My updates will be a little spotty. Happy 4th of July to those who celebrate!
I walk along the old familiar trail to my garden carefully observing the figure in front of me. The red robe swallows her petite figure. She seems to float across the landscape, gracefully moving, her walk like a choreographed dance. As we approach my garden gate she slows her pace and turns to face me. “My child, how you have grown these years.” I hear the voice but the woman’s mouth does not move. She sweetly smiles as she projects her voice into my thoughts. Her face is similar to my mother. Her eyes are a deep cerulean blue, two endless pools I find myself getting lost in. Her smile seems sweet but makes me uneasy in its portrayal of innocence. She calls me a child and yet she looks barely old than me. Her skin glows against the deep red of the robe. A wisp of golden curls peak out of the darkness created by the robe’s hood. “I have waited so long to speak to you. Your ascension finally opened the portal so that we can communicate.” “Portal?” I wonder aloud. “You mustn’t spea
“Witch.” Theia growls. I am silent. The accusation is true I suppose, though I know nothing of what it means to be true. It isn’t the whole truth. “Am I not also wolf?” I question. “Does being one erase the other?” Theia growls in response. “Well if you hadn’t so rudely interrupted, perhaps we could’ve figured out how the connection across our plane in the spiritual plane works.” I grumble as I cross my arms across my chest. “Tell me what you know of witches.” “Where would I begin?” Theia muses. “At the beginning?” I offer. Theia scoffs. “We don’t have endless amounts of time.” She reasons. “No, I suppose we do not. I’m tired of being left in the dark.” I say. “When you don’t know, how do you know what you need to know?” Theia exhales deeply. The air from her lungs makes a snorting sound as it passes through her snout. “In ancient times, the three faced goddess represented Selene, Hecate, and Artemis. Artemis the maiden, Selene the mother, and Hecate the crone. All th
The market is a strange mixture of smells. Everything about it, in conflict with one another. I diligently follow my mother through the market towards the center, in order to obtain her new kitchen servant. It feels like a death march towards to the center, a place where other wolves are bought and sold. The entire idea of a wolf selling another wolf like property is disgusting. A shameful act to be carried on in view of the royal family. The proximity of such privilege with such poverty and despair is disgraceful. It is upon the backs of those sold that the royal family is able to maintain their positions. They profit off of their own people’s bodies. Having to take any part of this process is horrifying. Poor Maristela, a young child, sold like a horse in an open market to anyone who was willing to pay the most for her. Stalls line the thoroughfare selling a variety of items. We weave through the crowd and I take in the sights and scents. The smell of sweet fried doughs in hone
“I will never be like you.” I whisper, more as a promise to myself than a declaration. “Time is the greatest truth teller.” She murmurs. We stand in silence as body after body is bought and sold. Field hands, butlers, maids, cooks, child brides, stable boys— every person it takes to run the household is sold like saddles and mops. I see the faces of my friends who work the Alpha’s estate in each one of these people, each drop of the sales gavel shatters another part of my heart. The pain is a consequence of my observation of this ongoing tragedy without having the courage to intervene. Intervention meant death though. Maybe even a fate worse than that. I feel a tingling on my skin almost like I am being touched by a spirit. Their fingers ghosting along my arms and shoulders to get my attention. A young woman is being led to the platform. Her eyes snap to mine as the feeling intensifies. She looks plain. The type of woman you must have seen a million times before. Nothing notabl
His eyes linger on me. His gaze lights my skin ablaze, I feel flushed from his attention on me. My mind thinking of other things my hot mouth could wrap around. His gaze fixed on me as I perform. “Enjoying the cone?” He asks shamelessly. “Immensely.” I say much more breathy than intended. “You would be surprised how many delicious things there are to sample here in the Kingdom of the Moon.” He says with an edge of flirtation. I should be disgusted by his advances. He represents everything that is wrong. His flirtation with the help so openly in the market is scandalous, even if I am of noble birth. I should be offended as a proper lady that he would even feel so emboldened. “Any good meat dishes you would recommend, your highness?” I say coquettishly, the look of innocence on my face hiding my double meaning. My tongue tracing the peak of my ice cream before retreating to my mouth. A soft growl rumbles in his chest. It might be my undoing. I would let him take me right here
“With whom? Yourself?” I ask with an edge of sarcasm. “You think so poorly of me?” She asks like a wounded child. The question hangs between us. The truth is, I have no idea what she is capable of. “I was born two hundred years ago. Malakai was a story for the history books for wolves by then, but for witches, it was like it was yesterday. For the Tribe of Circe, the need for retribution was palpable and ubiquitous. It was centered in everything. Being the first daughter in a long line of first daughters from first daughters, I was groomed to take the throne. Once my powers were bestowed upon me after my ascension, I was positioned to be the hope of the coven.” She begins to explain after a period of silence. “What is the price of remaining youthful?” I ask, thinking back to all the stories of my youth of wicked witches and their depravity. “At two hundred I have barely left my adolescence. I am still very young.” She says, a look of disappointment in my provincial views. W
The clock strikes four and the slave my mother purchased still has not returned from market. It’s tea time and I know she is itching to leave the capital before the sun sets. “Captain, when will your man return with my servant? I’m beginning to grow concerned that my merchandise is being damaged.” My mother snapped as we made our way to tea. “I’m certain that is not the case, your grace. I will go myself, to hurry the process along.” He grabs his coat and begins to charge towards the front door when a knock booms from the door. The butler opens the door and immediately bows deeply. “Your highness! P-Please do come in!” The butler stumbles over his words in nervous energy. My mother and I abruptly stop at the last landing of the stairwell in front of the grand entry way the Prince is standing in. We both curtsy in unison, by muscle memory. “Your Highness, to what do we owe such an honor? I was not expecting that you would join us for tea.” My mother says graciously. “I meant
There are three of us jammed into the carriage. I share my seat with the new servant, the Luna across from us with the largest seat to herself. A book balanced in her hand she casually reads slowly turning the pages. Her focus is entirely on the book, her intense staring only randomly interrupted by a small giggle or gasp. From time to time she shifts in her seat as she reads. The book some tawdry romance passed between housewives, discussed in whispers and giggles at tea. The new servant and I sit awkwardly, straining our abdominal muscles to maintain a small space between us. This space is guarded fiercely as the carriage tumbles down the road. We find our synchronization as we lean and shift with the carriage careful to maintain our space. A dance of quiet movements in unison. Neither of us dare to speak, to do so would be against protocol. The new servant is unsure of the order of things in our house, so erroring on the side of caution is always the wise pathway. Silence is alwa
TheiaMagic has no effect on me. Well maybe no effect is a bit of an overstatement; negligible, it has a negligible effect, like when you have a glass of wine. Maybe I get a little drunk, my focus a little blurry around the edges, but I am still in control. I can feel the wind shifting toward the King, like he is calling it to him. Even my fur seems to tug at me to follow the direction of the wind. My instinct to run with the wind is overbearing, like a nagging demand to turn around and run with it or face certain peril. The magic has not numbed my senses or surrendered my control. Perhaps these tricks would have worked when I was a pup or even a young wolf, when I had only just begun to test the limits of my drive to survive. I have spent lifetimes honing my skills to serve my Goddess. Hunting in the forests of my plane. Chasing and being chased by friends and foes. Preparing myself for what was to come. The training lasted far longer than any scholar had anticipated. To be the las
It was as if Asteria’s memory played out on a screen in front of me. I’m a captive audience, cordoned off in a far off corner of my mind. Separated from my body but still aware of what is happening. The scene from Theia’s point of view also playing out, oddly disconnected from me, padded feet to forest floor the smell of earth and water. The dirt flecked in her fur and her nose pressed to the earth inhaling its aroma. Asteria’s trauma unfolds before me, almost happening to me, although the screams are not my own. The hunger in his eyes. The manic rage. His whip. My feelings are not entirely my own, it is as if I am Asteria in this experience. “Prince Aares.” I say in a voice that is not my own. A memory of an event I never experienced, yet vividly recall. This isn’t real, yet, I can feel his whip biting and tearing my skin. I can feel the blood snaking down the back of my thighs. The warm ooze somehow soothing the stinging pain. My back flayed open. His scent coats my skin like an
“May the Goddess anoint you with her love and bless you with your dreams.” “We give our devotion to the Goddess!” My mate and I reply. The priestesses are all around us. Their voices echoing off the walls of the cave, it’s impossible to tell how many are speaking as the voices echo around us. Our naked bodies only inches away from one another as we stand in the pool, his intoxicating scent masked by the abundance of minerals in the spring. “We ask our Goddess to cleanse you of all your impurities. Remove any malice from your hearts.” The priestesses chant around us. My body feels drawn to him. The urge I have to touch him is overwhelming, to just feel his skin pressed against mine. Any doubts I have floating away the second I am near him. I look ahead to the priestesses. I do not dare look at him in all his glory. One glance at him may be what breaks the dam holding back my urges, my last vestige of control. “Tonight, you are to shift into your true nature. The greatest trea
“The Mountain stands, unmoving— never wavering, rooted deeply into the soil.” The Queen begins, seated behind me on a small chair, her gown spilling out of the narrow seat displaying the sheer volume of fabric she seems to carry so effortlessly. Monica is plaiting my hair for the first ceremony. An intricate pattern of different braids joined together and fastened with a plain rag tie matching my temple dress. “The Wind with her sons raging across the lands, charge right at the Great Mountain, but it still stands. The nymphs of the waters try to claw through it, but still it stands. Rigid. Strong. Proud.” Her hands move with the story, in a way it was more akin to a fireside chat rather than dressing room gossip. It reminds me of my father’s stories around the fire. I listen to her tale, knowing little of her people, attentively watching her through the mirrors reflection. “The Goddess herself blessed the Great Mountain, and appointed the Shadow Mountain pack to be the Guardians
“Waltz of the Mountains.” The King sneers. “Let’s see how well you keep up.” He casts a glare at Edward. “You know how your Grandmother adores the dance of her homeland, grandson. Do not disappoint her for the sake of your mate.” The warning is clear. “Yes, my King. I would not dream of disappointing.” He bows deeply, his hand on his heart pledging his allegiance. I remember our first meeting. “You play a dangerous game, girl.” He said with his hand around my throat. I suppose I am still that dangerous silly girl, too headstrong to fully submit. Incapable of bending to a tyrant. Incapable of silence. I am who I create. I feel Theia and Asteria in the front of my mind. Any overt display of power would be disastrous, so they lurk, careful not to allow their presence shimmer in my eyes. I deeply curtsy holding my hand to my heart as well, averting my eyes to the floor, not uttering a word. Silence and obedience. That is what the King demands. My stubbornness to blame for not b
Silence. I dare not speak or move. “I have heard you can dance.” The King says in my direction. A small smile creeped on his lips. A sneer. “Yes, your majesty.” I say meekly. “You shall dance for us.” Edward looks at me with sadness in his eyes. A shimmer of anger rippling in his fields of green, at my faux pas. The weight of the King’s displeasure not only hitting me, but crushing him as well. Collateral damage. “I would love to see the waltz.” The Queen hums. “Edward can lead her if she does not know it. Besides, she will be expected to dance at their wedding celebrations.” I hope he indulges his wife. It is a far better option than being forced to gyrate in front of the King. His expression leads me to believe he wishes to not only remind me of my place but humiliate me in the process. The Queen’s suggestion is only her tossing a rope to her grandson to save him from the front row seat to my humiliation. The King looks to his Queen. “Very well.” He replies. “L
Fairytales have a modicum of truth to them. Just enough truth that the reader can absorb the message, learn whatever moral imperative is being taught. The tricky part is discerning what little bit is rooted in truth, and what is an outright lie, a fantasy embellishment to keep you reading. I prefer the stories with happy endings, lessons are still learned, but the main character in the end is well and fine. Perhaps that’s my first mistake, assuming my placement in the tale is the main character, rather than the abused maid or gullible villager, or otherwise nameless background character. A person in the crowd as the King strolls down the street naked. A lady’s maid to the wicked queen or damsel in distress. A nameless cousin to the main character, who tried on the shoe but it did not fit. Perhaps I am the main character, in one of those tales where she tragically dies. Her choices and bad decisions leading her to death, rather than the happiness she was seeking. The Queen seem
“Beauty is pain.” Monica consoles. “You cannot achieve divinity without sacrifice. We want ethereal. We want glamor.” “We want to be able to have dinner.” I squeak, the corset of the gown so tight I can barely breathe. “Or maybe just be able to breathe.” I have been trying on gowns for hours. I tire of looking at my reflection. “Long deep breaths from the lungs, not the belly.” She demonstrates, her body rod straight, long measured breaths expanding her ribcage. My wedding gown, gowns for tea and dinner, dresses for travel and leisure, for breakfast or prayer— the stacks of fabric seem endless. I was nothing more than a doll. Monica has the same persistence as Agatha. I remember her wrapping me in endless fabrics for my Moon Ceremony gown. “You will be elegant! Ravishing! Demure!” She shouted as she wrapped me in satins and tulle. “Posture is key. Beyond that, relax. High anxiety breathing isn’t very effective or attractive.” Monica concludes. I smile, my mind wander
Something in my soul longs for the sunshine. The rays on my skin make me come alive. My internal battery dependent upon feeling the sun against my skin. I do not recall the last time I was outside in the sun. It seems a lifetime ago that I was able to truly enjoy it. My gown manifesting what I need the most, time to bask in the sun. I can feel the whispers of winter on the autumn wind. A small chill dancing in the breeze, winter days soon to come. I stare upwards to the sky. The sun’s rays like golden spires piercing through the clouds, a magnificent sight. The sun coyly peeks from behind the clouds to bathe me in its rays. Today, I am the sun, and I will absorb the warmth and joy it brings me. Monica stops in front of a small gate created between two apple trees. The trees already bare from harvest, the priestesses and acolytes have started the pruning process, preparing the orchard for winter. The branches and stems are neatly stacked in piles along the treeline. My ow