One day, in the northern woods...

"Witches are too often burned." – The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue, V.E. Schwab

[A Short Story]

The Witch Hunter strolls through the woods. The sky is of winter grey—the way it always has been. The chilly air fogs his deep breaths. He longs—no, he dreams of that certain shade of blue on the horizon, one that is a perfect reflection of the southern oceans. Except that he has never seen those oceans before. It is only but a fantasy tucked at the back of his mind. For now, he could only dream, imagine and yearn for the scent of salt and ships. Why was he born in the far North? He loathes this place with all his heart. The north where there are only snow-capped mountains, monotonous towns comprised of stone houses, limited quarries and… witches.

A scent swishes past his nose and he grits his teeth. 'Speak of the devil.' he grimaces. It is the scent of witchcraft—the prickling tang of their magic or hocus pocus or whatever they call it. Despite the fast beating of his chest, the Witch Hunter is glad to know that he won't spend the rest of the night with an empty stomach. A witch is worth pouches of gold coins after all. He will bring the wench to be appraised to town, and depending on the quality, he might not even need to hunt for those devils anymore.

The Witch Hunter follows the smell, and as he walks through a bend, he knows that there is blood. It smells like metal, an arid kind of metal that churns his stomach. He can't seem to get used to it.

He walks past the bushes, careful not to rustle the leaves. He does his best to take light steps, moving only to make the barest of sound possible—or perhaps none at all. This is what he's trained for. He is a soldier, the kind that specifically excels in ridding the world of the blight brought upon by witches.

Although all his efforts to stay undetected was for nothing—the witch has already spotted him.

He straightens his back to get a better look. Standing on the forest clearing was a girl no more than eighteen. But no matter what, she is not eighteen. Those demons can alter their appearances. She—it might even be a hundred years old. It may look like a girl, but it is not. And he needs to go for the kill.

The soil around it has stains of crimson that glints a bright red as it catches the faintest light of the northern woods. Hacked bodies and limbs torn with bones jutting out of them surrounded her slim figure. Her black skirt has blood sputtered everywhere.

The Witch Hunter clicks his tongue. "What a mess." He unsheathes his long sword with a satisfying ring to it.

The monster merely tilts its head to the side, pale and eerie eyes unblinking. "Another Witch Hunter," the witch whines. "When will you ever let me rest?"

He almost laughs at this child-like behavior. For a moment, he is fooled that it really is eighteen, but only for a moment.

The Witch Hunter launches on his feet. A split-second later, his face is a mere inches away from the witch. It did not even bat an eyelid. He tries to go for the neck, but the witch's arm has already flicked him away. His back slams unto a tree with a heavy thud.

He attempts to stand, but he freezes midway. Eyes of ghostly white loom over him. Its pupils are not clear, as if almost all of its eyes were milk—a milk gone sour, expired milk, stale milk, all the milks gone wrong. Still, he is unable to take his gaze off of them. It feels as though it is looking at him, but at the same time it is not.

"You are blind." says the Witch Hunter.

He notices the faint tug on the corners of her full lips. "So what if I am?"

The Witch Hunter flinches. His prize is right in front of him, why is he having a conversation with it? "I am going to kill you." He fumbles for his sword without averting his gaze. Perhaps he is afraid that it will run away, or maybe he can't just stop staring into those strange eyes.

The witch giggles—a sound so sweet and melodic. It sends chills crawling down his spine. "With what?"

Finally, he drops his gaze to the ground and breaks eye contact. The devil chuckles at his state. He searches for his sword, but it is gone. His weapon disappears in thin air. Well, he has more blades strapped inside his fur coat—

His body moves on its own, slumping down at the base of the tree. "What did you do to me, witch?" he growls.

He should not have bothered to ask. The Witch Hunter was rendered motionless by this monster—this blind monster's dark magic.

"Stay still, let me sit for a moment." says the witch in a casual manner as she settles beside him.

The Witch Hunter forces himself to thrash and throw himself. He could not even struggle. If it weren't for the fact that he can speak, he might as well be an inanimate object at this point.

He closes his eyes briefly, allowing himself to breath. "What is your game?"

Again, a stupid question—he already knows what this wretch is up to. She will toy with him, torture him and god-knows-what. He is aware that he is about to become her plaything.

"Game?" asks the witch with an innocent tone. "There is no game. I just want to rest."

"Lies," the Witch Hunter hissed. "You are taking your time before you eat me."

The witch laughs, her eyes unfocused and distant—looking, but not looking. "Why would I want to eat you? You have eyes, do you not? There are bodies beyond the clearing yet I take neither a bite of any."

He swallows, but he does not relent. This is a 'witch', he is talking to. There must be some kind of trick lying beneath those words. Their kind is like that after all—they know only of deceptions and lies. "Then you are saving me for later."

This time the demon cackles a high-pitched laugh, one truly befitting for a witch. "You are amusing, human. Heed my advice and humble yourself."

The Witch Hunter only knits his brows. He could not understand the predicament he is in. Why is a witch keeping him alive? Why is a witch talking to a human? He should really just ask it. Ask the spawn of evil why it is taking long to tear him apart. But this spawn of evil has lovely eyes. This spawn of evil has silky black hair flowing into soft waves down its waist.

So instead, he asks. "What is your name?"

The witch does not answer.

He tries again. "How old are you?"

Not a word.

The Witch Hunter sighs. That is it. He has given up—on his life, on his dreams. He now knows that he will never be able to see the southern oceans. Well, if he might as well die then why not have a lovely talk with a lovely witch before it happens? He should get this creature to talk, somehow. Or he'll die a rather boring death.

"You are blind." he begins. "Yet how can you see? How were you able to kill those men?"

'How were you able to know I was coming when I was still miles away?'

An emotion crosses the witch's well-framed face. This time, she answers. "It does not mean that when I am blind, I cannot sense what is happening around me."

He didn't bother restraining himself anymore. The Witch Hunter turns his head towards the witch and looks at her longer than he ever did. "Yes but, how do you do it?"

The demonic creature shrugs. "I feel the vibrations—vibrations of footsteps on the earth, of breathings, of the wind," it pauses for a while. "…and of heartbeats." one side of its upper lip lifted. "Stop looking at me like I am some animal, human."

The Witch Hunter grins. "So you are aware what expression a person makes as well."

"Most of the time, but yours is very easy to discern." says the witch with a shrug.

He lifts a brow. "What does that mean?"

"It means that you are an idiot."

The Witch Hunter scoffs as he leans the back of his head on the tree—it is the only part that he has control of. He raises his eyes to the gloomy afternoon sky. "You do not know me, witch."

"Probably," it says. "But I do know that your heart is unsteady. You want something you cannot have, don't you?"

He wants to run his hands through his blonde hair, but they hang limp—along with his arms and legs—on his sides. "Really now, you are acting rather chummy with me. Are you fine with that?"

The devilish creature sighs deeply. "Hypocrite human, did you not just ask for a maiden's name and age earlier?"

The Witch Hunter snorts. "You are no maiden."

Its shoulders twitch. Did he press on a burn that is not supposed to be pressed? But then again, since when did witches have emotions? They are as good as feral beasts. Though the girl beside him surely does not look like one.

The witch does not speak for awhile. The silence was maddening. Plus, he could not move. So he breaks the painful quiet surrounding them. "Can't you just use magic to restore your sight? It is easier that way."

"Ah, you are correct, I can do that. In fact, it requires only a moderate spell." says the witch. "But I choose not to."

His head instantly whips towards the witch. "Why?"

Maybe he has a chance of surviving after all. This witch is clearly not right in the head. He could bear the shame of running from a fight, but at least he will live for another day.

"The world is ugly." says the witch. "I refuse to see it."

The Witch Hunter shakes his head with disbelief—he thought the creature was being impossible. "That's rich coming from a witch. Have you even felt a day of hunger? I bet that with a flick of your wrist, food just magically appears in front of you."

The witch closes its eyes and exhales excruciatingly. "You are a hopeless fool. Do you think we need food? We do not starve, unlike your kind."

"Truly," he smirks. "How pitiful it must be for us humans, to not even be able to go a day without bread."

The demon's brows furrow—she definitely doesn't appear as a demon. 'But she is,' the Witch Hunter insists on himself. 'She is.'

"Be quiet and hear me out." it demands.

He nods.

"Food is but a materialistic thing to us." the witch heaves in a breath—at this moment, it looks human. But it isn't. It continues. "But I saw how my sisters fell upon the deception of men. How they loved them wholeheartedly, passionately. You will never feel how it is to see them so devastated when they come home from being broken, used, forgotten and abandoned. You will never know how it feels to watch their bodies being burned in the pyre. Their immortality reduced to ashes just because they had trusted humans. And then after all that, they repeat the damned cycle again and again—fall in love and get betrayed in the end. So I decided not to watch anymore."

Tears glisten down her rosy cheeks. The Witch Hunter realized that now, she is just as human as he—exposing herself raw and bare. He did not know why a witch would open up to him like this. Perhaps she needed someone to vent her bottled emotions and he has been the one to conveniently pass by. Perhaps she might even kill him after that. Nevertheless, he did not mind listening—not at all.

"Then you are a greater fool than I." he says softly, almost like a whisper.

"And why is that, human?" she says with a smooth tone, not a trace in her voice that she is hurting.

"You rid yourself of sight and yet here you are, the sadness and loneliness keeps haunting you forever."

She laughs. "Do not attempt to offer me words of guidance nor encouragement, human. I do not need them. At the very least, I am doing something about my own feelings."

The Witch Hunter cocks his head back. "What, do you think I am not doing anything about mine?"

"You are stuck in your fantasies. Are you really contented with just that?"

He did not take the time to make guesses on how the witch knew of the things he longs for. He just let her be.

"Well, I can't do anything about that now, can I?" he says, and then he smiles as he looks at her. "But suppose you could grant me three wishes?"

The witch laughs, one that is pure and sincere. "I am not a genie."

He draws a long breath. The hope brimming within him flickers away. But the witch continues to speak.

"Though I do have magic." she faces him. "You have entertained me. Tell me what you want, human."

The Witch Hunter imagines the howling winds of the southern oceans, blowing his golden locks off his face, the salty air a savory pleasure. The sky above it is a gleaming sapphire, the seagulls squawking and flapping. The sails and masts of large ships readied on the dock, the cheerful sailors hefting up cargo. For a moment, he is there, arms thrown wide. The southern oceans spread in a blue sparkling sheet beyond yonder. But instead of being there, he says:

"I want to know your name."