The Witch of Thorns

“The slave has a death wish,” one of the boys mocked.

“He’s already tired of playing knight,” another chimed in, his words dripping with disdain.

Young Elian paid no heed to their cruel words. Let it be a death wish, he thought. No matter how gruesome his death might be, his feet will remain planted on the path he had chosen. To tread this path, he needed not just strength, but unparalleled strength. His raison d'être was clear—to slay the Witch of Thorns.

The very witch who had made Aldoria fell into ruins.

Aldoria, once a mighty kingdom, was plunged into darkness by the Witch of Thorns. The witch had decimated the nobles, warriors, and swordsmen, leaving only the commoners behind before vanishing into the unknown. It was during this chaos that the Gorlonds seized their chance, conquering Aldoria and enslaving those who remained.

That grim tale was etched into the annals of history, a legacy of despair that haunted the descendants of Aldoria. Every now and then, a young Aldorian harbored the dream of slaying the Witch of Thorns, but most met their end in their pursuit of knighthood. The Gorlonds were ruthless, offering little mercy to the Aldorians who dared aspire to be knights. Over the span of three centuries, only five had succeeded in becoming knights.

All five of them had ventured forth to confront the witch, but none returned.  

Such was the cruel destiny of those born Aldorian—slavery or the pursuit of knighthood, both paths littered with peril and the ever-looming specter of death. Elian had chosen the latter. He was prepared to do whatever it took to become stronger.

Even if it means to stand before the figure in front of him. The mysterious old man.

Though his thick white brows covered his eyes, the old man’s piercing gaze remained fixed on Elian, a force unto itself that seemed to reach into the depths of his soul. Young Elian tried his best to maintain his composure, but his trembling legs betrayed his resolve.

The figure before him was an enigma, a silent guardian of the training grounds. No one knew his origins, and none dared to approach him. He neither ate nor slept, and he never spoke a word, existing in a state of perpetual silence.

Once, a foolhardy drunkard had assailed the old man, seeking to test the limits of his strength. The result had been swift and gruesome—the drunkard had been inexplicably cleaved in two, his fate sealed by the enigmatic figure's unseen hand.

The old man, who seemed frail and feeble at first glance, possessed a power that defied explanation. His actions were a macabre spectacle that had etched itself into the collective memory of all who bore witness.

The aura of the old man became an impenetrable barrier, discouraging even the boldest souls from drawing near. The grim corpses of those ill-fated souls who had dared to venture too close lay scattered around him. Some had been reduced to naught but bare bones, their tragic ends serving as a chilling admonition to all who approached.

Elian stood before him, his face wearing a mask of determination. He was on the verge of fainting due to the noxious odour, the intensity of the old man's gaze, and the weight of the moment. Yet, not a hint of weakness showed on his face.

Then, the old man whispered, which caught him off guard, a single word—a word that hinted at meanings beyond Elian’s comprehension.  

“Valenhardt,” the old man uttered.

***

The ruler raised the ceremonial sword, its blade etched with the scars of countless injustices. The weight of the sword descending upon Elian's shoulders was not a blessing, but a burden—a symbol of the cruel fate awaiting him.

“I, by the power vested in me, hereby dub thee, Sir Elian, a knight of Gorlond,” the king proclaimed, a sinister smile played upon his lips.

Elian bore the weight of that burden with an unwavering resolve. He knew the path he had chosen was a perilous one, a journey that would lead him to confront the Witch of Thorns, a foe that had haunted his people for centuries.

The ceremonial event held no celebration, no joyous applause, for everyone present understood the grim destiny of the Aldorians who became knights. The Aldorians themselves harbored no admiration for their kin who willingly walked toward their doom. It was a choice that baffled many, for they knew that becoming a knight meant embarking on a quest to hunt down the Witch of Thorns, a quest that had claimed the lives of the last five Aldorians who had taken up the mantle.

The Gorlonds, the oppressive rulers of the kingdom, showed no reluctance in allowing the Aldorian knights to depart on their doomed quests. These Aldorian knights were considered a threat, too powerful to be controlled within the rigid hierarchy of Gorlond that was based solely on strength. So, they let them meet their end at the hands of the witch, a grim solution that suited the Gorlonds' interests.

But Elian knew he was different. He stood amidst the ceremonial silence, a sense of purpose burned within him, even though his face was void of emotions. Under the enigmatic tutelage of the mysterious old man, Elian honed his skills and unlocked hidden depths of power within himself, the power of faith. The old man passed on his knowledge and secrets to the young knight. Yet, as mysteriously as he had appeared in Elian's life, the old man died, after he taught Elian everything he knew.

Elian paid his respects to the old man by burying him beneath a majestic red maple tree, a silent promise to carry forward the knowledge and strength he had gained.

 When the time came for the knight test, Elian excelled in a manner that left no room for doubt. His dominance was unparalleled; a testament to the tutelage he had received under the old man's guidance.

After the ceremonial event, Elian embarked on his quest to hunt the Witch of Thorns. His journey was solitary and fraught with uncertainty, but his determination remained unshaken. He ventured deep into the heart of the ancient forest, where the whispers of the witch's presence grew stronger.

***

The moon hung low in the night sky, casting a ghostly pallor upon the darkened forest. Elian had been tracking the Witch of Thorns for days, guided only by whispers of her whereabouts and the determination that had brought him this far.

As he neared a moonlit clearing, he saw her—a figure cloaked in shadow, her back turned to him as she stood amidst a thicket of thorny vines. Her form was obscured, but Elian could feel the aura of magic that surrounded her.

With a silent prayer, he leaped forward, his sword raised high. In one swift motion, he brought the blade down upon the figure, aiming for a decisive strike. The blade met its mark with a sickening thud, and the head of the witch rolled to the ground, her body collapsing into the thorns.

Elian's heart raced as he watched the headless body slump to the ground. He had done it—or so he thought. As he took a cautious step back, something astonishing occurred. The severed head, with its eyes wide open and an expression of shock frozen upon its face, slowly reattached itself to the neck.

Elian's eyes widened in disbelief as he watched the impossible unfold before him. The witch's head and body fused together, her form made whole once more. She turned to face him, her eyes locking with his. Elian, his sword still in hand, his faith unwavering.

"I've come," he declared, his countenance fearless, "to end your life."

"You are not the first," the Witch of Thorns replied with a soft, melancholic smile, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Her voice carried the weight of centuries, a voice that had seen too much suffering and despair.

Elian, his sword still in hand, paused at her words. After a second of hesitation, he mustered up his resolution and struck relentlessly. The relentless slashing of her body had yielded no results; she kept regenerating, her form reassembling itself with eerie ease. What struck him even more was her passivity—she made no attempt to defend herself or launch a counterattack.

Confusion and doubt gnawed at Elian's resolve. He had come prepared to face a malevolent force, to vanquish the source of his people's suffering. But before him stood a being who showed no aggression, no hint of hostility. It was a dissonance that troubled him deeply.

"Why do you not fight back?" Elian demanded, his voice tinged with frustration. "Are you not the one who killed my people, who brought Aldoria to ruin?"

The witch's eyes, still glistening with tears, met his with a gaze that held a world of sorrow. "Yes, I am she," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "But the truth is more than what you know.”

As Elian continued to slash at her, detaching her arms and legs, only to watch them regenerate, the realization sank in. She made no effort to harm him. In fact, she seemed resigned to her fate, as if she had accepted the role she had been cast into for centuries.

With each stroke of his sword, he saw the witch's face contort with pain, but she made no sound, uttered no cry of agony. It was as if she had numbed herself to the suffering, as if her torment ran deeper than any physical pain he could inflict.

It made him feel a profound sense of unease. The ruthless witch of thorns, the one who had haunted the nightmares of his people for generations, had not a single drop of intention to hurt him. It raised questions he had never dared to ask before.

"Why?" Elian muttered, lowering his sword, his hands trembling. "Why do you not defend yourself? Why do you not fight?"

The witch, her form still in disarray but gradually reforming, spoke softly. "Young knight," her voice carried a weight of sorrow and vulnerability, "I am bound by an immortal curse, a curse born of tragedy and despair."

Elian's anger began to wane, replaced by a profound sense of empathy. He had come seeking vengeance, but what he found was a being trapped in a cycle of suffering that mirrored the plight of his own people. It was a sentiment he hadn't expected, a hint of vulnerability in a being he had once seen as a heartless antagonist. The Witch of Thorns was not the malevolent force he had believed her to be; she was a prisoner of her own curse.

As the moonlight bathed them in its ethereal glow, Elian lowered his sword completely, his heart heavy with the unexpected turn of the path that he took. As the witch's body began to mend itself once more, Elian made a choice—a choice to defy the cycle of hatred and seek the truth.

“Tell me everything,” he said.

***

In a time long past, when the world was shrouded in a veil of darkness, there existed a witch cult. Their rituals were steeped in cruelty, and they thrived on the suffering of others. Among them, a young witch named Aurinia was born into a life she never chose.

The cult had a sinister allure for wandering men, luring them into their grasp with promises of pleasure and power. Once ensnared, these men would unknowingly contribute to the cult's sinister purpose—they would father children who would later become offerings in ghastly rituals that appeased the cult's deities.

Aurinia, like the others, had been raised in this environment, a world of darkness and despair. She knew nothing of kindness or compassion, only the cold embrace of her fellow witches and the horrors they perpetrated.

One fateful day, while wandering the dark forests that surrounded her coven's lair, Aurinia took a step that would forever alter her destiny. She stumbled upon the borders of the Kingdom of Aldoria, a realm of light and prosperity that stood in stark contrast to the malevolence of her cult.

The sight that greeted her was unlike anything she had ever witnessed. The people of Aldoria lived in harmony, their lives filled with beauty and kindness. It was a world so different from her own that it captivated her heart.

As fate would have it, Aurinia's presence did not go unnoticed. She found herself in the presence of King Roland Valenhardt, a noble ruler whose kindness and wisdom struck a chord within her. In Roland, she saw a father, a guardian, that she never had.

Their bond grew strong, and Aurinia shared with Roland the darkest secrets of her past—the rituals, the witches, and their malevolent practices. She revealed the threat her own cult posed to the kingdom, and in doing so, she hoped to protect the people she had come to care for.

Valenhardt, burdened by the responsibility of his kingdom, saw the witches as a grave threat. He believed their dark powers could bring ruin to Aldoria, and he made the painful decision to order their execution.

War soon erupted between the kingdom and the witches, a battle that would shape the course of history. Aurinia played a vital role in the conflict, for she alone possessed knowledge of the witches' weaknesses. Her spells and insight proved invaluable in the kingdom's struggle.

The witches, sensing their impending doom, harbored a deep hatred for Aurinia and King Roland. In their fury, they cast a curse upon them both—one that would ensure Aurinia's immortality, but her life forever intertwined with death, and the other ensures Roland's lineage doomed to be without male heirs.

The war raged on, and finally, the kingdom emerged victorious. In celebration of their hard-won triumph, a grand banquet was organized, attended by those who had played a role in the war.

Suddenly, the banquet took an unexpected turn. Monstrous creatures invaded the banquet hall, and without hesitation, Aurinia unleashed her powerful spells to protect the people she grew to love.

But the reality was far more horrifying. There were no monsters, only the innocent attendees of the banquet. The curse had put her in a state of delusion, and she had become the unwitting instrument of their demise.

Realization struck her like a thunderbolt, and horror washed over her. Her hands were stained by the blood of the very ones she had sought to protect. Overwhelmed by despair, she fled into the woods, leaving behind a kingdom severely weakened by the loss of its leaders.

In the wake of the tragedy, the Gorlonds seized the opportunity to conquer Aldoria, plunging the kingdom into darkness. The curses inflicted upon Aurinia and Roland endured, and the rest was history.

***

Aurinia paid her respects at the five graves, seemingly the final resting places of the five Aldorian knights who came before Elian. Afterward, she retrieved a small blade.

"This blade, Eclipsis" she said, "is the only weapon capable of ending my existence, but it can only be wielded by a Valenhardt."

Elian stared at the blade in silence, his thoughts racing to grasp the profound weight of Aurinia's revelations. Her story had torn through the very fabric of his beliefs, leaving him in a bewildered state of shock. Everything he had ever learned about witches and their malevolence now felt like a twisted tapestry of half-truths and misconceptions. However, he had something more important to say.

"I am a Valenhardt," he confessed, his voice trembling with the gravity of his revelation.

Aurinia stared at him in disbelief, her eyes wide with astonishment. "You... you're a Valenhardt?" Her words hung in the air, laden with a mixture of incredulity and hope.

Elian struggled to find the right words to explain, but before he could continue, he was interrupted by an unexpected and heartfelt embrace. Aurinia, tears streaming down her cheeks, threw her arms around him, for she had carried the weight of her emotions for three centuries.

Startled by her sudden gesture, Elian hesitated for a moment before he too wrapped his arms around her. In that shared embrace, the world outside seemed to blur and fade into insignificance. As they held each other close, neither of them knew how to navigate the uncharted territory of their emotions. Unbeknownst to them, a powerful bond had silently formed—love.

In the embrace of the night, Aurinia, cocooned in Elian's warmth, slept peacefully in his arms; the remnants of her tears glistening on her cheeks. Elian, his heart lighter than it had been in a long time, soon followed.

***

In the midst of the peaceful night, a sudden, malevolent aura violently roused Elian from his slumber. His eyes widened in alarm. Aurinia had spiraled out of control. With a heavy heart, he knew what he had to do. He picked up the Eclipsis and fought with all his might.

Their battle was fierce, the air crackling with power. Elian, drawing on his unwavering faith, summoned his strength to face the darkness within Aurinia. In the end, he had no choice but to strike her down.

As he knelt by her side, Aurinia's eyes met his, and she whispered softly, "I knew you wouldn't kill me willingly."

Tears welled up in Elian's eyes as he realized that Aurinia only pretended to be possessed. They shared their last moments together. With a serene smile, Aurinia requested a painless death, a merciful end to her suffering—a plea that Elian couldn't refuse.

In that bittersweet moment, their tear-filled eyes locked, and Elian granted her final wish. Eclipsis graced her neck. 

***

The guards’ chatter was abruptly ceased.

A figure emerged from a distance. It was Elian, cradling Aurinia’s severed head, like a Dullahan. In solemn silence, he strode past the astonished soldiers, making his way into the kingdom's gates, heading to the red maple tree.