Moon Witch

Chapter 7 is in the works! Thank you all for your continued readership. Enjoy.

Byrne wakes me early the next morning, leaving me feeling barely rested. Committed to going before anyone else would be able to see, we head to Hes's station in the palace and wait, hidden away, for the man to show up. When he does and we are reunited, he embraces me tightly, my face pressed against his neck. "Aeya, I have been worried for you."

Byrne hands me off with a reassuring smile, leaving me and Hes. I do the same thing I did to Byrne yesterday and tell the old healer of everything that has happened so far. He nods along the whole time, not saying much, though like Byrne, I can feel sadness emanating from him.

"You have been through much," says Hes. "I am glad that you find me trustworthy. As I said, you are like the daughter I cannot have. I will do what I can to help you return to your Era."

Hot tears sting my eyes. "You have no idea what that means."

"For now, we must get you to safety."

I nod. "Is there such a place?"

Unlike Byrne, Hes lives much further away from the palace. He pulls me up onto a horse and we set off to the outskirts of the palace grounds, and then beyond. "I live a bit away," he says.

I don't know for how long we ride, but eventually we come to a very small home. Like the other Gra'marian homes, its walls are various hues of sun-bleached reds and browns. I can see a garden just at the side of the structure.

"It is not much, but you can remain here for the time being. I will be hard at work thinking of how we can help you return home in the meantime." And so the older man bids me goodbye and returns to the palace, giving me full reign of his home.

I'm more tired than excited to sightsee, though, and I fall fast asleep in a corner, not quite rested from my short sleep over the night. My dreams are filled with ephemeral images of the past weeks, being ripped away from Era, limitless pleasure given by demons, the beautiful city of Gra'marah, and the dark forest surrounding my Sorrean home.

I wake in a cold sweat, the dusky skies outside telling me I slept for most of the day. My eyes feel crusty from sleeping for much too long.

"Mm." I look up to see an unfamiliar man. I have never seen someone's skin so dark. I try not to let my eyes linger too long lest I be rude.

"Hello," I say in the little accented Gra'marian Hes has taught me and sit up on the lounge I'd been sleeping on.

"Hello," the man greets me back. He is tall and lanky and stands over me now, holding a steaming cup. He begins to say something else, but I shake my head.

"No... No..." My head still feels fuzzy and I can't remember the words to tell this man that I can't speak Gra'marian.

He smiles at me in a friendly way and just gestures me to sit back. He puts the cup on a small table next to me and indicates that it's for me to drink. I thank him, again cringing at my accented Gra'marian.

He just nods and shuffles away. He seemed to want to say more or do more.

Resigning to wait until Hes can play interpreter, I focus my attentions on the cup next to me. It's hot to the point I can't hold it comfortably, and resign to using the thin fabric of my robe to offset some of the scalding heat.

It smells very herbal and not so pleasant, the steam curling up from the dark brown liquid. Yet, a hint of a spice that reminds me of home hits my nose.

The tall man that had been present when I woke up is now gone, perhaps in another part of Hes's home. I wonder who he is and if there is anyone else in here. Whenever I asked Hes about his family or outside life during our trainings, he would divert my attention with jokes until I learned to stop asking. After all, I wouldn't like someone to keep prying about Era and my passed parents if I were obviously uncomfortable with the line of questioning.

I take a sip of the hot drink, reassuring myself that it would just be one of those items that smell much worse than it tastes.

"Ugh!" I can't help my noise of disgust as I poke my tongue forward, wishing that the small sip I took never hit my taste buds. The temperature of the drink must be to take away some of the shocking bad taste, which is bitter and pungent.

I set the cup aside, wishing I could erase the lingering bitterness. Most of the food in this desert land has been delicious, though much more rich, spiced, and heavy than the food I'm used to eating back home. However, there have been some items that makes me think that Gra'marians are of a different species.

I get up, for the first time allowing myself to observe my surroundings. Much like the palace, there is no shortage of decorations which adorn the walls. However, I can see that many of the items aren't completely Gra'marian. Some I recognize in the distinctly Gra'marian style, like the hanging woven tapestries. I even see some wrought sculptures in the Sorrean style that are popular among many of our nobles. The vast majority, though, I can't seem to place, much less recognize.

Something in particular catches my attention, something that almost looks like a necklace, but is much wider than the necklaces I've normally seen. It is made of a gold metal chain, with small colorful flowers attached that look to be crafted out of stone.

"It's from the country of Benam," says a familiar voice.

"Gods, Hes! You scared me."

He laughs, coming forward and plucking it up and putting it in my hand. "This is from my days as a merchant. Benam is known for its annual Festival of the Hills. They like to celebrate the coming of life and the transition from youth to adulthood. It is tradition for a father to give his daughter one of these before the festivities begin."

"Does it do anything?" I ask, turning it over.

"I don't believe so. More than anything, it is meant to be a symbol of courage. I've never actually been to the Festival of the Hills, but from what I've heard, the youths require more courage than we outsiders may think."

"But why? What have you heard?"

He shrugs. "I do not know much, either. The people of Benam are quite secretive. Not many actually know what happens during the Festival of the Hills. Either way, this little trinket supposedly supports the young women who take part in the festivities."

"Interesting," I say, and put it down where it rested before.

"Aeya, you did not drink your tea." Hes brings over the cup to me, which is still steaming. After my first time sampling it, the steam looks more sinister than ever.

"What is it?" I frown. "I didn't want to drink it, the taste doesn't agree with me."

Hes now places it back into my hands, much to my dismay. "You will want to drink it. I have prepared for you the barren tea. The earlier you begin to drink it, the better."

"It is the tea for-"

"Yes." He nods with a pointed look. "You were with our King Azrath for a few days. It is best to begin drinking it the next day, but whenever one can will work."

Drug-fogged memories of the king plunging into me flash by and I resolve to drink as much barren tea as I must, no matter the taste. That resolve falls apart slightly with my first sip of the slowly cooling drink, but I grimace and swallow it all down the best I can.

"Who was the man who gave me this drink?" I ask as we sit down.

"Ah," Hes smiles, uncharacteristically breaking eye contact from me. Do I detect a hint of nervous energy from him? "Awvag!"

The tall man from earlier appears, and Hes says something to him in Gra'marian before turning his attention back towards me. He takes a deep breath and then pushes the air back out with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Awvag is my partner."

I understand why he seem so nervous, now. Hes has reached out to grab Awvag's hand and now looks at me expectantly.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," I say, even if in Sorrean. I'd heard that some nobles in the kingdom of Sorreas are attracted to others of the same sex, but I'd never been one to have much of an opinion on the subject. I'd heard some whispers about it from other girls when I was very young and around others my age. Mostly they would say that such a thing sounds quite unappealing, even disgusting. I knew from those interactions that these relationships are mostly frowned upon, at least in Sorrean circles. I wondered how different things are for Hes and Awvag here, in Gra'marah.

Hes translates my words for Awvag, who smiles and responds. The portly man barks out a laugh.

"He says likewise, and hopes you enjoyed the tea." I grimace at my slowly-emptying cup. "I did not tell him about the taste. He is not making fun at you."

"I'm doing my best to finish it," I say, acting hurt. But I can hardly keep the smile off my face as Hes makes a face at the tea in my hand. I can't keep the thought from my head and say, "Don't tell me you've had it before. Have you been pregnant?"

"I have! I have! Of course I had to, with all the complaints I've received of the taste." A tear rolls down his cheek as he laughs out a translation to Awvag, who smiles good-naturedly.

---

Hes has gone to sleep, saying that he has work to do early in the morning.

He tried to insist that I take their bed, but I don't have the heart to leave Hes and Awvag without a suitable surface to sleep on. Apart from the fact, of course, that imagining Awvag's tall form draped over the little lounge I slept on the night before just about kills me.

I sit down on my makeshift bed now, continuing to read the curious journal while trying to stomach the little of the barren tea I have left to finish. By the time I'd been locked away by Azrath, I had just begun reading the more interesting portions of the journal. Now, it's just the exciting portions at the end of the whole book left - though whether it's the good or the bad kind of excitement, I really don't know.

I'm filled with trepidation at the thought of what these last few pages hold. Yet when I have this odd bundle of papers in my grasp, I feel the familiar sickened excitement that flushes through my gut. I trace the letters that have been marked into the cover, hold my breath, and flip through to the very end to read through the next section.

Section VIII.

Life Magic.

It took a long time for me to gather my knowledge of life magic. There isn't much research there, nor are there many of us left in this world who have a working knowledge of how it may be reigned in and what it makes one capable of doing. The truth is, life magic is at the very core of everything. Every piece of magic stems from this unstable and volatile give and take of life. Where there is give somewhere, there will be take elsewhere. For example, think of the root of potion making. It's not just the reaction of a desert fawn's heart with water from the Clera Oasis; it's the life energy, the life magic that was in that desert fawn that you're squeezing, crushing, harvesting, into your measly love potion.

That's why all of us magic beings - witches, mages, enchantri, other magical creatures - have to be careful when manipulating at all the life magic that is in this world. For the most common magical acts like potion making or healing or magical combat, this manipulation of life magic is near negligible.

Here, a note was scrawled in the margin, written uneven and cramped, as if the writer had added as an afterthought:

At least to those of us with the power to control bend life magic to our will!

However, when it comes to

real

life magic, manipulating life at our simplest whims... Well, it's not for the faint of heart. Because it makes you less human. If you'd like, you can knock down armies by pulling their life magic from their bodies. Hell, you can even breathe the life back into someone (would not recommend, though, if just from my personal experiments).

But then again, if you're reading this journal now, you're probably who - or what - I think you are. Consequently, you may be able to recreate the steps I took if you so wish it. I do not know that I would recommend these means, but it's the only way I found to do what had to be done. I will explain what it truly means to manipulate life:

And here, the page ends. I look down at the hurried and sloping writing that fills the page and think about whether I have the courage to read on or not. The bumps on the back of my arms have risen. I'm acutely aware of the silence that's heavy over Hes's home, apart from the flame of the candle by my side that is dancing, crackling every so often.

Yet before I know it, my perverse curiosity has my fingers sliding under the page to flip it over and I'm reading on.

I found a way to harvest life magic.

The way to life magic is through death. Funny.

You can find dead animals, dead humans, whatever it is, and then harvest their life fragments. When you find that dead being, you need to press your hands against that lifeless body and rip the remaining fragments of their life from their soul. They may be dead, but every body that once held any life will have those fragments. Over time, they can accumulate to huge amounts, meaning that your own power will snowball. The more life fragments you have within you, the more easily you can commit the act of ripping out that life magic... even if the person hasn't quite died yet.

As a forewarning, though, the amount of power you can take from these dead bodies is far less worth than the time it takes to find those fragment hosts in the first place.

By far, the most efficient way to grow your power quickly is to kill them first. You have to be the one to kill them. Be the one to rip most of their life from their bodies before anyone else can.

The last few sentences are written nearly illegibly, the writing looking like it had been engraved into the paper with passion. The writing of the next paragraph is much neater and in a different color, as if the writer had left off and continued at a later time. I rubbed at the lighter writing with a frown, the hair up and down my arms prickling uncomfortably, as I continue to read.

I should mention that once someone's life is completely separated from their body, they cannot return. They can never be restored. Conversely, if someone still has life within them, any life at all, then they may be brought back to life. But be forewarned: do not try to breathe life into an incomplete body, nor should you try to breathe incomplete life into a body. Believe me, not the prettiest sight. Hell of a time trying to clean up the mess, too.

It is also important to note that not anyone is capable of playing with life magic in this way. Not everyone is capable of even beginning to sense the life fragments within a human. If anything, no one is: I have never been able to explain my process to another. At this point, no one cares enough, is brave enough, or is foolish enough to ask me to share my knowledge on this subject.

I put the journal down and leaned back into the lounge, my head feeling too full of knowledge I didn't ask for. Perhaps I was asking for it though, by reading through these ending sections anyways. I shake my head slightly to myself, wishing to stop my head from spinning with the new information I've learned. I try to once again distract myself with all of the interesting collectables in the room that Hes has accumulated over the years as a merchant.

I look down at the little black book in my hand, and then place it down on the table next to my seating, pushing it away from me. Perhaps this is enough reading for one night.

Then I pick up the little journal again, the knowledge there are only a couple pages left sitting uncomfortably in the back of my mind.

The very last section is titled "Section IX: Use of Life Magic". It's written in the same hand, albeit again looking more frantic, as if the author were in a great rush to get all their thoughts out onto the page. The contents lay out tips and tricks, methods of using life magic in the way that was described in prior pages.

Part of me wants to put the book down and forget about what I'm reading (essentially, a more detailed description of how to take someone's life away), but I feel the need to know. I swallow down the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and read quickly, hoping to just commit the knowledge to memory without having to digest it much.

On the very last page, after the writer concludes their thoughts, is a blank page. It's blank, save for two words I don't recognize:

areana noressa.

It's written in the same script as before, with the same frantic air.

Yet, something about it bothers me. The first time I'd opened the journal it had started written in a different language, then I'd seen it all in Sorrean for my reading pleasure. That was already a sign to me that there is something odd about the contents penned within it. Given that the journal had been translated, it is odd that there is only this one page still in its original Gra'marian.

I make a mental note to ask Hes about these words the next time that I can, but it won't leave my mind. I wonder if I've seen it or heard these words before, but no matter how much I wrack my brains, I can't think of anything familiar. Everything else in this journal had been so deliberately written or so straightforward, that just these two words are highlighted in this way seems odd to me.

I lean back into the lounge, thinking that I should get some rest - my body has been healing slowly over the past day or so. Though I still feel a bit sore and stiff, the worst of it has faded with the amount of sleeping I did. The only thing is the welts on my bottom which have not yet healed. Hes told me earlier to relax and that he will work on putting together a plan to get me out.

Though, now, finally conscious, by myself, and truly resting in the silence, my thoughts wander. Despite all my body has been going through recently - my stomach clenches as I remember what happened with Azrath and his harem - my heart feels more empty than anything. It's as if the anger that had been building as he humiliated me in front of his sex slaves, the pain dealt to my bottom with his switch, the loss of my autonomy through the drugs they'd fed me against my will... It's as if all of those feelings have faded away and now I'm left feeling like an exhausted shell in both body and mind.

I have naught to do but sigh when I think of what's back home for me. It's not quite so much that there's nothing left, or my humble home is lacking, or that I don't love my sister. A lump rises in my throat and I try to push the thought of Era out of my mind. Maybe it's the fact that I've changed all too much. If my sister were to know what's happened in this desert land and how I've climaxed at the hands of these Gra'marians. Or even worse, enjoyed the feelings ripped from my body as Azrath pushed and pulled out of my wetness...

"Gods," I whisper, throwing my head back onto the lounge's armrest. My cheeks burn at the very thought and I hate that something in my body twinges with arousal.

Perhaps it's just that I've changed. I've changed more than after my parents passed. I'd helped raise Era even when they were alive, but something about being carried away to a foreign land and having your body used for pleasure changes your perspective in life. I remember the girl who had been so ecstatic when she saw the moon-glow and had taken it to her shed. That girl who, retrospectively seems so much more innocent than the Selene I am today.

Something else bothers me, too: General Erik. At one point, I saw him as an ally, someone who I could rely on. At one point, even, I could admit that I felt attracted to him. But there are so many conflicting feelings I have about him. The dream I had of the two of us together proves that. Am I just suffering from Stockholm Syndrome? Or are my standards so low that the first man who didn't untie his robes immediately after seeing me to take advantage of my powerlessness is favorable?