All Your Little Quirks • h.ravenclaw ✓

⚪nine

The more he tries to forget the feel of Helena's lips on his, the more other thoughts crowd his mind.

The inside of the tent, the diadem, the way she saved him from falling down the tree without leaving the ground. . .

He cannot bring himself to believe that she could be a witch, but the odd occurrences all point in the same direction. The diadem is a rich source of wisdom. How can that be possible? How can a diadem store wisdom? How can the inside of a tent be so large and so immaculate?

The stories he has heard from his parents growing up all portray witches as vicious beings with sharp, pointed teeth, obsidian skin and snakelike hair that slithers around their bodies and swallows anyone who dares to approach them. They brew venomous potions and feed them to children who accidentally walk into their lairs. They are ferocious, merciless beings that don't deserve to live. Helena cannot be a witch.

But what if she is a witch in disguise of a human?

Is that possible? Arven doesn't know. But he also knows that it isn't possible for a normal human being to have a tent such as hers, nor is it possible for a woman to travel across borders on her own. The only possible explanation is the one that he refuses to believe.

In fact, the more he pours into the matter, the more plausible it becomes. He tries to stop himself from thinking, but this only leads him to think of her kiss, the press of her soft lips in his mouth, her warm hands on his jaws, her thumb running in circles over his cheek. He still feels her hair brushing against his neck, and he wants it to stop. He doesn't want to think about it. He cannot have Helena. She is destined to travel places, and she will never be accepted into this village, where ideal girls are those who sit quietly and follow the biddings of men. Besides, she is older and taller than him.

He won't be surprised if he goes there now and finds her gone.

Arven moves over to his table and places all of the papers on the tabletop, looking at the words written on them, words he had forcefully poured out of his mind but words he knows he would never dare tell her, words written at random times of the day, depending on his mood.

You are beautiful.

I love your hair.

Do you like me?

Will you go out with me?

Why are you so kind?

If I tell you I want to travel the world with you, will you take me?

Arven finds himself blushing furiously as he reads through them. He gathers all of them into his fists and crumples them into a ball. He doesn't know what to do with them.

His eyes fall on the oil lamp on his table. After a moment's hesitation, he brings it closer to him and opens the lid. Then, before he can change his mind, he drops the ball into the fire. It burns, the yellowish surface turning black as it eats away the fire, which slowly flickers, and then blinks out of existence.

His room is plunged into darkness. He drops his head on the table and remains there for a long time. He wants to forget about Helena, forget that she has ever existed. But he cannot. Her voice keeps coming back to him. The ocean which has drowned him a long time back, refuses to let him go. Finally, he makes up his mind. He will go to her and apologise. He will say goodbye, and then leave. He won't go to see her again.

The leaves crunch softly under his feet as he trudges along the forest path. It is incredibly dark in here, but his heightened senses owing to his lack of voice, allows him to find his way easily. Once the shivering light forming the dome becomes visible, he slows his pace. He has half a mind to leave.

But he starts walking again and reaches the comfortable warmth of the dome. Helena isn't anywhere in sight, but as he looks up, he finds her sitting on the tree. As usual, she doesn't notice him.

Overcome by sudden daring, he decides to climb up the tree to reach her. Nervously, he walks forward and grips the trunk between his hands, before bringing a leg up to rest on one of the grooves in the tree. He manages to climb a few feet before a wave of fear washes over him. He cannot get his legs to move, scared that he will fall. He bites down on his tongue to keep himself from crying out, but a strangled cry leaves him nonetheless and Helena immediately looks down at him.

"Arven, what are you doing?" she calls out and scrambles to the wedge where two branches come out from. "You've climbed only once, you'll fall!"

Arven himself begins to regret his rash decision. He cannot climb up now, neither can he let go of the trunk. He closes his eyes and hopes for the best, his fingers already letting go of the coarse trunk.

His hand slips. Wrapping his hands around himself, he braces himself for the impact. It does come, but not in the way he has expected. He doesn't land on hard ground, and instead, a soft surface cushions him and he bounces a few times before coming to rest.

Low, ragged breaths forcing themselves out of his mouth, he opens his eyes and is met with the sight of Helena on the top of the tree, eyes panic stricken. Her hand is stretched in front of her, and in it she holds a wooden stick – the same stick he has seen in her hair the first time they have met. Arven looks to his side and notices that he is lying on a duvet, which is suspended in midair. He looks up at Helena again, and she mutters something. Immediately the duvet vanishes and he drops to the ground, which is now only a few inches below him.

He remains lying there, trying to catch his breath, and watches as Helena scampers down the tree like a squirrel. He used to admire her skills, but now he wonders how much of it is done by magic.

She comes and rests by his head, looking at him anxiously. She leans forward and her dense hair curtains around his face. "Are you okay?" she asks.

He stares at her intently for a long time. Is she going to abandon her disguise now and show him her true appearance? Why isn't she doing it yet?

Helena seems to understand what he is thinking. She straightens up and allows him to sit. "Yes, I'm a witch," she mutters.

A cold hand grips his heart as the word leaves her lips. He has been hoping that she would prove to him that she is just as much a human as he is, but as it turns out, he was wrong. She is a witch. She is one of them.

As she reaches out to hold his hand, he shoves her away and stands up, his eyes suddenly burning with tears.

"Arven, listen to me," she pleads. The accent that used to sound pleasing to his ears now feels repulsive. "I'm – you're wrong. Your tales are wrong. Witches aren't vicious creatures. We are humans. We just have the gift of magic. Please don't misunderstand me. You're the only friend I have ever had. Everyone else only wants to be my friend because of my mother, but you are different. Please don't leave like this."

But her words fall on deaf ears. Struggling to stand straight, he stumbles away and begins to run. He hears her calling him from behind, but he refuses to listen. What if witches really are humans? A voice inside pleads with him. You should go and talk to her.

But his stubbornness wins, and he convinces himself that she has enchanted him for her own benefits. She doesn't like him, she doesn't see him as her friend. She has merely drowned him in her sweet voice and isn't willing to let him go.