The Wolf & The Witch

Pathetic. That was the word Claire woke with in her head.

It was so black it was hard to tell whether her eyes were open or not. She opened them, shut them, and opened them- blackness. She sighed, and knew before she moved her first muscle that her body ached. Her knees, her back, her feet, her hands. She took a slow breath, and urged her muscles forward, and sat up, but didn’t go far. Now her neck hurt. She reached up and felt a chain around her throat. She rolled over on her stomach- awkwardly, because of the cuff. Since she couldn’t see with her eyes she used her hands: she traced the chain carefully with her hands, following it on her knees, and waking Lestat in the process. She found a wall, and ran her fingertips over it: old wooden planks. She pushed- no give. She reached down, walking her fingers down the chain from her neck towards the wall- the chain went out through the wall through a small metal hole, cold, as the chain was cold, to the touch. She turned around, and scooted back against the black wall; she sat up, and pulled her knees into her chest. Just another clay pit. A cold cave. A frozen river bank. A crumbling cell.

Lestat woke, discovered he was also chained by the neck, and followed her, and leaned against the wall. No sword. No shirt. Dirty. No horses. Tired. No food, or water skins. No extra clothes. No blankets. No saddle bags. And no time to be sitting chained to a shed wall. They had just lost everything they owned over the course of six days. He looked to the right, towards the witch, but couldn’t see her. Was it possible they could’ve prevented this if she had told him? Was she trying to protect these witches? Goddamnit all- why the fuck did she lie?

And Este, the malefica, the ruler of the night of the land of apples, sat holding a glass of apple wine in one hand, and the chain in the other, opposite them, on the other side of the shed wall. She had her legs crossed, and both she, and the shed, and the chain in her hand, and the golden apple wine, were shaded darker by a large walnut tree. A stand of rock shaded them even more. The moon was still low on the horizon, and blackness, like carbon inkwells, like deep, flooded coal mines, covered them completely. Five other witches quietly joined the malefica in the pitch black.

“Are you helping these witches?” Lestat asked, feeling around with his left hand- an old wooden floor and a wall was all he could feel.

“Helping them? Like what? Tightening chains around our necks? Yeah. That’s what I’ve been doing.”

“You were awfully eager to hop in that cage.”

Claire hurt. Her legs hurt from riding horses all day. Her back hurt because her legs hurt. There was no way to sit on this hard floor without hurting. She shifted, and grimaced. “If you had… listened to me we wouldn’t be chained to a wall. Witches aren’t like wolves.”

Lestat followed the chain from his neck to the wall and tugged on it- it didn’t budge. “Did you know they were coming tonight?”

Claire turned to face him, but couldn’t see him. But his voice was cut with a tone she hadn’t heard in a while- since they were in the dead city. “What are you getting at? Seriously? Obviously I thought someone was coming tonight. So did you. Someone’s come every night. Why else were we setting fucking traps?”

He didn’t respond. Darkness. A small shed of darkness- as far as his eyes knew he was in the infinite void, but his body- his skin- the way air moved across it, and his ears, knew that this darkness was small and confined, made of old wood and solid nails and sturdy brackets.

Claire reached up and ran her fingers over the chain at her throat. The lock was large, and the chain was tight. She tugged at it- no give. Then the cuff on her left hand hurt- the one with the wolf’s wrist, and she pulled her hand out a little and scratched her skin. A little was all she got. “You do realize I was trying to help us, right? By not fighting, not cussing. Not antagonizing.”

Lestat didn’t respond. It was possible, if she knew who was coming- the actual people, the actual number, that they could’ve done something to prevent this.

You are stuck with the curse… of a pathetic witch. Those words were in Claire’s head. And the weight of those words hung from her neck like the chain. “Not talking?”

He didn’t answer, but adjusted himself against the old wood wall.

“Look, if you have something to say, say it.”

“Fine,” Lestat said, and turned to the darkness. “Why did you lie to me?”

“When did I lie to you?”

“About the witches- remember? I don’t see anything?”

Claire paused, but only for a second. There were two reasons, both true: “Because you would’ve gone chasing after them waving your damn sword around. That’s not how you deal with witches.”

“So… what? Just let them kill all our horses, take all our belongings, and toss us in a cage?”

“Look- I don’t know the answer, but I do know we will not win against a malefica. Not with this cuff. We were damn lucky we didn’t have to fight that alpha. Both times we did what we needed to do- run, and fast.”

“And look where that got us,” Lestat scoffed. It was him that had run from the Alpha- not her. His body was tired, and his brain was tired, but his heart was angry. At her. And anger, as always, was the best of fuels for lighting fires. His words were slow, and exasperated. “I knew from the moment we woke in that cell what to expect from you, witch.”

Pitch black, but Claire’s face went back as if slapped. “And what would that be, wolf?” She knew there was a tone in her voice and she couldn’t hide it. She didn’t like the way he was speaking to her, and she didn’t see any reason for it, and she couldn’t hide the layers of anger creeping into her voice.

“That you are no different than any of these other goddamn lying witches. I cannot wrap my head around-“

Claire was slapped again- that was the second one. Her shoulders were already heavy, and her body felt like a pile of old sticks leaning against the wall in the shape of a human, waiting to tumble over. Slaps hurt. Punches hurt. “Fuck you, Lestat. As if you’re some fucking angel.”

“I’m no angel,” he agreed, and turned to face her, but couldn’t see her. Blackness, as if the moon, and stars, and the sun, were extinguished. “I have a question, witch? What would’ve happened if we’d ridden at night, and slept in the day? You know all this shit about witches- how dangerous they are. You’re either an idiot, working with them, or just some everyday lying, hateful witch.

“You have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about. They would’ve killed the horses during the day. What if we didn’t go to sleep? They would’ve waited till we passed out four days later and killed four horses. And if that didn’t work- they would’ve put us to sleep. I think you are your own mental block, jackass.”

“You know, fucking witch, maybe I wouldn’t be such a jackass if you helped a little and told the truth here and there!”

“I didn’t tell your dumb ass because it didn’t matter! What would you have done? Run off into the woods chasing eighteen-year-old ass through the trees? We did what we should’ve done! Rode the horses all day and night. I’ve been trying to fucking protect us and get us home!”

“Is that what you were doing? By falling asleep when it was your turn to stay awake? By leading the way to an open cage door? By lying about witches?”

“You feel asleep too!”

Lestat couldn’t see her, but he knew where she was. He knew where her eyes were. “I have a thought, witch- if you want to protect me- protect us, why don’t you start by telling the truth.”

“What truth!!! What truth do you need to hear!”

“That there are fucking witches following us! Killing our damn horses! That there was some goddamn good reason for flat out lying to me! That truth!”

“I didn’t tell you because your answer for everything is to attack!! Hurt! Kick! Punch! That is not the fucking answer to everything! You fucking asshole! I don’t owe you a goddamn thing- truth, help, friendship- nothing! Fuck you! Fuck you!”

“Fuck you, ungrateful witch. Punching, and kicking, and attacking, and protecting- all to help protect your ass,” Lestat sneered.

Claire jerked her right hand back to slap the shit out of him. She twisted her body and pulled her hand far back. She couldn’t see his face and she didn’t need to- she knew where he was. Her eyes were full of tears, turning her vision into layers of black stained glass. She clamped her mouth shut, and tried to keep from trembling. She wanted to slap him so badly. She hated him so much. She hated all of this so goddamn much. Witches, wolves, trees, fields, iron bars, clay pits and starry skies, snow, dust- she hated it all so goddamn much. Tears spilled over, and ran down her cheeks, past her lips, and tasted like salt.

But she did not slap him. She lowered her trembling hand, slowly, and laid shaking fingers beside her, on the old storehouse floor. She did not slap him because of her promise. And only because of her promise. “…I…” she started, but then held her words, carefully, as if they were the hands of toddlers about to cross a dangerous street. It is so difficult sometimes to simply be heard, to be understood. It is even more difficult to feel validated, and valuable. She wasn’t sure how he could be cuffed to her, and hold her at night, and not see the damage he had done. He had saved her plenty of times- that was true, and he had hurt her, plenty of times. That was also true. Claire’s lower lip trembled like a bridge breaking under its own weight. Damn, stupid, useless, hateful, worthless, dumb, slow, fucking, pathetic, lying, prettier on your knees, bitch of a witch. Claire so badly wanted to be home, and alone, and be pathetic, and worthless, by herself, and be useless, and stupid, by herself. She so badly wanted to be alone. Her lower lip trembled, and shook, and her eyes flooded. She looked at him in the dark, and held her words as carefully, and honestly, as possible. To be heard. To be understood. “I... am not the only one… who has lied, and I... am doing the… goddamn best, that I… can do.” She bit her upper lip and turned away, her left arm pulled back. The witch leaned against the wall, and hid her face in her arm, and sobbed.

Lestat listened to her cry, and each sound, and each tremble of her hand, felt on their cuffed wrist, hollowed him, and that feeling of being eaten from the inside angered him- just another sign that he had gotten too close to this witch.

The malefica listened to the argument, and the sobs. Such is love. Or hate. One of the two. But she didn’t have all night. She handed the chain to Anna- the witch in charge of the two young redheads and the blonde with the broken arm. Anna took the chain without a sound, and without being able to see anything in the black. She planted her feet. She wrapped the end of the chain around her arm. She squared her shoulders. She tightened her hands around the chain as tight as she could.