War on Hecate

"Again."

It was the fifth time today she'd tried- and failed- at the simple task of igniting a single candle with her magic. It was a Saturday, just on the edge of Autumn- the air still comfortably warm for most of the day, though with the faintest hint of a chill rising during the nights, when the sun fell slowly behind the horizon, and the stars and moon seemed to reveal themselves as if to welcome the oncoming change in the seasons. The house was still today- none of the typical musical notes coming from the small keyboard in the corner of the tiny off-hand office adjacent to the dining room, or the sound of the stereo on low, playing something whimsical and eclectic, accompanied usually by the scent of home-made bread; no, today was different. There was a crackle of energy radiating through the house today, electric and strong, a silent current full of something namelessly wild.

Calluna's hair was more unkempt than usual- the long strands of her hair, somewhere between chestnut and auburn- spindling down around her face in loose tendrils. Her bright green eyes were focused and pensive, the muscles in her jaw clenching and unclenching. Her heart was beating harder than usual, the heat of her skin spurring on the prickle of sweat threatening the line of her brow.

The swell of frustration bubbling under her skin rose. "Delia, I can't-" "Yes you can. Try again." Calluna huffed, reaching up to press idly at her temples, willing away the headache she felt blossoming behind her eyes. Her aunt Delia sighed, suddenly seeming aware of just how exhausted her niece had become, and she knelt down beside her where she sat at their dinning room table, placing a gentle hand on her knee. "Honey- I know this is hard-" "It's not just hard, it's impossible!" She interjected, voice breaking, and full of unspoken despair, and Delia felt her heart tug when she noticed the faintest pooling of unshed tears in Calluna's eyes. "Luna." Everyone else always called her Calla- only her aunt, her grandmother, and her mother- so many years ago, before she'd been killed- were ever allowed to call her Luna. She turned to find her aunt watching her with wistful, mourning eyes, and it took everything in her to subdue the urge to sob. "I'm not my mother." She whispered, and Delia nodded, reaching up to tuck a loose tuft of hair behind Calluna's ear. "No- you're not. And no one expects you to become your mother; she was the greatest witch this family has ever known. To ask you to live in her shadow would be unfair. But sweetheart, that's part of why I've been so insistent that you learn the craft. Your mother was one of the most powerful witches I'd ever seen, and she was killed by the hunters."

Calluna had only been nine or ten when her mother was murdered; she didn't remember much of the ordeal itself, but the distant sound of booted footfalls, and gunfire, and violent screams was a memory that she knew would forever haunt her- the sound of her mother, spewing a jumbled mess of latin she was too young to understand at the time- had quickly been followed by the sound of several loud thumps; in her last moments, her mother, Diana, had summoned the last of her magic to kill the men who'd invaded their home. It wasn't until several years after that- when her aunt Delia had taken her in- that Calluna learned the truth: her mother, one of the most powerful witches born in the last two centuries, had been targeted by witch-hunters. Calluna was 18 now, and even growing up in a family of witches, where full moons were celebrated with house parties, and Samhain was one of their biggest family affairs, she seemed to have only adopted a modicum of the power that had been passed down through her lineage.

Calluna nodded then, the tears she felt from before slowly trailing down her cheeks as the sweeter memories of her mother- warm and smiling and always seeming encompassed in sunlight- flashed through her mind. "We have hidden in the shadows for a long time as a means of survival; people often fear what they don't understand. But it's time that we fight back." Delia murmured, and the fierce sense of strength that shown in her eyes seemed to set something alight within Calluna. She nodded, resolute with a renewed sense of determination; taking a moment to wipe away her tears, she turned back to the candle in front of her.

She took a breath- summoning the pain that wracked her chest as she remembered her mother- and whispered a simple latin word: "Incendo." With a solemn sense of resolution, she watched as a brilliant spark of flame breathed to light atop the wick of the candle. It was then, in that short moment thereafter, while watching the flame dance and shimmer atop the candle, that she decided her mother's death would not be in vain. That their lives were no longer to be a predetermined fate of hidden words whispered in secret, or meetings made in the deep of the woods where no one would find them. Their lives were to be their own.

"Good." Delia murmured, the faintest hint of pride shimmering quietly in her eyes. Calluna took another breath, latching tightly to the necklace dangling from around her neck, gifted to her by her mother at birth; a little crescent moon made of sterling silver. She let the heat of the anger, and the swelling sorrow, burrowing through her chest, emanate into the tips of her unoccupied hand, and she reached out then, brushing over the top of the flame with her fingers, murmuring softly "Demorior". In an instant, the flame extinguished, and the wax of the white, tapered candle melted, pooling over the sides of the candle-stick, and turning a sickly blue-black where it congealed atop the dining room table. For a moment Delia stood, surprised at the sudden display of power demonstrated by her niece, before the faintest smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "On thee contrary; it seems you may very well have inherited your mother's gift for the craft after all."