A Fine Night For A Curse

Trigger Warning: While it is not explicitly stated or described, there is heavily implied suicide/self-harm towards the end.

“It’s a fine night for a curse,” says the witch to his cat, as they trek through the midnight woods. The trees tower over them, making the night appear much darker than it truly is, but he is not relying on his own eyes to navigate. His cat pads but a few paces ahead, weaving carefully through the brush. Its bright white pelt is a beacon in the night, marking out a path for the witch to follow. His clothes catch where the cat glides by, and his skin bleeds where he cannot avoid the thorns in his way, but neither stops him. He has come here for a reason, and he won’t leave until he has what he needs.

It’s a fine night for a curse, as the light from the full moon slowly becomes visible through the trees. The cat bounds ahead with renewed energy, and the witch picks up his pace. In front of him the trees part, revealing a small clearing. The moon sits right overhead, its light casting down on the bush in the center of the trees. It’s covered in beautiful white flowers, the petals almost glowing in the night. The urge to pluck them quickly and be done with it is tempting, but unwise. Instead, he stops before the bush and pulls a pair of gloves and clippers from a pouch at his belt. His cat sits at the edge of the trees, tail wrapped around its paws, watching with a gleam in its eyes. He pulls the gloves on and reaches into the bush, careful to keep any exposed scratches far from the plant. The toxicity of the moonflower is no laughing matter, and he doesn’t want anything to further delay his plans.

It’s a fine night for a curse, the trees seem to whisper, as the witch makes his way back home. The flowers are secured in a small wooden box to keep the petals from being crushed, and he holds the box close while he walks. The closer he gets to home the stronger the wind seems to blow, pulling at his cloak and tangling his hair. Whether it’s truly just the wind, or a warning from something that has seen what he plans to do, he can’t afford to dwell on it. He made his decision a long time ago, and he won’t allow himself to turn back now.

It’s a fine night for a curse, he thinks to himself, leaning against his front door. The wind howls outside, a storm brewing despite the clear skies only moments ago. He shuts his eyes as the door trembles under the force, his breathing rapid and shallow. His house has survived much worse storms, but something about this one is different. Darker. There is intent in this storm, and it isn’t pleasant. There’s a gnawing feeling in his chest, pulling at all the worries in his mind. It brings him to his knees in front of the door, tugging at every single insecurity until the screaming of the wind is drowning in the sound of his own doubt.

“It’s a fine night for a curse.” The words echo around him, bringing him back from the brink. He raises his head, locking eyes with the cat. Its eyes gleam with intelligence far beyond that of a house pet, and its tail twitches back and forth. It pads slowly towards the witch and sits down, looking at the box that had been dropped in his panic. He reaches for it, lifting the lid carefully. Despite the fall, the flowers remain intact. Delicate blossoms pressed close together, but not torn or bent. The witch lets out a shaky breath and pushes himself to his feet.

It’s a fine night for a curse. The storm outside now serves only to further strengthen his resolve as he walks to the altar in the center of the room. Everything is already laid out for him, every ingredient divided into precise amounts, and every tool cleaned to perfection. He sets the box in place on the edge of the altar and gets to work. He does so in quick and solemn silence, lighting the flame underneath the small cauldron with barely a flick of the wrist. As the liquid begins to bubble he stirs in a handful of dried leaves, breathing in the damp scent of a forest after rain. He watches the bowl of ground bones dissolve, bleaching the mixture a ghostly white. He takes the vial from around his neck, carefully unscrewing it to let a single drop of blood fall into the cauldron. There is a sharp hiss when the droplet breaks the surface, and he can’t help but flinch slightly. The flowers are the last to go, placed gently into the cauldron. As soon as the petals hit the liquid they begin to turn black, bubbling at the edges. The color bleeds out into the rest of the mixture as the flowers slowly dissolve. When there is nothing left the bubbling settles and the black fades, leaving behind nothing but a faint silvery sheen.

“It’s a fine night for a curse,” he whispers to himself. He turns from the altar to a small case mounted on the wall. Inside is an ancient dagger, the hilt worn and etched with countless runes. Despite its age the blade remains sharp, and he is careful not to cut himself as he lifts it from the display. The wood is rough against his skin, and when he dares to look at his reflection the image is distorted. His hands begin to shake as he stares at himself in the blade, and it is only the pressure of the cat brushing against his legs that allows him to tear his gaze away. He wastes no more time in stepping back up to the altar and dipping the dagger into the cauldron. The mixture hisses and bubbles as it makes contact with the metal, crawling up the edges and stopping just short of the hilt. After a few short seconds the witch pulls it out, letting the excess liquid drip off. He takes a deep breath and steadies himself.

“It’s a fine night for a curse, for a plea of revenge. Goddess hear my cry, make me whole again!”

It’s a fine night for a final breath.