"You're a witch," he whispered.
I refrained from sighing and knelt two steps from him. "People like to call that to women who live all by themselves in the woods, with only a black cat for company."
When Rowena loses both her parents, she turns to...
The little witchling walked the old, dusty path to the well as if she owned the forest. That was just how she was - confident, sure of herself and her abilities. Oblivious to the dangers lurking just around the corner, in the shadows of trees, in the black feathers of a raven.
Not oblivious, he thought. Knowing her for about four summers now, she was rather adamantly disregarding it. Sure of herself indeed.
He traced her steps at a distance, sometimes staying behind, sometimes straying forward on the path. The dawning sun spilled its light upon the leaves and branches, making the forest all around seem like a gilded cage.
But then again, for all its beauty, to him everything in this world was a cage. Humans strode about on their frail bodies, clinging to their petty emotions, and called it freedom. But he new true freedom. He had ridden the winds of the hottest deserts and danced upon the blazing fires from Bellow without consequence or compromise.
Now, he was tied to this fragile creature until Fate claimed her. It wouldn't be long, for humans were ephemeral. These years, be it ten or fifty, were of no consequence to him.
The witchling was humming merrily by the time they stopped beside the well. He took his place upon one of the stones, his cat legs making the jump effortlessly. She took a moment to pat him gently between his ears before lowering the wooden bucket to the water.
Then, cloaked by the splashing noise, he heard it. He turned his small, furry head toward the sound, a muffled rushing of footsteps upon wet earth. Silence. And then, just outside the path they'd taken, a movement - a shadow, and the glimpse of something silver.
He whipped his tail through the air, once, twice. Now, he could clearly smell a new, foul scent in the air - sweat, blood and... and the deep, dark scent of death.
He hissed lightly, a lazy attempt at a warning. The little witch turned her stormy-blue eyes toward him. For a moment, he forgot the men closing in from the trees and just stared. Her eyes always struck him, the immense capability to love and care so rarely found among humans present there, hidden behind the cold cunning.
He meowed rather loudly.
"What's that, little Az?" she asked, turning back to collecting the water.
His tail twitched in the air again. She was very well aware how badly he disliked being called that. And she wasn't paying any mind to his warnings. As usual.
So he jumped graciously off the well, landing silently among the daisies. He rubbed his back on the witchling's leg, curling his tail slightly around her knee, before trotting blatantly away.
She could take this opportunity to learn something. He'd only let it play so far, of course. After all, he was duty-bound to her. But, just maybe, she would take some lesson from this.
He stood near a tree watching as the shadows closed in on the little witch from behind. He stood watching as she turned and a man brought the hilt of a dagger to the side of her head with a sickening sound. The bucket dropped, the fresh water spilling over the daisies.
A wave of hot rage overtook him for a split second. He blamed it on the bond. Such feelings had no place in his heart, when he didn't even have one to start with.
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