Nardan and the Witch

Nardan nervously sipped warm beer from the oversized mug in front of him. He shivered as the liquid flowed down his gullet and cringed at the horrendous aftertaste.

This is what passes as fine drink in the taverns? he thought. Completely dismal.

He pulled his hood a bit lower over his face and stared out at the crowd of ruffians gathered around the bar. The patrons were far from those whom he would typically associate with. Ruffians and pirates, mostly, with a few tradesman and travelers thrown in. Currently they were all listening intently to a large bald man in the middle of the room who was telling a tale of his last adventure into vampire country.

“That land is always dark, I tell you,” the man spoke more quietly for emphasis, “so dark that a torch doesn’t produce light further than an arm’s length in front of yer.”

Nardan rolled his eyes. His father traveled to Undolvia regularly for diplomatic discussions and never mentioned eternal darkness so thick that it renders torches ineffective. Some people will say anything to entertain, I suppose.

He lifted his mug to take another sip, but hesitated looking down at the greenish liquid. Perhaps not, he thought. The door swung open on the far side of the room and snow swirled in to the dimly lit tavern as a new patron entered the establishment. They stood in the doorway for a moment, a frozen silhouette against the snowy darkness, before limping in slowly. No one except Nardan seemed to pay them any attention.

The crowd of ruffians burst into laughter as the bald storyteller jumped onto and promptly crashed through a table, falling hard onto the stone floor. He quickly jumped up and continued his story without missing a beat.

“That’s when she swept me legs out from under me, see! She was a formidable beast, I tell you!”

Nardan shook his head. What would his father think of these foolish tales? For that matter, what would his father think about him even darkening the doors of such an establishment? He sipped his beer without realizing what he was doing. Ugh, this stuff is truly awful.

Something about the warm bitter liquid reminded him of times past. He remembered the long journey to the kingdom of Molvarin after his mother died. The carriage ride was miserably long and hot. It had been the hottest summer on record for over a hundred years. His father was trying to be present and helpful, but spent hours on end staring out the small window in silence. His younger brother, Jule didn’t understand and wanted to play in the floor, but Nardan was too saddened to join.

After what felt like an eternity in the carriage, they arrived at a massive castle carved into the side of a shale rock mountain. He likely would’ve been impressed by the architecture, even as a child of twelve, if his mother hadn’t just passed from demon sprite disease. Everything seemed black and hopeless.

His father ushered him inside the main entrance into a crowd of very tall people, all dressed in formal funeral robes. His maternal grandmother slowly bent to one knee and embraced him tightly. She whispered something in his ear that his brain couldn’t process. It was in the old language of Molvarin, which his mother taught he and Jule as young children. She pulled a tarnished bronze flask from her waist pocket and gave him a swig. That awful liquid went down like fire and tasted like bitter wormwood. The very same aftertaste his mug of beer produced now.

What an awful trip, he thought, suddenly becoming aware of his surroundings again. Just then he started violently and spilled his mug of beer all over the well worn wooden table in front of him.

“Always this clumsy, your highness?” The woman seated across from him asked with a sly smile.

“God, you scared me!,” he replied attempting to wipe up the beer before it spilled over the edges of the round table. “Don’t just sneak up on people like that, it could get you killed.”

“Oh, there are many things that could get one killed, dearie, but sitting quietly across from a handsome prince, well…that’s likely not one of them.” She said, winking as her words trailed off.

Nardan, continued shuffling the liquid on the table top and shook his head in disbelief. “Can I get some help over here, wench?” He yelled. No one came. HIs voice was swallowed up by the crowded room.

“I’d offer to help, but it’s so cute watching you use such primitive methods to clean up your spill.”

“Primitive methods?” Nardan snarked. “How else do you suggest I go about cleaning this up then?”

“Well,” the dark haired woman began, “most patrons of such an establishment would just tip the table over and pour the beverage into the floor. Of course, most of the typical squatters here don’t care about personal hygiene nearly as much as a prince of the high court.”

“I can’t just dump it in the floor,” he replied, “wouldn’t that be quite rude?”

“Quite rude, indeed, but also quite expected. That poor wench barely has enough time to sling mugs of warm beer and protect her own arse from unwanted grabby hands of pirates and the like. She doesn’t have time to dry your table off, dearie.”

“You seem strangely well versed in these topics,” Nardan replied, eyeing the dark skinned woman across the table. “Is it true what they say about…about your kind?”

The woman’s lips curled at the edge as she stared him down. “Depends on who’s talking, dunnit?”

“Perhaps,” Nardan replied. He looked down at the table and the beer was spilling over the far side. With a deep sigh, he lifted the edge closest to him and let the liquid spill off the edge like a waterfall of algae infested water.

“You seem to know all about me,” he continued, “but I know nothing of you, witch.”

“You know enough to send a messenger seeking me out,” she replied, stroking her dark braided hair. Her curly locks were tightly woven into chunky braids all over her head, giving her quite the strange appearance from typical local women.

“I was advised by a friend of a friend that your kind can help me…escape.”

“Escape, what exactly my dear?” She responded, smiling wide. Her brilliantly white teeth added stark contrast to her dark skin.

“This horrid life of pomp and circumstance. The constant drag of opulent dinner parties and drunken ballroom dancing with suitors I’ll never pursue. The dead stare of father’s advisors, like vultures biding their time until they can devour the meat of their prey, down to the last strip of sinew from his rotting bones. The prison cell of always being told what one must do and never being able to do what one wants to do.”

The crowded room suddenly grew louder as a fight broke out near the bar. The witch and the prince watched momentarily as an ox of a man went flying over the large communal table and his assailant, a petite woman dressed in pirate rags, cracked her neck in preparation for more.

“You know,” the witch began, “most people would kill to be in your position. You cry over a life of wealth and relative ease, yet the men in the far corner of the room spend their days performing back breaking work in the blistering cold. The wench behind the bar makes just enough coin to pay for a meal of scraps for her children and gimp husband. The pirates who boldly steal from the likes of you and claim true freedom in their way of life, lay in cots aboard their vessels at night and dream of meals that don’t even scratch the surface of your typical breakfast.”

“I know, I know,” Nardan replied. “It’s just…”

“Everyone’s burdens are different, dearie. You don’t have to explain that to the likes of me. Try being born an outcast and hunted by religious fanatics and paranoid monster hunters your entire life. I’ve spent my days in forced solitude and constant movement. Some people love the nomadic life of adventure, while others want nothing more than a bed to call their own.”

They both sat in silence for a few moments. The bar fight was over and the pirate crew were gathering their things to leave. The wench scurried to and fro, picking up bits of glass and food scraps that somehow managed to cover most of the floor during the scene. The large man, who seemingly never got a swing in on the pirate femme fatal, lay limp on the floor like a beached whale.

Slowly the eyes of the prince and witch turned from the desperate scene towards each other. Nardan noticed the depth of the hazel in the witch’s eyes, like a prowling tiger in the jungle hunts his father would take once per year. They were quite beautiful and terrifying all the same. He had never seen another person with those eyes. Everyone else in the kingdom had evergreen eyes, like the trees of the boundary forest.

“So you want to escape your life of opulence. Your prison cell as you call it,” the witch spoke after some time.

“Yes.”

“And where is it you’d like to escape to exactly?” She replied.

“Somewhere far away, where no one of this realm could ever find me. A place of wilderness where I can make my own life. Find an honest and respectable woman to settle down with. Build a small home with my own two hands. A homestead to raise my children on and teach them to love the gift of a free life to do whatever they want. Spend nights out under the stars, just me and my dog. Hunt for my own game and grow my own food.”

He slowed his speech and noticed that the witch seemed genuinely surprised by his response. She thinks I’m just an aloof spoiled brat, he realized.

“Honestly, I want a life that is hard. I’ve lived my entire life never wanting anything and never needing to do real work. Yet, since I was a small boy, I’ve been interested in architecture and the art of crafting things with one’s own hands. I think I was born into the wrong family or something.”

“You surprise me, prince,” she began. “You don’t just say these words with an air of superiority or false humility. You truly desire a life of hardship and seek the reward that comes from conquering your insurmountable challenges.”

“Yes,” Nardan replied simply.

“How long have you thought about this?”

“Since the day my mother died, thirteen years ago,” he replied. “She and my father had everything handed to them on a silver platter their entire lives, yet she was an artist at heart who never got to express her gift. She died far too young and full of grief. The last words she said to me haunt me to this very day.”

Nardan swallowed hard and fought back tears. The witch watched him with deep curiosity and he felt flushed with embarrassment.

“‘Don’t let your blood be a prison sentence, like I have.’ That’s what she said to me. She didn’t try to comfort me as she lay there dying from a disease that she never would’ve been exposed to if it wasn’t for her ability to travel far and wide. Her and father had gone on a voyage to the frost-lands of the Hupwei people and she stumbled into a demon sprite camp. The odds of her ever encountering that otherwise are nearly zero. Her riches and status allowed her to die from a disease that no one had ever heard of. Yet, she tells me to not let those very same things be a prison. It’s heartbreaking really.”

“You’re a strange man,” the witch replied. “Nothing like I expected you to be.”

“Like I said,” Nardan replied, “I think I was born into the wrong family.”

“No, that’s not the case,” she said. “Like a rare precious stone, formed in the heart of a volcano, you’ve transcended the circumstances that surround you and turned them into something beautiful.”

“I don’t know about that,” he replied.

“It’s a shame really,” she said, “you’d make a great king.”

They sat in the darkness of the candle lit tavern and simply existed for quite some time. Both enjoyed being in the presence of the other, though Nardan couldn’t quite put a finger on what comforted him about the witch. The crowd ebbed and flowed like the tide of the great sea and the wench never stopped moving. Eventually she came and dropped a bowl of chow in front of both the prince and the witch, along with a fresh mug of beer.

“Anything else I can get for you two?” She asked in a raspy and fatigued voice. Her eyes of deep green carried her exhaustion far more than her body revealed.

“No, nothing for now,” Nardan replied, grabbing her hand and slipping a small coin pouch into it. The woman grasped it slowly and tears filled her eyes.

“Thank you, sir,” she replied, “but I’m not that kind of bar mistress, you see.” She tried to shove the coin pouch back into his hand, but he refused.

“Not for any favors, ma’am.” He replied. “Just because you deserve it, keeping this place in tip top shape and all.” He smiled and nodded, dismissing her to her post.

“Incredible,” the witch replied, taking a slurp of her chow.

“The food? Really?” He replied.

“No, not the food, you dingus. You.”

“Me?”

“You likely just gave that woman more coin than she gets in an entire year working here. I read your intent and your heart was pure as gold, dearie. Truly incredible.”

“I don’t know about that,” he said, slurping some of the warm chow. It had a pleasant blandness to it, compared to his normal food, and just a hint of pepper. “I was just doing what I felt like I should do.”

“Like I said, prince, incredible. No one does that. No one.” The witch continued slurping her chow and took a large gulp of the green beer. “I’ll help you,” she said after she had eaten her fill.

“You will?” Nardan replied with a smile. “That’s great.”

“But, magic always comes with a price, my dear prince.”

“Name it. I have all the coin in the world.” Nardan replied confidently.

“No, no. You misunderstand me. Magic always costs the recipient something far more valuable than coin. You must make a choice.”

“Okay,” he said sheepishly. “What choice must I make?”

The witch closed her eyes and sat in silence for some time. Nardan waited patiently, but began to wonder if she had fallen asleep. Just as he was about to reach out and touch her shoulder, she opened her hazel eyes and stared at him grimly.

“The choice you must make will not be an easy one, I’m afraid.”

“I’m prepared to hear it,” he replied.

“I can cast a spell which will transport you from this life into a realm that is so far away, no one in this world could possibly find you. A land of untamed wilderness and beauty beyond imagination, where you can live out your dream…or at least attempt to.”

“Okay,” he replied, sliding to the edge of his seat. “What must be done?”

“If you take this road, you must be willing to accept the consequences. First, this spell will take away the glory of your youth. You will arrive in the wilderness aged by twenty years. Twenty years that you could’ve enjoyed in this life will be gone in an instant.”

“Okay, that’s not so bad,” he replied, swallowing hard.

“Next, the loss of his eldest son will lead to your father’s untimely death, leaving your young brother to be king of a realm he is unprepared to lead.”

Nardan winced at these words and sighed aloud. “Anything else?”

“Lastly, you will never be able to return to a life of wealth and abundance. Your new life will be one of true hardship and struggle. You will eat by the sweat of your own brow and the will of the wilderness. If a harsh winter lasts longer than your stored provisions, you will die along with your family.”

“These are hard things,” Nardan replied staring at the table top.

“Yes, indeed, but these things will come to pass should you choose to take the path of my spell. No matter what you do, these will not change. As I said, magic always comes with a price.”

Nardan sat in silence considering her words. Aging by twenty years would essentially shorten his lifespan by twenty years, but how much happiness and peace would he be able to experience living out his dream? This consequence seemed of little cost to him.

“If I take this road, I will still be young enough to find a wife and have children, right?”

“Should you have the skill and prowess to acquire a wife, you will still be fertile enough to have children, yes.”

That’s fine then, he thought. He considered the last consequence next. This one also seemed to cost very little in his mind. He dreamed of living off the land and building his own life and livelihood, so he felt prepared to deal with that reality already.

The second stipulation flooded his mind. Father, he thought. This would kill him, quite literally. He would suffer death of a broken heart. Could there be anything worse? He thought about Jule and what it would be like for him to be thrust into the position of king at the age of seventeen. Could he handle it? Would the vultures leave anything of the kingdom for him to actually rule?

He sat for sometime pondering the second consequence. His mind and his heart were torn. On the one hand, his father was old and weary. The king had never been the same since his queen had passed away. He was a mere shadow of his former self, even though he tried hard to appear otherwise. Was that really living?

He considered Jule as well. He was valiant and strong. He dominated any sport he attempted and truly loved the life of opulence they were born into. At least, from Nardan’s perspective he seemed to. He loved to dress in his fashionable attire and dance the night away with beautiful maidens and friends alike. He was wise for his years, though he was still a young boy in other ways. Could he honestly lead a kingdom?

The witch sat patiently while he considered these things. The wench returned and gave them a bowl of sliced fruit, caressing Nardan’s shoulder as she walked away, in an oddly affectionate manner. The witch partook of the fruit with great delight and offered him some. He waved it away with the flick of his hand.

“Alright,” he said, “I’ve made my decision.”

“Before you answer,” the witch replied, “I must tell you one more thing.”

“And why hadn’t you told me this before?” He asked.

“I wanted to see if you were truly prepared to consider the risks of magic,” she replied. “The woman you first find and fall in love with will not be all she appears and will cause you great grief of heart.”

“Well, that’s terrible,” he replied. “Why must that be?”

“I don’t decide the consequences,” the witch replied, “I’m just a messenger.”

“I see,” he said. “Well, I’ve decided…”

“Wait,” she interrupted. “One last thing. You won’t remember anything about your previous life. Your parents, your brother, the life you’ve lived, even this deal we are making will all be wiped away. You will essentially be born anew in an older man’s body, awoken in the strange wilderness and left to survive on your own with nothing but your own two hands.”

“I understand,” he said, “my decision remains the same. I choose life.”

With a broad white smile the witch nodded and they both downed their mugs of beer before heading out into the deep dark of swirling snow and frigid air, leaving the bar and all concerns behind them.