The Witch Son
and a swift justice to those that got away with it
Lady
;; Veora
“Stallions and geldings will cut and run if something spooks them. Even the well trained ones. Mares however… mares will take care of you as well as you take care of them. They’re smarter and meaner and many a stupid man does not prefer them. But mark my words, I've never seen a stallion bring an unconscious man home. I have seen a mare do it though.”
Lady Veora contemplated what her father, the most honorable man she’d ever known, had told her as she fed her mare, Lady Gray, the last bits of sugar in her open palm. Lady Gray was her favorite horse and the only one in these stables that didn’t really get ridden so much as she got spoiled and groomed and taken out to run free. For Veora was not a great rider. That didn’t mean she couldn’t adore the mare gifted to her though. That didn’t mean she wasn’t attached to her pretty dappled gray companion. Her white mane and tail was braided with ribbons lovingly, as if to say this mare was truly a lady and not a beast of burden.
She could choose another, Veora thought bitterly, any one in these stalls would do. Perhaps even her father’s. Yes, maybe the message would be more chilling if she chose her father’s big black destrier, she thought meanly. His was the thick head she needed to get through to.
But no.
The dagger behind her back glinted coldly in the moonlight.
The sacrifice had to be Veora’s. Or else it would not matter to Odin. Or more importantly, those who worshiped him and his pantheon. It’s not a sacrifice if it does not ache, is what he had told her.
How much more would Odin demand? Had the life behind her not been one of a hundred thousand sacrifices already? Hadn’t the babe in her womb been enough?
It had been only enough to get her here, she reminded herself. This was a new beginning, despite the weight she felt of her old life. The sacrifices made now had to be more pointed, under her control, and of her own volition. Unlike last time, when all that she’d lost had been taken from her and she was made to be a passive presence in it all. A hundred thousand sacrifices.
So how many more sacrifices would she be asked to give in this life? One hundred thousand more’, Odin would probably respond pitilessly. She would have to make one hundred thousand sacrifices more to achieve her goals this time around. There would be no next. He’d been clear on that. She had one more chance. More than most get.
It was a good thing she was not soft anymore, not like in her last life.
The dagger glinted again, and her mare gave a sharp wheeze, leaning forward, stunned. Veora had been worried that Lady Grey might scream as she died. A horse’s scream was sharp and loud. But another surprisingly quiet and airy wheeze was Lady Grey’s only dying noise as she kneeled and bled out. The dark and sticky blood pouring forth and pooling around Veora’s bare feet and skirt hem.
Veora allowed it, not moving out of the way of the mess, the messiness was the point. She plunged her hands into it, using some to draw a line across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. The rest for a gorey effect on her hands. She’d abandoned her shoes somewhere on the cold ground outside, and would be walking back to the feast, her birthday feast, barefoot. It was towards the end, when over half the people in attendance had gone to bed already, especially the young. But her re-entrance was sure to end it entirely.
One would think that when creating a scene like this that you’d benefit best by doing it at the height of the feast, when everyone was dancing and sober enough to remember every detail. But you’d be wrong. Eyesight might create belief, but word of mouth created myth and legend and rumor. Obscurity could make you bigger and scarier and more divine than you actually are.
She’d drawn inspiration from the amusement she used to feel at the stories about the young king of the north, raging through battle on the back of a giant black bear. The southern court had created a fearsome legend out of the brother she knew to be only a mortal man.
Those that would see tonight’s drama would feel privileged, those who had not would pester them for details and create their own. Around each other they’d spin until an image of her would arise. A messiah of Odin. A prophetess. She that the stars fell for, for ten whole nights.
That part she hadn’t been conscious for. Apparently it had scared her family, especially the little ones. She’d been unconscious and deathly cold for ten nights. And for ten nights the sky had rained stars in the dark night sky. It was Odin’s magic turning back time, she knew, but to everyone else it had been a frighteningly strange coincidence. Ten nights for ten years.
She could sacrifice a babe in her belly for that, and her favorite mare on her birthday feast.
Even if her father did not believe her ruse tonight, he could not ignore what his people believed. He would have to hesitate when the letter from the Emperor came.
Her feet were numb to the biting cold by the time she reached her birthday feast, she let the numbness spread into her veins as she strode in with the bearing of the Queen she once was. Clutching her bloody dagger and glowering straight ahead.
She squared her shoulders and shoved past the first few people in her way, soon, they took notice of her and scrambled away in shock.
Someone must have alerted the room, because the music stopped.
Veora didn’t know who, her ears were ringing with adrenalin and some strange spell that had come over her. As if her body believed too that she was a prophetess who came to warn the north of its impending doom.
She stopped in front of the high table, where her father now stood in shock next to his alarmed wife, her stepmother, Lady Davina.
Veora pointed her dagger at her father and bellowed in the deepest and clearest voice she could muster.
“The south carries a false song of the sea’s treachery, do not dance to the song’s tune and betray the boy you raised. This, Odin warns, would be your first mistake of many.”
Whispers, uncomfortable shifts, scoffs, little irritating noises that Veora heard around her that did not matter right now. What mattered most was that she heard and felt someone shifting behind her, a little too close.
“Veora-” Her father began, reaching out towards her with a frightened look in his eyes. But before he could say more she quickly turned the knife on herself, threatening to cut her own throat.
Everyone froze, including whomever was behind her.
“Do not ignore Odin’s warning, or you’ll spill more northern blood than was spilt tonight.” Her father’s hand twitched, and the person behind her lunged, expecting a struggle but finding none.
Veora had meant to pretend to faint, to ignore the sting of where she pressed her dagger and go limp. But instead her faint is very real. That strange sensation of a spell coming over her forcing her to close her eyes and lose focus.
Lady Davina screamed, and the last thing Veora thinks is that whoever is holding her feels warm, and reminds her of her late husband.
Lady Veora contemplated what her father, the most honorable man she’d ever known, had told her as she fed her mare, Lady Gray, the last bits of sugar in her open palm. Lady Gray was her favorite horse and the only one in these stables that didn’t really get ridden so much as she got spoiled and groomed and taken out to run free. For Veora was not a great rider. That didn’t mean she couldn’t adore the mare gifted to her though. That didn’t mean she wasn’t attached to her pretty dappled gray companion. Her white mane and tail was braided with ribbons lovingly, as if to say this mare was truly a lady and not a beast of burden.
She could choose another, Veora thought bitterly, any one in these stalls would do. Perhaps even her father’s. Yes, maybe the message would be more chilling if she chose her father’s big black destrier, she thought meanly. His was the thick head she needed to get through to.
But no.
The dagger behind her back glinted coldly in the moonlight.
The sacrifice had to be Veora’s. Or else it would not matter to Odin. Or more importantly, those who worshiped him and his pantheon. It’s not a sacrifice if it does not ache, is what he had told her.
How much more would Odin demand? Had the life behind her not been one of a hundred thousand sacrifices already? Hadn’t the babe in her womb been enough?
It had been only enough to get her here, she reminded herself. This was a new beginning, despite the weight she felt of her old life. The sacrifices made now had to be more pointed, under her control, and of her own volition. Unlike last time, when all that she’d lost had been taken from her and she was made to be a passive presence in it all. A hundred thousand sacrifices.
So how many more sacrifices would she be asked to give in this life? One hundred thousand more’, Odin would probably respond pitilessly. She would have to make one hundred thousand sacrifices more to achieve her goals this time around. There would be no next. He’d been clear on that. She had one more chance. More than most get.
It was a good thing she was not soft anymore, not like in her last life.
The dagger glinted again, and her mare gave a sharp wheeze, leaning forward, stunned. Veora had been worried that Lady Grey might scream as she died. A horse’s scream was sharp and loud. But another surprisingly quiet and airy wheeze was Lady Grey’s only dying noise as she kneeled and bled out. The dark and sticky blood pouring forth and pooling around Veora’s bare feet and skirt hem.
Veora allowed it, not moving out of the way of the mess, the messiness was the point. She plunged her hands into it, using some to draw a line across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. The rest for a gorey effect on her hands. She’d abandoned her shoes somewhere on the cold ground outside, and would be walking back to the feast, her birthday feast, barefoot. It was towards the end, when over half the people in attendance had gone to bed already, especially the young. But her re-entrance was sure to end it entirely.
One would think that when creating a scene like this that you’d benefit best by doing it at the height of the feast, when everyone was dancing and sober enough to remember every detail. But you’d be wrong. Eyesight might create belief, but word of mouth created myth and legend and rumor. Obscurity could make you bigger and scarier and more divine than you actually are.
She’d drawn inspiration from the amusement she used to feel at the stories about the young king of the north, raging through battle on the back of a giant black bear. The southern court had created a fearsome legend out of the brother she knew to be only a mortal man.
Those that would see tonight’s drama would feel privileged, those who had not would pester them for details and create their own. Around each other they’d spin until an image of her would arise. A messiah of Odin. A prophetess. She that the stars fell for, for ten whole nights.
That part she hadn’t been conscious for. Apparently it had scared her family, especially the little ones. She’d been unconscious and deathly cold for ten nights. And for ten nights the sky had rained stars in the dark night sky. It was Odin’s magic turning back time, she knew, but to everyone else it had been a frighteningly strange coincidence. Ten nights for ten years.
She could sacrifice a babe in her belly for that, and her favorite mare on her birthday feast.
Even if her father did not believe her ruse tonight, he could not ignore what his people believed. He would have to hesitate when the letter from the Emperor came.
Her feet were numb to the biting cold by the time she reached her birthday feast, she let the numbness spread into her veins as she strode in with the bearing of the Queen she once was. Clutching her bloody dagger and glowering straight ahead.
She squared her shoulders and shoved past the first few people in her way, soon, they took notice of her and scrambled away in shock.
Someone must have alerted the room, because the music stopped.
Veora didn’t know who, her ears were ringing with adrenalin and some strange spell that had come over her. As if her body believed too that she was a prophetess who came to warn the north of its impending doom.
She stopped in front of the high table, where her father now stood in shock next to his alarmed wife, her stepmother, Lady Davina.
Veora pointed her dagger at her father and bellowed in the deepest and clearest voice she could muster.
“The south carries a false song of the sea’s treachery, do not dance to the song’s tune and betray the boy you raised. This, Odin warns, would be your first mistake of many.”
Whispers, uncomfortable shifts, scoffs, little irritating noises that Veora heard around her that did not matter right now. What mattered most was that she heard and felt someone shifting behind her, a little too close.
“Veora-” Her father began, reaching out towards her with a frightened look in his eyes. But before he could say more she quickly turned the knife on herself, threatening to cut her own throat.
Everyone froze, including whomever was behind her.
“Do not ignore Odin’s warning, or you’ll spill more northern blood than was spilt tonight.” Her father’s hand twitched, and the person behind her lunged, expecting a struggle but finding none.
Veora had meant to pretend to faint, to ignore the sting of where she pressed her dagger and go limp. But instead her faint is very real. That strange sensation of a spell coming over her forcing her to close her eyes and lose focus.
Lady Davina screamed, and the last thing Veora thinks is that whoever is holding her feels warm, and reminds her of her late husband.
coded by reveriee.
