disclaimer: I don't own anything.

"Did you see the strange boy in the marketplace today?"

"He bought rotten onions and cow innards and the strangest selection of herbs."

"Who would need such awful things?"

"I heard last month, he asked for teeth."

"What kind of hobbies does this boy have?"

"Leave the poor boy alone, I heard he doesn't have a family."

"It's better to leave the strange to their own devices, no need to disturb them. I don't want that strangeness near my family."

"Just give him what he asks for and he won't bother anyone."

The first time he sees the sun girl, she's in the marketplace and so is he but only one of them is happy to be there. She's clutching a man's hand (probably her father) and her smile is almost enough to make the marketplace seem cheery.

Almost.

But even her smile can't blind him to the whispers that follow at his heels. The rumors and the unease that he seems to instill within the people.

He tries not to come to this marketplace often, he travels between marketplaces all over the country and only stops at this particular one if his mother needs something urgently. In this marketplace, there is a particular brand of hatred and prejudice that seasons the air like the way the smell of basil always lingers in his home. It's just there. It's part of its essence.

He watches the girl mingle amicably with the locals and watches in wonderment as their usually pinched expressions light up like fireflies at her smile. He briefly wonders if this girl is a fire, spreading her light everywhere she touches.

He could never get the locals to smile at him.

He stopped trying years ago.

Now he just turns his head away from the bright girl and holds his hand out to the vender. The haggish old woman just turns her crooked nose as she hands him the putrid bag of frog tongues. She doesn't say a word, just accepts his money but he can see the words sweating from her slimy skin, get out of here.

He's leaving the village within minutes.

He's met a couple of kind locals during his visits to secure a cart for his travels. He's grateful for the kindness of Sir Kane because otherwise he'd have to ask the other locals for a ride and that would be extremely unwelcomed. He didn't want to cause anymore unease than unnecessary. He didn't want the locals to look too closely at him. He already aroused much suspicion with his strange shopping lists but their fear kept them from prodding too deeply. Asking for favors would enable a system of social courtesies that could unravel his entire life.

He dropped his purchases into his cart, hoisted the bars of the cart onto his shoulders and began his trek back home, never looking back.

Never seeing the sun girl's eyes on his back.

The next time he sees the sun girl, he's watching her from the crack in the closet. His mother had shoved him inside when her furious knocking woke the entire house.

He watched as the sun girl fell into his house. She grabbed his mother's hands and pleaded.

He watched as her mother called for Octavia and she appeared. Octavia dutifully gathered all of the items dropping from their mother's mouth with a mechanical precision after years of apprenticeship.

He watched as the sun girl led his mother and Octavia out of the house.

He watched as the light faded from the house, the walls deflated and the air chilled.

He watched as the house transformed into something torn apart by a storm, something ravaged and empty and haunted by the tragic lives of people past.

He heard the thundering of horses outside the house and dropped the broom before shooting into the closet.

He watched as his mother and Octavia swelled back into the house. Once he was sure that it was just them, he stepped out of the closet and resumed his sweeping. He kept sweeping as Octavia and his mother argued.

"We could have saved him! Why didn't we?" Octavia cried.

Their mother shook her head, "Sometimes we do things we don't want to."

Octavia glared at their mother something fierce, "What's that supposed to mean? I thought we were supposed to fix broken things! Why didn't we fix him?"

"It wasn't our place."

"It's not our place to mess with the natural order of things but yet here we are, witches!"

"Octavia Blake, let it be." Their mother's words were final. Bellamy glanced at his sister, her face looked like a frozen waterfall—something chaotic about to burst, and then at his mother, her face looked like a void and he suddenly couldn't breathe, like her void stole the air from his lungs. He tore his gaze away from his mother as Octavia shrieked before storming to her room.

His mother sighed, "Go take care of your sister." An order.

He nodded, "Always." A promise.

Mother, why can't I go with you and Octavia?

They must never know that you are mine.

Why?

Sons of witches are deeply feared.

Why, mother? I'm not a bad person.

No you are not, my warrior. But you have the power to be someone powerful, and that terrifies them.

I don't feel very powerful. You never even let me help with your magic.

There are more ways to be powerful than to use magic, my son.

How?

Go out in the world, my son. Go into the world in my place. Bring me what I need but never let them know who you are. If they know, they will try to hurt you, to hurt us. Protect us by staying in the shadows. Be strong and never let them hurt you. By doing so, you will protect us and you will become very strong. Promise me, you will protect us.

I will mother.

Good child, promise me you will watch Octavia. She is young and a witch, she will face the things I face today. Make sure no harm ever comes to her.

Yes mother.

You are a good son, you will be wonderful.

I'll protect you.

Aurora Blake bites her lip as she feels the earth tremble. She can feel them coming, can feel the unease of their horses, can feel the anger of their blood, can feel the fear in their hearts.

She puts the last of her bottles in the cellar and makes her way upstairs. She's washing the dishes when they tear down her door. She's glad she sent Octavia away with Bellamy to get her herbs.

She's humming when their hateful hands grab at her. She's crying when their hateful hands bind her wrists. She's at peace when their hateful hands drag her by her hair across her yard. She supposes she could escape, she has more magic in her pinkie than these mortals have in their fingernails yet, she knows that this is inevitable.

Witches are always hunted. Witches are always burned.

Even if they are reluctantly accepted for a while, eventually a baby will die or a cow will be born with two heads and it will be taken as an omen and they will come for her. Their fear will always prevail.

From the moment her powers awakened within her, her life had been a wave of momentum barreling her to this moment. Everything that happened to her during the hurricane- her strength, her pain, her home, her children—was another tidal wave towards her destiny. She lied to herself for a while, when her children were born, that she was the master of her own actions but she knows now, as the dirt burns her throat that she was simply gliding towards her fate, foolishly believing this could have ended any other way.

She understands now that the world is cruel and her fate dragged her here, to where she is being dragged to her fate.

She's immensely grateful that Octavia is not here. They would burn her, too. Aurora Blake can accept the bitter truth, can swallow the bitter truth with a calm soul knowing that her daughter is safe.

Aurora Blake closes her eyes and lets the world fade away.

"Mother!"

The world violently snaps back into focus and everything is screaming, her blood, her heart, her. She's shrieking because Octavia can't be here- the men will take her away, will violate her, torture her and she can already feel their intentions shift from her to Octavia (it's poison in the air and she's suffocating). She feels the magic vibrate in her veins, she fights against her binds long after her wrists burn and bleed. She tries to tell Octavia to run but the fear is cotton in her throat and she can't do anything but scream.

She hears their feet shuffle towards her baby, can practically see their deformed figures crawling towards her precious child.

Don't take Octavia, don't hurt my child, someone protect her daughter.

And like an angel, Bellamy breaks through the forest and sprints towards his sister. She wants to laugh and smile and hold her children one last time. She wants to vomit, she wants to scream, she wants to pull out the insides of every man holding her, every man advancing towards her daughter. She wants to rise up like the tide and shield her children from everything but she sees Bellamy and she prays he'll reach Octavia in time. She trusts her son. She raised him with everything she had to offer. She has to believe that he'll protect Octavia, that he'll stop them from hurting her.

Something crashes against her skull.

She watches as screams rip from Bellamy's throat. She thinks this must be what his soul sounds like—desperate and scared and furious but her son.

There's a blinding pain shooting down her spine.

She watches as Bellamy reaches for his sister, who stands screaming like a messenger at the end of the world, ready to yank her into the safe sanctuary of his arms.

Her body feels like it's on fire (not yet) and her head is drowning (she's still dry) and her vision is foggy (it's bright outside) and her heart feels like it's falling (she's falling).

She trusts Bellamy. He'll protect Octavia.

She watches no more.

Ding dong the witch is dead.

He trips. He falls. He fails.