishing curtsy to the couple. Gráinne narrows her eyes but before she can say anything her wife intercedes.
“Slán Lady Íde, how do you fare?”
Gráinne, despite her clear misgivings, manages to plaster on a pleasant smile, clinging only closer to the high queen, whom, The Witch now notices, has spread her wings just enough to block the cradle from view. Her highness has no such qualms showing her disdain clearly.
“Buíochas your grace, I was delighted to receive the invitation, oh what joy it must be to bless the little leanbh yes?” The Witch gives another smile, “I have brought blessings of mine own, though they may not be as awe striking as those of the fairies from the spring court.” She remembers watching those proceedings. Tiny fairies with gossamer wings singing sweet lullabies as they rained down blessings upon the child. Beauty, love, joy, such fanciful offerings for someone who would not understand their breadth for years to come. Gráinne bites the edge of her lip glancing over to queen Eithne deferring to her wife despite her fear. The Witch revels in her cowardice, it will doom her yet. With a slight hesitance the queen nods, stepping aside and once more The Witch stands before the ornate wicker basket. Lying inside, tucked into soft quilts and woolen blankets lies the baby, he blinks up at her in large-eyed curiosity before a toothless smile breaks his face and he reaches his tiny arm up to touch her. “What a mhúirnín little creature he is.” The Witch says holding the small hand in her own.
“His name is Ailbhe, for the sunrise”
The queen adds, a fond smile painting her as she watches the scene losing a little of her tenseness.
“He was born at just the end of the winter, the sun shined off the melting snow so brightly that day, perhaps it was Rhiannon blessing us herself, but the rest of that spring we had nothing but bountiful harvests.”
Gráinne looks wistfully into the cradle, still nervously clutching its rim with enough force to bend the wicker just slightly beneath her fingers, her wings twitching as though she expects to snatch the child and fly away at any moment. The both of them, though distracted by their bundle of joy, fail to notice when The Witch digs her sharp nails into the child's hand. He gives a harsh cry as she draws a small bead of blood from his palm and is just as quickly thrown backwards by the force of a wave of magic thrown in her direction by Eithne. The queen is now facing her, Gráinne just behind holding the still sobbing baby close to her chest.
The Witch lays her head back lifting her hand to watch the scarlet trail down her fingers. She laughs, a horrid cackling thing, perhaps she is mad, she thinks but even if she is maybe this curse shall finally sate her. As The witch's manic joy finally quiets, she sees that she is lying just at the base of the steps, nobles whisper around her and guards approach, held back by the signal of their queen but at the ready all the same. Gráinne plays the facade of horror very very well, The Witch herself could almost believe she is the terrified sister of a madwoman as she cradles a wailing Ailbhe.
The Witch rolls slowly to her feet, careful to not touch her bloody hand to the ground.
“My Eithne, why do you become so rude? I am only his poor Aintín after all.”
“íde why are you here?”
Gráinne speaks, voice trembling,
“If you still hate me the way you always have?”
The Witch does not heed her words humming to herself as she reaches to pull the flap of her satchel open.
“Because you invited me of course, and as I said, I do have a blessing for the wee leanbh”
“You will go no further then, we'll accept no blessings from a witch”
Eithne's voice rumbles with power, The Witch chuckles.
“I already have what I want”
She states coyly raising her bloodied hand. Gráinne's face turns with terror, real terror this time, she darts forward pushing past the guards and her wife trying to protect her. She grips the front of The Witch's cloak with the arm not supporting her child
“íde please”
tears stream down her face
“don't take this from me”
The Witch knees her soundly in the gut, Gráinne releases her cloak, crumpling to the ground, gasping for breath, and nearly dropping the infant in her arms.
“I took nothing from you, nothing!”
The Witch screams, guards rush forward to grab her by the shoulders but they aren't fast enough to stop her from firmly grasping the pages of the curse in her satchel with her bloodied hand.
“I gave you all I could, everything I had and it wasn't enough you Striapach!”
they wrench it from her tearing some of the pages in the process but it's too late.
“You coward, go dtachta an Diabhal thú!”
The Witch watches the blood absorb and disappear into the pages as she is shoved roughly to the ground too mirthless with laughter to notice the blood pouring from her nose as her head slams into the steps. A guard yanks her head up off the ground by a handful of her hair The witch's vision rolls to her sister’s frame hunched over her child, the queen crouched nearby.
“I don't want you to die”
she says between giggles
“I want you to fester”.
She closes her eyes to the sight of Gráinne's misery.
“Leis an teanga agam féin agus le pian, tóg ón bpáiste seo an rud a thóg sí uaimse!”
Tendrils of fire pour from her mouth as she shrieks her curse. “Ceangail i bpian é chun maireachtáil go deo sa dorchadas agus sa chodladh;”
The Witch feels the cold press of a blade against her neck “tagadh an dorchadas, tagadh an oíche, tagadh bás cruálach criosta-!!”
Silence, with barely a nod from the High Queen the blade had been brought across the witch's neck severing her head cleanly from her shoulders. And as blood drips from the swordsman's fingers all is still.