Witch, Wolf, Woods

CHAPTER 8: SIX YEARS LATER

The only thing the room didn't boast was a mirror, but that was on purpose. Katja knew what she looked like; she didn't need to be reminded of her deformed face any more than she already was. Her bedroom was meant to be a safe place, where she could be herself without fear of what others would say. She had enough reminders throughout the day of how different she was from everyone else.

Katja quickly changed from her sleeping gown into a simple dress with sleeves long enough to reach her wrists. She would roll them up once she was alone in her workspace, but she kept her arms covered any time she went out in public.

After pulling on thick woolen stockings, she slipped her feet into her boots, before working a comb through her long hair, which was so fine it tangled easily on its own, often making it look as though she were practicing knot magic favored by some members of the Hexen.

The spelled lighting dimmed as Katja left her room and stepped into the hallway, which, thanks to the early hour, was blessedly empty. Ducking her head so her long hair obscured at least part of her face, she hurried down to the lower levels where those who cooked would already be preparing the day's food.

At least I have a skill, Katja reminded herself as she strode down the corridor, doing her best to avoid making any noise.

She couldn't imagine what life would be like if she didn't have her metallurgy to lose herself in. Metal always made her feel safe; it didn't judge, it didn't stare, and it also didn't ask questions about her past she couldn't answer. While most people thought of metal as hard and inflexible, working with it had taught Katja how truly pliable and giving the material really was.

Metal wanted people to know its secrets, which was ironic since it was often used to keep secret things hidden, but metal, by virtue of its composition, remembered, and once someone knew how to hear its language, it was always more than eager to share its experiences.

Sometimes Katja thought that's why she and metal got on so well together—in an odd way, they provided each other with companionship. While it was limited, it was most definitely mutual, as working with metal was never one-sided...she learned as she was guided, and once the metal recognized a kindred spirit, it allowed her to influence her creations, putting some of herself into the pieces, as well.

Sometimes it felt as if her hands couldn't keep up with the shapes forming in her mind, but she did her best, and the results continued to be ever more impressive.

Katja had always thought it somewhat odd that she found herself drawn to creating jewelry when she wasn't especially fond of wearing it, but perhaps that was a good thing, making it easier to part with her creations instead of wishing she could keep them all.

While she always felt a twinge of sadness at finishing a piece after spending so much time with it, she also felt excited at knowing it would be welcomed into someone else's home, and imagined it becoming a treasured item, perhaps even a family heirloom, passed down from mother to daughter.

Katja made her way down the winding corridor, grateful the stone walls were heated by a combination of piping in water from the nearby hot springs and spells cast by the inhabitants. She wouldn't go to the communal dining area; even this early, there would be travelers present, waiting to speak with the witches about something or perhaps simply hoping for their first glimpse of a witch. Better to go straight to the kitchen and take breakfast to her workroom.

Many tapestry-decorated passageways later, Katja reached the kitchen, pausing on the last step and peeking around the doorway to see who was present. Her shoulders quickly relaxed—only two women were there, neither of whom presented more difficulty than any other social interaction.

Ducking into the room, she hurried over to a basket of apples, slipping one into each of her front pockets.

One of the women—Tante Frieda—turned around, her mouth pulling back into tight-lipped frown as she prepared to unleash a lecture about coming to the kitchen uninvited, but when she saw it was Katja, her expression shifted into an apologetic smile. Without a word, she quickly turned back to the pot bubbling in one of the many fireplaces carved into the stone wall.

Katja ducked her head, trying to pretend she hadn't seen the flash of pity in Tante Frieda's eyes, and instead focused on wrapping two rye breadrolls and some thick slices of cheese into a cloth napkin.

As she made her way back up the stairs, she heard Tante Frieda say to the other woman, "Poor girl. It's such a pity."

Katja clenched her jaw, forcing down the mixture of embarrassment and anger swelling inside of her. She knew people only saw the scar on her face when they looked at her, but she hated being reminded of it.

(Artwork by BrianTucker from Pixabay)