The Vampire & Her Witch

Sir Gavin and Sir Cynwrig worked efficiently to transfer Lady Cerys from her bed of cloaks onto the makeshift litter they’d constructed. Cynwrig was careful with his wife’s broken arm, supporting it gently as they lifted her, and Cerys herself remained mercifully unconscious through most of the process, her face slack with exhaustion and the lingering effects of whatever Sir Ollie had done to save her life.

Morwen found herself helping where she could, mostly by staying out of the way and holding blankets ready when they were needed. Eira moved with more confidence, clearly having already accepted her role in this strange new reality they’d all found themselves in.

Once Lady Cerys was secured on the litter, the knights carefully carried her up the slope toward where Cadeyrn waited with the cart. It was slow, careful work, with frequent pauses as they navigated the crumbling trees and the frozen ground that had become brittle where the roots beneath the surface had rotted away. In the end, they relied on Cadeyrn walking in front of them, thumping the ground with a stick as they walked in order to avoid falling into any sudden sinkholes that formed as a result of the forest’s dessication.

Morwen watched them go, then turned back to where Sir Ollie still sat with Milo’s support. The young witch had been watching the process with tired eyes, but now that Lady Cerys was being moved, he seemed to be gathering himself for something.

”Milo, help me up,” Ollie said quietly, and the Eldritch warrior immediately shifted his position, helping Ollie to his feet with careful, practiced movements that spoke of long familiarity with supporting each other. ”I need to do one more thing before we leave.”

”Are you sure you’re strong enough?” Milo asked, his voice tight with concern. ”Ollie, you nearly died this morning. Maybe this can wait...”

”It can’t,” Ollie interrupted gently but firmly. ”This needs to be done now, while the oak still has a little strength left to give. If I wait until later, it will be too late.”

Milo’s expression was troubled, but he nodded slowly, clearly deferring to Ollie’s judgment even as worry radiated from every line of his body.

”Alright,” Milo said with a resigned-sounding sigh. ”But I’m staying right here, and if you start to fade again, I’m stopping you. I don’t care what you say.”

”Fair enough,” Ollie agreed, and there was something in his small smile that suggested he knew Milo would do exactly that regardless of whether he gave permission or not.

Harrod had moved closer as well, his posture protective even as he maintained a respectful distance. Both of the Eldritch warriors were watching Ollie with the kind of fierce attention that Morwen had only ever seen in the most loyal of retainers toward their liege lord... or to friends who were close enough to be called family.

Brothers, she reminded herself again. They call each other brothers, and they care for each other as much as any brothers Sir Gavin had ever seen. Clearly, the stocky knight hadn’t been exaggerating.

Ollie took a slow, careful breath and then began making his way toward the ailing oak tree, moving with the deliberate steps of someone who was pushing past exhaustion through sheer force of will. Milo stayed close beside him, ready to catch him if he stumbled, and Morwen found herself holding her breath as she watched them approach the massive, broken tree.

When they reached the oak, Ollie knelt down beside it, placing one hand on its rough bark with a gentleness that seemed almost reverent. For a long moment, he simply stayed there, his eyes closed, and his head bowed as if in prayer or meditation.

Then he opened his eyes and looked back at where Dalwyn’s collection of seeds lay in the opened handkerchief. As soon as he did, Harrod took a few quick steps back to where they lay, retrieving the bundle from the ground and bringing it over to Sir Ollie.

”Lady Ashlynn taught me this ritual when she returned from across the mountains,” Ollie said, his voice carrying across the quiet clearing. He wasn’t speaking loudly, but somehow his words seemed to fill the space, commanding attention without demanding it. ”I didn’t understand when I saw it at first. I thought it was a cruel thing that she did to the forest.”

”But now I understand,” he said softly as he reached out and carefully took the handkerchief full of seeds from Harrod’s outstretched hands, cradling it in his hands before he turned back to the oak tree.

”I know I’ve already asked so much of you,” Ollie said to the tree, and Morwen realized with a start that he was apologizing to it, speaking to it as if it were a person who could hear and understand. ”You’ve given everything to save Lady Cerys, and I’m grateful beyond words. We all are. But I’m asking for just a little more help now. One last gift, so that this ending can give way to hope for a new beginning.”

He closed his eyes again, and Morwen felt something shift in the air around them. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, like the change in the air before a storm, but she could feel the fine hairs on her arms standing up as something... something important was about to happen.

When Ollie spoke again, his voice had taken on a different quality, rhythmic and measured, the words flowing with a poet’s cadence:

”The withered ones who fell today,

Your final gift I shall repay.

Your essence flows to seeds unborn,

That when they sprout in coming morn,

Your strength lives on in saplings new,

The circle whole, your gift stays true.”

The air around Ollie began to shimmer, and Morwen watched in absolute awe as the ritual unfolded before her eyes.

The power of the Cypress Witch was balanced across all five elements, though Wood would always dominate for any witch in the Mother of Trees coven, and it was Wood that Ollie started with.

The bark of the oak tree began to glow with a soft, jade green light that seemed to pulse in time with Ollie’s breathing. Thin tendrils of that light reached out from the tree, flowing like luminous gossamer veils toward the seeds in Ollie’s hands, infusing each one with the oak’s remaining strength and vitality.

Fire came next. Tiny sparks of warmth began to dance among the scattered seeds, not burning but glowing with gentle heat that would protect the frozen kernels through the remaining winter cold. The seeds soaked in the warmth of the sparks until each one seemed to pulse with its own inner flame, like a promise of life waiting to emerge when the season turned.

Then came Wind. A gentle breeze picked up despite the still morning air, swirling around Ollie in a circular pattern that lifted his hair and made his cloak billow softly. The breeze carried the seeds upward, scattering them in a wide arc across the clearing, distributing them far and wide with invisible hands.

Earth followed next. The ground itself seemed to respond to Ollie’s call, the frozen soil softening just enough to accept the falling seeds. They sank into the earth as if the ground were reaching up to embrace them, burying them at just the right depth to survive until spring while keeping them close enough to the surface to sprout when the time came.

And finally, Water pulled from the swiftly flowing stream. Moisture began to gather around each buried seed, droplets of mist condensing from the spray where the stream splashed against rocks to wrap each seed in a protective cocoon of liquid. The water would hold through the winter, keeping the seeds from drying out but also anchoring them in place so that spring rains wouldn’t wash them away before they could take root.

It was the most beautiful thing Morwen had ever seen. All five elements working in perfect harmony, death and life intertwined in a dance that spoke of endings and beginnings, of tragedy transformed into hope. It was a miracle.

It wasn’t like the heavy, stoic miracles of the Church that she’d witnessed where throngs of people gathered with their heads bowed to receive a golden blessing after prostrating themselves before the Holy Lord of Light... It was a different sort of miracle, one that carried the promise of new beginnings without demanding obedience or subservience in return.

And at the center of it all was Sir Ollie, his eyes closed and his face serene despite the obvious exhaustion that made his hands tremble, and his breathing come in careful, measured intervals.

When the light finally faded and the ritual came to an end, Ollie swayed slightly, and Milo was there immediately, supporting him and keeping him upright.

”It’s done,” Ollie said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. Then he opened his eyes and looked around at the scattered seeds, at the clearing that had been transformed from a scene of pure devastation into something that held the promise of renewal.

”Some things can never be restored,” Ollie said, and though his voice was soft, there was a weight to his words that made them feel like a pronouncement, a truth that needed to be spoken and acknowledged. ”Once they’re gone, they’re gone forever. The oak that stood here for so many years was too damaged to ever recover from what we did today. It was dying... It just hadn’t fallen yet.”

He paused, his eyes distant for a moment before returning to focus on the present.

”But with a willing heart and a bit of work,” he continued in a brighter, more hopeful tone. ”Something new and wonderful can emerge, even from something as tragic as this. These seeds will grow into saplings, and those saplings will become trees, and someday, there will be a forest here again. Different from what it was, but thriving and precious in its own ways.”

As he spoke, Morwen saw him exchange a look with Milo. It was brief, just a moment of eye contact between the two of them, but it carried the weight of deep feelings that didn’t need words to be understood. There was loss in that look, and grief, and also love and determination and hope for whatever new thing they were building together, despite everything they’d lost along the way.

And Morwen understood, suddenly and completely, that Ollie wasn’t just talking about the trees.