25) Flask
The magics left her alone for a long time, and when they roused again it was always for simple things, little things, a charm or a notion, or something to give freely. Her wanderings brought her steps back to a small bustling town where perhaps she had been born forever ago. The tavern was now run by the elderly great grandson of the barkeep who had sent Gilda Oldroot out into the night with a young witch newly born into her powers. There was little to bring to mind the old village, none of the misery and squalor and violence. The community had grown up. Wives had come and families formed, and children ran in the streets, playing the games of youth in the wet evening air. It had rained every day for a fortnight, and the fortnight before that as well. There was some concern about crops and roads, but despite the water there was no flood or rot to speak of.
She paid for her meal and ate it in a quiet corner of the tavern, and the old tavern keeper sat down next to her, chatting companionably and feeding her small dog scraps from his own plate. This was not a town that feared the Witch, for indeed that fear had faded from the world as soon as Aodhan Tinker drew the body of the sorceress down off the tree. Salamanders basked peacefully in the great hearth that warmed the room.
Three days passed, and she realized that she was waiting. Each morning, she filled her flask at the well, and sorted through the pouch, and sharpened the knife, and brushed dust and lint from the cloak. The weather turned on the third day, a sudden cold front chasing the last of summer from the autumn days. The witch looked up from her meal as the door banged open, and fate and magic swirled in, pulling at her skirts and hair and cloak like a demanding child. A girl in tattered clothes, scratched and dirty, stumbled in from the cold rain, followed by a young man in homespun clothing and an old one dressed in wolfskins and necklaces of teeth, a patch over one eye. The girl's hair was black, her eyes the deep green of mint grown in the shadows of a garden.
"So it begins," the old witch said softly, looking at the young woman and giving her the flask. The girl drank deep and collapsed immediately, eyes rolling back into her head. The young woodsman and the old Wolf stood by and Bronwyn heard the echoes of a drunken crowd jeering and calling out crude suggestions. Bronwyn shivered, and the voices fell silent.
"She's a witch, then, Bronwyn Firehand?" the innkeeper asked, and the old witch nodded.
"Aye, and probably a great granddaughter of mine. Have you room here for her?"
He thought for a moment, and looked around at the friendly faces at the bar, seated at the tables. "I think we can make due for her. Where to put her?"
"Make it a room with a fireplace, I think." the witch thrust the knife into her pocket and gathered cloak and flask and pouch, bundling them all into a pack that she put beneath the girl's head. She leaned close and whispered into the girl's ear for a long moment. Standing, she shook out her skirts and straightened her shoulders. Her hair fell from its braid, a mass of white secrets that gave her a sense of age, though her skin was fair and unwrinkled. Leaning on her walking stick with the small dog at her heel, Bronwyn walked past the young woodsman and the Wolf. She left the inn and stepped out into the clearing day as the rain finally ceased.
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Epilogue: Things one takes along, no matter what the journey’s end
Thoughtfully she made her way into the cool wet woods, coming quickly upon a well worn trail. She followed it, curious, recognizing rocks and trees and patches of flowers from a dream she'd had once. Robbie Longfellow dashed off to stalk something small and warm among the leaves. At length, she came upon a small round clearing. A spring flowed up from beneath a large lightning blasted rock, and she closed her eyes to take the last few steps, turning far to her left before opening them again.
There lay the rock upon which she had slept that fateful night, the moss still growing red and green upon it, as if someone had sat on the edge, bleeding and keeping vigil. Beyond the rock was a cottage under the trees, neatly trimmed and whitewashed. A simple garden rambled in the golden sunshine of the meadow, and wood smoke drifted from the chimney. She smelled rabbit stew and herbs, and Robbie Longfellow re-emerged from the undergrowth with another coney for the pot.
The door opened, and Bronwyn's heart leapt. The woodsman stepped out, wiping his hands on a rag. He saw her, frozen in the sunlight of the meadow, staring at him. He stopped for half a moment and came to her, the little dog bounding around him in excitement.
His hair was white, but his back was straight and his body strong and young, his eyes blue and clear with only slight crinkles at the corners.
"You're alive," her voice was no louder than the wind in the trees, but echoed between them and rattled around the clearing.
"You came back," he answered, reaching out to touch her own whitened hair, his calloused fingers brushing the youthful bloom of her pale cheek. She felt the loneliness that had frozen in her heart thaw a little. "I was afraid you'd lost your way."
"I had some things to do," she said simply. “I wanted to return your knife, though, and to thank you.”
He dropped his hand and began to step back, kneeling before her. "I am not a prince or a king, Bronwyn. I don't know if I can give you what you need, if I can love you the way you should be loved." She saw the weariness of long years of hurt and solitude in his eyes, and knew that he was haunted by fear of her answer. She closed the distance between them again, kneeling awkwardly with him to look up at him just a little, for he was not so much taller than she was herself. He smelled of tree sap and something muskier that made her want to be closer still.
"I'll take my chances," she replied, tilting her face to his just a bit. He smiled and it warmed her more than the sunlight.
The kiss was still as sweet.