power

TO CHOOSE WHAT STAYS

 

Ah.

The ash trees.

We've arrived.

I should probably say something

useful here.

Prepare you, perhaps.

Explain a few things.

I could.

But where would be the fun in that?

 

Besides, we've come quite a long way

together by now.

You know Cassandra.

You know her world has a certain

tendency to become... expansive.

This one makes very little effort to

resist.

There is magic.

Mystery.

A kingdom of sorts.

Not a particularly well-governed one.

But kingdoms rarely are.

And somewhere in all of it

are the ash trees.

Dreaming.

At least, that's what Cassandra says.

I wouldn't argue with the trees.

Shall we?

where the ash trees dream

 

When I was young, I liked to sit in our

garden; it seemed such a peaceful

place, far more tranquil than the house

on the hill where my family had resided

for generations.

The swing in the ash trees made me

feel like a bird, flying high toward the

sun.

 

I heard the stories early on - how magic

flowed through our veins, a curse.

My grandmother swore she saw the

Lightbringer once.

The attic was locked after my mother

saw goblins there by a blood moon.

Our mirrors were always veiled; they

said someone might look from the

other side.

 

They kept me hidden until I had to go

to school, where I caught my reflection

in an unveiled mirror, my eyes flickering

crimson for a heartbeat. The ash trees

outside whispered, their leaves

trembling without wind.

I turned away, pretending it was a trick

of the light, but the weight of their

stories clung to me.

I learned that our stories, unlike

others’, were not to be believed.

 

Once, I had a dream - older now. A dark

figure stood in the corner, his

silhouette shimmering, a faint glow in

his eyes, as if he carried the night sky

within. He didn’t speak, but his

presence felt like a warning.

I reached out my hand, and he

vanished instantly. When I told my

mother, she froze.

“Don’t do that ever again. Just ignore

it,” she said without further explanation

but added,“ your great-aunt once did

and was running away next day.”

 

That night, I woke to a low growl

outside my window, soft as a shadow.

The ash trees swayed, and I thought

I saw emerald eyes like mine glinting in

the dark, gone before I could blink.

The curse, as they called it, was always

lingering. Every woman in our

bloodline broke.

Not one marriage held; all grew cold at

heart, year by year, bearing only

daughters and finding an early death.

They called it the crimson curse. An

ancestor chose the wrong path, and all

followed.

I stayed away from it all, no need to

learn their craft, or so I thought.

 

College was a liberation; I shed

everything and never mentioned who

they, and we, were.

The dreams returned: the dark figure

staring, and sometimes I saw its

shadow on the wall at night, awake.

But it never approached, and neither

did I.

My path was different, a normal life, I

thought. My silver tongue brought a

career; I was convincing when I spoke,

and the audience grew. Little did I know

that was the oldest magic.

They hadn’t taught me that.

 

My mother called from time to time,

reading the cards, speaking of danger

and darkness.

Once, she sat me under the ash trees,

her hands trembling as she traced a

card’s crimson edge.

“Our blood carries power, but it’s a

blade that cuts both ways,” she

whispered.

I felt a shadow stir, as if something

watched from the branches.

 

The day I married, she said, “I hope you

break the curse, but I doubt it.”

My smile froze, a crimson shadow

creeping in. One ash tree at home died

that day.

Ten years later, the marriage was over.

The crimson whisper started at that

day, mocking me and my failures,

promises of a heart that will not feel

again. I ignored it for a time, but there

were moments I nearly gave in.

 

Finally, I let my mother show me her

craft. I was talented but never

practiced like she did.

One year later, she died; the ash trees

lost their leaves that night.

I was the last one now.

The dreams returned, but instead of

the dark figure, I dreamed of gardens

with ash trees and flying like a bird.

 

Then a familiar came; I knew we all had

one. My mother’s was a blackbird, my

grandmother’s a spider,

my great-grandmother’s a dire wolf. But

mine was different: a black jaguar, his

fur obsidian and soft, his eyes emerald,

shining like mine. Unseen by others,

but always felt by me.

 

When I sat under the ash trees, their

whispers in the wind were like ancient

tongues. I couldn’t understand at the

time. The jaguar came and went; I often

forgot he was there, hunting, sleeping,

guarding other worlds.

The crimson curse tested my will,

growing stronger each day. A broken

heart, the pain of loss, solitude,

and loneliness lured me with promises

of power and a hardened heart.

 

The dreams returned, and the dark

figure stared at night, never reaching

out but always watching silently.

On a night with a full moon and a solar

eclipse, I bathed in our pond. The ash

trees sang that night.

The moonlight showered me, almost

reverent, and I opened a door that had

been locked before.

No sound came when the key turned in

my heart. Light filled me as the crimson

curse hissed, raging in the blood

ghosts of my line. They all stood there,

the Bloodwitches of my lineage,

teeth sharp like blades, eyes hollow,

their hearts gone.

 

The dark figure appeared beneath the

ash trees. “They dream of you - your

trees,” his voice carried power.

The ash trees leaned toward him.

“You need to choose, witch,” he

commanded and then he was gone.

I knew he was right, and raw fear

gripped me. I shivered and trembled

like the ash trees around me.

The Bloodwitches circled, hungry, with

a predatory gleam in their eyes.

My gaze fixed on the moon,

my hand felt obsidian fur.

The jaguar was back.

 

The witches were nearly upon me, their

fingers reaching to grab me. But the

obsidian beast devoured them all.

My heart thundered as their screams

pierced the night, each one a shard of

my lineage breaking.

I gripped the jaguar’s fur, my fingers

trembling with fear and defiance.

 

I wasn’t just their heir - I was their end.

 

The moonlight burned brighter, and I

felt the curse unravel, thread by

crimson thread.

I heard their screams as one after

another fell. The ash trees began to

bloom in fall at midnight.

 

A raven cawed in the distance, its cry

sharp as a warning from another world.

For a moment, I saw a threshold

shimmer beyond the trees, a garden

where stars sang of freedom.

 

The dark figure returned, leaning

against the oldest tree. “You chose,” his

voice resonant. “There is a price, witch.”

I closed my eyes, hands trembling,

waiting to be judged. The jaguar’s

green eyes now sparkled with crimson.

The figure tilted his head, weighing his

next words. “Something needs to die,”

a pause, “and rise anew.”

 

I stayed silent, knowing I’d be the last of

the Bloodwitches, the one who broke

the curse. A tear fell on obsidian fur.

The jaguar roared in the night, a ruler

of the underworld with its night sun,

the Devourer and Death-Walker alike.

The figure spoke, his voice like steel

over silk: “You will stay alive as long as

he keeps the dark at bay.”

His eyes rested on the black jaguar.

 

Then his voice softened: “Eternity is not

for the faint of heart, witch,

but for those who accept their power,

as you did tonight.” A pause.

“We will meet again.”

The ash trees began to dream again

after ages of a witch who wove words

and moonlight into spells as ancient as

the Devourer himself, who held the

dark at bay for her.

 

The dark figure stood in a void, looked,

smiled, and murmured to himself,

“Bloodwitches never knew their full

potential until they chose life.”

Light, bright and radiant, lit up the sky.

A gate made of silver moonlight

for a white witch.

 

There.

That's where the ash trees dream.

You were wondering.

I was beginning to think we'd

never get here.

The trees, naturally, were less

concerned.

They have a different relationship with

time.

 

So.

A curse ended.

A bloodline changed.

Several witches were eaten by a jaguar.

Quite an evening.

 

And Cassandra?

She did something rather more

interesting than defeat the darkness.

She kept it.

Not the curse.

Not what had been handed down.

The dark itself.

The jaguar is still there.

So is the light.

 

Cassandra no longer seems

particularly interested in choosing

between them.

Good.

We've seen what happens when she

insists on that sort of thing.

 

This time, she chooses what continues.

And what doesn't.

The old story said the women of her

line would break.

Cassandra had other plans.

 

Something ended beneath those trees.

Something else began.

And the ash trees bloomed.

In autumn. At midnight.

Of course they did.

 

After all this time, they are finally

dreaming again.

About time.