By Rachel Racette 

Deep within a forest, beneath a sky of emerald leaves, sits a woman with dark hair that pours down her back and hangs between the great twin horns atop her head, casting her eyes in shadow. She is young with pale skin and long slender limbs, with pointed ears and sharp black nails. Chains of various precious metals hang from her bare neck and various pieces of gold and silver jewelry resting beneath her feet along with many a small smooth stone, and around her fingers are tied ribbons of various colors and sizes. 

She has been here a very long time. Sitting in her grove beneath a large, ancient, twisted tree, kingdoms have risen and fallen beyond her sight. The only breaks in the monotone are the people who come, desperate and scared, seeking the salvation they believe she can bring. 

She is of the Fae, the people in the village just at the edge of the wood say. Old yet forever young. She is a witch of dark and powerful magic who never leaves her grove. Who grins with sharp teeth when a deal is made. 

Her fee to ask something of her is always the same, no matter the wish; a stone smoothed by water, a piece of gold or silver jewelry, and a ribbon. 

Still, despite warnings, people still come, falling before her on dirty and scrapped knees, clothes torn from the thorn-ridden path to her home. Each starting similarly; begging or demanding or sobbing for things.

They want power, they want to be beautiful forever, they want riches, they want to be strong, they want to fight monsters. 

She grants their wishes without complaint, but what these people bring her is not the price for the spells and powers she gives them, simply the price to ask. She warns them every time, tells them in her soft musical voice, that magic and power does not come without a price, even though she knows they will never listen. Always, her words are brushed off, dismissed until the shadows and powers that be come knocking for the real payment. 

"Why?!" The weaker cry, weeping for lost loved ones or well-loved forgotten memories, for the children stolen from their arms. 

"How dare you!" The bolder shout, trembling under the weight of their actions, the lives they could never return to and the tomorrows they had given up. 

"Take it back!" The greedy beg, dropping gold and gems at her feet, pressing their faces into the dirt.

Crying for the years stolen from their flesh, for the death that follows at their heels. 

"I told you." She always replies, with her unnaturally echoing voice. "I do not decide the price. You asked for terrible things, so wonderful things will be taken. The fault lies not with me." 

Then they scream or rush her or weep at her feet, and she pulls at the ribbons, or scrapes a nail across the stones and banishes the humans from her home. And even if they should try, they will never find her grove again. 

So the cycle continued, until one day, a child stumbled into her arms. 

* * * 

I stare. The child blinks back, copper eyes wide and ringed in red. She trembles, this mortal who can be no older than seven summers, but she stays, hands twirling my price in small sickly thin hands, she does not flee or turn away. 

This is new. Not the situation, people come almost every day to my grove, but one so young, one so scared and determined... this was different. I can feel it down in my soul. 

I hold out a hand, waiting patiently until she steps, bare feet caked in mud, toward me, handing me the offerings and backing up quickly, nearly slipping on the hoard I sit upon. Her hands are cold. 

"What is it you come to wish for?" I whisper, tying the short and dirty green ribbon around a finger. 

"I-I have a uh, a question? You-you can answer it, can't you? No–no one else will." She stutters, wringing her hands. 

I pause, head tilting, my thumb rubbing the smoothest side of the stone; it's still damp. She must have run from the river, which is not a short distance. Still, questions were a difficult wish for me to grant, sometimes I didn't have an answer, or the truths I told were ones my wishers didn't want. Not that it mattered much to me. 

I nod in reply and gesture for her to continue. 

"Am I a monster?" She whispers. I freeze, and with my magic, I reach out and really look at the child before me. I taste the magic of her blood and gasp at the familiarity. She is a child of both human and Fae, and she is terrified. I look deeper, and see the tears and stains dulling her soul, some self-inflicted. I have only one answer for her. For the first time, I curse my inability to lie. 

"You are not fully human like those in your village." I say slowly, watching the remaining color drain from her face, watch her eyes grow dark and dull. Now, with a second look, a real look – I see what I hadn't before; she is pretty, even covered in grime, even tired and starved. Past her greasy stringy hair, her ears are slightly curved, one day they will be sharpened to a point. One day, she will look like a goddess. She will be able to call upon powers mortals can only dream of – one day, she will be loved and hated and feared. 

But today, she is a frightened child who only wants a question to be answered, who wants comfort, who wants someone to chase her fears away. But the truth – that is all I can offer. 

"You are only half human, on your father's side if I had to guess." She nods, probably only for the sake of doing something, I'm sure, given how she seems to crumble with every word. "Human men have always been easy for our kind to tempt. Not that woman are any more difficult but..." I trail off, hands immediately going for the chains around my throat, remembering a time when I was young, when I was weak too, and I say the words I would have needed. The words that would hopefully give her the strength to live for herself, and know she is allowed to be herself. Not a lie, but a … different truth. 

"No." I say, reaching out and raising her head with a hand beneath her chin. "You are not a monster. You are a halfling child of the Fae. You are pretty and strong. You are powerful and wonderful and do not let anyone ever tell you otherwise. Your heritage only means where you’re from, not who you are, not who you will be." Her eyes shine with unshed tears, her lower lip wobbles. 

"But – But the adults say--" 

"Adults lie." I growl, cutting her off, dropping my hand. Spitting words I'd wished I'd been told when I was young. "Humans, for all their creativeness, their love and compassion and bravery, can also be cruel. They can be terrible, they can be manipulated or manipulative, their anger or sorrow can overtake them, and they are more than willing to hurt or kill what frightens them." I stop, heart pounding under the fire of my emotions. I breathe, deep and slow, and return to my previous calm. I smile, and a wave of warm magic flows out of me and through her, calming her enough to sit just as the edge of my hoard. She breathes with me, blinking away the wetness of her doe eyes. She offers a shaky smile. 

"I'm not a monster?" I nod, pride welling in my chest at the honest belief in her voice. Her question had been answered, her request completed, but I had no idea what the real price would be, no one had ever just asked a question before, and... and I did not want her to go back to where she will be hurt. She did not deserve the fate the price of my magic generally brought. 

"...What's your name?" the child asks, startling me from my thoughts. She was still here? "I-if I can ask?"

She stutters, biting her lip. I blink, hands stilling, curled tight in the chains dangling from my throat. I stare, eyes wide behind the silk curtain of my dark hair. 

No one had ever asked for my name before. No one had ever wanted the name of the Fae Witch of the Grove. Titles and curses were all I was ever given. What had I been before? Who had I been before? Did I even have a name? Had I ever been given one? 

"...I..." What was my name? What was my name? I had one – didn't I? Didn't I?! "...I don't know." I admit.

I raise my head and blink. When had the child moved so close? Her eyes are ringed a brighter red, glazing over while her lips tremble, though she holds her head high, peering up at me. 

"Well, I- I could give you one. If—if you want." Her hands curl tightly into the dirty worn fabric of her clothes. She is terrified, I see it clearly in her bright wide eyes, yet she still tries to meet my eye. For the first time, someone tries to stand as my equal, tries to see me. 

I smile, softly, this one not a dark smirk, and pull back the curtain of my hair, seeing unhindered for the first time in a long time. Her eyes glimmer with a different light now. 

"I would like that very much." I say, warmth blooming in my chest as she smiles, color brightening her face. 

* * *

Deep within the forest, there is a grove beneath a canopy of emerald leaves, where a woman and a child live. The woman sits under an ancient twisting tree, atop a hoard of jewelry and smooth stones, with ribbons tied around her slender fingers. Her hair is long and dark, tangled across the two great twisting horns atop her head. She is young with pale hair and sharp nails, with chains dangling from her neck. 
The child, a pretty little thing, thin but healthy, with flowers tangled in her pale hair, skips around the clearing, sometimes disappearing into the greenery, coming and going at her leisure but always returning. She too, bears string upon her small fingers. 

They are of the Fae, the people say. Offering deals with twin sweet grins or matching dark smirks. Beware those inhuman children. Calling favors and granting wishes with their magic, but this time, they give care to the kind and lost, they do not allow the darker powers to hurt the good who come their way. 
For the elder, you must bring a ribbon, a stone smoothed by water, and a piece of precious jewelry. 
For the younger, a piece of string, the softest and well-worn the better, and a hand-picked flower, but not one from their forest. 

They sit, laughing and singing in their grove as kingdoms rise and fall, as battles are fought and won and lost, as humans live and die. Disturbed only when someone comes crawling down the thorn path to their home, with wishes upon their tongues. Cursing the cruel and greedy to their fate and saving the kind and broken from the harshness of their blood. 
 

About the Author 

Rachel Racette, born 1999, in Balcarres, Saskatchewan. Interested in creating her own world and characters and loves writing science-fiction and fantasy. She has always loved books of fantasy and science fiction as well as comics. Lives with her supportive family and cat, Cheshire. Lives vicariously in fantasy settings of her own making. Published in: Poet's Choice - Free Spirit, Arthropod Literary Journal Issue 1, Underwood Press, Coffin Bell. 

Website: www.racheldotsdot.wordpress.com 
Twitter: Rachel S Racette - Author