A letter from the marked one.

Coast of Finland. 1798.  

My sunshine, my Tilda,

My sincerest wish is that this letter finds you safe and well at Whitefire Isle. The risk of returning to Engberg's orphanage is one I might never take, even though it fills me with regret.

I still wanted you to know what happened to me and that at least for now I am safe. I have yet to figure out who in the orphanage knew what I was and how the Witchhammer had heard about me residing there. And why now?

The main intention of this letter is to thank you, Tilda. On the night, when those four members of the Brotherhood of Witchhammer attacked our beloved orphanage, what you did saved my life. As long as it did not hurt you, I might think myself as worthy of saving.

When you showed me the secret stairs behind the portrait of Marshall Engberg, I was able to sneak into the basement without anyone seeing me. The Brotherhood immediately made their way upstairs to the bed chambers.

My heart can't bear to think that any of the wee ones, who had gone early to bed, were hurt.

When I got into the basement I had to move as fast as I could. If Mrs. Bloom wanders who stole a loaf of bread and the old kettle from atop the fireplace, please inform her that it was I.

As you know, the windows of the basement are on ground level, so I climbed on the counter and crawled out to the back garden towards Creek Forest. You and I know the paths like the back of our hands.

Unfortunately, one of the Brothers had seen me from the top floor window and he was on my heels before I had realised. How he moved as fast as he did, I will never know.

I was overly confident that the forest would be on my side and would help me lose the scoundrel. The deeper we reached the forest, the more we were consumed by snow.

I reached the old oak tree, which you and I had named Otto many years ago, and I climbed his arms. The Brother that had followed me pulled me down by my cape and I hit the ground, losing all the air I had in my lungs. 

With one quick move he pulled me up and forced me to find my feet. My lungs, throat and heart were still gasping for air. He ripped my dress from my neck to my lower back to find the mark my ancestry had left on me. The mark that was red and flamed against my pale skin and the white snow surrounding me. 

I wondered why the Brother didn’t call out to the other members. Instead, he started to drag me back towards the house. I must admit that I was too scared to yell in fear of the other ones hearing me, so I fought silently. With all my might. 

The man got annoyed with me and I felt the back of his hand hit my cold cheek. The sting of it made my eyes water, yet I still wanted to confront my captor eye to eye. He cursed at me silently. His tongue was cut off. We have all heard the stories of why the Brotherhood cuts off their members tongues, he must have displeased their leader. And for a moment I pitied him. 

My only chance was to enchant him even though I did not know if dark magic brewed in me. It did. It does.

As with any spell, all I had to do is let the words flow through me. I bit into his hand, causing him to bleed, then did so to myself. With our blood mixed I searched for the words and whispered;

You have sought me

for your destruction,

I am clothed in terror,

I am armed with fear,

Make your limbs shiver,

Make your heart shatter,

Hear my words and

Feel your finality.

Greet me as your death. 

The grip loosened around me, and I watched as his eyes filled with terror and tears. His limbs trembled. He whimpered as an injured wolf. And I abandoned him there. The trail of my horrendous acts had begun.

Night had fallen by the time I had reached the other side of the forest. I forced myself to consume the bread I had taken with me, for I feared otherwise the darkness would last longer than I would. My hands felt more as if they belonged to a stranger than myself. My feet wouldn’t carry me anymore. There was still the matter of making it to the next island, closer to safety. The roads were surely guarded by the Brotherhood, therefore my only option was through the rapid waters. 

Do you remember when we snuck into Marshall Engbergs’ study to marvel at his map collection? We wondered how far Blackley Isle is and how we would one day set off on an adventure together. We would leap from one island to another as if we were skipping stones. Well, my Tilda, I can inform you that the distance between Whitefire Isle and Blackley Isle is approximately 812 steps. I counted them for you as I made my way. The spell to steady my feet was elementary.

white waters, walk I must

rapids racing, under me

shallows keep me, till I’m safe 

Blackley Isle was covered in blackberry shrubs, which I imagined would taste heavenly come summer. It was mostly inhabited. Only one cosy red cottage stood on top of a small hill, with smoke billowing from the chimney. I dared my way into their barn, which was downhill from the house.  

A soft bleat from the sheep, in hopes of food, filled the barn. I grabbed hay with both hands and positioned myself in the middle. The thick wool around warmed me faster than a fireplace or even a spell could have. I let myself sleep for a little while as I was cradled by these gentle, toothless creatures.  

Before the sun fully rose, I found a barrel of dried oats and made porridge. I had my kettle and used rainwater that was preserved for the sheep. Boiling water takes time even when using a spell. 

My heart can’t bear being dishonest to you, though I fear you will now bear witness to my ever-growing misdeeds; I stole their rowboat. My only defence is that my feet were covered in blisters and frostbite.

The ocean had melted enough to make walking on ice treacherous, yet still frozen enough to make paddling extremely burdensome. I cast a spell for the ice to melt underneath the boat, and as luck would have it, I made it to the next island, Isle of Shoal. Tired and aching yet still alive. 

This is where my character fails me yet again. As shattered as I was, I did not intend to hurt a soul during my escape. At least not a soul that didn’t deserve it. The only thing standing on the Isle of Shoal is a lighthouse and the keeper, an old man. 

He had seen me paddling, nonplussed by the ice melting below me. He waited for me within the shades of the trees. The moment my foot touched the rocks of the shore he screamed, “Witch, you have no place here”.

Angry and startled, I cursed at him.

a bark isn’t a bite,

blink and break a bone

The old man blinked and his nose broke at once. The noise made me nauseous.  Blood rushed down his face. Dark purple rings appeared around his eyes as the swelling began. Believe me, my innocent Tilda, this I did not mean to do. Then I felt my legs move under me, running back to the boat and my hands holding on to the paddle, rowing away. 

By noon paddling had become impossible. My arms would not move anymore. The sun was beaming from the heavens, draining the last of me. I threw my cape over myself as I laid down on the bottom of the boat.

Mistress of the Winds hear my plea,

let me feel your might over the Baltic Sea.

The winds picked up just enough for me to arrive at my destination, Crownhagen.  

You must wonder why I chose Crownhagen as a place for my asylum -

A year ago I overheard one of the maids talking about a witch named Wilbur who had survived the witch swimming. A macabre practice created by the Witchhammer of tying the hands and feet of the accused and dipping them into the river Aura to determine if they sank or floated. Wilbur floated. 

The death penalty was banned in Wilbur’s hometown, due to it being immoral for people to play God. Therefore, she had her earlobes cut off and was exiled from her home. The rumour was that Wilbur had taken shelter at Crownhagen, where the Witchhammer didn’t have as immense amount of authority or members. The truth is the Brotherhood should not have authority anywhere.

It took three days until Wilbur’s name reached my ears. I followed the woman who had whispered it secretly to her maid. They walked in haste on cobblestone-streets, turning corners unexpectedly. They reached a murky alley and stopped. I pressed myself tightly against the stone wall, trying to make myself as invisible as possible. 

A dark figure appeared at the end of the alley, covered in layers of fabric. Face completely hidden by the shadows. The figure held out a bottle, filled with black liquid which seemed to glimmer in the darkness. “Three drops are all you need,” a rasping voice disturbed the silence.  

I kept a close eye on the figure until the woman and her maid had scurried away. Sneaking against the wall I stepped into the darkness and waited a moment for my eyes to adjust.

 As I blinked, the figure appeared an inch away from me. I was about to scream when a hand pressed against my mouth. Dark green eyes locked into mine and I calmed down immediately. She nodded towards the darkness invitingly and I followed her. 

We made our way to a narrow door. She waved her hand and whispered, “‘tis I,” and the door swung open revealing a little home, with a warm light from the fireplace. 

Once inside she unraveled the cloak and scarves that had hidden her. I gasped at the sight. She had burn marks on her arms, creating patterns that almost looked like constellations. A white cut ran down her cheek bone to her jawline, across her lips. Another cut interrupted her hair line. No earlobes. 

She had the same mark as I, hers was just below her collar bone. I apologised, for my reaction and for what she must have been through. I realised I hadn’t said a word until then. 

“They did a lot more than just cut my earlobes and exile me, as the papers claimed,” she said through her teeth, answering my stunned face.

“The Witchhammer will torture you until you beg for -," she swallowed the last word, "once you’re on the verge of this world and the other, they will take you to the edge of town and leave you there at the mercy of your own survival instincts.”

A cold sweat ran down my spine thinking of the tongueless man I had encountered at the beginning of my journey. 

“Show me your mark,” she ordered.

I pulled my hair over my shoulder and lifted my cape for her to see the reason I was a fugitive beneath my ripped dress.

“Are you ready for a revolution?” her eyes glared. 

We shared our stories, how we had ended up here. Wilbur told me everything except how she had survived the witch swimming. Asking about it made her irritated and I didn’t dare to do it again. 

My darling Tilda, I have learnt so much in these past few weeks that I have spent as Wilbur's apprentice. She is a powerful witch. I can now assure you that the dark magic within me is controllable. And could be of good use when necessary. 

Wilbur has been planning a new era for witches. A revolution. My contact with Marshall Engberg has become the key element to her plan, which is to make our way to Sveaborg, where the Marshall is overseeing the construction work for the king's fortress. 

There is more to Marshall Endberg’s story than what we know. Marshall Engberg and his wife Sofia could not conceive a child. Longing to become a family, the Engbergs fostered a child Gustav, who had lost his parents in a fire.  

Filled with gratitude, they decided to establish an orphanage for other forsaken children, located in Whitefire Isle. The same orphanage where I spent ten-and-six-years, and where you, my lovely Tilda, still are. This part of the story was as familiar to me as to you.

There were rumours about a wife of a respected Swedish nobleman, who had been caught practising witchcraft. 

As a punishment, she had been beaten so that she could not have children (my lungs burn from such a revolting act of violence). Their status had saved them from further consequences. Sofia Engberg is the witch in question.

We are most certain that Sveaborg could become a stronghold for witches. We can end the Witchhammer's unlawful ways and have all members executed - which they all deserve.

Wilbur believes that with Sofia by our side, when the King arrives, us witches could present ourselves as his loyal advisors. Witches would be most useful, as we can see the past that teaches us, the present that affects us and the future that beholds us.

We have foreseen the flames and flashes of another war at our hands. It will change the course of our country in perpetuity. And Wilbur is ready for war. As am I.

There are others like us joining the cause as I write this letter.

Travel and bribery cost more than we expected. We had to collect funds for our cause.  I won’t tell you everything I have had to do in order to get the means, for I am ashamed. 

There is only so much magic can do to help. When it comes to money, it has proven more efficient to use the humane skills of manipulation, deceiving and threatening.

The fire that started at Ulrikasborg was a most unfortunate mishap. I never meant to burn an entire building. Wilbur sent me there to ignite the apartment of a known Witchhammer supporter. Only he was supposed to get caught by the fire.

These deeds force me to carry a conflict I cannot solve.

This was my last confession to you Tilda. Bear in mind; it was all done in the name of the cause. 

According to Wilbur, Sveaborg is easily compared to a paradise. I hope you understand what this means. 

I do not expect an answer from you, there isn’t an address where to reach me. Hold this letter in your hands and know, I am yours. 

Winds find my love,

play with her hair

as I cannot.

Tell my ache,

Tell my love,

Tell, I’ll wait

for the undreamt of.

I shall let the thought of you linger a little longer before I must go into the unknown.  

With all my heart,

X