The Witching Blood

Araceli was born of blood and vengeance.

When red seeped into the stone walls of Emerst only to disappear in spring as if a figment of imagination. Years later, when she learned the tale, she almost thought it fitting.

Elsbeth was born on a summer morn. Calm and hazy, the most poignant sound being their mother as she brought Elsbeth into this world. Bedanza was birthed in the fall with autumn leaves twirling like silhouetted dancers. Garrett came in the film of night with only candles to light the way like fireflies. But Araceli, she could only wish it was something different.

Not everyone was happy with the nameless Blithe Carrows becoming Lady of Emerst Island. They said her mother appeared on a starless night. Curls unbound, with no boat docking the island in a fortnight. She wasn’t of noble blood and had no family or connections to speak of. Yet within a month’s time she became Lady Blithe Medici of Emerst Island. Araceli’s father was no small lord. He was one of the richest men in the kingdom with a mine of emeralds to pick at whenever he pleased.

They said Lady Blithe was a witch. Something to be shunned and feared. To throw stones at, to burn and drown.

To kill before she killed.

Father had been set to marry a Corova girl with a large dowry and bloodlines traceable to the time of the first kings. Once the Corova family found out they felt slighted and cut all ties. The disproval from the crown and nobles alike was palpable. The prior Lord of Emerst Island had died the year leaving the Medichi’s in an already precarious position.

Her father had not yet had the time to go through all his advisors. He was still dealing with his father’s death and renewing trade deals and other such prior engagements. It was a mistake he would pay for.

When Elsbeth was born some of their fears were sated. She was of blonde hair like father with no curls in sight. She was not a boy, but she did not have the signs of a witch either. Then Lady Blithe became pregnant again and the advisors began to fret. They worried Araceli would be born a boy with the power of magic coursing through her veins.

Araceli could understand their fear. Witches were monstrous. They had no soul or sense of morals. They were depraved, evil to the core. There was no redemption for a witch or warlock. They said magic was like a curse bubbling beneath the skin unable to be eviscerated from the body. If a person of magical blood flourished amongst the ranks of the nobles it could be catastrophic. Especially someone with the name Medichi.

Very few people were richer than them. Who knew what a warlock was capable of with so much gold and influence at their disposal. The war against magicals had been fraught with loss. So many fathers and sons slaughtered. Entire families went extinct. The richest of the witches and warlocks were about of equal wealth to the average noble family. They relied heavily on their magic yet made such a dent in Malrea’s history. If wealth was a benefit the war would have tipped in their favor without a doubt.

In the end half of father’s advisors were in on the plan. They decided it was too risky to allow such a malignity to flourish and settled on killing them all upon Araceli’s birth. It was cleaner that way. No chance of that cursed blood filtering in.

After the slaughter her Uncle Roald would become Lord of Emerst Island. He would marry the rich Corova girl and ensure no magic was in the ranks of the nobles. It would be like nothing happened and all whispers of it would die out. The Medichi’s had enough money to make it so, and her uncle didn’t want her father’s deeds to tarnish the family in death.

On the time of her birth it was not the night, but it might as well have been. An ice storm had blocked out the sun blanketing everything in a deep blue, almost opaque black. Roald’s job was simple in some ways: kill a woman and a newborn babe. Neither would have the fighting skills of her father. Lord Rambert wasn’t the top swordsman in the continent but he was good enough to make anyone hesitate.

Everything seemed to go as planned. Father was called away for a fabricated dispute between two of his nobles as Araceli entered the world in a blood curling scream. Roald took in her mother’s beaming face as she raised the baby for him to take. She would never expect something so heinous as her good-brother’s plan. He was a quiet sort of man, albeit reserved and callous. Not so unlike her husband. He’d done nothing to make her think such a plot could be running amuck.

Roald took in Araceli, noting her as female and taking in the dark curls on her head. Even the shade of brown was almost the exact same as Lady Blithe’s.

Something made him hesitate.

Perhaps it was because they shared the same blood. He could have found it deplorable to kill something so defenseless as a newborn. Some liked to whisper it was a spell that kept his blade still. The story changed on whether it was her or her mother that cast it. No one could decide on it.

They had not counted on father trapezing about with some of his loyal men. One of the betrayers told father on his dying breath the deed was done. His wife and child were dead. In a cold sweat father raced across the castle, thrusting open the door to take in his own brother’s hand on the hilt of his sword.

He decapitated him without hesitation.

He managed to catch Araceli before she hit the ground, but the blood of her kin already scorched her. Lady Blithe’s screamed, and then Araceli followed. They said the sound could be heard from the bottom of the dungeon to the tips of the messenger tower. Almost as if the castle was creating a sound for the atrocity of brother killing brother. As if a memory alone was not enough and it needed to cry out its pain and trauma.

When mother was alive Araceli asked about it despite Elsbeth forbidding her. Mother was forceful about it being an old wives’ tale. The men told it to each other when they had nothing better to do. Uncle Roald and those advisors died from the Crawler and nothing more. But death from fratricide was much more interesting than the truth and it was why the story was still told.

Sometimes the truth didn’t matter. Sometimes all that mattered was what people believed.

She was not the monster they accused her of being. Araceli had never done a lick of magic in her life. She was not evil reincarnated, and she had no desire to hurt others.

She wished she could convince others of this, but no one could see past the curls of her hair. Her siblings were lucky. Elsbeth had near bone straight hair. Bedanza had waves but they were met with distaste. As if she had made a mere fashion misstep. Garrett was still young, but he would not have mother’s curls either. No, that curse was only reserved for Araceli.

There were times she wondered if what they said was true. She heard it so much she began to question it herself. Her magic could be locked away, lurking beneath her skin anticipating the day it could be fraught upon the world.

But then logic came to her. She was not a bad person no matter how many people tried to make her out to be.

Witch.

The five lettered word sat poised in the wind. Sometimes as harmless as a warm breeze, but at most times striking with the wrath of a hurricane.

She came into the world screaming and bloody. It would be no shock if she left it the same way.