(WP) A Feast and a Tale
“My parents were right. I never should’ve taken this job. Who am I but a farm boy? How could I think someone like me could change the world, change history? I’m a failure.”
The boy throws his weapon, a sharp sword, at my feet, surrendering.
“I give up,” He says quietly, his voice thick, as though he is on the verge of tears. “I never should’ve taken this job.”
Though I am his enemy, I cannot help but feel pity in my old, dead heart for the child.
“Perhaps a story over a hot meal will revive your broken spirits, boy.” I say, standing up from my throne and beckoning him closer. He approaches, but his eyes narrow. “How do I know that this isn’t a trick?”
“You don’t. Either you break your fast with me and hear a story, or you stay here in my throne room, feeling sorry for yourself.”
I turn away and summon one of my servants, a goblin in a dirty toque, and give whispered instructions. She nods, smiling a wickedly fanged grin at my unexpected guest. She disappears into the kitchen, barking orders in her guttural language. I summon another servant, this one a redcap.
“Will you please make the boy presentable before our meal? And do be gentle, he is our guest, not a prisoner.” Without a word, the redcap marches the boy toward the baths, his protests bouncing off of the stone walls.
**
The table is set for two, and my creatures populate the rest of the empty seats, creating a grotesque parody of a feast. The wayward farm boy sits down. His face is clean, and he is dressed in a silk suit, a bleeding-heart bloom pinned to his lapel. He watches me carefully, eyes sweeping the table.
“You said that you were going to tell me a story,” He says quietly, and in the background, my servants begin serving the food: rich, dark bread slathered with butter, bean soup flavored with oxtail and wine, a whole haunch of roast beef served with pan drippings. “I’m listening.”
He grows so quiet that all I can hear is the quiet scrape of cutlery against china I haven’t used in years, and without further ado, I begin my tale.
**
“I was not always The Dread Witch of the Bane Lands, boy. I was born to a rich nobleman and a palace servant, and after being left by my father, my mother sought to teach me all she knew. She taught me to read the stars and to harness the powers of nature and the elements… For good or ill, the choice was mine. That was all my mother could give me, a choice.”
“But then my father brought her back to the palace on the pretense that his first wife had passed away, and that he wished to marry her. He demanded I be brought also; he’d had no children, so with the woman’s death, I would be declared legitimate.”
The boy is silent, watching me, eyes wide and face pale, as if he’s dreading my next words.
“But it was all a lie. He had my mother killed to pay recompense to his wife, to erase the indiscretion of his straying. He agreed to kill the woman who birthed me, but he refused to kill me. Instead, he tried to raise me in the ways of the court. It went well for him, I suppose, until I decided to take my mother’s legacy.”
“At sixteen, I was betrothed to an old lord, sold to the highest bidder as if I was nothing more than chattel.”
The farm boy has cleaned his plate, and my servants quickly replenish it.
“What happened next?” He asks quietly, swallowing hard.
“I killed him on our wedding night, when he tried to take what he wanted, rather than ask for it. And after that day, I became The Witch of the Bane Lands, Scourge to all Life and Light.”
**
