Into the Deep Wood

He knocked and waited at her door.

There was no movement at first.

Then, the door opened just a crack, only darkness on the other side. Seeing it was him, the Witch opened it, revealing the scene.

The shutter and curtains had both been shut, and no light made it through. Two candles at the very end of their life sat on the table, the wax spilling from the holder onto the desk's wooden surface. Between them, her grimoire lay open to a page toward the back. Everything that she had brought with her was scattered throughout.

A hunter’s knife glistened on the bed when the hallway light hit it through the open door. She looked tired. Her eyes were sleepless, showing bits of red veins running through them. She did not smile but stepped aside for him to come in.

Reluctantly, he stepped inside. Had there been a ring of fire drawn in blood on the floorboards, this would have been the most sinister of scenes. His theory of her cursing him had only been further validated by coming here.

“I am sorry…” He started, nevertheless, but she raised her hand to stop him.

“You do not have to apologize for anything.” She said, “It was not your fault, whatever you remember.”

He felt his face grow hot.

“I remember quite a bit…”

The Witch gave him a look he could not quite decipher but then turned, walked to the desk, and flipped a few pages back in the book.

“Open the curtains.” She told him, and he did - the light poured in through the shutters and washed away some of the menacing presence from the room. “And come here.”

He stepped up to her, seeing the grimoire for the first time. The pages were tough and thick, and the writing in them was done by a skilled hand. Except, at the very top of the page what looked to be devilish symbols, scribbled in ink far more aged, lined the margins.

When he tilted his head to examine them, he realized they, too, were letters, but ones scratched seemingly with a child's hand.

She pointed to a paragraph on the right page.

“Can you read?” She asked. “If you cannot, I can read it to you.”

“I can.” He said, his eyes scanning over the other entries before landing on the one she pointed out. “I spent many years attending an academy before I became of age for service.”

“Truly?” Her eyes were on him, pleasantly surprised.

It seemed like she wanted to ask more but instead tapped the paragraph again.

He read it, frowning slightly.

“What is this?”

“I document them. The Nothing-touched.” She said, looking at the grimoire with a certain fondness.

“And,” his frown deepened, “this was sitting on me?”

The Witch nodded in response.

Ivan felt at a loss for words.

The thought of this plague-ridden devil touching him felt uncomfortable, to say the least. That it had attached itself to him without his knowing had been more than unsettling. If the writing was true…

… it was feeding on him.

“You…” Ivan’s words came out with more feeling than he intended, the knot in his stomach strengthening, “...you caught it?”

“I did.”

“And it is gone?”

“Yes.”

He strained to line up the night's events, to see if he had felt anything with this thing on him - if he could figure out the exact moment it had gone very wrong. And, he felt that he had. And it was long before they’d left.

“You used me.” He said quietly.

Her face, too, changed.

“I did not know what it was.” The Witch defended herself. “I watched it to learn of its nature!”

“You saw it, and you took a risk on it.” He snapped back. “But it was not your risk; it was mine. If you did not know what it was, who is to say it would not have dropped me dead?”

“And would you rather I had drowned it in a mug?” Her voice became high, taking much of her intimidating aspect with it. She did not look like a powerful witch, then.

“I would have rather you plucked it off me before studying it!” His tone was kept level, but he saw that its intensity had only fueled the fire.

With her mouth tightly shut, her eyes burning into him, she did not look away - making him feel very small for all his stature.

“You do not understand the importance of this.” She said through her teeth.

“To you.” He said, a statement as final as he was willing to give.

He turned, and in only a few steps, he exited the room, shutting the door behind him.

Ivan went down the stairs and through the doors that led to the tavern. Dropping on a chair in the corner, he sighed deeply, allowing his head to fall back. He had to stop making himself think he knew the Witch. She had been only a stranger for all these months, cruelty boiling beneath the surface of occasional kindness.

“You’ve returned earlier than I thought you would.” The barmaid walked to him, a big mischievous smile on her face. “Will you be partaking in the hair of the dog that bit ya?”

He shook his head quickly.

“Just whatever you have stewing. It smells divine.” He tried to smile at her, but the anger at the Witch lingering inside made it look strained and forced.

He did not recall the woman from the night before. She was younger than him, with dark doe eyes and hastily put-up hair. She was on the curvy side and had a smile that reached up to her eyes. She nodded at him warmly and disappeared from the room - returning with a large bowl with something steaming inside. The smell was absolutely intoxicating.

“I made it today,” she admitted shyly. “It is potato and beef tongue. There are carrots and onions in there, too. We don’t normally serve meat, but so many people traveling through town are willing to pay.”

“I am sure it is wonderful.” He reassured her, this time his smile was genuine. “Here.”

He handed her a few copper coins, far more than the soup could actually cost. She looked at them with delight.

“Are you sure?” She asked suddenly as if remembering herself.

“Please pass along my sincerest appreciation to the chef.” He leaned forward and took in another whiff of the aroma. The barmaid’s face grew flushed.

“If you like,” She said, “tonight, we are serving fish stew. Mayhaps you would join me for some in the kitchens?”

“I’d like that.”

“I’m Masha.” She said.

“Ivan.”

Val closed the curtains again before lowering herself down onto the bed. She was so awfully tired. She shouldn’t have said anything to Ivan or expected him to understand. She did not wish to leave him embarrassed after what had happened, so she thought that showing him the book would comfort him. How mistaken she was.

Perhaps, about many things.

He was not wrong; she’d used him. Val had allowed the thing to remain on him - she had not known what harm it was doing. But she was obsessed with understanding it.

She closed her eyes, only for a moment. What would he think of her if he saw her now? Would she be a disappointment?

You are better than I am, through you - I can still feel that good.

Was she good? She’d lost track of what good meant years ago. So strong was the pain that it left nothing in its wake. As if a creature on her shoulder had, too, fed on her very will - to live, to feel. Would he even recognize the husk of the woman that she had become?

These thoughts melted away, seeping into her and tainting her as she slipped into a deep sleep.

Clink. Clank. Clink Cliiiiiiiiiii–

They’d returned.

She heard them clear as day. But, they were not the rhythmic and despondent rattling of chainlinks that they had been. These chains were being dragged across rough stone floors in bouts as if its bearer struggled against a force driving it forward.

Val tried looking for the thread, and found it so tightly stretched that the vibrations of it on her fingertips had rubbed her skin immediately away.

She jerked back, and her body on that bed did as well.

Determined, she took hold of it, still.

Something had been happening to the Hag, something awful, something serious.

Val would have rejoiced at this - had the vile creature not been in the hands of a tyrant king.

Lucid and aware that she was dreaming, Val put all her strength into tugging at the tether.

The clinks echoed around her as if rushing past.

“Where are you…” She whispered, and as she did - light blinded her ahead.

She saw the room as if her eyes were the Hag’s empty sockets. Its tall walls and lavish woodwork stretched high into the vaulted ceiling. A wooden throne with red pillows stood toward the stained glass windows, letting in the light of every color and casting it across the floor.

Men stood in front of her.

There were many. Their tall, red leather boots gave way to thick black leggings atop black kaftans with golden buttons and flowing fur-trimmed cloaks.

Their hair was short and uniformly cut in a way that suggested the men present had the funds and rank to gain access to a barber.

But frontmost stood a towering, slim figure. He was far taller than anyone in the room, and his clothes were far finer. He wore a high-collared gray velvet kaftan with a thin golden sash pinned across his chest with silver brooches. The cuffs of his shirt were white as snow, unmarred, and highly starched. On his shoulders rested a coat of sable fur so dark that it seemed not to reflect any light around it.

Atop his head sat a thick crown of faded gold.

Val looked closely at his face. She’d seen it before.

This was Korschey, the King of Roska in the North. She recognized his hollow cheeks, sharp, thick jaw and thin, slightly crooked nose. His black hair was undone, resting just below his shoulders. Shadows fell over his features, it was difficult to tell if he had been young or old.

His cruel gray eyes regarded her with disdain.

He motioned her forward, but Val felt a rage inside herself. She would not move ahead, not toward this repulsive, vile, stupid man. He deserved not only death but an eternity, slowly eaten bit by bit, bite by bite, by the worms, by the teeth that snap in the night. His bones ground to dust starting at his feet - and he would be alive, and he would scream, scream, scream.

With horror, she realized that the rage had not been her own but the Hag’s: her thoughts, feelings, and the cold, metal collar around her neck.

Two men with thick leather gloves pulled on two chains at each side of the room - and her neck jerked forward - throwing her on her knees. A third chain slacked behind, preventing her from lunging forth.

Val saw a man in long priest’s robes to the side of the gathering. He watched a stone sundial closely.

“How long?” The King’s voice sounded. Every ear in the whole of the room was bent to him. He could have whispered, and all the men in attendance would rush to fulfill his will.

“We are close, Your Eminence.” The robed man was quick to answer. “They should be in place now.”

At this, the King nodded.

“Take it off.”

Three men appeared from behind Val. They wore thick leather tunics, and on their hands and arms were chainmail gloves made of interlinked metal rings. She felt a tug at her face, and it pained her so much that Val screamed, but this scream was in her own voice and not the Hags.

No one in the room had heard it. Another tug and a pulsing pain rattled her skull, feeling the bone shake and vibrate as deep metal screws were removed from within her jawbone.

Again, she screamed and knew that the scream was outside the dream.

Something heavy was removed from her head. The men took an intricate metal cage that muzzled and kept her from biting. She tasted blood rushing in her mouth, so thick and metallic - she could not swallow it fast enough before it filled up again. She felt her lips part, and it flowed out, cascading down her chin and splashing onto the fine marbled floors.

“I will only ask once.” He said to Val. “Should you refuse, I’ll have a chain strapped to each of your organs and pull in fifty different directions. We both know you will not die. Now call them. Bring them to their knees.”

Val felt the blood in her mouth foam, and now it fell to the ground with soft splats.

“Now, Your Grace!” The robed man called suddenly.

“Do it,” Korschey commanded, and Val felt a sudden and intense cold at the back of her neck —but no, it wasn’t cold, it was searing, burning pain.

She heard skin sizzle and felt it melt away in clumps as someone behind her slid a red hot iron down her back.

A thousand voices suddenly cried out. Angry, desperate, confused, and afraid - they screamed and wailed as one, in pain, in agony. They screeched; some were high, some were low, some were animal-like, and some were human.

Among them was the Hag.

And, the thousand and first voice - was Val.

This had become more real than the room at the inn. Val could not leave, could not separate from this blinding pain. It had been more than fire; it had been more than the searing of her soft tissue, her body restrained and unable to fight back, unable to move.

They pushed the rod down further.

Gods… no…

The Hag’s body tried to twist, the force of a thousand Nothing-touched twisting with it.

The iron stopped. The Northern King's grin showed more teeth, anticipating.

"Scream for me, witch."

And suddenly, it was thrust in.

It penetrated the flesh where nothing should ever have. The men handling the glowing hot iron pushed in until it consumed the inside of her as surely as it did the outside, wrecking, burning, melting.

A flash across her vision –it was the room at the inn. It seemed so far away - as if it had been the dream. She saw concerned faces around her, looking down as if she was on the floor.

And then, it faded.

“SISTER!!” She heard the Hag, her voice coming from Val’s throat. She could not tell if it had been in the royal rooms or if it had been in the meager inn.

“SISTEEEEEEEEER!!” The Hag shrieked, and every one of the thousand voices shrieked in unison the same word.

Val saw the men in the room recoil; they clutched at their ears, and their bodies involuntarily bent away from the sound.

All, but the King.

He stood unmoved, and the only thing that had changed was a slight, pleased smile appearing on his lips.

“SISTEEEEEEEEEEEEEER!”

The third time, Val’s vision faded. She felt the hot iron get farther and farther away. She was falling, falling from the room, away from the Hag calling out to the Daughters of the Nothing, her sisters, and the thread that she had dropped upon the first of the searing touch.

She was falling into the abyss, and she was becoming lost herself. She heard the scream; it was coming from the very depths of her lungs. She felt their burn. She felt her throat tearing at the word.

Sister, she screamed for the third time.

The worried faces above her lurched. Someone had splashed water on her, onto her heated flesh. Someone had held her face - it was a man she knew, but the torment had stolen his name from her. Only for a moment, she had seen them, and then the tingle at the back of her neck took her into the black.