The Wytch's Solitude

Chapter 1

                    With an insatiable hunger, flames no longer licked at thatch roofs to taste the dried delicacies, but leapt from hovel to home in a frenzy. What was once luscious, verdant grass now smouldered, making the air spicy, thick, and nearly impossible to breathe. In exceptionally hot places, like the miller's shop, the top soil merely turned to glass. Crackles and pops were lost under the roar of the fire as the small town burned. It was a lonely sight. There were no cries available to pierce the veil of smoke and echo through the valley; no panic to feel the barren streets. The village was empty. No one was around to care.

                    Disappointment flashed over Lissa's cold eyes. A snap of her fingers later and the entire village was gone. It took a moment for the blue haze of illusion to fade and reveal the rotted oak floor where the miniature village had previously stood. Besides her lack of imagination, it was a perfect replica of the one past the prison of her home, viewable through the dirty and broken window pane just to the left of the front door. It was so close, but so far away, and the thought of it made her spit and risked the entire scene reappearing.

                     The wood on the floor creaked as she crossed the empty room to the kitchen beyond. If the home had belonged to anyone else it may have been a den with a rug and simple furnishings, but the room was  spartan unadorned. The fireplace on the northern wall had long since become unusable, clogged with soot no one was willing to clean. Occasionally that soot would fall out and be crushed into the floor, staining it a filthy black after being trodden on too many times. She didn't even notice the disarray of the home, of the debris, and hadn't for over two years. The time for caring was long past.

                     Lissa glowered as she sat in the rickety wooden chair, one of two set at an old pine table, and why wouldn't she? He was late after all. The sun was setting in the sky, though the purple light scarcely reached this far into the kitchen. That meant that the odds of him showing up were slim to none, as his father wouldn't let him leave after dark, and certainly never allowed him to visit. Hope gripped like a vice at her heart every day as she waited for Maston to arrive. Each day between visits tore Lissa up.

                     The air became colder as she breathed out and the moisture froze to her lips. It was chilly, but tolerable despite the drab garb that she wore, a single piece of tattered, dingy cloth as a makeshift dress. It threatened to cling to the chair as everything within arms reach began to frost over. As suddenly as it had come, the white-blue crystals melted as the front door whined open.

                     “Hello?” a skittish voice peeped out as a stick thin boy entered the otherwise silent shack. It belonged to Maston, of course, and even though his voice was beginning to crack from puberty and was hardly recognizable, Lissa immediately knew it was his. It wasn't intuition or her power that made her know at once. It was the solitary fact that he was the only that would speak in her presence. He was the only one that wasn't afraid of her.
         
                     Despite her best effort, a lash of fire whipped out from her hand with a mind of its own, splitting the air with a sickening crack. Her arm was a slave to the motion. The magick crossed the distance in an instant and struck Maston square in the face. It vanished even before he could cringe, before any damage could be done, sucked up into the air. The effect left Lissa shaking her hand in pain. It always stung whenever Maston came into contact with her, no matter how indirectly. There was a hiss as the magick shrank back.

                     “It's been over a week,” Lissa spat through her teeth. Her strawberry blonde hair was waving wildly, as if animated by the wind. Though her face was all glare, she smiled inside. It was the first time she had done so since his last his last visit. “You broke your promise.”

                     He could hear the acid in her tone, but felt her relief at the same time. The last time Maston had visited she had nearly lost her hair from the fire that sprung from her being and was only saved by quick pats from his hand. He had to be ultimately careful, as his hand could do worse to her body than even she could. He had been slapped that day, and unlike the fire, it stung both of them. “I never promised, I just said I'd try. You know that if I get caught I get barred in my  room for a week if I'm lucky.”

                     Lissa scoffed and rolled her eyes. Her hands were already at her thin hips. “As if it's my fault you're almost despised as much as I am.” She regretted the words almost instantly as Maston lowered his eyes to the floor. The room felt darker without his beautiful, gray eyes lighting up the place.

                     The two had always shared a bond, regardless of how often they were kept apart. Lissa, exuding magick through every pore on her body, and Maston, drinking any that was unlucky enough to come into contact like a thirsty plant. They were in entirely different worlds, though. Lissa was considered dangerous while her only friend was just considered a hindrance. She was trapped behind more seals than even Isterania's royal treasury, which foiled any attempt she could ever have at freedom. Maston's seals, on the other hand, were entirely metaphorical.

                     “Oh suck it up, you twit,” Lissa spoke, almost without pause. Her exile had made her bitter, and years of neglect had formed her every outward move into a hard shell. Apology couldn't tarnish her steely voice. “If you're so worried about being locked up, then go.”

                     “I-I...” Maston stammered in response, “I brought you some food...”

           He held out a simple basket. Its gnarled reeds were sturdy, but the gaps caused from poor workmanship made it look like it had the potential to fall apart under the weight it carried. Whatever it held was encased in shadow and hidden under a red and white checkered cloth, but it smelt freshly baked and delicious. When he felt a tug he let go, and the basket floated away on a current of air. It almost landed gracefully on a stone counter top, but a sudden slip of power cracked the handle, splintering reed and air with a noise that just made Maston frown. What could Lissa do about it anyway.

           The room darkened further, and Lissa wasn't sure if it was her imagination or just proof that nightfall was closing in. “You know I can't stand your cooking,” she replied, her blue, almond-shaped eyes dropping into a rude stare. She didn't move from her seat; she tried hard not to move at all. While she knew she couldn't hurt him, it was inconvenient all the same when her power went against logic in an attempt to destroy him.

            “I know,” Maston started sheepishly, “but it's the best I can do. I just thought you might like something more than the scraps they toss in, and I know Foreman hasn't come by for a couple of days since you scared him. I just...you know...”

            He trailed off because he knew he didn't have to say any more. It was Foreman's job to bring Lissa's meal every day. It was cruel that she only received one. Even though she was nearing sixteen, and he was only eleven and rather scrawny despite the labors he did throughout the day, Maston still outweighed her considerably. It only became worse when she was unlucky and the cowardly Foreman, the only blacksmith in Gliccal, a talented swordsman to boot, decided he couldn't take the stress of magickal threat that was always present when anyone came near Lissa.

            “He's an ass. It's not like I could hurt him even if I wanted to, and I really, really do. The Gods know I've tried to cut his throat sometimes when he gets close enough, but I'd just as soon throw a rock across the Ceres Sea before I'd manage that.”

            The broken window, where her magick constantly prodded at to no avail, was the result of someones brilliant idea that people were safer tossing her food onto the dirty floor than getting within reach of the old shack. All the wards and seals that kept magick both in and out, however, should have been guarantee enough that even a butterfly was safe from the most vile of fires that could be spread by one of Lissa's glares, and she knew it. More than once she had tried to burn the three room shack down, and had only lost most of her belongings and bed in the process. Now she was reduced to sleeping on the floor while the dry, aged wood remained unmarred and taunted her.

           “You really shouldn't do things to anger Them,” Maston replied after a pause, speaking of the Gods, already turning back to the door. The anti-magick barrier had no effect on him. No magick seemed to have any effect on him. Despite every being containing it, including him, he seemed to ignore the rules. It was unfair. “Goodbye, Lissa,” he said as he passed through the door, only pausing long enough to steal a glance over his little shoulders, shaggy black hair hiding his eyes a little. The door shut, and he was gone.

           “Goodbye,” Lissa whispered to the empty shack. She finally moved, and the ground shook beneath her feet, causing the table and chairs to rattle. She moved to the basket on the counter and let out a sigh as she removed the cloth that hid her delights. Caught on a snag, the cloth tore. A rhubarb pie, a loaf of bread, two wedges of cheese, and a fist-sized chunk of salted pork were like priceless treasures. They almost made her cry.