Brightwing Herbalchemy

"A silver ducat," she said, placing the coin on the table, "to whichever of you boys can out wrestle my arm."

I arrived beside her, but none of the men seemed to notice. Nobody spoke for a few heartbeats; lost as they were in the gentle sway of the witch's chest. Finally, she straightened, and the men were able to move again. They glanced at each other with flushed cheeks.

A big man, with the huge, burn-scarred arms of a smith, managed to clear his throat.

"Ahem...Even me, lass?"

My wife grinned. "You got a ducat for me if I win?"

That seemed to rekindle something in the man. He snorted, pulling a matching coin out from somewhere.

"Take a seat, lass," he said.

"Arthus!" She said, bringing everyone's attention to me for the first time. "Perfect timing."

She took the little case from my hands, pulling an empty chair over and directly across from the burly smith. She placed the case on the table.

"This," she said, removing a little vial of brownish liquid from within, "is one of my strength potions. It will only last fifteen minutes of so, and its a fairly weak one."

She dangled the stoppered glass between two fingers. "Only half a ducat each, by the by. Can I take one before our match?"

The man shifted to face her, setting one thick elbow down onto the table with an audible thud. "Take two if you need."

Morgana's grin was predatory. In truth, I couldn't fault the man his confidence. My wife's muscles were well defined. But this man is what my old weapons master would call; 'a minotaur in all but his ma's love of bovines.' He was huge, each arm like a horse's haunch.

But my wife's magic was very real, and by the time I reached the back to negotiate with the innkeeper about his stable, the back of the man's hand was pinned to the table by hers.

There was laughing when I stepped back out into the evening air. I heard Morgana responding to amazed shouts, heard her call another large man over from a different table.

They were starting to fall under her spell. Though, it wasn't magic that would turn these men and women to her.

It was simply her.

Because my wife was amazing. She was marvellous and wonderous and whatever other word you could think of. She was brilliant; full of life and warmth and song. She was competitive, stubborn and tactless; kind-hearted and fiercely protective.

I got a mug of beer from the innkeeper when I returned near an hour later. I picked straw off of my sleeves, leaning my back against the bar. I watched my wife throw a hug around the waitress that now didn't seem quite so harried.

I took a sip of my beer, grimaced, and set it down. Despite that, I felt a smile curl my lips. Morgana was in a crowd, surrounded by strangers that filled her ears with the stories of their lives and struggles.

My wife cared about these people; these strangers. She took their money yes, but she genuinely, truly loved people. She laughed with them, listened to their hopes and dreams and fears and wrapped those who needed it within the gentle circle of her arms.

I felt a tender lump in my throat. My eyes, along with every other, were on her. She was so open, so beautiful and so bright.

She was so good for the world; while I... Teutonian butcher.

I looked down at my hands, Shags' words running through me. He was right about me. The proof of it was written in my palms; scarred and callused as they were from a life of war. And though I'd fled from it more than a year ago, my past was carved into my very flesh.

I was a killer.

Morgana was warmth and love and laughter, while I was blood and death and rage. I wanted to be better, to be worthy of that place by her side. But this was all I knew.

And what place was there for a warrior without war?

I took another sip of my too sour beer, trying to shake the grimness from my mind. We were in a new town. Morgana had already sold more than a dozen potions. Things were good now.

But the thought stayed with me; like the sweeping shadows of great wings overhead.

It was there past the time my wife made her last sale, and was with me when she dragged me to a table filled with laughing faces. I thought about it when the night was deep, while I helped my stumbling wife into the warmth of our bed.

And it was there as I lay awake beside her, blinking up into the dark.

......

I slipped out of bed early the next morning. I was an early riser by nature; my body stumbling out into the rising dawn without much conscious thought.

I was still for a few moments, slowly blinking at nothing in the early darkness. My body began to move, stretching, while my thoughts dwelled on the warmth of my still sleeping wife.

My hands found my spear and shield a little while later. My mind drifted off into a doze; my body falling into the routine of thrusts, spins and blocks that had been beaten into me long before I'd seen my tenth winter.

I felt a lot better when I stopped, my chest heaving, lit by the brightening sky of the morning. The exercise had cleared my head, and the air tasted new.

The night was gone. Things were always better in the light.

Morgana greeted the morning with bleary eyes, pushing out with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. I smiled to see her.

"I'll get breakfast ready," I said, coming over and planting a kiss on her forehead. "Go back to bed."

"Plants," she said. She leaned into me, tucking her head in the crook of my neck. "You stink."

I chuckled, wrapping an arm around her waist.

"I'll bring them out into the sun," I said, briefly leaning my cheek against her hair. She smelled of the sun through forest leaves. "You did a lot last night."

I felt her smile against my chest. "Fifteen strength potions, six stamina and five hangover cures. We made almost ten silver ducats."

"Amazing," I said, meaning every syllable.

I led her to the pair of chairs that I'd set up within a patch of sunlight, returning with a few strips of dried meat and a couple of peaches.

The meal breathed new life into Morgana, and soon she was in her hat and apron, carefully directing the placement of each pot that I hauled from our home.

It wasn't too long before the innkeeper came to greet us, holding out a handful of coppers for a potion that would make shifting his casks around a bit easier. Merchants and farmers rattled by on their carts. Laborers trudged past us on the way to their fields while fishermen cast their nets in the river.

Dalford was coming to life around us, and our growing forest of plants drew quite a few looks.

Morgana called out, waving to those few we recognized from the night before. She spoke to any others who came near; introducing us and speaking of our lives and travels and the wonder of her potions.

This was our life. We were forever strangers in the places we roamed. We'd come to a new town, sell what we could, and then move on.

And I just stood by, useless. I watched my wife tend to her plants while she fended off a pack of pinched looking housewives.

I felt as awkward as a beardless dwarf.

"Excuse me," a voice said. I turned to find a man standing behind me. "You're the alchemists, right?"

He was a young man, lean and in well-tailored clothes. He had pale skin; wavy blonde hair and his eyes were creased with the casual impatience of one who's never had to search for his next meal.

"She is," I said, hooking a thumb towards Morgana. "I'm just her husband."

The man blinked. "Truly? You do what, then?"

I shrugged. "I help out where I can. I gather ingredients, keep our wagon rolling and tidy. That sort of thing."

"Remarkable," the young man said. "You have the coloring of a Teutonian. I had heard that you were a fearsome people; most warlike and all that."

He shook his head; an amused, mocking sort of expression on his face.

"I suppose reality is never quite measures up to the rumors one hears."

"I guess not," I answered, trying not to roll my eyes. "What do you want?"

"Watch your tone, man," he said. "I have business to discuss. Be so good as to fetch your woman, then."

"Fetch?" I said, folding my arms. "The alchemist, is ten-steps away. Go see her yourself."

He sneered. "Is this how you treat a man who comes to you with gold? Your woman is not the only alchemist in town, I should march over there and--"

"Gold?" Morgana cut in. She'd practically sprinted over to us, her hat spilling off her head. "Did I hear that right? Are you looking to buy some potions?"

"I was," the man sniffed. "Though now, I find myself reconsidering."

Now I did roll my eyes, turning away so this flaccid little dandy wouldn't see. I moved back, lifting Morgana's hat off the ground and speaking a few words of apology to the two women that she'd left mid-conversation.

This man wasn't going anywhere. My wife had the scent of gold in her, she wouldn't let this mouse escape her claws.

By the time I wandered back over, the man was standing straighter. He ran a hand through his blonde curls, a satisfied smile painted over his face.

"Well, perhaps we can conduct business after all. I am in need of a potion, a peculiar one."

"I have many peculiar potions," Morgana said. "What do you need, exactly?"

I plopped her straw hat back onto her head. My wife didn't seem to notice, practically vibrating with excitement.

"I need a potion to help me climb," the man said. He glanced down, examining his nails. "Perhaps one to lighten my body? I don't know. I'm a chimney cleaner, you see. And I have a job at a particularly large house tonight."

"You're a chimney cleaner," I deadpanned.

"Of course, he is," Morgana almost purred. "Can't you see the strength of his shoulders?"

The man preened. He flicked a glance towards me.

"There is no shame in an honest day's work. Not all of us have our...wives to depend on."

"But isn't he lucky that he does," Morgana said. "I have a levitation potion that will be perfect for you. But I will need some time to make it."

"I need it by tonight," the man said.

"That won't be a problem, provided I find what ingredients I need."

"You'd better send your husband out soon, then," he said with a smirk. "Time is money, and all that."

"Indeed, it is," my wife said. "And speaking of money..."

I watched them haggle for a time, Morgana managing to wring an extra ducat or two from his purse. They parted with a handshake, my wife sprinting for the wagon as soon as he'd turned away.

I followed her in, finding her flipping through the pages of her grimoire with feverish abandon.

"A gold crown!" She exclaimed when I entered. "He's paying us more than an entire gold crown, Arthus!"

"I've never met a chimney sweep with gold to spend," I said. "Or one with clothes that clean."

"Oh, obviously he was lying. But who cares! Think of all the-- ah! Here it is."

She slammed the heavy book down on an empty stretch of table, leaning over the tightly scrawled recipe.

"'Potion of Levitation,' she read aloud. "'Allows user to levitate... blah, blah. Drunk all at once...varying strength.' Ok! Here. The mundane ingredients are... maple seeds, dandelion fluff, powdered hummingbird bone."

Her voice dropped into a low murmur, finger scrolling down the page. I came near, peering over her shoulder at the list she was scanning. I saw things like; 'hair of a sprite', and 'fog'.

"Arthus!" Morgana suddenly shouted, not looking up.

"Saints!" I swore, nearly leaping out of my skin.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't see you."

She spun away from her book, tearing through the wagon's clutter. She pushed aside vines and drying leaves, opening up jars and bottles seemingly at random. She put some aside, re-stoppering whatever else she didn't need.

"I need you to fill my cauldron," she said. "Oh, and I need maple seeds. And a pinch of wind-borne dust. I think I have everything else."

I turned towards the door.

"Wait!" She stopped me. "Feathers! I need feathers. Bring your bow and kill a bird. Actually, maybe two. Not too small. Ones that can fly."

"Alright," I said, scooping up a large bucket and heading first towards the river.

It took me five trips to fill the cauldron up to its half. The thing was huge; a wide-maw creature of blackened iron that squatted on four, clawed feet. It was ancient, stained by the magic of a dozen generations of witches and shamans. Its hide was scarred with swirling symbols, most who's meaning Morgana could not even begin to guess at.

But the true wonder, at least for me, lay beneath.

When we'd had this wagon built, a lot of our silver had gone into the large, iron bowl set in the floor beneath the cauldron. I piled wood and kindling there, lighting a fire that I knew wouldn't spread.

It was essentially a metal firepit, built so that we wouldn't have to haul the cauldron out every time Morgana needed to work her magic. Cleverly placed slits and shuttered openings in the ceiling above pulled the smoke outside.

Morgana began dumping things into the pot; stirring the developing mixture as it started to steam. I left her to her work, gathering up my bow and heading outside.

There was a maple tree just behind the inn, and I was lucky enough to shoot a roosting crow. My arrow found a sparrow not long after.

The wind-borne dust was a bit trickier. I ended waiting on the driest section of the dirt road I could find, waving around a small sack in the debris thrown up by the first few passing horses and wagons. It was frustrating, and I looked like a rare sort of fool, but I managed it.

Morgana's cauldron bubbled a strange sort of yellow when I returned.

"Is it supposed to be that color?" I asked.

"Not sure," she said, snatching the seeds and dust from me.

She quickly ground them together, along with two or three other things, dumping in the lot of it and turning the forming potion a greenish color.

Morgana let out a breath. "Ok, that's better. Do you have the feathers?"

"I got a crow and sparrow. Do you need the meaty bits too?

"Not for this," she said, but I'll keep them. Using a long set of tongs, she started to pull the biggest logs from the fire. "Can you go pluck them for me? The feathers are for the magical component."

I obeyed, returning a bit later to find Morgana standing in the middle of a...nest?

I didn't know what else to call it. She'd piled up all of our blankets, cloaks and spare clothes on a patch of cleared floor. She was crouched low, arranging everything into a rough circle and building up the edges.

"Morgana...?" I asked.

"Hush, Arthus," she said without looking over. "I'm building a nest."

So, I'd been right. Hooray...

"Can I help?"

"I'm almost done," she answered. "I need the feathers. Oh! And some pine sap."

"Where--"

"Hush!"

I shook my head, setting the bag of feathers down on a nearby counter. Morgana's cauldron was steaming, the fire beneath, reduced to a small mound of coals. She was letting it simmer, keeping it ready for the magic she still needed to add.

I found a little jar of pine sap with surprisingly little trouble, turning back to find my wife back on her feet.

"What do you think?" She asked, as I returned.

I shrugged, placing the little jar down. "It looks like a nest."

"I don't know..." she hesitated. "It doesn't feel right. Do you think that a bird would like it?"

"Why not? Our blankets are more comfortable than leaves."

"Thats it!" Her face lit up, and she clapped her hands together. "Leaves! No. Twigs! Thats what I need, Arthus. Go, go!"

"Twigs? Wha--" I stammered, a little off balance.

"Outside, Arthus! Go fast!"

"Come with me, then," I said forcing myself into motion. "If its that urgent."

"A bird builds its nest from the center. I can't leave until its done. Hurry!"

I ran back to that maple, scooping up a few handfuls of twigs and charging back towards the wagon.

Though her grimoire had provided an actual recipe for this potion, it did not touch on the actual magic component. That was different for every witch. Morgana had to feel her way through it, following instinct and intuition. There were seemingly a thousand different variables that could affect the potency of the magic, and the ease with which she could direct it.

I'd gotten used to strange requests like this over our time together. Although, I still winced when Morgana spread the dirty twigs and bits of leaves all over our bedding.

"Perfect," she said, stepping clear of the mound. "We're almost ready."

"What's left?" I asked, a little apprehensive.

Morgana strikingly pale, gray eyes found my own. She smiled. And then, with the grace of long practice, she slipped out of her dress. The curl of her lips turned languid. She stretched, wondrous in her sudden nakedness.

Morgana was lithe, strength rippling along the length of her limbs. I watched the play of her muscles beneath her pale flesh, my throat drying.

She tossed away her straw hat, letting her obsidian curls tumble down to veil the pale curve of her neck. Her hair reached down past where her chest began to swell, obscuring nothing of her sloping shape.

Her breasts were full; two heavy, decadent dollops of cream, topped with the strawberry stiffness of her nipples. Her stomach flowed down to lusciously curved hips; her legs, a vista of rounded ridges and smooth edges. I followed them down, and then back up the entirety of her.

The way she stood, and the shape of her thighs hid her center from me. Though, I could see a little tuft of midnight pubic hair. I longed for the moment she would open herself to me.

"My Arthus;" my name, a sigh through parted lips. "You've seen me naked a hundred times before."

"I've seen the sunrise a hundred times as well," I said, my voice a little hoarse. "Doesn't mean it isn't stunning."

She laughed, a breathy sound from deep within her. I saw heat rise to stain her flesh. She swayed towards me, stepping out of the nest, letting her garment fall to the floor.

I let her come to me, losing myself in the flex of her muscles, in the quiver and bounce of her flesh. And in the shifting, swirling loops of her tattoos. Because despite the mouth-watering shape of her body and smile, it was her tattoos that were the most striking.

Those three lines that started beneath her lower lip flowed down the length of her. They split at her collarbones; the right and left lines meandering over the top of her breasts. They split again to swirl along each arm; another line looping down along her ribs and onto her back.

The central, and thickest line of ink, burrowed itself in the warm shelter between her breasts. It peeked out onto her stomach, splitting into a dozen lines that split into a dozen more. Those lines thickened or faded away. They swirled and curled around the lush peaks and valleys of her body; following the shape of her, flowing all the way down to her bare feet.

"You don't want to compare me to the moon, instead?" She said. "Or a starry sky?"

"No," I answered, pulling her naked body to me. "You're too bright."

Her eyes shone. Our lips touched; just a soft brush at first, and then another. Her body melted into mine, and I sank deeper into the warmth of her lips.

We parted after an endless moment; our breaths mingling in the heated space between us. We gazed into each other. My grip tightened around her waist. Her arms snaked up around my neck, pulling me back into the ready softness of her lips.

I felt my heartbeat quicken; beating like the rhythmic flap of two great wings. I felt my thoughts drift upward, pulling further away from me. Higher and higher, they went, with each passing moment.

Magic was the blood in the world's veins. It was the heart at the center of all that existence. Magic was a witch's birthright, and each drew it from a different source.

Some pulled from the elements; from the earth or wind or storm. Others drew from beasts, and others still from plants or the laughter of children at play. There was magic in all those things, in every part of the world that surrounded us.