Chapter Text
“Light Spinner.”
Micah stood across the courtyard, face dark and stricken. He drew several hexes, hurling them towards her, furious as she cleaved them in twain. They had sent him up here - their best weapon. The other sorcerers were below, battling her forces.
“Did you ever even care?” he drew another, forcing her back. His shoulders were squared. “Have you ever cared about anyone? I trusted you. We trusted you.”
She did not respond, staring at him from behind the mask. There was nothing to say. Not anymore.
She watched as he drew another glyph, lightning fast. It was more complicated this time - patterns recognisable but in a novel arrangement.
She blocked it before it came flying, but Micah angled it behind her, striking the rosebush to her side. It wrapped around her, the sensation of being swallowed, squeezed whole.
She knelt, gasping, her power sucked from within.
“Please,” she heard herself whisper, though she was in no place to beg.
“You made your own choices,” Micah said quietly. “I am sorry.”
Shadow Weaver clutched herself. She whimpered, a creature in pain. “Micah,” she crawled forward. Pathetic. “Please.”
Bitterly, Micah plucked a rose from the bush, weaving in his intent as the curse settled. He dropped it at her feet. “Love,” he said, turning from her. “True love. It is beyond you.”
***
She often longed for her mask. More so now than ever - if only to spare her living partner from the horrors of her features. But it was too late. Her mask had been lost. Shattered. Thrown away as she had accepted a lifetime of solitary confinement.
And so she often retreated herself instead, ugly and alone in the greenhouse with the rose. Sheltered.
“Why do you remain here?” she had been asked as they dawdled in the library, achieving nothing useful. “You aren’t bound to Mystacor. I would have expected you to have fled long ago to places with active magic and such.”
“And be eaten by wolves?” she had retorted, although she was aware that those, too, were an excuse for them both. She gripped her badge tightly beneath her robe. With a face like hers, there were few places where Brightmoon would not find her. And while she was bound to the curse, magicless…at least here, she was on level ground with any other sorcerer. And it was lonely here. And she preferred it that way.
She gardened, often. She watered her fruit trees and vegetable patches…and her daisies. They were cheerful things, daisies. A wry memory of silly little children’s games, tearing away at them innocently. She loves me, she loves me not. She loves me…
When “love” was nothing more than an expansion of “like”, a simple notion so uncorrupted by herself.
“You must have responsibilities in Brightmoon.”
“I do,” Castaspella sighed. “Though, not as many as you may think. There aren’t as many sorcerers as before, or at least, there aren’t as many who wish to learn. Not without a school. My efforts are better spent here. This is a priority.”
“It is a waste of time.”
She earned a glare as they sat beside the fountain. “I will return. Once this is over.”
Shadow Weaver studied her. The crease on her forehead, dark lips parted in annoyance. Years ago she might have acted, taken her, used her, if only to steal a part of that fire for her own. She was after all, a parasite in her own way.
Now she simply stood, uneasy, and stalked away.
In the greenhouse, Shadow Weaver glared at the rose, more stem than flower. Three petals remained - the fourth having fallen unnoticed.
She loves me not.
***
The snow had served as an annual displeasure for her over the last six years. It was brittle and wet and the trees would produce little fruit and most of the crops outside the greenhouse would wither. It was especially irritating this time, given that her stock would need to feed two.
She harvested the last of the tomatoes, scowling deeply as Castaspella appeared, bundled in fleece.
“Let me help,” she said.
“There isn’t much left to do. I will return indoors shortly.” She glanced over at Castaspella. “As should you.”
“Oh, no. The grounds look far too lovely.” A mischief coloured her cheeks. She looked oddly like her brother. The thought doused her mood further. “Join me.”
“So we can galavant the school like children?” Shadow Weaver stood, suddenly suspicious. “What-”
A handful of snow splattered near her cheek, wet and cold. She coughed, furious. “You dare - I will not engage in your -” she ducked as another was thrown her way, grabbing at Castaspella’s arms in an attempt to stop her.
She managed to seize her coat as the woman twisted to the side, and they both tumbled, slamming into the snow.
Castaspella pinned her, breath condensing and eyes shining, copper-brown. There was a gentle curve to her smile. Inviting. Shadow Weaver panted beneath. Her words lacked any force behind them.
“Get off me.”
Immediately, Casta pushed away, though her expression stayed. “My first-years were better than you at this,” she laughed lightly.
“Mine dared not find out,” Shadow Weaver muttered, quashing any burgeoning affection and returning to the vegetables.
She looked briefly at the rose as she slipped into bed, three petals remaining still. Irritated, she turned over.
***
“You don’t wear your mask.”
They lay in the Head Sorcerer’s quarters, carelessly languid after a drink or two. Castaspella had offered despite there being no apparent occasion, and Shadow Weaver now blinked at the starlit roof, wondering if she should be feeling regretful.
“Would you prefer it if I did?”
Castaspella snorted. “Certainly not. That thing still gives me nightmares. Besides, it’s absolutely hideous.”
Well, then. It must suit me well. Shadow Weaver turned Castaspella’s words over in her mind. “I never considered you to be fearful of me.”
“Oh, no. A grand and powerful sorceress like myself? Fearful? Please.” She shifted, leaning on an elbow. Her voice lilted playfully. “You shouldn’t worry. I don’t dream of you like that anymore. I haven’t for a while.”
Shadow Weaver turned her head. “And in what way do you dream of me now?”
She skimmed over her outline in the dim, hair loose around her. They lay so close that Shadow Weaver could feel her warmth beside her. Castaspella exhaled a laugh.
“As if you actually care.”
“If I did not care, I would not ask.”
She watched the dip of her lashes, the darkness of her eyes like the tug of molasses, slow and gentle, irresistibly sweet. Her heart fluttered as the other woman leaned closer, their foreheads brushing. But then Castaspella stopped, breathing deeply against her.
“Shadow Weaver…” She pulled back gently. “I asked you to come for a reason. I need to tell you that I intend to leave. I have made no progress on the curse…and I’m already too attached. To Mystacor, that is.”
Shadow Weaver closed her eyes. “I see.” The rasp in her voice betrayed her. She was a ruined woman. Fated for death. She was not worth staying for.
“I am unlikely to return. But I can seek more help in Brightmoon…from Micah, even, if you wish.”
“He would not help me.” She rolled over on her back. “He would not know how to.” I do not want his help. I do not want any of them.
She woke several hours later to a dark room, Castaspella’s figure curled in a ball, snoring lightly beside her. Silently, Shadow Weaver rose. She carefully drew the duvet over her sleeping form and left the room.
When she returned to the greenhouse, she glared at the three petals, stubborn and unmoving, something sharp lodged in her chest.
***
They stood at the gate. Shadow Weaver extended her sorcerer guild’s badge. “The magic within it is protected. Use it to return home safely.” To remember me, a voice added quietly in her mind, though she brushed it away as disgustingly sentimental.
“Magic.” She did not need to see Castaspella’s face to know her surprise. Why stay if you had magic his entire time? Why not use it? Why not kill me?
“Go,” Shadow Weaver said softly.
She watched her pause, then nod, then step beyond the gate, badge in hand. She drew a glyph. And disappeared.
Shadow Weaver returned to the greenhouse. To her bed and her vegetables. To her pile of books. Her gaze passed over the rose in its glass jar.
A petal fell.
And she smiled bitterly despite herself.
***
Shaking, Casta opened her palm. The badge lay, limp, the grit of dust between her fingers. Brightmoon’s castle lay before her. She felt lightheaded without the curse, the return of magic like pins and needles down her spine.
Stretching her fingers, she swallowed and scanned the grounds. From ahead, she could see a poof of pink hair hurrying towards her at quite an alarming pace. “Aunt Casta?” Glimmer’s eyes were wide. “You’re back! Is Mystacor okay? Dad wanted to send a search party after you - what happened?”
Casta’s arms wrapped around her in a habitual gesture. “Actually, I should find your father,” she heard herself say. “Is he home?”
“Yes. He’s with Frosta in the gardens. Building snowme- sorry, snow golems .” Glimmer’s brow knitted. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Oh, yes, I’m fine!” Casta turned. “It’s wonderful to see you, but I’d best be off now. I’d love to catch up later, really.” She smiled, then headed into the castle.
She passed Juliet on her way down the hall, helmet off, talking to Bow. She glanced up at Casta, who gave her a single nod. Juliet smiled, then returned to her conversation.
“Oh. Perfuma.” She stepped into the gardens, mind spinning, knowing that she shouldn’t ask, that she would leave the subject alone and allow Shadow Weaver to pass in peace, but, oh, well, nevermind. The woman’s beaming smile soon faded as Casta spoke.
“I need to pick your brain, actually. On roses, that is. Would you happen to know how long they last, say, compared to the average flower? And by that, I mean things like dandelions, or daffodils or daisies, or…peonies? And - very well, maybe those aren’t average flowers - you would know better than I do about that, but I really don’t know many other flowers except for the ones in my spellbooks, which you probably don’t know very well - no offence to your knowledge of course, you know more about flowers than anyone - but I digress. Really, would the lifespan of a rose change if you, say, froze them? Are they even counted as alive if they’re frozen? And really...”
“Casta?”
She turned back to see Micah approaching.
“I mean, roses can usually last around fourteen days with proper care?” Perfuma responded. “I’m not sure how to answer that, exactly. Um. It’s nice to see you anyway, Castaspella. Good luck on your research.” She left.
“Casta!” Micah pulled her into a bear hug. “I nearly went after you. I sent you a few letters, but I don’t think the posting system works anymore.”
“It wouldn’t.” Casta hugged him back tightly. “You were right. The curse is still in effect. There is no active magic there at all. I couldn’t find a way to break it.”
“It’s still there?” Micah pulled away, concern shifting over his features. He examined her. “Why didn’t you come back sooner? Here, I’ll get you some food. A hot bath. Being under the effects of a curse like that for so long…it’s not good for you.”
“I’m fine, Micah. Really.” She chewed the inside of her mouth. “I need your help. We need to find a way to break it - one that doesn’t involve destroying the vessel.”
“Could you not find it? I believe I hit a rosebush… maybe we just give it a break for now…”
“We’re just going to give up? Oh, Micah, if only we implemented a way to break it…a fail safe, a condition, how could we be so foolish? There must be some other way…surely you have some idea? I just…I have to…”
He must have seen it in her eye. Colour drained from his face. “She’s there, isn’t she?”
“Micah…”
“Stay.” His voice trembled fiercely as he stepped away from her. “Stay . I will handle this.”
No. She stepped forward, voice turned soft, pleading. “She’s different… she’s dying… ”
“She’s bad for people. She ruins people. She has threatened my family too many times!” His chest heaved, calm facade shattered. “I have made a grave mistake. I am so sorry. I will not allow her to reach Glimmer..or Brightmoon..or you.”
“I am an adult , Micah!” Her throat burned with protests and explanations…and apologies. Micah had not seen her gentle remorse, he had not felt her touch, he did not understand the sensation of being seen by her, inside and out. But the confession shrivelled to ash on her tongue. She should not be feeling this way. Steeling herself, she asked instead, “What are you going to do?”
“I will finish what we began.”
***
She had returned from a place without magic…to yet another place without magic.
Casta slumped back onto the pillows Glimmer had kindly provided, because firstly, she was not a “real prisoner” and secondly, because Brightmoon’s holding chamber was a joke.
“Glimmer, I just intend to made sure your father doesn’t make any rash decisions. Let me go with him. Please.”
“She’s dangerous, Auntie. Dad’s worried she’s gotten into your head…and so am I.”
She was so concerned, so tender, and Casta likely would have sobbed, moved by such care, if she was not being wrangled by guards . The audacity.
She stared at the ceiling, suddenly wishing she was back in her bed at Mystacor with Shadow Weaver, whispering admissions to one another.
He would not help me. He would not know how to.
Shadow Weaver had no idea. She had no defence, no magic, she had given her protected source to Casta. She would die believing Casta had betrayed her.
Her hand dropped to her chest in a jolting realisation. The badge.
She unclipped it swiftly, shaking out a few specks of dust. Not much. Not enough to teleport directly back to Mystacor.
Hurriedly, she drew the glyph. It was small and scraggly…but it would do.
She teleported to the stables. Clambering onto the nearest horse, she raced forth.
***
The wolves were waiting for her about ten yards from the gate.
“Are you kidding me? Go away ! ”
She launched herself off the horse, crashing through the gate. Her horse reared and whinnied behind her. It raced away, chased off by several wolves. Dizzy and half winded, she slammed the gate shut and made haste for the west tower.
Her heart thumped wildly.
Perhaps Shadow Weaver would be alone…or perhaps not. Maybe Micah was there, hovering over her body. Or maybe the rose had been destroyed…maybe she was already long gone.
Casta rounded the building, scrambling up the staircase. She blinked away a vivid memory of scurrying after her brother with grazed knees.
“Come on slug feet!”
“Aw, Micah! Slow down!”
She stumbled onto the second floor, ears straining.
“…dangerous.”
There was a murmur of a reply, muffled by the wind.
From below, she could distinguish two figures on the balcony. She could see Micah’s sword pointed forward. Her brother was shaking.
She raced up the last flight of stairs in an instant, stepping forth to shield the other woman. Micah softened in her presence, but his sword remained drawn.
“Micah, please.” She tried to sound as dignified as she could whilst gasping for breath. “I understand what you think, but please. Give her a chance.”
A hand touched her shoulder. Shadow Weaver spoke quietly. “You came back.”
Her heart burned. Casta swallowed, covering her hand before glancing back at Micah. He was looking at Shadow Weaver, forehead creased in a mix of fear and disgust. “What have you done to her?”
“I have done nothing.”
Micah’s eyes flashed as he pushed forward, but Casta struggled against him.
“I gave you a chance once,” Micah spat. “Clearly I made a mistake. Why didn’t you run away? Why couldn’t you just leave?” He turned to Casta. “Step away,” he told her. “Casta, get away from her. Please.”
“I won’t.” Casta was unmoving. “Let her be, Micah.”
His shoulders bunched, fearful and angry. He stepped back.
Coldly, he produced the rose.
At once, Casta rushed forward, outstretched, but it was too late. He crushed it in one fluid movement. “I am sorry,” he said in anguish.
Shadow Weaver spasmed behind her, crumpling to the ground.
“Oh no… no. I-” Casta’s voice staggered. She knelt, holding her, cradling her. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. No. You…you’re okay. I never should have left, I never….please.”
She couldn’t die now, not when she had found her, not when she had come back, not when she finally had her.
Her voice cracked and she touched her face, stroked her cheek, those sordid truths, so private and held so closely, pouring out of her in desperate whispers. “Please,” she whispered brokenly. “You can’t leave me. I - I love you. I love you.”
The woman lay limp and cold beneath her. Magic throbbed, bittersweet in her chest. The curse was broken, of course. There was no curse without a vessel. Without the rose…and Shadow Weaver…
A hand touched her cheek, and she stiffened. She looked down. Shadow Weaver gazed up at her, eyes glittering with affection.
She stared.
“You.” Casta choked, disbelieving. “You…you’re alive?” She laughed, then frowned, then glared at her, bewildered. “How - what? You - I-” her stomach swooped and she pulled back, aghast. “You heard -”
Shadow Weaver chuckled, then drew her close, pressing her mouth to Casta’s. The question melted away as she pulled her closer, deepening the kiss, both of them caring little about Micah’s awkward shuffle in the distance.
***
She knew the stories they told.
There were fewer of them now that she was no longer declared officially dead (she was deemed as less exciting now), but comments from the occasional unruly child informed her of their existence. They weren’t exactly subtle, either.
“I’ll sell you my brother,” someone’s offspring had announced to her earlier after giving her a quick appraisal. “He’s quite robust. I’d imagine he’d taste quite juicy.”
Not that she was in the proximity of children, much. She had been banned from teaching during her trial in Brightmoon. Her sentence, as decided by Brightmoon’s spineless council, was a lifetime of community service. And a discussion with Micah, of course.
“If you ever do anything to hurt her…” he'd warned fiercely, and she had pursed her lips.
“Spare me the antics, Micah. Your point has already been made.”
“That is true.” He seemed a little rueful for a moment, but his expression quickly sobered. “Treat her well.”
Her.
Castaspella.
Her Castaspella. She burst through the door now, adjusting her halo and looking positively dishevelled. “Do you have any idea of the number of papers I need to mark? It’s ridiculous! Really - maybe I should drop a class or two, but with such an influx of students and half the staff on sick leave... the finals are due tomorrow, too.”
“You are overworked. As usual.” Shadow Weaver leaned against the Head Sorcerer’s desk, head tilted. She rose, tucking a hair behind her partner’s ear. “I will deal with the papers for now. Go. Rest.”
It had been six years. To say that all of the kingdoms liked, or even tolerated her would be a flagrant mistruth. But they respected the Head Sorcerer’s judgement. She would have time to earn their trust.
Castaspella, who now had her arms wrapped around Shadow Weaver’s neck. “Thank you” she sighed. Slowly, she released her and headed to the bathroom, but then stopped, running a hand through her hair. “School ends tomorrow. Dine with me afterwards?”
Shadow Weaver watched her, heart quickening. She knew that she did not deserve forgiveness, or Castaspella, or the life she lived today. But she had entertained death for too many years. Living freely, she decided, tasted that much sweeter.