Chase Away the Sorrow
will it make me forget?
He finds the witch on the edge of the earth, a foot away from slipping into the darkness. Her legs are crossed underneath her and she’s leaning up against empty air, her bare shoulders swathed in smoky fog. She’s smirking as she watches him approach, tiny shuffling footsteps until he’s standing in front of her, a safe distance from the end of the world.
“What can I do you for, sweetheart?” she asks, cocking her head to one side. It makes her hair fall into her face, reddish brown curls obscuring her pale, freckled skin until she shakes it back out again. She doesn’t look like a witch but he knows they never do.
“Forget,” he says. His voice is cracked with disuse and he has to clear his throat before he can speak again. “I want to forget.”
She leans back and for a moment he thinks she’s going to fall off the edge of the earth and his journey will have been for nothing. Her smirk widens like she knows what he’s thinking. She doesn’t fall.
“Forget,” she says, drawing out the last syllable into the empty space between them. He crosses his arms over his chest and tries not to tap his foot. “What could possibly have happened to you that you’d rather forfeit the gift of memory than let yourself remember?”
“That is not of your concern,” he snaps, glowering at the witch. She only laughs, amused. It’s a pleasant sound, low and breathy and very vaguely familiar. He ignores it. “Can you help me or not?”
Her eyes darken immediately, but the smirk remains on her lips. “Isn’t a question of can, sweetheart,” she says, her voice saccharine-sweet. “There are few things I can’t do, but many things I won’t do. One of those is help a spoilt little man too cowardly to face his problems.”
He swallows down a growl, but only barely. “If you won’t help me,” he says, lifting his chin into the air, “then I’ll find someone who will.”
She regards him for a long moment, tipping her head from one side to the other as if searching for something in him. Whatever it is, he doesn’t think she finds it because something in her face changes and she says, “Fine.” It sounds more like an exhalation of breath than anything else. “I’ll do it. You aren’t worth saving.”
His eyes narrow. He doesn’t want to be saved. Why would he want redemption when he can have sweet, mindless oblivion?
The witch’s lips quirk into what might be a genuine smile. “That’s what they all think, sweetheart,” she says ruefully. “Are you sure about this?” He just looks at her and she sighs. “That’s what I thought.”
With a sigh, her eyes close and she murmurs something under her breath. It doesn’t sound like any language he knows or has ever heard uttered by human tongues, because it isn’t. When her eyes open, there is only shiny, coal black where the irises should be, and the whites are filling with red.
He steps back, alarmed, but halts abruptly when she exhales and a tendril of the same fog that she wears like a cloak draws itself out of her mouth. He watches, fascinated, as it shapes into something more tangible, a shape he recognises but can’t quite put a name to.
The witch whispers, “Nepenthe,” like an enchantment, like a prayer, and it glows bright, brilliant crimson before crumpling into her hand. Her fist closes tight around it and she fits it over a bottle that seems to have appeared from nowhere. The fog fills it to the brim and tries to spill out but she mumbles something and the bottle corks itself, tight and secure.
And then she blinks and her eyes are normal again and she’s smiling, but it doesn’t look quite right on her lips. “Nepenthe,” she repeats, a note of reverence in her otherwise flat voice. “That which chases away sorrow.”
He swallows, hard, eyes fixed on the bottle in her hands. “Will it make me forget?”
She looks up at him, eyes hooded with age and exhaustion and something else he can’t name. “Yes,” she says. “You will forget everything you have had to suffer in your pathetically short life.” She wavers only a moment more before holding it out to him, fingers loose around the neck of the bottle. “I hope it’s worth it.”
“Believe me,” he says, his smile wide and gleeful and greedy as he snatches it out of her hands, “it will be.”
“Yes,” she repeats, her teeth cutting into her lower lip. “That’s what they all say.”
“What can I do you for, sweetheart?” she asks, cocking her head to one side. It makes her hair fall into her face, reddish brown curls obscuring her pale, freckled skin until she shakes it back out again. She doesn’t look like a witch but he knows they never do.
“Forget,” he says. His voice is cracked with disuse and he has to clear his throat before he can speak again. “I want to forget.”
She leans back and for a moment he thinks she’s going to fall off the edge of the earth and his journey will have been for nothing. Her smirk widens like she knows what he’s thinking. She doesn’t fall.
“Forget,” she says, drawing out the last syllable into the empty space between them. He crosses his arms over his chest and tries not to tap his foot. “What could possibly have happened to you that you’d rather forfeit the gift of memory than let yourself remember?”
“That is not of your concern,” he snaps, glowering at the witch. She only laughs, amused. It’s a pleasant sound, low and breathy and very vaguely familiar. He ignores it. “Can you help me or not?”
Her eyes darken immediately, but the smirk remains on her lips. “Isn’t a question of can, sweetheart,” she says, her voice saccharine-sweet. “There are few things I can’t do, but many things I won’t do. One of those is help a spoilt little man too cowardly to face his problems.”
He swallows down a growl, but only barely. “If you won’t help me,” he says, lifting his chin into the air, “then I’ll find someone who will.”
She regards him for a long moment, tipping her head from one side to the other as if searching for something in him. Whatever it is, he doesn’t think she finds it because something in her face changes and she says, “Fine.” It sounds more like an exhalation of breath than anything else. “I’ll do it. You aren’t worth saving.”
His eyes narrow. He doesn’t want to be saved. Why would he want redemption when he can have sweet, mindless oblivion?
The witch’s lips quirk into what might be a genuine smile. “That’s what they all think, sweetheart,” she says ruefully. “Are you sure about this?” He just looks at her and she sighs. “That’s what I thought.”
With a sigh, her eyes close and she murmurs something under her breath. It doesn’t sound like any language he knows or has ever heard uttered by human tongues, because it isn’t. When her eyes open, there is only shiny, coal black where the irises should be, and the whites are filling with red.
He steps back, alarmed, but halts abruptly when she exhales and a tendril of the same fog that she wears like a cloak draws itself out of her mouth. He watches, fascinated, as it shapes into something more tangible, a shape he recognises but can’t quite put a name to.
The witch whispers, “Nepenthe,” like an enchantment, like a prayer, and it glows bright, brilliant crimson before crumpling into her hand. Her fist closes tight around it and she fits it over a bottle that seems to have appeared from nowhere. The fog fills it to the brim and tries to spill out but she mumbles something and the bottle corks itself, tight and secure.
And then she blinks and her eyes are normal again and she’s smiling, but it doesn’t look quite right on her lips. “Nepenthe,” she repeats, a note of reverence in her otherwise flat voice. “That which chases away sorrow.”
He swallows, hard, eyes fixed on the bottle in her hands. “Will it make me forget?”
She looks up at him, eyes hooded with age and exhaustion and something else he can’t name. “Yes,” she says. “You will forget everything you have had to suffer in your pathetically short life.” She wavers only a moment more before holding it out to him, fingers loose around the neck of the bottle. “I hope it’s worth it.”
“Believe me,” he says, his smile wide and gleeful and greedy as he snatches it out of her hands, “it will be.”
“Yes,” she repeats, her teeth cutting into her lower lip. “That’s what they all say.”