A Blade and Her Witch

Low Tea Time (Witch)

 

Content Warnings:

 

If not for my Doll’s steady hands, I would have dropped my cup of tea at her sudden shift from that weapon of gorgeously deadly beauty to… this.

If as a blade she was unblemished, now… she’s a mess. A lanky gremlin of a gerl. Clothing that is both so old-fashioned I can’t recognize the make or origins, but also so crusted with blood and tears and muck I’d simply throw it out and clothe her in something new. She's taller than me by a head, at least, and her auburn hair is a disheveled mess. For a moment I fear she’s terribly wounded looking at all the tears and rips in her attire. But… no. Her pale gray flesh is perfect and any damage has been long since tended to. And those eyes… perfect orbs of red-stone that glow with an inner light.

Only a few heartbeats, but I’d rather her not take my hesitation to answer as anything but surprise and a little thoughtfulness. What was the question again? Do I value honesty?

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at that and all the horrid things that question must mean for her, and the memories it stirs in my rotting heart.

“A good question.” I offer in delay, but… quickly chide myself. If this form was easy for her to maintain she would have walked out of here on her own. No… it’s easy to spot how horribly expensive this is for her. Only the Dead Hag knows how long she can last in this state. So… is this a sign of her strength? A motion demonstrating that she can kill my flesh if my wards won’t falter? Or… vulnerability?  Maybe… Trust even? From her question I hope it correlates. If only a little? She seemed to happily gobble up the Physis I offered so… Let’s not assume the worst. It’s always cheaper to be a good person, after all.

“Yes, I do. But… more so, I value the trust it can flow from.” I decide is the best answer, finally taking the cup from my Doll.

She nods, face still a mask I cannot read.

“You’re dying.” She says bluntly, like one might say to a stranger who dropped a bit of mildly valuable nonsense without noticing. Then with just as much care or emotion, “I can help.”

I just… stare at her for a few good quickened heartbeats. So badly I suddenly want to put this gerlthing to the question as ruthlessly and quickly as possible. 

How do you know of the Seelenfäule? How did you sense the death that walks behind me like a slow stalking predator? How would you even hope to ‘help’ with an affliction that centuries of Witches can do nothing to stave off‽ 

Old lessons and tendencies bubble up and threaten to overwhelm everything else. So close to being reignited by the spark of hope… 

“Ah. It seems… Well that’ll be more material and action anyway. Considerations for later.” I take a sip of my tea to slow my racing heart. Chide myself to stop talking nonsense and reply with the intelligence that befits a Witch of your years and sins. “But… Why offer this? Exactly?”

"Cup Upended and Pips Nulled, I am desperate. I will do nearly anything to get out of this place, and I am too far from the surface to make it all the way myself. Archive Altschmerz was built to contain me. The books are a distraction, as is the rest of the armory that I was originally imprisoned in." She holds still following the confession, form held in prime alertness, ready to act at a moment's notice.

All that rubbish to contain this gerlthing? Yes… Yes, that matches some of the things I read about the crones who built these Archives. Scared of their own shadows, endlessly prattling on in so many of these tomes about the need to balance in the karma of one's workings to the outcomes.

Stupid. Backwards. But… as I consider the horrors that arose soon after their age… I’m enthralled. 

A sentient weapon of ancient make with incredible Ousia and Physis manipulation AND consumption powers, not to mention the ability to shift her own form quickly and efficiently… Honestly, I’d be jealous if it wasn’t for the glaring limitations. Lack of mobility and self-determination… Not to mention the possible lack of sensory input.

I nod, take another sip. “And… How would you help? What is it you think is causing my death?” 

“I don't know what's causing it." A pause of hesitation, the obvious flickers of… well not confusion or frustration but… hmmm… Contemplation? Working out what to say and how much knowledge to offer so early in our negotiations?

"I can tell from the flow of your Ousia that there is a foreign substance in your body that you're likely autonomously burning Ousia to suppress. I can feed you more. Give you… us… time to solve the issue permanently."

“Feed me Ousia? That’s…”

Impossible. Ousia is… It’s static. All life starts with a wellspring that deteriorates with age. The only thing even Witches of the age can do with it is spend it on very potent magics at the cost to their overall lifespan. This is why we thankfully have Physis. It’s the chalice of power we can draw forth and refill all throughout our lives. The workings may be lesser but they don’t come at the cost of future life. Nothing but very specific and incredibly horrid Denizens can even consume Ousia from others. And that takes maliciously cruel workings and time.

My Doll thrums in its own fury and fear. Probably considering the exact same terrifying possibility that mayhaps this truly is a Denizen. Something twisted and wretched and waiting just behind some ancient bindings to feast and consume. Needing just the touch of the twinned Suns to become strong enough to ravage my wards and kill me.

But… No. No, that can’t be right. She’s shown no other signs of their ilk. So… keep to the anathema of my mentor’s teachings. Paranoia has always been a poison to my life. Let’s not jump to conclusions when she’s offering only honesty.

“Quite the impressive feat, if true.” I say with all the calm the Old Cunt beat into me to show in horridly dangerous situations. “But why gift your own Ousia? I don’t sense you have such an overflowing wellspring. Just this short shifting has cost you greatly, and staving off my illness will be more expensive still.”

A pause, and the weapon deflates, tension escaping as she pulls her legs up in front of her and wraps her arms around them. "Guess I passed the thin slice. That's neat.” She huffs out a breath of stale air. Then glances down and away as her voice goes a bit quieter. “I'm not a Denizen, as that’s likely crossed your mind. In some ways… I'm worse. An atrocity buried to hide the limits Witches will pursue in the search for control and immortality.” 

I consider asking more, but before even three quickened heartbeats pass she lifts a single hand and spreads her fingers out wide… making a sort of exploding motion.

“Tada.” She says with no joy or fanfare to her next and most extraordinary claim. “I can Harvest Ousia from nearly any compatible entity, Harmonize it with a partner and then provide said partner the Ousia. Life everlasting, bought with death."

My teacher, whom I killed, would urge me to do so many things in this instance.

So deep are her lessons that… that I can’t help but hear her voice and demands, even now.

'Bindings of bone and marrow, tether and twist its Physis into a net that only moves at your beck and call. It might fight, but simply remind it with words how if a tool proves too much a bother you’ll toss it into an ever deeper pit than even this one. Your death if it won’t aid in your search for a cure? Pah! I bet it’s craved that for herself. Your end will be a sweet thing compared to the eternity of silence and loneliness you could grant this wretchedly gorgeous thing.'

‘Make it submit.’

‘Break its will.’

‘Such a pretty little tool shouldn’t be allowed to–’

“Oh… Oh sweetheart.” I huff through the howling cruelty, so glad such recollections aren’t enough to drop me into a panic anymore “I think there has been a misunderstanding.”

My Doll very nearly jerks, twists the eyes it had kept locked on her to stare down at me. Would be a glare if it could muster such anger.

But… no. It’s a thing of pain and confusion.

“I… You’re right. I am dying. And your assessment is quite insightful. Even the best Curanos of the age could only guess at what you discovered in scant moments of touching my Ousia. And were In my younger days I… Well. I might have considered giving into my worst impulses.”

Such a thrum rolls off my Doll. A twitching that could easily spiral into something worse. So I turn to it, giving my most loving smile. “You’ve been such a dear and a very good gerl. But now, I need you to pull yourself together and wake up your sister.”

A click, a whirring, and it folds up all the extra bits. Arms click and clack into a single pair of delicately soft limbs devoid of talons, Quills ripple and dissipate into the back, and the expression of a growing storm slips away.

All to be replaced with such a little Doll one might think newly woven and given an anxious nature for some odd young Witch’s amusement. 

“M– Mistress?” It stammers, looks around. “Wh– What? Is–”

I reach out to pat its arm. “All is well. Just having a chat with this fine woman and would prefer a spot of well made tea. You’ve always brewed such a wonderful pot. Your sister’s a delight but… her skills are lacking in this area.”

A pause, then it smiles nervously between us. “It… Of course! This one won’t be a span!”

Then it scurries off, leaving me alone with the gerlthing.

“Apologies.” I turn back to her. “Didn’t want to waste your precious time with flesh on listening to an old Witch’s spat with her willful Doll. Now, where were we?”

"Jealousy is not what I expected from her. I had believed at first she was a Denizen myself, as she has no visible soul, not even to my senses, but they do – unlike her. A well hidden horrifically tripartite one, yet still a soul." The gerlthing stares at me, a fury rising in her eyes, "What Is She? How did the Conclave allow such a thing to exist?"

My Doll? Has she truly never encountered one?

That sparks another ripple of such deep hunger. Can... can very nearly feel the Old Cunt at my back hissing at me to stop refusing such an easy opportunity to grasp at power.

“Conclave?” I take a polite sip to quiet the storm. Push away the old instincts and lessons and the bile that rises at the memories. “You speak as though, and pardon if I misunderstand, a governing body exists to consider and limit magical considerations. Which… any such scattered groups that exist do so through the use of such constructs. Marvelously durable things, able to even endure Moonwaste.”

I pause. Considering how to avoid possible… hmm… inadvertent and possibly offensive comparisons. Decide to simply give her the lay of things. Simple and without the flowery nonsense some might use to soften the harder truths of the matter.

“They are former people who underwent a transformation and transition of their Physis and Ousia. This process reforms themselves about a Frame into a new body. A twisting of those two forces into the physical form desired by both them and the Witch crafting them. Similar to your form, which is quite beautiful and remarkable by the way, the physical body doesn't conform to biological limitations, but the process tends to shatter the minds of those who have a strong grasp on their personhood due to a sort of… spiritual dysphoria. Thus, they are... to put simply, no longer people. Requiring purpose and direction from a Mistress or Master to function properly.”

"The Conclave are the overseers of the magical world, staffed through mandatory service terms of all practitioners. What do you mean scattered? The Merciful Moon's Slipways make distances irrelevant to Witches, Bondsmiths, and Hedgemages." She pauses, considering something, but shakes her head and presses through. "You're telling me that those pricks learned restraint after creating me and allowing my banishment? Only a single person required..."

Slipways? Grand overseers and mandatory service terms? And by the Cracked and Riven Moon did she just claim that broken and toxic thing merciful? 

This fury reaches new heights as her one arm evaporates and the other forms a speartip from the palm pointed at my throat, "You did this? Committed this Violation of an Innocent?"

“While some may be coerced or even forced into it, most consent to the procedure.” I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at her brandished weapon as I consider all the delicious possibilities in her last words. “And no, to answer you, I also did not make it. Doll weaving is not something I cared to learn. My Doll was abandoned to Rust before I found and claimed it.”

Either she was crafted by some deep-dwelling cult of worshipers of the thing or… 

“I’m starting to think you’ve been down here much longer than either of us could guess.” I set aside my tea, deciding instead to wait for a proper pot to be brewed. 

She takes a deep breath and the spearpoint vanishes once more, arm reappearing in her sleeve. The Ousia required is tangible, but less than I would have expected. She sits back and breathes out. "My apologies. I–" a violent spasm runs through her. "Have a rather dreadful history with similar techniques. How I was made, you see. A method I will not allow to be repeated if I can prevent it.” A soft heartbeat passes while she stills. “I've no idea how long it's been. The Driftdream. I lose all sense of time during it. Likely the only way I have stayed relatively sane."

'It’s cracking.' I can very nearly hear the voice of my old dead teacher purr ruthlessly. 'Weak, vulnerable, and SO very much like that broken Doll you found. Now, simply… cast the net and let it fall into your grasp! Use it like you’ve not wielded that Doll in too long!' 

“And… What would you like to do? If I ferried you from this place? Took you to the surface?” I murmur softly, tilting my head a bit to see if…

No. Still waiting for the water to come to a boil. Still have time.

The gerlthing smiles so sadly. "I am a Weapon. My purpose is to cull and harvest life, Witches, Denizens, whatever is necessary. As for what I would like… I would like to simply read a book, almost more than anything else."

She extends out the same arm she had just moments before threatened me with.

"Would you take my hand for a moment, that I might prove my value?"

I can’t take my eyes off her perfect limb as I consider the symmetry of those words to the anxious little Doll brewing my tea…

‘Please.’ It had begged upon responding to my first use of the Witch’s Tone to them, demanding she approach. ‘Please, don’t leave it here. Take it home. It’ll be a good Doll. Please don’t abandon it here again. Please please please please.’

And then the poor thing had sobbed when I told it that of course, I’d take it home. Such a lovely and wonderful tool shouldn’t be left to waste in such a place as I had found it.

Cracked and Riven Moon I was so young then… Made so many mistakes and was such a horrid Mistress to them. 

I stand, setting aside the sewing needle and pouch of marrow. Knowing that if this gerlthing means to end me such tools will be too slow to stop her. It’ll come to a battle of will and flesh and quite possibly, nerve. 

It wasn’t entirely my own fault. Of course. Teacher had broken me into treating them as a tool to be wielded without care. They only survived some of her worse schemes because of just how well their make was. But… 

Approaching, I let my smile turn a bit more firm. Not cruel or malicious, A knowing thing boiling in mirth, resolve, and focus. When I reach her I halt just within reach, holding out my own hand palm-up beneath hers.

Can I do better? 

I think so. This gerlthing isn’t like them. She’s willful and furious, brimming with spite and a scorpion’s tongue. Independent in ways that I will need to whittle away at for years, if… if I have that kind of time. 

And then I wrap my fingers around her wrist.  

Finding a new Mistress to look after her while the Seelenfäule ruins me is going to be such a mess of a challenge.

 

 

 

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