Image credit: Petrenko Andriy/Shutterstock.com

The witch will rise three nights from now. She will traverse the sky, born on spiritual wings given her by her master. She will be glorious, she will be free, and she will drive the enemy from our town like an avenging sword, an avenging fire.

This she has promised so long ago. One town accepted her, one town did not fear or decry her beliefs. One town thought her glory was a shared thing, a talent and a beauty beyond compare. While her kind was shunned, burned, drowned, across the Inquisition’s scarred lands, she was kept safe, kept hidden in one town. Our town.

For we understood the value of difference and of power. Our town is situated on the border of two great nations, and as a passageway it acts also as a mirror from one to the other. In this we knew neither side to be greater, or more good, or more pure. All power in all their citadels rested on grabbing an ignominious sanctity at the demonization of the other. We see that, so we do not judge.

So in her life we did not judge her and in her peaceful, aged death she made a promise. Now, a century later, our folk tales tell us to be confident, to be calm, to have no fear. She promised to arise, to return, at our hour of need.

And that is now, as battles wage across both borders, and each greedy kingship wants to claim us, obliterate us, drag us into them. We stand on the brink of oblivion, but we will withstand it all, for she will come. We can feel her return, coming not he wind, crying her victory call.

The witch will rise, she will return, and take even heaven in her wake to keep us safe, to keep us free.

(c) Helen M Valentina 2017