No, instead, I trained my gaze towards the distance - to the part of the Village that gave way to mobile homes and vehicles, the odd stone cottage built between the sprawl of those make-shift homes that had somehow become permanent. It wasn’t the view that drew my attention, but the sounds that seemed to emit from the center of it all, echoing through the valley. The wails - the rage - the stomping of feet.
This was part of their grieving process - the piece that my little Witch had been excluded from, and suddenly I was furious for her. Their pains swallowed up the valley at the foot of the mountains, tainting the very air with their sorrow, and I knew that the Witch below me heard them, forced to mourn alone in a bathroom as the water beat against her skin.
They had shamed her - forcing the granddaughter of Jeanne des Montagnes to mourn alone - to deny her the right to participate in the wailing. Still, I stayed and watched, noting the unnoticeable, collecting information - even from this distance - that I may use, should the opportunity present itself.
A sob cut through the air, only this one sounded much closer than those in the distance, and it took me longer than it should have to understand that Marie des Montagnes was falling apart in the shower, away from prying eyes, and I wondered if perhaps that may have been for the best after all - considering who she was, the power she held. These people did not deserve to see her tears, they were not owed the gift of her sorrow.
But I couldn’t sit there and listen to it either, not when I wanted to make her tear ducts leak in other ways - not after what Charl had said, making me even more curious than I had a right to be. I was here solely to supervise a favorable pairing between the Witch and someone else, and the fact that she ignited my baser senses shouldn't play a role in the final outcome - couldn’t change the trajectory of the path we all found ourselves on.
I blinked, hoisting my body off the rooftop - away from her - away from the cries she was so valiantly attempting to muffle, and I made my way towards that dilapidated part of the village, clinging to the shadows as I approached the wailing.
With every step towards Jeanne des Montagnes, Magick coated in darkness pressed against my skin, and if I were a weaker creature, I may have found it difficult to breathe. I had no intention of stealing away parts of the old Witch’s body, and so I whispered my truth to the wind, allowing the land to hear the sincerity in the words I spoke - the same land that Jeanne had sworn herself to.
It seemed ludicrous to me to bind oneself to a piece of dirt, but then I had never once pretended to fully understand and abide by human ways.
The cobble stoned wall was cool at my back as I slid along an alleyway, until I finally halted before the haphazard positioning of mobile homes. This close to the wailing - to what was once Jeanne des Montagnes’ stronghold, the Magick that protected them wove a web that reeked of darkness, and I halted, allowing that same darkness that I had been born from to assess whether I was a threat or not. The ground seemed to sigh in relief, and although the Magick tickled the backs of my calves almost in warning, I was still permitted to pass through.
I became the shadows, weaving between the bare feet of the children that seemed to dart across the path, all dressed in black, as was the custom. Whilst children were not oblivious to sorrow, these ones seemed prepared to weather the storm of what was to come, or perhaps they simply didn’t know any better.
I stepped through them, taking note of the gatherers, each expression filled with sorrow, underlined with panic. There was the old woman who had addressed Marie. She seemed to be in an animated conversation with a woman who sat a baby on her hip. Their hands danced in crescendo with the conversation, and I moved fluidly, the need to hear what they discussed fuelling my movement.
They spoke in a rapid dialect that took me a minute to sort through and translate.
“... they can’t know what has occurred within our village - that Marie hasn’t been here, doesn’t live here.” The older woman berated the younger one, all the while the baby blew bubbles through his lips.
“I agree, but we cannot turn them away - we cannot tell them they are not allowed to attend the funeral; they will see it as an insult.”
“Thank you, Louise.” The older woman snapped at the younger one, not sounding the least bit thankful. She pushed away from the younger woman, only to be swallowed by the crowd of mourners.
I slid between bodies that reeked of sweat and labor, until I finally spotted the boy who claimed to be the Witch’s husband. He stood with his back pressed against the stone wall of a cottage, one leg propped up against the solid surface whilst the dark-haired wisp of a girl clung to him, available to his every need.
It only took that vision for me to understand why Marie had fled. Possibly what was more insulting was that Jeanne des Montagnes had expected her to tow the line - to be satisfied with this existence.
If I were to play matchmaker, I needed to understand what made the little Witch tick - and what made her run.
I blended into various shades of darkness, creeping between whispered words of remembrance and sorrow until I was virtually on top of the boy who claimed to be her husband.
As humans went, he wasn’t terrible to look at, and if I were so inclined, I might have unfurled the lust within, sending it skittering down his spine until he either offered himself to me, or he offered me a show. The dark-haired waif next to him was a jittery little thing, shifting from one foot to the other, clinging to his every word, her hand clutched firmly in his grip.
I may have believed they were in love - that he wanted no one else except her, if it weren’t for the fact that his eyes kept darting towards the more populated area of the village that housed the Church, the bar, and the inn.
Another boy about his age approached him, positioning himself next to Julian so that they lent against the wall shoulder to shoulder, and I knew that this was the exchange I had been waiting for. I surged forward, hovering beside them, my own frame pressed against theirs in the way that only a shadow could, the waif of a girl and I effectively sandwiching the two men between us.
“They are coming to offer Marie their sympathies and pay their respects.”
“Merde.” Julian’s tone was filled with annoyance, but he hardly seemed surprised. “When are they expected to arrive?”
“Tomorrow before the sun sets.”
Nomads and their vague markers of time. Even with their luxurious German cars parked between their mobile homes, they still refused to mark time like the rest of the world, picking and choosing what parts of society they chose to participate in at will. The name brands - the wealth - the luxury, they were all items that the people of this land were only too thrilled to soak in, becoming walking adverts for what it meant to be a brand whore. But ask them to stick to simple times indicated by a watch, and suddenly they sprouted their nomadic beliefs at you.
The two men stood in silence as Julian sucked on the end of a cigarette, the cherry glowing brightly as the sun began to dim.
“What are you going to do?” The other boy posed the question to Julian as if he weren’t nervous - terrified of his friend’s reaction.
“Marie will have to play ball. It’s what her grandmother would have wanted.”
The boy nodded in agreement as if the wishes of a dead woman would override Marie’s own volition, but it was Julian that I watched - Julian that I examined carefully as his throat bobbed with every inhaled drag of his cigarette. Not once had he paid the girl that clung to him any attention - not once had he looked at her, his eyes firmly planted towards the distance - towards that shitty inn that housed the true heir of this village.