On guilt
The Fate Witch did not like guilt.
She did not give that name to the emotion she was feeling. Such a thing would have been utterly bizarre. Sorte Strega do not experience such weakness. Hers was not a path of womanish fretfulness. A courtesan or a peasant might mewl like a kitten over spilled milk. Strega are above such things. A Strega is made for control and power, for fate and vengeance. A Strega rules from the shadows, and within the confines of her world, her will is absolute.
The Fate Witch had not left the confines of her world. She was sure of that. No man had seen her face. No hand had touched her hand. She had obeyed the specific orders she was given by her temporary protector (who was Vodacce and should be properly respectful and ideally afraid. Fate Witches deserved fear. That was their payment, their due. That justified the veil, and the gloves, and the darkness; the constant darkness) and while she might have technically stolen from him, he should have been too scared to challenge her.
He had no right to take her wrist.
No right to let his hand come so close to her frost white skin.
No right to make her feel the warmth of his body.
A Fate Witch is cold.
The stupid bangle on the Fate Witch’s wrist jangled and she glared at it. The bells rang regularly. It might just mean that the strange yellow haired Eisen woman with the broad stride was cooking up something unsettling in the kitchen. It might mean that the undead were crawling up aboard ship again (and the Fate Witch felt another unpleasant emotional stab to the gut at the thought of those empty fate-less things which she likewise tried to ignore). It might mean something else. The bells on the bangle rang at odd times. Sometimes they rang to mark the presence of sorcery in the air. Sometimes they seemed to be warning of something else and she didn’t know what. And either way, she didn’t like the noise and hadn’t liked the fact that the Vodacce Captain had noticed that irritating tinkling noise, and she really hadn’t enjoyed the way his anger had made her feel.
The Fate Witch pulled the heavy cuffs off her gown around the bangle until the bells could only let out a dull clunk.
“I gave you sanctuary. And you lied to me, stole from me,”
He had given her sanctuary. He had given her his cabin (but of course he had. She was Sorte Strega, and of royal blood too. She deserved no less) and shown her beautiful things. He had thought first to protect her from the Inquisition (as is his duty to the Prince, no more and no less) and he had made her smile (behind a veil, which makes it meaningless. No one ever sees a Strega smile).
He had been kind (and what does a Witch need kindness for? He failed to deliver fear. He offered insult. He tried to stand beyond his station) and she had lied to him and stolen from him. Admittedly, she lied to and stole from a lot of people. It was a hobby of hers; more interesting than needlework. She didn’t normally feel this slightly weird painful-sick feeling when thinking about it.
The Fate Witch scowled and stalked out onto the little balcony on the back of the ship. The wind tugged at her veil. Some days she would take that as a sign to pull it up, and tilt her face up to the sun for once, but today she simply drew it closer.
“Enough,” she said out loud. “No weakness.
“There is enough to worry about. You have the walking dead, the corrupt church, and men without fate. There are obstreperous Objectionists on board, who are probably about to start another fight, and unknown magic chained to your wrist.
“No need to worry about how the bracelet got there, or whether a common sailor with delusions of rank has an opinion on the matter. You are Strega. His pride or his peculiar territorial passions are not your concern.”
No. That didn’t help. She still felt bad. The Fate Witch tried another tactic.
“And he will not be of relevance for long, anyway. Soon you will be in the arms of your husband, and this voyage will be a memory. Soon you will be where you truly belong.”
And that didn’t make her feel better either. So she sat in silence, gazing out across the water.
A Fate Witch is cold.
She tried not to think about how good it had felt, to feel the sun on her skin.
She did not give that name to the emotion she was feeling. Such a thing would have been utterly bizarre. Sorte Strega do not experience such weakness. Hers was not a path of womanish fretfulness. A courtesan or a peasant might mewl like a kitten over spilled milk. Strega are above such things. A Strega is made for control and power, for fate and vengeance. A Strega rules from the shadows, and within the confines of her world, her will is absolute.
The Fate Witch had not left the confines of her world. She was sure of that. No man had seen her face. No hand had touched her hand. She had obeyed the specific orders she was given by her temporary protector (who was Vodacce and should be properly respectful and ideally afraid. Fate Witches deserved fear. That was their payment, their due. That justified the veil, and the gloves, and the darkness; the constant darkness) and while she might have technically stolen from him, he should have been too scared to challenge her.
He had no right to take her wrist.
No right to let his hand come so close to her frost white skin.
No right to make her feel the warmth of his body.
A Fate Witch is cold.
The stupid bangle on the Fate Witch’s wrist jangled and she glared at it. The bells rang regularly. It might just mean that the strange yellow haired Eisen woman with the broad stride was cooking up something unsettling in the kitchen. It might mean that the undead were crawling up aboard ship again (and the Fate Witch felt another unpleasant emotional stab to the gut at the thought of those empty fate-less things which she likewise tried to ignore). It might mean something else. The bells on the bangle rang at odd times. Sometimes they rang to mark the presence of sorcery in the air. Sometimes they seemed to be warning of something else and she didn’t know what. And either way, she didn’t like the noise and hadn’t liked the fact that the Vodacce Captain had noticed that irritating tinkling noise, and she really hadn’t enjoyed the way his anger had made her feel.
The Fate Witch pulled the heavy cuffs off her gown around the bangle until the bells could only let out a dull clunk.
“I gave you sanctuary. And you lied to me, stole from me,”
He had given her sanctuary. He had given her his cabin (but of course he had. She was Sorte Strega, and of royal blood too. She deserved no less) and shown her beautiful things. He had thought first to protect her from the Inquisition (as is his duty to the Prince, no more and no less) and he had made her smile (behind a veil, which makes it meaningless. No one ever sees a Strega smile).
He had been kind (and what does a Witch need kindness for? He failed to deliver fear. He offered insult. He tried to stand beyond his station) and she had lied to him and stolen from him. Admittedly, she lied to and stole from a lot of people. It was a hobby of hers; more interesting than needlework. She didn’t normally feel this slightly weird painful-sick feeling when thinking about it.
The Fate Witch scowled and stalked out onto the little balcony on the back of the ship. The wind tugged at her veil. Some days she would take that as a sign to pull it up, and tilt her face up to the sun for once, but today she simply drew it closer.
“Enough,” she said out loud. “No weakness.
“There is enough to worry about. You have the walking dead, the corrupt church, and men without fate. There are obstreperous Objectionists on board, who are probably about to start another fight, and unknown magic chained to your wrist.
“No need to worry about how the bracelet got there, or whether a common sailor with delusions of rank has an opinion on the matter. You are Strega. His pride or his peculiar territorial passions are not your concern.”
No. That didn’t help. She still felt bad. The Fate Witch tried another tactic.
“And he will not be of relevance for long, anyway. Soon you will be in the arms of your husband, and this voyage will be a memory. Soon you will be where you truly belong.”
And that didn’t make her feel better either. So she sat in silence, gazing out across the water.
A Fate Witch is cold.
She tried not to think about how good it had felt, to feel the sun on her skin.