Canceled | Stories I Abandoned

Witch's Lover

Wilbur smiled as the little fox ran around his legs. Fundy, his familiar, was alone that day, no 5up in sight. Wilbur didn't mind, continuing to tend to his garden and collect his ripe vegetables. Standing up, he gathered the full basket, fixing his long brown cape centered with a silver and yellow jewel as he pranced inside his small cottage. The king mesh veil draped down to his knees as he walked, his late mother's witch hat that she gifted him before she passed.

Wilbur took a deep breath, offering a small prayer and loving smile to the heavens before continuing about his day. He loved his mother and grieved her death, and wishes on the daily she wasn't poisoned by that damn Huntsman. But she wouldn't wish for him to dwell over the emptiness in his heart, one that's only grown since her passing, so he continued forth, knowing she was loving him in the afterlife for eternity, until he inevitably joins her.

He placed the basket on the counter, instinctively grabbing the ingredients needed to protect them. It was a repetitive task, to slow down the rotting process and prevent any illness he could potentially gain from some of the foods. He followed the routine, mind fuzzy and hollow as he went about performing the spells and putting them away before going to cleaning.

Now, don't get him wrong, Wilbur loved his life—but he would be a liar if he said he wasn't bored and empty. He was content, yes, going about his daily chores in solitude from all civilizations—rising at dawn, checking his wards and fixing them as needed, making breakfast, tending the garden, chores, sewing or reading, fetching any supplies needed for spells if necessary, reviewing his stock and updating it in his journal, practice his spells, reinforce wards, and sleep. It got overwhelmingly tedious.

He wanted something more.

The entire reason he'd left his klatch was because he wanted something more. He loved his family, but he always felt like he wasn't meant to be there. He felt as if his destiny was elsewhere than in the klatch, and they were unintentionally holding him back.

He thought that this lifestyle, with Fundy as his familiar (and consistently bringing 5up the little radish thing over so much he was considering espousing him as a familiar as well), was it. Where he was meant to be. He certainly felt it at first, the house he made with his own bare hands—and a little bit of magic, he'll admit (a lot, actually)—alone, perfecting the art of witchcraft freestyle. He enjoyed the silence, the aloneness it brought.

But he wants more.

He wants something exciting. Daring. Something that had him running purely on adrenaline.

Wilbur sighed sadly, going through his library. The room was decently large, lit up by lanterns a fireplace smaller than the one in the living room. He ran his hands across the titles, silently repeating read that, read that in his head in a bored manner. He didn't have anything to sew, no motivation to, and felt the desire to test his abilities and expand his craft. Unlucky for him, however, most of the books he'd done read, filled with sticky notes, only remaining for the times where Wilbur's had to go back (he's made the mistake of throwing out a book before, never again).

Wilbur haltered, coming across an unknown book, sitting beside two more unrecognized to Wilbur's brain. He took the books out, looking at the cover, smiling fondly. His father must've sent it through, no wonder he swore he saw a crow of his father's the other day! Phil always knew when he needed some more, and made sure to only send the most valuable to his beloved son.

Now suddenly enveloped in excitement, Wilbur giddily skipped outside. He quickly found his usual study area, a large yellow rug next to a rocking chair, a large box of essentials for his study time. He spread the books out on the rug, too distracted to relish in the singing birds or Fundy causing chaos around his property, though he spotted his Witch and was quick to curl up beside him.