(14/17) SPN_REVERSEBANG 2016: "the darkness came and i let it in" (Rowena)

[coltsandquills]

“You lied to me.”
“It’s not the first time today.”
- Crowley & Dean, 10.14, The Executioner’s Song

Maybe she had bled the love out of her when she expelled him into the world.

The thought came to her from time to time, usually when she was up in the wee hours of the night, pacing, trying to quiet his cries, almost mindless with exhaustion. Other times, she’d be spooning him mouthfuls of porridge, her own stomach gnawing in hunger, when he’d spit the food up and glare at her, as if furious she couldn’t do better. And then he’d cry. Always, he cried.

Who is this boy? she would ask herself. How did I ever think I loved him?

Whenever the thought tramped in, guilt followed enthusiastically after. It clamped down with iron teeth that made tears spring to her eyes until she ran to his crib and gathered him to her breast, cooing words of love and apology. This usually woke the baby up, and he’d wail until dawn.

The days felt long, the nights longer.

And the baby continued to grow, as did the dust on her spellbooks and vials.

*****
Rowena sat at one end of the table, and Fergus the other. Between them, a small, steaming bowl and a cold candle.

“This isn’t changing water to wine!” Rowena snapped. “You want something to eat, don’t you? Belly rumbling? Then do something about it.”

Truth was, she didn’t care if he lit the candle. Far as she was concerned, he could make the curtain blow, the table shimmy, or their one hen turn blue. So long as he did something.

Rowena had first displayed her gift when she was two. Her mother had found her laughing, lying under the table, clapping as her doll pirouetted and curtsied. Isobel had burned the doll and spanked the child, not that Rowena remembered any of it. She only knew because she had been told the tale countless times. Isobel had meant for it to serve as a warning, but the young Rowena had been enchanted to learn she had magical powers.

Fergus was going on three, and hadn’t so much as made a coal spark.

“Oh, are you getting mad at me? Your own mother?” She goaded him on purpose. When she was very young, her magic awakened when her emotions became more than her young mind could handle. If she needed to piss him off to open the gate to his potential, then so be it.

But Fergus only glared, his lower lip starting to tremble. Rowena knew what that meant.

Since he was a babe, the child’s modus operandi was to scream at everything that displeased him. Time hadn’t tempered his tantrums, only gave him the strength to scream louder.

Rowena shoved his porridge at him before he could start.

“I’m only doing this for your own good,” she said, and instantly regretted it.

She sounded like her mother.

*****

“Come on, now! Be quick!” Rowena called over her shoulder.

She smoothly lead the way through the market, nimbly dodging barrels heavy with golden barley, weaving between weather-beaten merchants and stalls. The air hung thick with the smells of new pelts and baked breads, the shouts of bartering and the bleats of livestock.

It would be difficult for any eight-year-old to navigate the chaos, let alone one sporting a hangover. Fergus’s head seemed filled to busting with a scratchy, iron wool. Keeping his mother’s wares balanced in hand was struggle enough, never mind keeping up with her in the crowd.

Her boxes and bottles, stacked to his nose, wobbled with every step. Decorating their sides, carefully penned labels boasted cures for anything from a hangnail to a broken heart. Rowena had never educated Fergus on their contents, but he was pretty sure their promises were a load of bullshit.

Whatever Rowena put in her wares was assembled messily and with haste. The stuff that was actually worth something - the potions and spells she spent hours on, poring over with fevered concentration - that, Fergus was sure, was the good stuff. And his mother believed it was her little secret.

But she was wrong.

It used to be that a few tumblers of whisky would have him passed out clean until morning. But nowadays, there were evenings when he’d swim to the surface of consciousness, and there, wading, watch her at work.

The first time he awoke to her practicing magic, he thought he was dreaming. Rowena’s face kept twisting and changing, painted gold by candlelight in one moment, and in the next, closed under a rippling curtain of dark wings. The image didn’t reconcile in his mind until he noticed an unfamiliar cage set on the table before her. Between its bars, a house sparrow fluttered and hopped. A tiny thing, Fergus groggily thought it a strange animal to catch, probably worth no more than a mouthful or two once plucked and cooked.

It sang a song he would never forget - one that, perhaps, instilled within him a lasting distaste for all things feathered. A twisted melody of fear, the shrill notes beat flatly against the walls until Rowena took the bird in hand and silenced it with a violent twist of its neck. That alone nearly sent the boy deep under his covers, but curiosity won over instinct. Trembling, he watched his mother continue, first in rapt fascination, and then in horror, as she broke through the feathery breast and began using its blood to paint strange ruins on her skin.

A whimper crawled up from his belly and into his throat, but he had the sense to block its exit by cramming a dirty fist into his mouth. Nearly crippled with fear, he carefully wriggled his way deeper beneath the blanket.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Somehow, he made it through that night without giving himself away. The next day, Rowena thought him a shade paler than the norm, but she chocked it up to one swallow of whisky too many. She'd give him a little less the next time.

And as easily as that, Fergus was unknowingly initiated into his mother's secrets.

At first, it was fear of punishment that kept him from running away, but in time, his goosebumps grew less, and his heart didn’t beat quite so frantically when he caught her in the act. Week by week, Fergus was discovering something new about himself, though he was too young to fully realize it: like mother like son, he was drawn to power.

He came to look forward to those nights when she'd slide a pitcher of ale to him from across the table. Sure, he’d mumble and groan, but it was all a performance. If Rowena had taught him anything in his short life, it was how to spin a lie. The truth was, if he trembled as he accepted the drink, it was only because he could barely suppress how eager he was for the evening to come.

The best was when she turned away long enough for him to dump the liquor out the window. If successful, he could watch with a clear head as she performed the most incredible feats - spinning flames the color of nightshade, or turning quaking field mice into obsidian rooks.

Then there were the nights Rowena left the house to disappear into the forest. Each time, Fergus waited until the shadows swallowed his mother up, and then he rushed to pull her books out from under the floorboards. Given the chance, he’d spend hours with his nose pressed to their pages, like a ravenous beggar longingly pressed to a bakery window. But the signs and symbols littering the books were like jewels, beautiful but ultimately useless. They meant nothing to him.

Even if they had been written in standard calligraphy, Rowena had never taught him to read.

Nights of normalcy became a point of severe frustration. On more than one occasion, he’d take out the bottle of whisky himself, hoping she'd be inclined to cast her spells if she thought him passed out in bed. Instead, Rowena would shout and swat at him, yelling all the while, “Keep it up, and you just watch! You’ll die in the gutter, covered in your own sick!”

That always hurt. He didn’t want to die. Didn’t really want to be piss-drunk, either. He wanted to come clean. Confess and tell her he knew everything. The urge was especially strong on days when they lacked food. Or when winter slipped under the door. Or when he came home bloodied by the fists of the stupid children in the village, who would laugh and tease and snigger with their parents, whispering the words “bastard” and “witch” whenever Fergus and Rowena walked by. He had thought the latter a cruel, vicious rumor. Now he knew the word “witch” for the truth and power it was.

He couldn't understand why they should ever have to suffer if they had magic in their hands.

Take today, for example. They had been in the market for hours, wandering the square, yelling about their mixes and salves, and had hardly a copper to show for it. It seemed an awful lot of work for awful little in return, and now she was rushing him along, as if there were a fortune to be found if only they were quick enough.

“Fergus! Are you deaf? Can you not hear me talking?”

He snapped to attention, but not before colliding with her legs, sending several of the bottles raining to the ground.

“Are you off your head, stumbling around like that? I swear, sometimes you’re as thick as you are lazy. If you’re not going to use your brain, then at least put the rest of yourself to work. Go on! Pick it all up!”

In his imagination, he slammed his foot down, shattering the worthless bottles, and threw what remained of them at his mother’s feet. He told her how stupid these potions were, and how stupid she was for dragging them out to market when she could probably magic whatever they needed into existence.

In reality, Fergus awkwardly dropped to his knees, ignoring the cold mud sucking at his pants, and tried to gather up what he had dropped without sending the rest of the wares toppling.

Above him, his mother sighed. He would have prefered her anger to that exasperated sound.

“When you’re done, wait here,” Rowena instructed. “I’ll be back soon enough.”

Fergus didn’t object. Even if he had, Rowena wouldn’t have noticed, already lost to the crowd.

“I hate her,” he said, really wanting to mean it.

Once everything was recovered, he took a seat against a flower stand, making certain to stay out of the owner’s line of sight. She was an old woman with a unique face, mapped with a thousand wrinkles, but other than that, she was like all the rest - she didn’t care for Fergus or his mother.

Still, this was a great place to catch a breather, and it offered a clear view of the families milling about. To Fergus, they were like foreigners with strange customs. Fathers were tousling their children's hair, and mothers held small hands in their own, leading their sons and daughters through the market.

His own mother’s love was like the stained glass window in the village parish. On days ripe with sunshine it shone beautifully, but the second clouds gathered, its brilliance was lost, and all that could be seen were the dark fissures that cracked and divided its surface.

Fergus couldn’t remember many sunny days.

“Mum!”

A boy a few years younger than himself ran past, smiling like an idiot. He rushed into his mother’s arms, waving a bluebell before her nose. The little blossoms could be found on any hillside, but she laughed and hugged him as if its petals were made of gold.

“Stupid gits,” Fergus muttered.

And then he leaned around the front of the flower stand, eyeing the rows of colors, wondering which he could steal without being spotted. He crawled forward, thinking one well-timed swipe would do the trick, when a hand landed on his shoulder.

Yelping, he ripped himself away.

“I wasn’t doing anything!” he shouted. “I only wanted to-”

His protests died when he realized he hadn’t been discovered by the florist, but by another woman. She was smiling at him, which was of no comfort. To Fergus, smiles always made a person more worthy of suspicion.

“Want a flower for your mother, too, lad?” Before he could reply, the woman swept her elegant fingers over the stand’s selection. When she crouched beside him, a small branch lined with lavender flowers lay in her hand. “Go on, don’t be shy. Take it. I don’t need anything in return.”

“How come?” Fergus asked. His chin was lowered, but his eyes were up, watching her through his mess of hair.

“Well…” She smiled gently at Fergus’s wary face. “They say if you do good, good will come to you. So it’s not entirely selfless of me, is it?”

Put like that, it made perfect sense to the boy.

“I don’t know this kind. What is it?” Fergus asked, accepting the gift.

“It’s a branch from a redbud tree.”

“But it’s purple,” he pointed out. His frown returned as he wondered if she were playing a trick after all, but she didn’t laugh at his question.

“Well, there are some that also refer to it as a Judas Tree.”

“That’s a stupid name.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s fitting. It’s a pretty little thing, in any case. But be sure to get it to her soon, love. It’s a delicate creature and dies very quickly.”

Fergus’s eyes darted to his mother’s wares, still seated in the mud. What was ‘very quickly,’ exactly? Because if this woman was talking a few hours or less, Rowena might never get the gift. It wouldn’t be unlike his mother to stay lost until night crept in and the streets were empty.

As if to confirm his fears, a few petals fell from the branch.

“If you’d like, I’ll watch over your things for a short while,” the woman offered.

Fergus jumped to his feet. Luck was a rare occurrence in his life, so he wasn’t about to squander what little of it came to him. He didn’t stop to say thank you, only took off running in the direction Rowena was last seen heading, the branch of small flowers cradled in his arms.

He wasn’t the most svelte of kids, but he dodged between the cracks in the crowds, barrelled through those he couldn’t, ignoring the growing stitch in his side and the aggravated shouts of those left in his wake. It was easy to run when you were happy.

Lucky for him, his mother stood out in a crowd, and it wasn’t long before he found her at the edge of the marketplace. He skidded to a halt, eyes widening at the hulk of a man she was speaking with. Either he was very big, or his mom’s diminutive size gave him the look of a boulder that had sprouted a head

He did not seem happy. His arms were folded, and his cliff of a jaw kept flexing as he chewed on a bit of leaf, like some ill-tempered bull. Rowena, in contrast, was smiling sweetly as a kitten.

“One pig,” the man snorted.

“Oh, come now.” Rowena’s lilt carried across the short distance to Fergus, who bounced in place, anxious to deliver the present. Maybe she’d talk sweetly to him, too, if she liked his gift.

“You’re a bright fellow,” his mother continued, one nail toying idly with the charm at her neck. “A few pigs will only be worth a single sale to you, or if you keep them about, maybe a few years of breeding at best. But a boy? Why, he’ll have a strong back until he’s at least 15, so long as you don’t work him too hard.”

Fergus dropped the flower.

“Fine! Three pigs! No more!” the man countered. The offer was better than she expected, and Rowena clasped her hands excitedly.

“Marvelous! My handsome man, we have a deal-”

A rock sailed through the air and struck the man directly at his temple, drawing a thick well of blood. Fergus had some talent when it came to juggling. In relation, his aim was rather decent, too.

He was, however, winded from his search for his mom, and the man turned out to be unexpectedly light on his feet. Before the boy could get more than a few steps away, he was lifted from the ground and held at the neck, like a pup about to be tossed in a well.

The man squinted at Fergus’s red curls and then Rowena’s. The thought process was like watching a child try to force a round peg through a square hole.

“This is the boy?” he finally asked, ignoring the blood marking a path down his face.

Rowena’s eyes cut to the side. “Never seen that child before in my life.”

Fergus, not too keen on helping his mother, given that she just tried to trade him for a few weeks of ham, started to yowl and kick. A few of his more colorful exclamations made the man’s eyes widen, but Rowena only rolled her own.

“No deal,” growled the man. He shoved Fergus into his mother’s arms, making boy and woman fall back into the mud. “My pigs have better manners.”

From the dirt, Rowena’s face flared with such contempt that Fergus forgot his anger, every hair on his neck standing at attention. This had to be it. The moment his mother would give up this pathetic charade and show people the power she wielded. He wondered if she’d roast the man alive, or perhaps turn him into a toad. He had always wanted a pet. Maybe a hound?

But Rowena only glared, and the man stormed away.

Fergus was crushed. His life was rarely easy, but this insult proved one too many for the day. He scrambled away from his mother and jabbed a finger toward her face.

“You were going to sell me!”

“Oh, please. Don’t be dramatic. I would have gone to steal you back in a few days.”

“For three pigs!”

Rowena sniffed. “He only wanted to give me two. You should be grateful I defended your worth.”

When Fergus didn’t reply, she braced herself. Her son’s anger was always more avalanche than storm; it never built gradually, but exploded with fury. Any second now, he’d be wailing at her loud enough to draw the eyes of every person in the marketplace. They’d love it. More fuel for their sniggers and gossip. Today alone, she had lost track of how many times she and Fergus had been followed by clucking tongues and hastily made signs of the cross. If not for her charm, she doubted they’d ever sell anything.

Not that Fergus ever cared. The boy ate his meals, wore his clothes, with never a thought of her struggle to provide. Even now, his lips were twitching, as if he couldn’t decide which words would hurt her the most. Well, he wasn’t the only one that was pissed.

“Save it for when we get home,” she spat, gathering herself from the dirt. “We don’t have enough daylight left to squabble. If we’re lucky, maybe I can still catch the Taylors. They’re usually happy to buy a few tonics- Fergus, where are my things?”

Fergus went slack. The anger left him in a rush that made his stomach drop, as if he had just missed a downward step. Above him, a smile formed on his mother’s face that reminded him of fissures in ice.

"Unless you're about to show me that your pockets are filled with money rather than those sweets I saw you snitch earlier,” she began, her voice as soft and sweet as winter powder, “you had better tell me where our livelihood is. Now ."

The command was snapped at him as sharp as any backhand.

"I... I left them behind... but she said she'd watch them till I came back."

"She?"

"The... the lady... there was a lady-"

Rowena stalked past him, paying no mind to if he followed. There was a snap as her heel crushed Fergus’s flowered branch underfoot, but neither she nor he noticed. Rowena was too busy calculating her losses, while he was yapping off a series of excuses, bounding about at her feet.

"Mother, it'll be fine!” Fergus insisted. “She said-"

To preserve her sanity, Rowena let his voice be drowned among the shouts and clangs of a market day nearing its close. The hour was getting late and the stands were thinning out, people either packing their wares or off to care for their families.

The flower stand remained open, but it had no patrons. Flowers were of little interest in comparison to what lay in the road. Rowena and Fergus walked between those milling about to stare, stunned, at the sight in front of them. Fergus groaned deep in his throat.

“Well. At least they weren’t stolen,” Rowena said with brittle cheer.

Her boxes of powders and vials lay broken. The sun reflected off the fragments of their remains, glass littering the ground like teardrops.

"No! She said she'd watch everything! She wouldn't do this!" Fergus wheeled about, frantically searching for the woman, but she was nowhere in sight. "This isn't my fault!"

Rowena was silent, her face so still it could have been that of a doll's. Whispers floated around them, soft and delicate as a spider’s threads, until the crueler spectators punctuated the hush with venomous snickers. And still she didn’t move. Wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her distress.

“This isn't my fault!” Fergus protested again. When she didn't reply, he kicked at the ground, sending the splinters of a blue bottle spinning. “She said she'd watch! We should go after her! Make her pay!”

A woman in the crowd met Rowena’s eye with pity. Hopeless, that look said. Pathetic. Sad. Lost cause. Every passing second of her sympathy painfully branded judgement upon Rowena’s heart.

It had been nearly nine years since the coven cast her out, but the moment returned to her with such force she nearly buckled over. The air suddenly felt too hot to bare. Around her, faces blurred, becoming muddled reflections of the brothers and sisters who had disowned her.

Back then, she was able to face it with her head held high, still hopeful for the future. Now, she could only turn away, her breaths quick and tight as she struggled to keep her face controlled.

“Mother! Mother!” Fergus shrieked at her back.

Rowena couldn’t shape a reply, her lips numb and alien.

This mouth couldn’t possibly be her own. Her tongue was meant to be a silver dagger, not the limp piece of flesh she now bit between her teeth.

Nor could these legs be the ones that had once carried her through forests. Rowena possessed a natural elegance, the kind of liquid grace found only in the wild, but now she was shuffling, forcing her feet along, her legs stiff and awkward, like the wooden stumps of a marionette.

“Mother! Where are you going? Mother!”

Where…? I used to know. I used to know.

And not only did she not know, she didn’t care. Rowena was tired.

Fergus looked helplessly to the adults around him, but most looked away, uninterested now that the performance had come to a close. The few who remained shook their heads or awkwardly turned aside, as if embarrassed for him. He paced back and forth, hands wringing the hem of his shirt, unsure of whether he should chase after his mother or not.

He decided it would be safer to first collect what could be salvaged. He doubted any of it would be enough to make things right, but that emptiness in his mother’s face unnerved him in a way her anger never had. Dropping to his knees, he started picking through the damp earth, coveting what tiny pinches of powder or herb he could glean from the grit. He had one palm filled when a foot lashed out before his nose, kicking up a spray of dirt that scattered his efforts.

“Unch!” he choked, wiping mud from his face.

“Give it up,” a boy snickered above him. “It’s not a loss. Nobody wants your mother's crap.”

Fergus didn’t need to look to know who was bullying him. The voice alone set his teeth on edge.

“Go away, Gil,” he grumbled, beginning once more to pick at the dirt.

“That’s it? That all you got to say? And here I thought you were gonna cry because we made a mess of things.”

Fergus shot to his feet, but Gil didn’t so much as flinch. From past experience, he knew he had nothing to fear from Rowena’s bastard. A few years gave him the advantage of size in a fight, plus there was his usual pack of four flanking his sides.

The smart thing would’ve been to suck up his losses and get moving, but Fergus’s mouth decided to run before the rest of him could.

“Why’d you break everything?! What’d you do to that lady?” he bellowed.

Gil snorted, and his lackeys, well trained, followed suit. “The lady? We didn't do a thing to her. She left soon as you were out of sight. Probably got a look at what you were selling and decided she didn't want nothing to do with some fake witch’s bastard.”

“Shut up! Liars!”

Fergus wished Gil would leer or get angry, but the older boy grinned as if that was the best joke he had heard in days.

“Liar? What do I got to gain by lying? Everyone knows your mother is a fake. Heard my mum say it plenty. Your mum makes fake medicines then pretends like she's a witch to cheat people into buying them. But there ain't nothing magical about this crap. All that witch stuff is a load of bullshit and everyone knows it.”

Before Fergus could rein in his temper, he spat, “That's not true!”

Witchcraft remained a crime punishable by death, so Fergus should have been relieved by the laughter which erupted around him. Instead, the sound only added to the roar in his ears.

“Is so,” Gil shot back, driving his friends into a chorus of laughter and whiny imitations of Fergus’s objections.

Malcolm - or as Fergus tended to think of him, Lackey No. 2 - stepped forward to play his expected part in the game. “Ha, bet the people who do buy something from Rowena are getting a lot more than what's in those bottles.” Smaller than Gil, he had to make up for what he lacked in stature with an extra share of meanness. “How else you think she ended up with this bastard?”

Fergus cracked his fist against the other boy’s nose so hard that he could feel the bone give.

They all looked stunned as Malcolm doubled over, clutching his face, and if Fergus’s dropped jaw was any indication, he was just as shocked. He learned long ago that it was easier not to retaliate against this group, however, the crunch of bone had delivered a surprisingly sweet rush of satisfaction. A grin began to stretch his cheeks when they fell on him in a flurry punches and kicks.

He lost the sky as they crowded over him, driving him to the ground. They shouted names at him, doing their best to make him hurt, just in case their hands and feet weren’t doing the job well enough, when a man broke through their circle.

“Hey, now! Oi!” he shouted, tossing aside those who weren’t smart enough to scatter. “Where do you think you are? I don’t give a damn what you lot are up to, but take it elsewhere, or I’ll box each of you before dragging you off to your fathers.”

True to his word, as soon it was obvious the boys weren’t going to pounce on Fergus the moment he turned his back, the man strode away.

It would have ended at that if Fergus left well enough alone. Instead, he spoke up, and in doing so, changed the course of all their lives.

“At the clearing!” he hissed at Gil. “After the sun goes down. Come meet me, unless you’re scared.”

“Are you serious?” Gil wiped his palms off on his pants. Fergus’s lip had broken like a grapefruit when he punched him.

“Think you hit his head too hard,” said Malcolm, who sounded as though he were suffering from a hell of a head cold.

“Yeah, forget it, Fergus,” Gil said. “Wasted enough time on you today.”

“You’re just scared!” Fergus challenged. The taste of blood in his mouth spurned him on. “You know my mum’s magic is real. That’s why you don’t have the balls to come. None of ya do.”

“Fuck off, you little-”

“What would your fathers say, if they heard you’re afraid of getting your ass kicked by a bastard-”

Gil rushed him, his fist finding a hold in Fergus’s hair before he could get another word out. Teeth bared, his breath puffed hot and sour in the smaller boy’s face.

“One hour after sunset, then. If you don’t show up, I’ll-”

“I’ll show up,” Fergus said, his own teeth gleaming, but in a bloodied grin. “Don’t you tell no one. If you’re so sure my magic is fake, you don't need to bring any grownups.”

A few of the other boys fidgeted at that, all at once younger and more vulnerable, but if Gil was bothered, he didn’t show it.

“And when you get the shit kicked out of you, you don’t snitch on us.”

“Deal.”

Minutes later, Fergus ran toward home as fast as his legs could carry him. He didn't have much time to prepare. The sun already hung low, the remains of its gold spilling across the fields like a freshly split yolk.

He didn’t feel his fresh bruises, and his tongue savored the tang of the split on his lip. That’d be the last mark Gil and his gang ever gave him. From tonight, everything would be different.

Hate and envy, excitement and glee, they all stirred into an emotional cocktail that made his blood hum. By the time he arrived home, he was drunk on fantasies of the evening to come.

“Mother! Your things - it was those prats, Gil and the others, who smashed them!” he announced, the door crashing closed behind them.

Rowena barely stirred. She sat at their table, hands around a cup of tea that had long gone cold.

“And I suppose you want me to… what?” she asked dully. “Go speak with their parents? Are you so daft that you think they’d give a damn what either of us has to say?”

“No! Course not! I challenged them to meet me later! Against magic, they won’t stand a chance!”

Rowena leapt to her feet, rocking the table. “You did it, then? You discovered your powers?!”

“My powers?” Fergus grinned uneasily. “I don’t have any powers. You do. I’ve seen them.”

She stiffened and fell back into her chair. “I don't know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t lie! I’ve seen you! At night you-”

Rowena spun the cup slowly between her palms, ignoring the angry flush filling his cheeks. “You have always been a dreamer, Fergus. Add that to your drinking and, well, look at you. You can’t tell your dreams from reality.”

“Stop lying!”

“Don’t you speak to me like that. I’ve had enough today and-”

“I should go and tell them what you do!” Fergus took his time, taking pleasure in the comprehension blooming on his mother’s face. “I’ve seen it all! I can tell them all about your spells, and where you hide your books, and-”

“You have no idea what you’re threatening me with, Fergus. Threatening us both with,” Rowena said, her voice paper thin.

He grinned, triumphant. “You’re admitting it!”

“Admitting you're the son of a witch is as good as suicide. Surely you understand that.”

“What? You’re afraid of them?”

“Afraid of these townsfolk? Ha!”

“Then why? Why do we have to listen to them? Why can't we have everything we want?”

“Nothing comes without sacrifice, Fergus. And you don't know the first thing about sacrifice.”

“I think you're making excuses. You’re scared. That’s why you always sneak!”

Rowena’s hands hooked along the edge of the table, her knuckles white. “I’m not afraid of anyone.”

“Then you must be weak!” His mother looked dangerous, but Fergus didn’t care. “All those times they beat me up, and teased me, and you called me weak! I must get it from you. Is that what made my dad run off? Was he ashamed because you're so useless?”

Fergus’s eyes widened as his mother flinched. She had never cared what he had to say before, no matter how mean, but somehow he had just hurt her. That had never seemed possible in the past.

He pressed his back to the door, readying himself for her retaliation, not trusting this newfound weakness to last.

“Very well, Fergus. If this is what you really want.”

She smiled at him, and Fergus was sure he heard her wrong.

“What…?”

“I said I’ll help you get your vengeance on those boys. I’ll show them why you should never trifle with the family of a witch.”

The fear and anger of moments before disappeared as easily as that, and Fergus leapt up and cheered. “Yes! So what do we need to do?”

Rowena shook her head. “You? Nothing, but lead me to the place. I’ll stay out of sight until we’re sure they didn't bring their parents along. And then… well, how about I make what comes next a surprise?”

An unexpected swell of affection washed over him, and Fergus rushed to his mother, throwing his arms about her neck.

“This will be perfect! You’ll see, mum! Things will get better after they learn to fear your power! You’ll be proud of me for tricking them into this fight when it’s all over!”

Rowena stroked his hair.

“I’m always proud of you, Fergus.”

*****
She had never taken him with her at night, and yet Fergus bounded through the ghostly fields as if he knew them by heart. Perhaps it had something to do with his father’s heritage. Maybe the boy was naturally drawn to darkness.

Rowena worried the other children would be cowed by the oppressive shadows, or made uneasy by Fergus’s confidence. She needed them to be fierce. Aggressive.

Bigger emotions mean bigger results, she reminded herself.

Yes, it was back to this. How much time had passed since she had given up on Fergus? Years of coddling and pleading and punishment and play, one after the other in exhausting rotation, had produced no results. When she’d finally abandoned all hope of him possessing magic, she’d also decided it best not to reveal her own powers. At least, not until he came of a better age. As a child, his petulence and big mouth were a threat, as was proven today.

But life, in the usual way, was finding ways to surprise her. Here was her son, not only aware of magic, but willingly embracing it. And perhaps this awareness would awaken within him that which her efforts never could. That, and a little old-fashioned necessity.

Throw a pup in the water and it’ll be sure to paddle.

So, although hope was a dangerous thing, Rowena let it tickle her. Just enough to warm the blood. If Fergus was right, tonight could be the start of a new and better life.

But that was getting ahead of things. First, they had to fix this mess with the children.

By the time they reached the clearing, Fergus’s hair was matted with sweat, his face ruddy. Hardly the look of a warrior, Rowena thought with distaste, but she’d take what she could get. Now if only he would wipe that ridiculous smile off his face. He had chuffed gleefully the whole way here.

Rowena failingly grasped for that same measure of exhilaration. The land hadn’t yet traded its autumn colors for winter, but there was a bite in the air that warned of a harsh winter to come. It reminded her too much of another night, from a lifetime ago.

“I think I hear them coming!” Fergus whispered, scrambling ahead.

As Fergus ran to the peak of a hillock, she stayed near the line of the trees, for now only observing, as they had agreed. Fergus expected her to make a grand entrance once the boys were assembled, probably imagining hell raining down from the heavens and-

…They were here.

*****
The boys had been laughing when they first arrived, but the smug pleasure on Fergus’s face unsettled them into silence. They followed Gil’s earlier instruction, forming a circle around the bastard (“In case he tries to run off”), but no one thought he looked ready to flee.

“Surprised you actually showed up, bastard,” Gil said, sneering.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Fergus grinned, arms akimbo, and waited for his mother to enact their well-deserved vengeance upon the boys. Then Gil’s fist connected with his mouth, reopening the split from earlier and dislodging two teeth. Fergus coughed them into the dirt.

“Moth-!” he tried to shout, but another punch knocked the sound from him in a whush.

Fergus collapsed and squeezed his eyes shut, body curled into the fetal position. The pain kept him from focusing on any one thought for long, but he felt certain the plan was off. His mother wasn’t going to help him. His only comfort was in knowing that Gil and the others would soon leave him, their good sport lacking now that he was down.

But their usual laughter didn’t come, and their feet marched about him, circling.

“Get ‘im up.”

Fergus started to scream. The boy was never a fighter. Even in the best of times, when faced with an opponent as scrawny as himself, he still preferred flight to fight. Now, not only was he outnumbered and outmatched, but his muscles felt soft and unreliable. It was like a nightmare, where no matter how much he commanded his legs to move, he couldn’t so much as twitch, left paralyzed and helpless to his fate.

They lashed out with a rage that had nothing to do with him. A town’s worth of fear and hate, coupled with the anger of their own personal troubles and tragedies, all crashing into him with hard knuckles and jagged heels. Someone ripped him up by the hair, and there was a meaty thud against his nose, driving him back to the ground. That was probably Malcolm, Fergus realized. Fair enough.

Scornfully, he thought how stupid they were. Didn't they realize they had to pace the blows, or one would be dulled to the next?

Then something in his arm snapped, and he had no room to think of anything else.

*****
He didn’t know if Gil called the others off, or if the others had pried Gil off of him. What he did know was that the last of the sun’s heat had long since leeched from the ground, and he was grateful for the cool grass against his face. His heart was beating too loudly in his chest, swallowing up his thoughts, these hills, the very stars above with its awkward ba-ba-bump-badda-ba-ba-bump. It sounded like a moth beating against a window, frantic to find escape. He was trying to remember if his heart always sounded this way when a figure blocked out the moon.

Rowena didn’t touch him. She just stood there, staring, as if he were the one who had let her down. The gravity of her betrayal kept him pressed to the ground more than the agony devouring his body.

Slowly, he took the sight of her in. Rowena’s dress was still muddy from earlier, but perfectly smooth. There was no sign she had been wringing its folds, not a single hint to suggest she had cared whatsoever when his bones and skin were being battered and torn.

And yet he still held out hope, wishing for… what? Tears on her cheeks? A trembling lip?

He knew now more than ever that he would never have those touches the other children shared with their parents, but that was okay. It’d be all right. If only he could have a single sign.

Love. Just a speck, just a shadow of the emotion. Even if a lie.

Pretend for me.

Pretend you love me.

But Rowena’s face was empty.

“You lied to me,” he finally mumbled, fighting to force the words past split and swollen lips.

“It’s not the first time today,” Rowena replied.

She turned and left him, both silently hating the other.

*****
The boys ran along the path to the village, carried by a high that tasted sweet as they cheered, but hot and poisonous when sucking the next breath down. It felt good to be strong and brave, so long as they didn’t stop to consider who they had stood up against. They hadn’t beaten a short, stout boy several years their younger, but a blight on the community. A hated bastard. A self-proclaimed son of a witch. Theirs was a celebration of being stronger and better.

Gil lead them like a torch in the night, vibrant with youth, the others only shadows at his heels. When he whooped, they echoed his cry, and when he skidded to a stop, they jostled one another to take position at his sides.

“Hey. You’re the one from earlier!” he shouted. A woman was standing in the middle of the road. She wore her cloak and hood as if it were the thick of winter, the material pulled high over her head, obscuring her face. Despite that, Gil recognized her by the silvery blonde hair, unique for this area, curling over her shoulders. “You’re the one who told Fergus you’d watch his stuff before running off.” Gil and the boys laughed. “Didn’t think adults played tricks like that.”

Cranberry lips curved. “Adults have had far more years than children to perfect their tricks. As I’m about to demonstrate. Would you like to help?”

“What? You’re playing another trick on Fergus?” Malcolm chimed in.

The pack of boys smiled as one.

“Yes,” the woman said. “Him and his mother, in fact. The best trick yet.”

“Then yeah, we want to help!”

Olivette smiled at the boys.

“I’m very pleased to hear it.”