HASSAHAN MYSTIC |

{ i }

Every morning it smelled like overcooked herbs. Outside the air was tainted with decay.

Maeve owned two chickens that roamed the stretch of her land and provided eggs for breakfast. It took a lot of scolding from Maeve for Asta to learn how to cook a decent egg, but the result was the same, she couldn't stomach it for long and wound up vomiting her horrible cooking. It was either overcooked or undercooked—decent was an exaggeration and she only used it because she didn't burn herself in the process.

Although, Asta was trapped in Maeve's hut with the promise of learning to control the abilities that everyone else had been so keen in identifying since she married Kouen she had done nothing related to the task. Much like the magic keeping her trapped, her day-to-day life was a cycle.

At the end of breakfast, Asta tended the patch of vegetables Maeve cultivated. Maeve kept plenty of food stored in her home to keep her fed until it was time to harvest. A lot of the work Asta put into the lone patch of dirt behind a row of blueberry bushes was simple, but it was difficult on her back and hands. She returned to the hut as late as sunset to start cutting up the ingredients Maeve left out for her on a cutting board and her messy handling led to several painful cuts. Many of her fingers and her left hand were wrapped tight in gauze.

Some time ago, Maeve provided her with an old bow she found while wandering the forest and gave her the necessary tools to make her own arrows.

"You will hunt," said Maeve in explanation.

It reminded Asta of Bo encouraging her interest in the sport despite denouncing it as unladylike and unnecessary when they first met.

Asta wasn't allowed to return home if she didn't bring back any meat and the nights were cold, too dark for her overactive mind. In the shadows, she saw ghosts and while they promised company, they often delivered nightmares that stole her urgency to chase them away with dreamless sleep.

The first couple of times that she was asked to skin the rabbits she caught, she barfed. The combination of the way she dragged the knife underneath their furry skins and the sliminess of the blood on her fingers disconcerted her. She could never make rabbit stew to Maeve's taste. The meat was too pink and Asta believed that to be the reason she was growing weaker, becoming ill.

Once the unappetizing dinner was finished, with the stench of decay and dying plants, Maeve met her eyes from across the tiny tale, the melting candle siting between them casting a harsh glow on the old woman's face, and asked, "Tell me what you dreamt about?"

Not once since Maeve began to ask that very question after dinner had Asta's answer changed. Almost ashamed, she responded after lowering her eyes, "I don't remember."

Every day, the night ended with Maeve slamming her hand on the table, rattling the half-eaten plate in front of Asta and the untouched food in from of herself. "You disappoint me."

Asta slept in Maeve's bed—it was the only luxury that Maeve allowed her to take as princess of their country—when she wasn't being punished. She dreamt and woke the following morning to forget what pervaded her mind after she closed her eyes the previous night. The cycle repeated itself in a stitched together pattern.

She no longer knew how long she had been staying in Maeve's hut.

{ ii }

Asta answered to Maeve's call by approaching her where she sat behind her hut preparing a powder in a mortar. The squat woman gestured her to sit and Asta tugged the quiver slung off her shoulder, setting it down first before she sat cross-legged with her bow lying across her knees. She had stripped down to a thin garment after she ruined her silk clothes with animal blood. It also hadn't been practical for hunting.

She was fascinated by the shiny stones sitting among the unsavory items displayed before Maeve. Animal bones and dried flowers, broken seashells, and an assortment of dead bugs in a jar. She tried to keep her face neutral as she asked, "Are you making a charm?"

"Do you believe in soulmates?" asked Maeve.

Asta was taken aback by the inquiry.

"Well...?"

"I was discouraged from doing so," said Asta.

"I'm not asking about what other people told you, I'm asking you. Do you?"

"Why the question?"

"Answer it," snapped Maeve.

Asta jolted. "No, I don't think I have."

"A romantic like you," said Maeve mockingly, as a wide grin spread across her lips. "You seem the type."

"I've just never considered it," replied Asta. "I suppose it is a nice thought, though, to know that there is someone out there meant just for you. But what if it is a real concept in this world and you simply never cross paths? Wouldn't that be sad? To know they exist, to feel the very life of them in your bones, but know that you can't be with them. It would be too sad. Isn't a world where you choose to love a person yourself better?"

"Do you ever feel that way?" asked Maeve absently, as if she were simply using conversation to fill their immediate surroundings with a combination of noises.

"How?"

She ground hard into the mortar with the knobby pestle. "That there is someone out there meant for you despite all hardship, that when god created you, he created them just for you, and that when you were born into this world destiny rejoiced for she bound you together to love each other more than either one of you could love another?" She caught Asta's eyes, a new emotion brewing in the dark orbs absorbing Asta's attention. "Do you feel him in your bones?"

Asta shifted uncomfortably. The invasive question hung between them, sinking slowly into her chest. "What?"

"He feels you in his."

Her throat dried. She pressed her lips into a thin line, swallowing thickly. "What are you saying?"

"I was making an observation," said Maeve. "There's an old legend passed down from generation to generation of völva about destiny. Our order began, if you're familiar, as a religion and we believed in the oral tradition that spread our sacred stories. In that time, the völva believed in soulmates. Every one person shared their souls with their destined partner and they were bound by a sacred bond way beyond the ties of marriage. It was cosmically impossible to understand the bond, but tradition sold it as something to be desired because it represented a sense of completion in human nature—an idealized form of companionship.

"This belief began with the story of the Sun God, the almighty creator, and of the Moon Goddess, his soulmate. The tale claims that he fashioned the goddess from his ever-brightening light and tasked her to observe and guide his creations at night. Together they ruled the realm in harmony.

"Every year, as the Moon grew more and more beautiful, the Sun became drunk with power. Despite the powerful ties of fate binding them together, Destiny viewed his negligence as an attack against her and cursed the Sun, so that when he returned to his senses, he would realize the Moon would never be his. Destiny called it a lesson and proclaimed that if willing, the Sun could take the Moon if he cleared all of her tasks, that if he truly wished to be with his one and only, the one he fashioned from the very power he treasured above all, then he would succeed no matter the difficulty of her obstacles.

"However, the Sun God never took notice, too immersed in the creation of the perfect world that he bound himself to another to give birth to the universe. The day the Moon Goddess died giving birth to magic was the day the Sun God realized his foolishness. And so, he cursed the goddess into an endless cycle of rebirth. Every time she returns to our land, he descends in human flesh and chases her, but each time he has failed. Destiny gave him the goddess from the instant of his birth, but he chose ambition, and now she interferes with his attempts to find the goddess once more.

"Destiny shields the goddess because she knows that if she is ever found, the Sun God would devour her."

"Devour?" questioned Asta. "That's frightening."

"Indeed, the Sun understood that to be the only way to keep the Moon, but so long as he believed that, Destiny would inevitably interfere."

Asta felt a strange sort of sadness about the legend. It was a little bitter tasting, she supposed.

"The soulmate ideal evolved from there," continued Maeve, working diligently. "That story was the first instance in which the phrase destined soul was used to describe a person whom you are meant to be with. Whether it is in the romantic, familial, or platonic sense, we don't know as such the concept of it is questioned. There is no way of telling whether it is real or not and without any evidence to support it, it can never become factual. Even so, it is an idea that many find attractive—romantic, really."

"I can understand the appeal," said Asta.

"Let us consider this," Maeve began, "You are married to Prince Kouen of the Kou Empire. He is not your soulmate, you know this, you've grown in an environment where love is an option, but you are attracted to love—you want love, but the best you can hope for is comfort. You will be comfortable with one another and you will love each other, not romantically, but a sort of comfortable love. You chose each other, this is as far as your choice goes.

"Oh, but wait, what if your union to each other is the obstacle your respective soulmates must overcome to have you. A new man appears and you feel a magnetic pull to him that you cannot put into words. He is yours from the moment you lock eyes and you are his, but your hands are bound to Prince Kouen. He is your obstacle to overcome.

"But you have children and rule an empire. Leaving would be a stain on your country, your honor, and would bring about untold consequences to your children. What are you to do? If you meet your Sun?"

"I'm comfortable in my marriage to Kouen," Asta responded. "He makes me happy. He makes me feel good about myself. I want to be a better person that can take care of my people and I think I can do it with him by my side."

"Imagine that feeling about a thousand times stronger and understand that you feel that for another man."

"That's ridiculous. I don't want to think of any other men." She felt guilty enough by Johan's passing though, by the idea that she might still have lingering feelings for the dead commander even after coming so far with Kouen. "I want to stay by Kouen's side. I want to fall in love with him and if possible, I want him to love me."

Maeve smiled. "Fall in love with him."

Asta nodded, but she couldn't shake the feeling that Maeve was welcoming her to fail as she returned to the hut. She pushed the thought out of her mind, she was imagining things in her current state, and she continued her repetitive day-to-day schedule.

{ iii }

Asta built a fire outside to roast the pheasants she caught on her hunt that morning. Her feet were aching, bloody, and caked in mud. Her body felt heavy and foreign, as if she was borrowing it for a spell.

She had grown accustomed to her terrible cooking, but it made her nauseous to eat it. The difference between before and now was that she stopped regurgitating it and could survive off it. She ate more vegetables than meat and they supplied the necessary nutrients to get her through the day.

Asta almost burned the pheasants because her mind was distracted by the conversation she had with Maeve. She wondered if there ever was a time that she believed in soulmates, but struggled to find an instance in which she had. She considered her time with Johan, but while she loved him to the point of abandoning her country, it never crossed her mind to think of or refer to him as her soulmate. He was her first serious love. Their feelings were mutual and she felt confident about that. He loved her. He definitely did. No matter what anyone else said. Johan loved her as he claimed time and again. She was his only one.

But...if she had to say that he was, she wouldn't. She didn't believe it. Maybe she was stupid as well as naive that she had fallen in love with Johan as hard as she did because he was the first person that was willing to take the risk of reciprocating.

Although, she had made her feelings clear to Sigge when they were younger, he apologized on his hands and knees because the only love he could have for her was the platonic sort—the love of a soldier to his regent, respectful and loyal, but not romantic.

Nero only had eyes for her beautiful Aghi and Alaric saw her as a child. She reminded him of his daughter when they'd met.

She didn't get to have relationships with any of the princes in the cluster after the Byzen Festival. It wasn't as if she was looking at Melik, Baron, or Ilya that way. They were brotherly towards her during that time and she couldn't see them as anything else, well...she didn't think. Nikias had been the one closest to her age, but she wanted to protect him more than she considered him a good marriage candidate.

Asta's stomach grumbled and she snapped out of her pervasive thoughts. She noticed Maeve observing her with a frown and she smiled at her before looking down to her food. The burnt bird filled her nostrils and her gag reflex responded faster than she could put distance between them.

Maeve taught her how to make tea out of ginger root. The old woman with her wiry hair put her hand on Asta's stomach. "You have to take care to remove the poison."

She grimaced, affronted by the insult to her cooking, but it was fleeting, even she wouldn't wish any of her dishes on her worst enemies. She drank the ginger root tea hot until the terrible cramping subsided.

Maeve tucked her into the narrow bed and brushed aside the hair from her face. She whispered good night and blew out the single burning candle on her tiny table on her way outside. Asta wondered where she went, but whenever she asked, Maeve would change the subject.

The darkness spread from behind her eyes and swallowed her into a freezing dream. Asta rose from the watery ground as soon as the scent of rotting flesh reached her senses and she almost screamed when she took in her surroundings. A sea of blood and severed limbs. She walked backward into Maeve and her body broke apart into thousands of golden rukh.

She woke up startled and sick. Maeve was ready with a bucket. The candle was lit and it filled the room with light.

Asta struggled to steady her wild breathing between rinsing her mouth with water and chewing on mint leaves. She felt something wet and sticky between her legs and kicked the covers off, tugging up her dirty shift to find a blood on her inner thigh.

"What did you see?" asked Maeve, forcibly turning her face in her direction.

She trembled. Scared, but eager to clean up. She tried to push Maeve's hand from her face, but the older woman's grip tightened. She halted.

Maeve repeated her question.

"Severed limbs on a shallow stretch of blood," she answered.

"Think about what these things could signify."

"What the blood river could mean? Nothing good, that's obvious."

"Is that what you felt?"

"How could it be good?"

"Answer the question."

"Yes! I felt horrible!" she snapped. "It was bad and I'm scared of it."

She blinked and saw her father standing beside Maeve. Her heart sank as he opened his mouth at the same time as Maeve and both simultaneously said, "But why were you scared?"

Her entire body went soft as she lost consciousness. The airy feeling that carried her forward halted suddenly and she felt the stinging cold claws of the nightmare throwing her back into the blood sea with all of the severed limbs. She tried to call out to Maeve for help, but she didn't have a voice to scream. She tried to reach her, but as she crawled towards her, she started to sink.

As she did, the blood sloshed all around her, sticking to her skin, grabbing hold of her like a thousand arms and cold fingers. The feeling lingered on her body several hours after waking, as if it were a permanent mark on her skin—a brand to serve as a reminder of the bloody dream.

She didn't have the courage to venture into the forest at night or to the well for water, not being able to see the bottom made her imagined river of blood running underneath the earth, polluting it with death.

Maeve asked her what she dreamt of every morning that Asta saw that nightmare and she started to describe it.

"Use all of your senses. Think about using them in your dream."

The texture of the blood clinging to her limbs, the sound of the bobbing limbs floating around her, and the lack of scent were things she brought back with her after telling Maeve about it.

"Why wouldn't those things have a scent?" asked Maeve.

Why? She wondered too.

There was no taste either.

When it came to describing Maeve in her dream, the old woman asked, "Why me? Why do I dissolve into rukh? How is that important?"

"I don't know," said Asta softly.

"You don't know?"

She repeated the words again and with a disappointed huff, Maeve left her side. Asta balled her hands into fists and lowered her eyes to the ground, asking herself the same questions Maeve made over and over again until they were the only thought on her mind.

Asta wasn't making stellar progress and it started getting harder for her to focus on all the little details of her nightmare that Maeve appeared to zero in on. They were important. They were not important. They made her feel this. Or they made her feel that.

What did they mean?

I don't know.

Asta couldn't make sense of it and started once more to consider that she was insane. This wasn't real. What happened in the dungeons of Corrin was happening again. She was imagining it all.

"You are doubting yourself again," said Maeve, observing her with the sharpness of a hawk.

Asta prepared to go on the hunt. Maeve wanted turkey as soon as Asta told her that she thought she heard some nearby and she wouldn't settle for squirrel meat, which was Asta's last resort and most common kill. Tracking took time and her skills rusted with neglect and she wasn't always fortunate to run into boars and pheasants every time she went to hunt. Squirrels were easy to find and after significant exposure to their movements, she could strike one down in one to two shots. She also wouldn't have to worry of losing an arrow with them.

Nevertheless, she was as much a fan of squirrel meat as Maeve was and those days weren't quite exciting.

"Huh?"

"The more you doubt, the more you struggle with your gift."

"How do you know?" asked Asta. "How are you certain that this is a gift?"

"What did I say to you when you first came here?" questioned Maeve, her rough voice softening with patience.

"You would help me with my gift. That you are a völva."

"What do völva do?"

"In my knowledge, they used to advise the royal family, but they died out, or so it was said."

"Yes." Maeve nodded. "Well done, you remember that much."

Asta remained pensive and shuffling the contents of her pack. There wasn't much in their but a waterskin and a small dagger; she wasted time.

"You are royalty and you are special, you require more than advise, you need guidance."

She stopped herself before accusing Maeve of not teaching her by remembering the first time she arrived. Maeve told her that she was there to learn. She mentioned teaching later, but it seemed important to Asta to notice that she said learn first. She was there to learn and now, Maeve said she needed guidance. Wasn't that all Maeve had been doing this far? Guiding her?

"You realize it now?" asked Maeve.

"How do you do that?" started Asta. "It feels like you're in my head sometimes."

"You, who were chosen by the rukh, are special," explained Maeve. "So deeply you are cherished by the world that the völur were given their gifts to keep you safe. If you are sad and conflicted, the rukh around you reflect it, and that information is transferred to the nearest völva so that we could do something, anything, to make it better. We protect you and guide you."

"Am I a magician like I was told?"

"Yes and no." This sounded familiar. "You are for all intents and purposes using magic. Clairvoyance Magic only. You can produce a Borg, the mark of a magician. You use magoi. You see and communicate with the rukh as any magician. However, you have the ability to learn beyond the means given to you. Clairvoyance Magic is your niche. It is your only specialty. You were born to be much more than a magician. You were chosen."

"Chosen by who?"

"He will reveal himself to you in time," said Maeve, "for you are destined to cross paths once more. Do not concern yourself with who or why. Be comfortable that you are."

"What am I to do with this gift?"

"If the world is ever in danger of disarray, you are their voice. You are here to protect not just your kingdom, but every other civilization in the world."

HASSAHAN MYSTIC | END