Page 2 of Ember and Eclipse
It was home, the only true home she had known in the last twenty-seven years.
Trailing into her dining area, she placed the basket of goods on the crowded table that took up most of the space. Wiping away the sweat on her brow, she debated on whether she wanted to go back out to get the storm mint. It would require climbing trees, as it only grew twisted and braided on some of the higher, smaller limbs, as close to the sun as it could get.
The sky grew darker with an impending storm in answer. Relieved, she trailed to the back, pulling off her wet shift as she did.
Chapter II
Thereweretwotypesof weather in the swamp—gray and grumpy skies that could last weeks before they released any rain or not a single cloud in the sky as the sun’s rays attempted to penetrate the canopy and heat the earth. As the day turned into evening, purple joined the mottled black and deep blue, turning the sky into a display resembling bruises.
The gloomy clouds had decided to release their watery burdens that night. Rel swung, using one foot to move the bench back and forth with the other tucked beneath her. The roof’s overhang kept her mostly dry as she watched with unchecked captivation as the rain hit the swamp’s surface surrounding her home. The sound of water meeting water, and the much deeper sound of it hitting the roof, lulled her into a sense of serenity. She loved the rain and all it represented—transmutation, renewal, enrichment.
In moments like this, she had a soul-deep understanding of existence. Of how everything was connected, entwined, and braided together. If Rel could glimpse the threads of her life, she imagined she would find them tangled about with the swamp’s soul, the witch that lived here before her, the rain, and the tree that had yielded the strong wood she sat upon. She felt infinite and minuscule all at once.
It was the closest to happiness she’d been in many years.
Two years ago, when she had fled the mortal empire in the north, Romul, and all the terrors it held for her, she didn’t know where to go. Though she had no knowledge of who her father was, she knew he was a mage, and who she’d inherited both her magic and emerald eyes from.
“My little jewel, my beloved treasure. It’s why I named you Esmerelda,” her mother would say as she braided Rel’s hair with gentle hands or hugged her so tightly that she thought her bones would crack. Otherwise, her mother, a mortal woman and the one who raised her alone, spoke of him very rarely.
Knowing he’d been a mage, she fled south into Witch Country, seeking coven protection. The Coven of Marsh and Flame was the nearest coven to Heigar’s Pass. A keen sense of returning overcame her, but the witches rebuffed her as she stepped into the magic-drenched wetlands. She couldn’t call her essence up on command to prove herself. Instead, it sat silent and unreachable in the confines of her being. Without the name of her father or what coven he hailed from, they didn’t want her. They didn’ttrusther.
Though they didn’t kick her out, it was apparent she wasn’t welcome. Witch customs and culture were foreign to her. She tried to earn her way, working long hours in the humid and murky waters, harvesting crops, setting traps, and training to fight to help protect the borders. But they still hated answering her questions, distrusted her, whispered about her, and glared at her for long moments when they thought she couldn’t see. They disliked everything about her—how she dressed, ate, and spoke.
She didn’t belong. And she had lived as an outsider enough for one lifetime.
Rel held out for a year, but it was painful. However, she at least learned how to defend herself and techniques for knife throwing, which she was surprisingly talented at. When she left, only her trainer, a witch named Vada, said goodbye to her. She gave her two throwing knives in parting.
Going deeper into Witch Country was an option. There were five other covens she could travel to—Sun and Gold, Moon and Bone, Mountain and Moss, Forest and Nightshade, and Sea and Storm. There was also Spellspire, the capital and center of Witch Country, where the Witch King ruled from. She was told which coven one came from mattered less there, as it was a conglomeration of all the covens. But somehow, she knew it would be no different, and the idea of traveling for weeks for the high possibility of rejection was too much for her. She was weary. Physicallyandemotionally.
The Mark was worse. The Mark sat outside the six covens, filling in the space between the territories. Full of seedy markets and mismatched homes, it was lawless, enigmatic, and dangerous. Though witches who, for whatever reason, didn’t claim a coven or were exiled from theirs worked and lived there, it also drew the attention of unsavory characters from all over.
The constant threat of danger triggered too much from her time in the Romulan Empire, and after just a few weeks of begging and bartering for food and a place to sleep, she left.
That was when she found the swamplands and the cottage—a place where she could finally be free.
In isolation, she found belonging. In solitude, her only sanctuary.
It was her fate to be alone. After the hard years she had survived between her mother’s death when she was six and finding the swamp, she was just thankful to be alive. To have achanceto live.
But there were times, in the quiet of her abode, when she ached so badly for the company of another. Even just someone to talk to or swing with. Yet, she couldn’t picture what that would look like. Anyone she had ever trusted or loved had either left her or betrayed her. And one had even actively harmed her again and again. Though she had a rich imagination, any time she tried to envision someone else in her space, they were a faceless shadow. A mere shade that had no substance or light, as if it wasn’t possible in this realm of existence.
Lightning split the sky in vein-like cracks, revealing glimpses of blue and violet. Though mesmerized, the flash was Rel’s sign to go to bed. She had learned quickly not to stay out once the lightning began. A familiar coldness that had nothing to do with the temperature settled into her. Pulling the shawl tighter around her, she moved inside. Thunder rumbled its deep resonance as she shut the door on the outside world.
Rel had to wait until late afternoon the next day to forage for storm mint. The thunderstorm had stopped sometime early that morning, and the tree limbs would’ve been too slippery to do it first thing. Even now, some of the branches were still slick.
Laying on her belly, she inched herself out as far as she safely could on the tree’s limb before beginning the process of cutting and unbraiding the storm mint from around it. As it released, she let it fall to the ground below. Another day or two, and the earthy and mint-flavored herb would have begun to wilt and dry, unsalvageable by any amount of humidity or rain.
Most of the knowledge she had of the swamp’s various food sources was from her time spent in the Marsh Coven or from notes that the witch before her had meticulously taken and detailed out. Those journals had made it much easier for her to figure out what was edible and what wasn’t. There were so many poisonous berries, roots, and leaves that, without the information, she wouldn’t have lasted a week. Even so, Rel had documented her own unique discoveries, recipes, and processes in case someday another witch stumbled upon the swamp when she was gone and needed the knowledge.
Having collected all of the storm mint from the tree she could reach, she edged backward and carefully climbed down. The bark, various vines, and many levels of jutting branches made the entire experience less treacherous, but she was still cautious. She had fallen flat on her back enough times to learn her lesson.
Just as her foot hit the soft soil, a sudden, eerie quiet overtook the area. Glancing around, she couldn’t see anything through the dense, lush foliage. But then sheheardit. A barely-there sound. A sound that didn’t belong in the usual hum and calls of the land. Frozen by a quickly forming dread, she strained to hear it again.
The magic-filled wetlands didn’t have many predators outside of the crocs that inhabited its pools. There just wasn’t enough large prey that thrived here. She had found the occasional carcass near its perimeters but nothing lurking within it.
That she had seen anyway.
She made a quick decision and climbed right back up the tree. It was safer than being blind on the ground below. As she got high enough to see more of the world around her, she searched for whatever caused the unnerving stillness. She had never known it to be so quiet. The absence of sound pressed on her ears, a silent alarm. As she navigated around the wide trunk, movement caught her eye. It was just the swaying of the large leaves that grew at the base of the trees. But with no wind to speak of, that movement alone was enough. She stared at the spot for so long her vision blurred, but there it was again, just ahead. And then another a little way back, and another off to the other side.
