A/N I love stories about witches so I wrote this. I have clearly borrowed the title and family name from the book/movie Practical Magic. Any other similarities are not intentional. just like TWD... no copyright infringement intended. Many thanks to Charlotte Ashmore for her work as Beta. Also posted on AO3 and NineLives.
Onwards they travelled, too cautious to settle again, too hesitant to set down roots. You'd think they'd be over it by now, the trials, the hangings, the more distant but terrifying drowning and burning, the suspicion and the loss. But when your numbers are limited, even a handful of losses feel like decimation, and a few hundred years feels like moments. They can't forget the sisters and brothers they lost and the screams of the innocent as they too were condemned.
They lived among you at their peril, knowing it could come at a price. Their history spoke of the careful integration there had always been. Then suddenly a threat was before them, a panic sweeping like an epidemic and it pushed them into another life.
Witches like being settled. They liked old houses, covens who'd gather frequently, black cats and potted herbs which would come in useful when a potion was required. Lord, how domesticated that sounded . How tempting, now that they were continually moving, no place ever perfect, no position feeling right. She had never known a time before, it'd been their way for generations, but she yearned for something different.
They flew by night, moving between unpopulated areas. Those who wanted to put down roots repeatedly pleaded their case each time a rural property provided the anonymity they needed and a variety of the abundant fauna which would enhance their skills.
They each are different, some of them better at potions, others excelling at spells. She had always been gifted, a natural future leader of the coven. Her magic more powerful at twenty four than anyone in living memory and beyond.
It was this which kept her battling, arguing for them to find somewhere permanent again. She could sense the danger, instincts telling her if someone was friend or foe. She could feel their motivation, see the colour of the truth and lies.
She was too young to make these decisions, she was told. She hadn't listened carefully enough to learn the lessons of the past. So they continued to move from place to place, skirting large and small urbanisations, living a half life, too afraid for more.
She was the last of her people, the one remaining descendant of the Owens family. If one ,were to trace back her lineage they'd realise how old her family was, royalty amongst her people. But they'd lost that to; the records, the documents, their history recorded so carefully on yellowing parchment. In these days of paranoia, longevity and social standing had come to mean nothing.
She was Carol Owens; witch, seer, daydreamer and reluctant traveller.
Days passed, weeks and months of the same. There were others like them, creatures who existed outside the knowledge of humanity. They had no natural enemy, except man, though not always on friendly terms with the others, they coexisted, largely without issue.
As their broomsticks carried them across a cool starless sky she let her eyes close and allowed the waves of human emotion from below extend to reach her. This gift was more, powerful emotional intelligence, rather than unbalanced telepathy. It soothed her, the company of others, the knowledge that they were there even if they were so apart. There is such joy to be found, often deep love, another experience which eluded her in this nomadic life.
Carol was lost in the joy of it, sometimes sending down a signal of her own to soothe a soul in turmoil. The experience captivated her, requiring effort and single minded focus.
When she surfaced from the task she found she has drifted, her sisters moving on at greater speed. She was tired too, the exertion to reach down from so high draining her more than expected.
She silently glided down, knowing a break would help her rejuvenate, allowing her to locate and catch up to them quickly.
Once down, she brewed a black tea with cardamom, ginger, cinnamon and lemon peel. It's not magic, not everything has to be, sometimes humans knew the best blends.
Carol was finishing, clearing up, when she saw it in the distance, becoming lost in the trees as a gentle wind whipped the foliage. She stilled, waiting, and after a few moments she saw it again, a pin prick of red, glowing briefly in position before moving lower through the air.
Although she hoped to conserve her revitalised energy, she opened herself to the object which had surprised her with its nearness.
Immediately, she was consoled by the benevolence of the creature. It may have caught her off guard, but it meant her no harm. Then she was overcome by its loneliness. It was calm, but solitude at this level was never its intention.
Alone in the woods, Daryl Dixon prematurely finished his cigarette, extinguishing it between his fingers. He had sensed something nearby, a movement more alive than the swaying of the trees.
He stilled himself and waited; it came as second nature to the hunter, though for the moment, it wasn't prey he sought .
A wave of comfort surrounded him, easing his mind and settling his soul. He didn't move; he just wondered as the life he sensed drew close. Concerned might describe how he felt; where there should be terror, he felt interest.
What or who had ventured this far out? He'd taken a vacation from his mechanic job and driven and hiked about as far from civilisation as he could manage. Yet, taking the final step into his camp, into this natural clearing, was a woman so beautiful he thought this must all be a fresh air induced fantasy or the best kind of dream.
Carol was dressed in long, flowing black clothes, a cliché, but really it came in handy when she wanted to blend with the night. Sometimes she opted for an inky black beret, in lieu of the passé pointy hat. Tonight she wore neither, her long black hair falling in waves, tumbling over her shoulders and down her her back. Carol had the ability, and clearly she was not above a little vanity induced magical preening.
At the end of the camp she stopped, cocking her head to the side and studying the single man so far from anywhere. He smelled clean, the drips of water from his hair dampening his shirt collar. He had used the nearby river, just as she did to draw water for her tea.
They regarded each other for more moments than either bothered to count. Finally, with a head cock of his own he invited her in. In the camp there was a log seat, and beyond it the embers of a small fire. How had she missed this? The smell of the wood, the cooking? Yet, he was so silent, muted steps which barely rustled the leaves and gravel of the camp floor.
She accepted the invitation, quietly walking to the log, settling herself in the warmth of the dying fire. Daryl circled around, his head dipped but his eyes on her. Who was she? How did she get here? What was she? He didn't believe in any of that mystical crap, hadn't since he was a boy. Not since his terrified tears, at Merle's vivid description of the chupacabra, had earned him the whipping of a lifetime. His daddy wasn't raising no sissy, he was repeatedly reminded between lashes.
From beside the fire Daryl retrieved a plate, spooning a portion of the sizzling dish he had prepared onto it. He cautiously handed it to her, nodding towards the fork that waited on the log. He pulled a square of material, a red rag, from his back pocket and carefully lifted the pan by the handle, blowing to cool the contents before hesitantly eating with his fingers.
Rabbit! That was her first thought when she tasted the rustic stew. Maybe she'd taken him for a beef man, the buff exterior, with muscles clearly visible beneath his sleeveless shirt. He looked hostile, downcast eyes almost hidden in his hair, but she got that wrong too.
They continued to eat, occasionally stealing glances of each other. The texture was better than anything she'd ever eaten and the flavour delicate enough for the meat. He was used to cooking this way, to being out in the open and alone.
Carol couldn't know of his loss, the pain dulling at the edges over time because he mostly buried it. Dwelling on it did no good, and drinking never worked for him either. He was so alone, his last living relative tormented by his own demons and, intentionally or not, ending it all with a hooker in his bed and a needle in his arm.
The wilderness was a solace, a retreat from the silence of his cabin and the isolation he felt among people. At least in the hills, in the woods, on the banks of a river, his detachment was intentional, a choice rather than a habit.
Her plate was empty and there was little left in his pan, not without the fork to scrape it. For a time they were both still, reluctant to move and break the spell of companionable silence which had settled over them. There was a togetherness which was so easy, which appeared so suddenly, as if out of the ether.
Then she stood, having made a decision. She took the four short steps to meet him, extending a hand. He passed her the plate, but before he could stand, she had turned back towards the river.
Daryl followed, watching her measured movements, the swing of her dark hair, wisps floating behind her as she followed the path to the water. She crouched, submerging the items and allowing the flow of the river to do much of the work. She jostled them, the agitation of the water completing her job.
When Carol handed them to him he saw a small satisfied smile. Then again, he was following. As she walked back to his camp her hands trailed the bushes surrounding the path. Occasionally she picked something, a long leaf or small stalk. From his place on the trail, he thought he could hear her talking, and though it wasn't meant for his ears, still he strained to hear.
Back in the clearing of the camp, she was distracted, a small bundle of items she had collected in her hands. Daryl watched as she gathered it, forming a rough cylinder with the various materials. Then she looked around, searching for one last ingredient, something particular.
Daryl watched as she stepped to the outer edges of his camp, bending low again. This time she dug, quickly finding what she needed and pulling a string like root from the ground. She twisted and turned it, then used it to bind the materials, tying it off before she lifted her eyes to him.
Carol smiled again, the final words of the forget me spell a whisper on her lips. He had kind eyes, this stranger who'd welcomed her, who'd brought her in and provided nourishment. Her smile broadened as she moved to pass him the bundle.
For the first time, he was able to see her up close, and he was right, she was beautiful; delicate but strong. Her eyes a crystalline blue, the colour of the sky which framed the mountains before sunset on a cloudless summer day.
She was so near, the tied materials in her hands between them. She extended an arm, offering it to him. Daryl had no clue what it was supposed to be, a thank you, a gift? Or just a small bundle of sticks and leaves?
As he took it, their fingers touched, the spark she'd felt, reflected in his eyes. She tightened her grip slowly, encouraging him to contract his hand and hold onto the bundle she'd made especially for him.
The feeling she got, the lightning tingle which moved through her whole body, told her her intuition was right. She felt as if he was chosen for her, her matching soul. But it was not within her power to stay. Right then, she had people waiting for her, loyalty to her coven, a small but secretive society of people who wanted to be safe and to keep her safe too.
She squeezed again, so he knew how vital it was that he shouldn't let go of the object in his grasp. Carol was doing for him what she would never be able to do for herself; she was allowing him to forget. He nodded, showing understanding, though no clearer on the why or the how. She stepped back then, pauseing to drink him in, to commit to memory the person and the could be, of the future they would never know.
With a heart heavy as stone, she turned from him then. Her steps carried her from his camp to hers, and belongings in hand she took to the sky again, tear blinded but her sisters calling her home.
In the next few months, they continued to move from place to place, occasionally meeting others of their kind. Very few had settled, though some didn't choose to move as frequently as they did . Carol kept her encounter to herself, though her extended absence and mournful disposition had not gone unnoticed.
She withdrew slightly, a self indulgent move, but it allowed the others space to talk. They largely thought her change in demeanour came down to their ongoing travelling, and she'd never led them to believe otherwise.
The vast majority of the group had seen no location they could consider safe enough to settle. They had been aghast at the places semi nomadic covens would stay, earnestly encouraging them to move again for their own sakes.
For the longest time it had been so fruitless they'd stopped searching, focusing on moving rather than the possibilities of the locals they visited. They vow to change that, to consider again the idea of roots.
Months passed and Carol felt much as she had since she'd met him. She hides it better, smiling when the others talked of permanence, making observations on the places they'd visited and the needs which must be met.
One evening, they stumbled across another creature, after witches, the strongest of them all. Hobgoblins were usually no more than a nuisance, more troublesome than menacing. But they would give little thought to discretion, especially when they gathered. When one's gift includes the ability to become invisible, is it too much to ask not to draw attention to one's self? Apparently so.
The coven saw sparks in the distance, a valley, hidden from the eye, but occasionally illuminated and visible from the sky. They were careful as they approached, many of her sisters hanging back as Carol and a small scouting party moved in. She saw them first, their boisterous tones and foul odour revealing exactly who it was.
Then together they all moved in, alerting them at a distance to their presence, before joining them in the valley below.
"Ah, the Owen's Coven," one of the creatures said .
"The coven is not mine," Carol replied, wishing it were true.
"And yet, here you are," he said with a malevolent smile.
Carol reached for her wand, a warning, a threat. No more nonsense, she suggested as she lifted it in the air. It was all for show, she wouldn't need it. What she needed she could manage with her hands, her mind. But it helped to focus the bothersome creatures, serving it's purpose in the most peculiar way.
"Is this your home?" The coven leader, Ophelia Black, asked him.
"No. This is just a momentary diversion. A place to make the mischief you know we are so fond of."
Carol frowned. They could do so much more with their gifts, and yet they seemed to take such pleasure in their bad boy reputation.
"What brought you to this place?" Ophelia asked, a quick and growing impatience in her tone.
Carol saw it in his eyes, suspicion at the question and a cunning squint.
"Might we make a deal? This place for a few favours we could use?" he asked.
"This place, why ever would we want a place which has been sullied by the likes of you?" Another of the witches queried , her tone mocking, attempting to hide the interest all too evident in Ophelia's quick inquiry.
"It's secluded, big enough for your entire coven and it's protected," he told them, the smile gracing his lips even less appealing than what came before.
"Your amateur incantations do you no credit, Goblin. Only a human or woefully ignorant creature would be stopped or dissuaded from coming here," their leader pulled no punches. Her estimation of his skills was a little harsh, but they saw them and were drawn here, why not others?
"But what could you do here, witch? What spells and potions could you employ to keep the few who venture this far away?" He'd almost laughed then. He knew it was already a done deal.
They could all see it; the natural geography creating a hidden valley in an already remote place. A place so secluded the goblins had happened upon it by chance, and the witches only knew of it because they'd been so indiscreet.
"Very well," she tells him. Accepting the deal readily now. Nothing they have seen compares to this, a place with abundant vegetation, with such limited access to the outside world. A place they could settle and thrive without the continuing fear of discovery and the horrors of the past.
Together with her sisters, Carol worked steadily for days; gathering, brewing, reciting incarnations day and night. The coven worked on spells which would repel even the keenest of humans. They chanted the words which would surround their home with barriers, warnings to alert them to the approach of other magical beings. It was exhausting, but more than anything, she wanted them to be safe; home, settled and safe.
When the final fires were extinguished, they gathered to celebrate the new phase of their lives. It would be the strangest of sensations to no longer be on the move, to stay somewhere and flourish as she knows they would .
But days later she found herself ready to move again, this time to revisit a place she had been before. If truth be told, it was a place she'd never truly left. At the very least, her heart was there, waiting for him, mourning the loss she had suffered.
Carol's sisters seemed to expect this. Perhaps they'd developed a second sight too. Or perhaps they were just more perceptive than she gave them credit for, too wrapped up in the loss she felt. They knew she would return to them, they just don't know the difference a new arrival would make.
She travelled quickly, not so careful to avoid civilisation, but distanced by height. Journeying, she didn't want human emotion to draw her attention, to seduce her down. She didn't need to live vicariously through their feelings of love. Somewhere at a distance she was hoping beyond hope that her own love was waiting.
It was improbable. Yet she couldn't stop the hope which bubbled and brewed in her chest.
He would have to have discarded the forget me charm, her mind argued. "I know," she answered aloud.
He would have to have returned, at the same time you chose to return, these many months after your only chance meeting. "I know!"
That one isolated place, so far from anywhere, so difficult for a human to get to. "I know," she almost cried.
Carol slowed her approach, already barely able to stand the disappointment she may have to endure. She made her way silently to that space they'd shared those many months ago. She felt something, it was familiar, a steady signal ensuring she would be protected. It was almost overcome by a loneliness far greater than before.
Carol stood at the edge of the clearing, hardly able to believe her eyes. "You came," she spoke suddenly, not startling him because he too felt the change. He nodded, unable to believe she'd returned.
When he first left this place he'd thought of her constantly. In the coming days, he'd realised he could no longer picture or describe the fall of her hair. Had it been long, had it been straight? He'd lost the smile from her lips and the image of her by the water, before he'd finally understood what his gift was.
Not sure how it worked, he'd driven a distance from his house and left it under a rock by a familiar spot. In the coming days, she'd returned to him, the effects cut short, his memories retrievable.
Then he started to return here. To wait for her and to hope maybe she was local, maybe there was a way to see her again. It was a journey of days, he'd had to call in favours, take unpaid leave. He'd cut back his hours and worked consecutively to allow him the time he needed to reach her.
Time after time, he'd left disappointed. He'd wait as long as he possibly could before resigning himself to the despondent return trip.
The camp looked more organised as she stepped towards the fire again. "You've been back?" She questioned, the evidence all around her.
"Weren't sure when ya would come," was the truthful reply.
They were quiet again, and he'd prepared the food as before, only this time there were two plates, two forks, two knives, two cups. Her heart swelled. He had not forgotten, repeating in her very soul.
Later, by the dying embers of the fire, they sat closer still. They talked, first asking names and details of the others life. She eased him in gently, slowly opening his eyes to what she was and what it meant for them.
Her gift told her he was comfortable, his questions confirmed he trusted her too. He was more open to this than she had hoped, and the conversation flowed with ease.
Later, it dawned on her she hadn't asked him about the magic.
"What did you do with the bundle I gave you?" she asked, intrigued as to his method of disposal.
"Ya mean ya spell? I split it. Kept em all the same. Each had a piece o' the root to tie it and I gave 'em out to folks who knew me".
"You little witch," she laughed, unable to hide her glee at his actions.
"Stop," he told her, smiling and wondering just what their future together would hold.
The end xx