The Vampire & Her Witch Chapter 2050: Planting the Olive Seed (Part One)

The rise was steeper than it looked.

Ashlynn climbed it slowly, one hand in Nyrielle’s and the other pressed against her breastbone, where the Olive Seed lay coiled around her heart like a sleeping serpent. Every step jarred it. Every step, she felt its roots tighten a little more, as if the seed knew exactly where she was taking it, and why.

Not yet, she told it silently. Soon. But not yet.

Behind her, Ashlynn heard the others following. Heila’s hooves were quick and sure on the frozen ground. Ollie’s heavier steps were slow and careful, accompanied by the faint -chink- of mail as he guided Jocelynn up the slope. Virve and Isabell were quieter by comparison, as was the soft hum of Talauia’s wings.

Beyond them, at the bottom of the rise, Ashlynn could hear the low murmur of the crowd gathered around the bonfires, watching. At some point, Ignatious had arrived along with Zedya and Lennart.

She could hear the High Inquisitor’s voice, calm and steady as he greeted Maela, followed soon after by Lady Cerys and others who sought out the comforting presence of the man in familiar robes. Clearly, they’d set aside the matter of his vampiric nature to take solace in their shared faith. Whether that was a good thing, because they accepted him, or a bad thing, because they still turned to the Church when faced with witchcraft, Ashlynn couldn’t say.

Her mother’s voice drifted up through the mist as well, too soft to make out the words. But Ashlynn knew the cadence of it. She’d heard it a thousand times as a girl, kneeling beside her mother in the little chapel at Blackwell Manor. Maela was praying.

Not to the Mother of Tides who had taken the Blackwell ancestor into her coven hundreds of years ago, or the Ancient trees of the Vale that stood watch over them now. No, Maela directed her prayers to the Holy Lord of Light, the same as she always had. Prayers to he Holy Lord of Light... for a witch.

Ashlynn didn’t know whether that made her want to laugh or cry, but so long as it brought her mother comfort, she could accept it and be grateful to it even. She only wished she could do the same to comfort herself or relieve the sense of pressure she felt from the gathering below.

There were so many people. More than she’d ever imagined would come. Whether that was a good thing or not, she couldn’t say either. It felt like a sendoff... Like the families who gathered on the docks of Blackwell Harbor when the whaling ships prepared to sail. The ones who faced the greatest danger and the least certainty that they’d make it home...

At the top of the rise, Nyrielle paused. She glanced back over her shoulder toward the fires, and with a small, almost careless turn of her wrist, the mist around the hill began to thicken.

It rolled in from every side, pale and heavy and cold, until the bonfires below were nothing more than smudges of orange light, and the people around them were only shadows. Ashlynn could still see the glow. She could still hear the murmuring. But the faces were gone.

She raised an eyebrow at Nyrielle.

"Some things are meant to be glimpsed, my darling," Nyrielle said softly. "Not gawked at. Tonight, you and your sister will both bare far too much of yourselves to let strangers gaze upon you."

Ashlynn wanted to argue. She’d asked for every door to be left open, and every person who wished to come to be welcomed. Whatever happened, she hoped the people would understand that they’d tried... That she had done her best and that Jocelynn had been her bravest... She didn’t want wild tales to spread if the worst came to pass.

But looking down at the shadows in the mist, she found that she was grateful. The people had seen the most important part already. They’d gathered to display their support and their own courage. The things that happened atop the rise would still be visible to all below, but it would resemble a shadow puppet’s show through the mist and that might be the best way for them to experience the things that would happen next.

"Thank you," Ashlynn whispered as she leaned into Nyrielle’s comforting support.

Nyrielle squeezed her hand and said nothing at all.

Ashlynn stepped away from her lover and knelt, laying her palm flat against the frozen earth. It was hard as stone beneath the frost. She closed her eyes and reached into it, past the ice and the hard crust of winter, down into the deep, patient warmth that always waited beneath. The soil softened under her hand like bread dough rising.

With one finger, she drew the circle.

This time, it felt like it was a dozen times easier than the first time she’d scribed a circle. A hundred times easier, as if the earth itself was eager to help her through this moment. A wide ring in the dark, soft earth, large enough for two people. Within it, she traced the old Eldritch glyphs exactly as Amahle had taught her: witch, nature, coven. Around its edge, she drew five smaller circles, evenly spaced. One for each of the elements that would feed the seed when it woke.

When she was finished, she rose and stepped into the center.

"In this circle," Ashlynn said, and her voice carried through the mist, "I name myself Ashlynn, the Mother of Trees. My heart is strong, the seed is grown. I’ve come to birth my heart’s desire, to raise a witch and bring her home. She is my sister, my blood, and the fifth of my coven. This seed I’ve grown is hers alone."

Heila stepped to the edge of the circle. She drew Snow Fang from its sheath, and the pale blade gleamed in the light of Ollie’s lantern.

"In this circle, I name myself Heila, the Willow Witch," she said. "My blade is sharp, my hands are sure. I’ve come to witness a witch’s birth, to lend my strength and power too. But the bond we forge, it belongs to you."

Then, one by one, the coven brought their offerings...