Confession of the Witch

The mirror absorbed her gaze. There was nothing blank about her stare; her round eyes filled with insight and penetrating wonder. Epona had developed a selfless streak. She'd joined a coven and had done right by others, but one truth remained solid: Epona was solitary.

The witch's lodgings had also changed over the years. There had been her dark phase, when she was younger, the room covered in furniture with sharp angles and torn lace displaced from corpses and rightful owners.

In the mirror Epona now examined how green had taken over her room. There were flowers behind her and she'd taken pleasure in keeping them alive. She knew it wouldn't last forever; it was her nature to scorch and renew; once the flowers would start to wither, she'd burn them.

She noticed the fairness of her skin and the increasing depth and darkness of her hair. Her eyes favored life, matching the green throughout the room.

Turning away from the mirror, Epona walked to her bed. She sat there with her book, eyes creeping up to notice the black fabric creeping out from underneath the greens in her room. The desire to destroy was strongest in the late fall. Everything was dying and she felt as though it was her purpose to help it all along.

The fire and darkness, she knew, created a furnace of change. Most people hated change, especially when it happened in a small town with a diverse population, but change had to occur and it was Epona's duty to help it along.

The book she was reading, the cards and runes she read, the tools she used-all of them were barriers, giving her the means to control the information the gods wished to send her. Without them, she was bothered constantly, and it always manifested in fire and ashes.

Epona's instructions were as clear as the waking vision she'd had. After a few minutes, she closed her book and kept her eyes from catching the mirror again. She placed a wreath of dying flowers upon her head, walked down the stairs, and headed out through the door, taking with her a grey cloak, a quill, a bottle of ink and some parchment.

Sitting alone on the beach, she wrote down her destructive thoughts on the parchment. The faded green of her dress seemed to grow out of the sand; the sun glow reflected healthily upon her skin. Once she had written those necessary thoughts, she quickly gathered wood for a small fire. With just a touch, the witch lit the fire then pushed the paper into the reach of the flames.

There was no trance or moment of reflection as they burned. Truthfully, she wanted to hurt the people she deemed selfish and harsh, but those wishes floated toward the sky in small wisps of black and grey smoke.

The water of the lake lapped at the shore. Sounds of merriment came from the inn.

Epona sat alone with her fire, her thoughts cast outward, her power bolted within.