Witch.

When her aunt had spoken the word when she was a girl, it had sounded sweet. Special. When her father spoke it, it was as if it were something to be afraid of. He spoke of her abilities with a hesitation that always made her feel like he hoped they'd all wake up someday and she'd be normal. Of course, normal was a relative word for Simeron. After all, how normal could a Half-Elf really be?

For the ten years of her life, the woods and hills of Lethylia had been her home. It's where she was raised, and where she loved to be. There was splendor in this realm, kept apart from the chaos of the mortal world. Her father loved her. Her aunt loved her. Her mother had loved her. Her uncle tried to keep her hidden. For even in the elven woods of Lethylia, Simeron was special.

The niece of the High King of the Elves is a title that was never supposed to fall on what some would call a half-breed. Her father Etan was never supposed to fall in love with a witch either, but fate has a funny way of slipping in and changing the course of the world.

The elves had a long history of magic of their own kind. Talented potions masters and gifted with sight, many sought to gain their trust and affections, that they might share their knowledge. But a long tradition of isolationism kept the Elves to their own lands, and what they knew stayed hidden with them. But some strayed, seeking the ways of the mortal witches and wizards.

Etan, younger brother to the High King Revath, abandoned his people in his two-thousandth year, defying the wishes of his brother to teach and be taught. Within a few months, Etan found himself at the gates of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. Within those halls, he met a young Witch named Amelie. She was mesmerizing, as beautiful as any elf, with hair white as ivory satin and eyes of sparkling blue crystal, witty as they come, and smarter than most. Love was the easy part, as easy as breathing, and fallen faster than rain. Etan vowed to leave the land of his forefathers behind, marry Amelie, and spend immortality in the peace and tranquility of the French countryside. But mortality is fleeting and fragile. It can be taken away as easily as it can be given.

Passion sparked love, and love created the greatest gift this world has to offer. When Amelie became pregnant, Etan took it as a sign that he'd made the right choice, and was blessed, rather than cursed by the gods above. But it was not to last. Labor has fell many, strong and weak, alike, and Amelie was no exception. And there are some things that not even the greatest magic can heal. Etan was devastated, broken with the loss of love. He took his daughter, a beautiful girl who Amelie, in her dying breaths, named Simeron, and left the fields of France, where sorrow flowed. He had nowhere to go. Nowhere but one place.

Only for the love of a brother did Revath allow Etan to return. Only for the pleas of their sister, Yliav, was Simeron welcomed in. Her father did not resent her, though many in his position would. He had promised Amelie to love and cherish her always, to raise her to be good, and kind. And so she was. The light of Lethylia could shine no brighter than Simeron, for it was inside of her. She grew in grace and beauty, her mother's eyes and white-blonde hair beautiful against her lithe Elven frame and pale, clear complexion.

With her mother's talent, it came as no surprise when Simeron started to show signs of magic as early as the age of one. It began innocent enough, like moving objects from across the room, but by the time she was five, the extent of her abilities blossomed. On one occasion, she can be remembered lighting a small tree on fire when she was upset. On another, she caused the bath to overflow with bubbles, effectively flooding the chamber and hallway. The growth in her magic frightened her uncle, and many other Elves in Lethylia. Revath questioned the decision to allow the child into their kingdom, threatening to expel Etan and Simeron from the land. He called her a witch, with nothing but bitter resentment to coat the words. The Elves had never dealt with such power; magic without restraint and in a world without the means to teach her to control it. They did their best, cleaning up every mess, putting out every fire.

"Your magic is a part of you. Only you can know how to control it," her father used to tell her. "Your mother was the brightest witch of her age, more talented than any other. I know that you can be just like her, and you will be. One day."

So, she took it upon herself, doing all she could to be what her family, what her people, wanted her to be. For years she worked, as her magic swelled inside of her, pushing at the edges of her being, begging for release. The council of Elves became restless, unsure of what to do with the young witch.

"The girl is dangerous," argued some, "If she remains in Lethylia, she'll destroy the entire wood!" Still others defended her. "She's just a child," they claimed, "With time, she will learn to control it. We can teach her what we can." But uncertainty sank its yellow fangs into the Elves hearts.

Witch.

A word that struck fear into the hearts of all of Lethylia. Days went by where it seemed only her father and aunt cared for her, for to them, magic is only something to be feared within the wicked. But you can hardly be surprised to hear that fate is the great connector. No realm, no place, no person can escape it; it touches everyone and is the trigger that sets destiny in motion. For how can a Half-Elf born in May nineteenth of 1960 be of such great importance to a boy with a lightening scar born July thirty-first 0f 1980?

This is her story.