So, here marks the start of our short Godric + Cassia arc. It's a little weird, since this chapter is entirely in Human!Godric's POV. *gasp* Never seen that one before. But hopefully it's not boring, and gives you all a little more insight on these two lovely people!

JUST TO BE CLEAR: In the start of this chapter, Godric is around ten, eleven, twelve-ish. At the end, he's around seventeen, give or take. Back then they didn't really put much stock into actual years after making it through the first one. Illiteracy is rampant, especially among the common people. I'm thinking like, maybe around 2% actually know how to read. Basic math is probably more common, but only finger math. No actual symbols or anything more complicated than addition and subtraction. Maybe multiplication and division. Maybe. Possibly.

Okay rant over. You get the picture. Hopefully. If you read that. I know most of you didn't. JERKS. (Just kidding. I love you guys too.)

Disclaimer: Not mine. Especially not the one who may or may not be in character.

CHAPTER 4: ALL ALONG THE WATCHTOWER

He first met her when he was still human.

He remembers the crooked tower drawn in the grimoire—like a faded dream. It loomed over the forest by their village; every time you looked up, there it was. As children, they would challenge each other to approach the crumbling structure and leave offerings. It was a test of courage. A rite of passage. An ancient druidess lived there, it was said. Those brave enough from all over the neighboring villages would come and offer tribute for her to oversee ceremonies, cure their ills, and administer blessings of good fortune upon them. Men came to her in hopes that she would point them towards destinies filled with riches and worth… But it was said that she possessed a terrible wrath if angered.

There were several nights when a dreadful wailing reached the little village from the tower, and all the while the cawing of the gore crows that constantly circled the turret could be heard screeching over it all… He imagined he might have suffered nightmares filled with those screams when he was a child, huddled with all his brothers and sisters in their tiny home. As it was, he distinctly remembers being terrified when it was his turn to take the druid her offering. The fibers from the rope dug into his palm roughly as he dragged a protesting goat behind him—his family's best. A mysterious remedy for his tiny sister's rattling cough was left outside their doorstep the morning previous—unsolicited. They thought she would not last the night, but upon burning the mixture of herbs in their home, the girl made a miraculous recovery. His mother worried for inciting the druidess' ire if not provided with compensation for her generosity.

And so it fell upon him, the eldest son—in lieu of his departed father—to placate the witch.

He didn't know how he'd lost hold of the rope, as he was holding it so tightly. Something spooked the goat and it bolted, the tether ripping out of his hand so quick it left a burn. Desperate, he chased after the senseless animal in earnest. He could not lose this goat. So intent was he on his quarry that he stumbled over unseen dips and roots in the unsteady trail—if one could call it a trail at all—scuffing his knees and even his chin somehow. The creature led him deeper and deeper into the wood, and by the time he reached the clearing it came to rest in, his person was littered with small cuts and abrasions, and he was decidedly out of patience. It wasn't the first time he'd been giving the run around by one of his family's animals, and it certainly wouldn't be the last, but he did not have time for this. He was supposed to be meeting with the other men of his village by noon time where he would be taught to use a sword—

He froze as he ducked around a limb of a fir tree to find he was not alone in the clearing. And not just any clearing…

A hooded figure stood poised near the edge of a small, tilled garden, filled with growing things he couldn't name, the crooked tower looming above them ominously. The goat he'd been chasing lay peacefully at the figure's feet as if it had been summoned there. As he lingered, joints locked up, unsure of what move would be safe to make, he watched in slow building horror as the figure reached a pale hand to gently pull back the hood. When it fell to her shoulders, Godric beheld the most beautiful woman he thought he'd ever seen. He'd heard terrible tales about deformities and grotesque features, but evidently the spreaders of those lies had never seen the druidess without her veil. She had the clearest, flawless skin, with bright eyes the color of the sea, and long, tumbling curls as red as blood. Shadows played under her defined cheekbones and her pink lips remained unsmiling as she stared back at him unreadably.

When she spoke, her voice was muted, and without inflection, and she turned from him with the soft-spoken command, "Come, Boy."

She did not stop to see if he followed. And though he was more than a little reluctant to trail after her into the twisted tower, he did not dare disobey. She led him wordlessly through a shadowed corridor, where he could swear he saw some of them move independently out of the corner of his eye. When she pushed open a heavy wooden door, he almost couldn't believe his eyes when he beheld what lay on the other side of it. Contrary to his expectations, it wasn't entrails, or strung up corpses on hooks, nor anything remotely suggested at by the exterior of the building. Flights of stairs spiraled off in every direction imaginable, twisting, turning, and sometimes even running upside-down along the ceiling.

"Were do they all lead to…?" he couldn't help but wonder aloud.

The witch watched him gaze around in awe for a few more moments before answering quietly with a curious tilt to her shapely lips. "No place. Everywhere. Here and there." She turned abruptly after a thoughtful pause and headed to a cluttered round table in the middle of the room—clearing it methodically of jars containing questionable contents, animal bones, dried herbs, and some items he could give no name to—and gesturing him towards a rickety stool at its edge. "Sit, Boy."

Hesitantly, he followed her instruction. He was used to taking orders from women, oddly enough, because of his mother. His father had not returned from a trip to a neighboring village five winters ago, leaving them to figure out what to do in the aftermath of his mysterious demise. His mother was a strong willed widow with seven children whom she expected to heed her every beck and call—and they did—or else… In contrast, this was a woman you obeyed even if she didn't bark at you, even without the looming threat of a beating. Correction—you didn't want her to have to bark at you because she was terrifying enough when she was quiet, and he didn't even want to imagine what she'd do if he angered her. For now she seemed…peaceful. He didn't want to do anything to upset that delicate equilibrium, because he knew how quickly the moods of women could change.

But the druidess merely nodded approvingly, turned her back on him, and stooped to remove a kettle of something from the low hearth using her thick, voluminous sleeve as a buffer between the hot iron and her skin. She poured the steaming, murky tea into a carved wooden cup before him and instructed, "Drink, Boy."

He wanted to decline—wary of accepting anything from this woman—but surely nothing that smelled this divine and aromatic could be poisonous? Weighing the consequences of refusal, and chancing a glance at the beautiful woman's expectant face, he wordlessly blew on the steaming concoction before once again following instructions. It tasted every bit as wonderful as how it smelled, he remembered, and the expression on his face made the woman smile. She turned again to quickly fetch a clean rag and a bowl of something like a salve, and he didn't flinch away when she began to dab at his many cuts and scrapes, smiling serenely at him all the while. It was surreal.

"You are a good boy," she said when she finally spoke, gently taking up his raw, rope-burnt hand. "A good son. You listen well to your poor mother, yes?"

"Y-yes, my lady," he managed to stammer out bravely, still unsure of what to call her.

"Cassia," she said quietly, as if reading his mind, cupping his dirtied hand in her palm, and covering the burnt part with her other. Her hands were very warm when he heard her whisper some complicated sounding words he couldn't make out, and suddenly his hand was very warm too. He pulled it back quickly, as the feeling was shocking, and was stunned to see his hand completely free of defects—as if nothing had happened to it at all. Eyes wide, they searched the woman's face for an explanation, but she merely smiled. "A good boy needs good hands…"

"Magic…?" he asked faintly, a fluttering feeling of excitement building in his chest.

She nodded without looking at him, turned away to rummage through a wall of drawers that extended far beyond either of their heads. He didn't know what all of them contained, but she removed several dried herbs and gathered them in her sleeve before placing the hearty sum in a drawstring bag, and pressing it into his hands insistently. "For the little one." She pointed to the goblet of tea she'd given him with a delicately slim finger, and instructed, "Do not burn them next time."

His eyes widened, but he did not question how she knew. Still he protested, "W-we have no more to give—"

"You will come again, Boy." She patted his cheek softly, much to his bewilderment, and coaxed him back to his feet. She guided him silently but adamantly out then, one hand resting softly on his shoulder, the other gently pushing on his back. When she led him through the door, she smiled and pushed his mop of hair out of his eyes as if to better behold them, then she smiled at him wider. Afterwards, she mussed his hair as his father always used to do, said, "Come back soon," and shut the door in his face.

It was the strangest encounter he'd ever had.

His sister's condition improved vastly in a mere matter of days. A week later, she was running through the streets again, laughing and playing with the other children as if she'd never been sick at all. His mother worried again about compensation, and worried even more when he finally told her of what had occurred up at the tower. Her typically ruddy complexion went pallid as a corpse, and she warned him of the consequences of defying a witch. He must return, as he'd been bidden, or surely the rest of them would suffer some terrible catastrophe. The sorceress might even bring her wrath down upon the entire village.

And so it was that he reluctantly returned…

The next time he approached the tower, she was there again, standing as if she'd been expecting him. He was quickly tugged inside with no little amount of enthusiasm from the woman and steered up one of the staircases into a vast, cylindrical chamber lined with rows upon rows of books. Those that did not sit upon shelves were stacked up on tables, and sat in spiraling towers upon the floor, tucked away in nooks in the walls… He'd never seen so many books and scrolls in his life, nor did he have any idea what one would do with all of them. And when she set him down at a desk and cracked one open in front of him, looking at him expectantly, anticipating…something, he merely stared back at her wide-eyed as if she'd just gifted him with a splinter and a bit of lint, then asked him to go fight sea monsters with them naked.

The characters and runes inscribed in the pages could have been squished insects for all he knew of them.

The witch's smile slowly faded as that realization sunk in. Her eyes flashed fiercely for a moment then and he briefly feared that she'd become angry with him. But then she patted down his hair and declared resolutely, "You will learn."

"I will…?" he wondered doubtfully.

"I will teach you, Boy." She said so with such conviction, but he could do nothing but stare at her in utter disbelief.

Finally, he asked, "Why?"

She never answered his question.

The seasons to follow passed swiftly and his days were filled with new and enticingly strange things. Just as she had promised, he quickly learned to read her peculiar druidic texts, and at least three other scripts she kept in her archive besides. His mother was shocked when she caught him excitedly showing his siblings the strange written language, tracing the characters in the sand. So too did others notice the oddities he often brought back from the tower. They began to send requests with him, and the druidess was happy to oblige, he noted.

He thought she seemed lonely, bored maybe, and even a little sad at times. But she always smiled at him when he came to visit her. He was back and forth, most of the time—running things to the village, and toting their offerings of thanks back to her with a sheepish sort of bemusement. He'd never volunteered for the position, but somehow he had become everyone's liaison to the druidess. A go-between, of sorts. He found it tiresome at times, but Cassia—as she insisted he call her, while she insisted on calling him Boy—genuinely seemed to enjoy helping people. And she fully expected him to help her do it.

It was little things at first. Just tiny errands she asked him to complete, helping her fetch ingredients for certain concoctions she would brew… Before he knew it, he found himself remembering the names of certain herbs, certain remedies, and later, even the stars. He started thinking of questions about things he'd never questioned before—why was the sky blue? Why did the sun set, and the moon change shape? Where do all the insects go in winter?—and if there was a question, Cassia usually had an answer for him. He started neglecting his training with the other warriors and even slacking on his chores every now and then to run off and ask questions. But everyone in the village valued his connection to the druidess too much to scold him for it.

More seasons passed and she was there in the form of a bird when he proudly obtained his warrior markings with the other boys his age. She seemed perplexed over them later when he told her he would not be coming to see her as often, due to new responsibilities that came with the marks. She was sullen for the rest of his visit, and barked orders at him stiffly as she worked to prepare some ritual or other. It stormed ferociously for a week straight after that.

If she was trying to send a message, he certainly received it loud and clear…

She was oddly distant and frustrated with him for some time afterwards. She was not one for many words and appeared to have a difficult time expressing herself properly. And then, one day, she sat him down and explained in as many words as he had ever heard from her at one time, "We all possess a…gate," she pressed both hands over her chest, miming doors opening and closing, "inside of us." She then proceeded to elaborate, "The wider the gate, the more magic you can let in." She gestured vaguely. "Most gates are shut up tight—nothing can get through, unless you force it open…" She quickly added, "But don't do that, you'll die."

Fascinated by the rare topic, he quickly asked, "Is that how you use magic? Like that time you fixed my hand?"

She nodded. "Healing is not my kind of magic. My magic deals in…" she trailed off with a slight shrug. "I still try though. I want to be good."

"You're amazing," he corrected her instantly, and she beamed at him for the first time in weeks.

Shaking her head, she told him, "You're a sweet boy. Your mother is very lucky."

He thought his mother just wanted him to marry and get out of her house, but he didn't tell Cassia that. His curiosity for the topic at hand was too great to let his mind linger on drearier topics. That same fluttery excitement that had filled him when he first saw Cassia perform a miracle filled him again when he asked her, "What does my 'gate' look like?"

Her sea-blue eyes took on a keener glint and fixed on him intently. She seemed to have been trying to find a way to get to this part of the conversation, but appeared puzzled on how to explain. Finally she murmured, "There is a tiny crack in the doors—a spark. I sensed it about you the moment I first laid eyes upon you." Her voice was hushed as she told him, "You do not see the world as others do."

"I don't know what you mean…" he confessed reticently, admittedly perplexed.

She made a wide sweep with her hand towards the twisting staircases all around them. "Others may see them, but they do not question where they lead." She passed a hand in front of her face next, and for a moment, he thought he saw a hideous visage slip into place before flickering back to her naturally lovely appearance. "Others do not see me as I am—only the curse. But you, sweet Boy," she patted his cheek fondly, "you can see beyond that which others might find strange, or unusual… You see things as they truly are." She paused, letting her hand fall back to her lap, trailing off with a sigh, "It is a gift, yet sometimes it is…"

He reflected upon her words for several long moments, but picked up on one thing with a mounting concern. "You are cursed?" he asked her urgently.

She nodded solemnly, and at his beseeching eyes, she lowered hers in defeat. "Not all witches are virtuous… I try, and yet…" She pursed her lips as she tried to find the words, then began, "We fight those dark things that exist in this world, however…we fight each other as well. We are our greatest enemies." Then she whispered so quietly he almost didn't hear her, "Sister against sister…mother against daughter… We fight in an endless war."

He shook his head, uncomprehending. He had heard of a great army spreading across the lands, conquering those as they went, but surely no war would reach them here in this isolated place. And since he knew nothing of any wars in recent memory—his knowledge of history had many holes—he found he could offer no contribution. Instead, he asked about what most concerned him, "What curse ails you, Lady Cassia?"

She smiled sadly, a mere twitch of her lips. "My appearance repulses all but you, sweet Boy." She stared down at her lap self-deprecatingly. "Some even die of fright if they stare too long… I must wear my veil if I am among the people, always."

"But you are beautiful!" he protested immediately. That anyone could find this woman anything but beautiful was completely insulting.

"Perhaps I was once…" She grinned halfheartedly. "I have not heard someone say those words for many years now. It is nice to hear them once more."

"Is there not a way to remove this curse?" he speculated, his concern spilling over into his voice. "What vile manner of creature would inflict such a cruelty upon you?"

"That would be my mother…" She smiled at him again, mischief dancing in her eyes. "She is much involved in politics these days, I hear… To my knowledge, she is the only one who can lift the curse."

Mother against daughter… she had said. He thought he was beginning to understand. He shook his head, drawing the dismal conclusion, "She is envious of you. That is the reason she has done this."

"She is much more powerful than I…" Cassia tried to protest.

"But you are more beautiful, more kind and good than any other," he pointed out matter-of-factly. He believed this very strongly.

But Cassia merely sighed. "I was not always good, or kind," she explained softly. "I have done many terrible things… And so this shall be my punishment—my repentance. All will shrink away from my visage in terror, and none shall love me again." At his dismayed features she cupped his cheek with a sad smile. "Sweet Boy, I deserve to be cursed."

He shook his head in denial. "If I knew magic, I would find a way to free you, Lady Cassia."

"I have been teaching you magic all along, silly Boy," she chuckled softly at his nonplused face. "Did I not promise you that I would from the moment I set down a tome before you?"

He slowly thought it over and realized she was completely right. Not only had she taught him how to read, he had been learning other minor things of arcane nature from her in a near constant stream since he had met her. Not on a scale of what she did with his hand, but did she not answer all of his questions, no matter how strange they were? Did he not assist her with her rituals and brews? Did he not know the names of all the constellations in the sky?

"If you wish to become my apprentice, you may have to leave this place with me one day," she warned him delicately. "Your home, your family, your clan…you may never see any of them again. It is not a path, nor a decision one makes lightly. I was born to this life…" she smiled at him, "but you have a choice."

Godric liked his home. It was not always an easy life, but he loved his family, and he liked defending the village where they lived. He knew one day, he would find a wife and make a family of his own if he stayed. And it would not be a bad life. Certainly not easy, nor a grand adventure, but a simple, honest life. But looking at the beautiful Cassia and the choice she offered him, he remembered something his father said to him before he died…that some opportunities are only offered once in a lifetime—and if he failed to seize them while he could, he would regret it for the rest of this life.

To her evident surprise, he had come to a decision fairly quickly. "I will be the one to end your curse, Lady Cassia. I swear it," he solemnly vowed.

She let out a dragging sigh—almost a scoff mixed with a skeptical laugh—and she shook her head at him. "Enough of this nonsense, silly Boy. There is only one way to break the curse, and that is a kiss from one with pure love in their heart—this is a cure for most curses, incidentally—however, the nature of my mother's curse makes this a virtual impossibilit—"

When he kissed her cheek, all the candles in the room went out simultaneously, leaving them both in the pressing, silent dark. In a pause where he forgot to breathe, he could have believed that he'd gone both blind and deaf. The stillness was oppressive. And then the whispering voice of Cassia rippled softly through the blackness.

"Oh, sweet Boy, what have you done?"

For the life of him, he could not understand why she drove him away so adamantly that night, extracting promises from him not to come back until she came for him. He knew somehow that he had freed her from the curse, and though she had stubbornly taken it as her penance for wrongs he knew not of, she did not seem strictly angry with him for ridding her of it. No, instead of being overjoyed at her new freedom, Cassia was overcome with a terrible fear—he could see that written plainly on her face. But before she sent him away, she placed a kiss upon his brow.

"No matter what happens, we will see each other again. I will find you," she promised, her aqua eyes wild. She was beginning to scare him as her fingers dug into his shoulders in her distress. "Until then, do not breathe my name. We have never met. I do not exist. Do you understand?"

He nodded hesitantly, and opened his mouth to speak, but the door was closed before he could breathe a single word of farewell. When he finally arrived back home after trudging and tripping solemnly through the woods without Cassia's light spirit to guide him, his mother flung the door open.

"Where have you been?!" she cried.

He frowned at her. Surely she should know. Still, he told her dutifully, "I was visiting at the tower—"

He broke off at the look his mother gave him, one of mixed puzzlement and outrage. A couple of his siblings peeped at him around the riled woman's skirts curiously. His smallest sister yawned sleepily. They all looked as baffled as their mother. And then he remembered Cassia's words.

We have never met.

I do not exist.

Do you understand?

And so he did…

"I apologize, Mother…" he tried to appear guilty. "I was…wandering, and I lost track of time."

"Gods preserve us," she exclaimed with exasperation. "You are just like your father—creatures of the night—both of you! Do you have any idea how worried I was? Get in!" She pulled on his tunic, dragging him indoors roughly. "Inside! Now! Get to bed, all of you! I don't want to hear a word of complaint out of any of you in the morning!"

That night, he tried to process and make sense of everything, but it was hopeless. The next day was worse. Everything was so surreal. The goat that had run from him and started all this business to begin with was somehow back in their barn, as if none of it had ever happened. He entertained the notion that the last five summers or so had been a dream for a few moments, but he merely had to glance up at the outline of the twisted tower that still loomed over the wood outside the village to disprove that. However, no one else could see it—which did not give credence to his own sanity.

He often feared that he'd lost his mind. And he respected Cassia's edict, so he did not dare seek her out to ease his mind. But he still knew how to brew the tea for the cough his smallest sister contracted every winter. He still knew the names of the constellations, and he knew why the moon changed shapes. He held onto these things, and continued to write symbols in the sand so that he did not fall out of practice. It was the only thing that told him it had all been real. That it hadn't been a dream.

That she hadn't been a dream.

That she would keep her promise.

But then the Romans came, and none of that mattered anymore.

He no longer had time for promises. They were slaughtering their warriors like livestock, and herding off the rest of them like prisoners. His family was being dragged away in irons. His smallest sister was dead—ridden down for trying to run. Only he had been successful at that; he had always been the fastest of all his comrades. And he ran straight for the tower. He knew the path like the back of his hand. Cassia could help. He knew she could. She had made it storm for weeks, she had made an entire village forget her existence—she could make the soldiers leave too.

But when he arrived at the ever-so-familiar clearing…everything was gone. In place of the small garden was cracked, dead earth, piled upon with the stones of a long forgotten ruin that may or may not have once been a watchtower at one point in time. Nothing remained. He fell to his knees, lost in belated grief he didn't even know if he should feel. Everything was lost. All of it. Or maybe there was never anything there to begin with…

When they came for him, he did not resist.

I shouldn't say it.

I really, really shouldn't... Nope, can't resist—

STILL A BETTER LOVE STORY THAN TWILIGHT

*tee-hee* Not.

On another note, somebody should ask me about druids. They're pretty interesting!