In which Sofia knows too much, and the fairytale was prophecy.
Violence TW
"Dad sure wasn't joking when he said the day would be busy," Sofia puffs, sliding her bedroom door open to let herself and Clover in.
The bunny hops to his round pillow and promptly flops facedown on it. "Yeah, no kidding," he groans, words into the thick stuffing. "Man, I'm beat."
The day is a blur of checklists, servants' trotting legs, and the metallic clack of Baileywick's watch being snapped shut. While Sofia and the twins were helping with the decorations, their mom was busy taking care of the pile of last minute invitations. The King, Sofia has barely seen all day; as far as she knows, he set off to take care of the produce issue.
In between tasks, she lent an ear to the complaints: what a mess in the kitchens! they said, harvest and cooking all at once, it's a worse than the Morning Market down there! Everything's against the feast, innit? Sofia heard Violet tell Suzette at one point, not really quietly as usual. They should just decide for another day, really! But Suzette just shushed her.
Still, everyone still did their part, loyal to the orders given. The spirit of the Royal Castle of Enchancia has always been don't let anything deter you from good things. Dad and his staff rose up to the challenge, Sofia guesses.
The castle has been made beautiful, even more than usual: decorated with lovely garlands of wheat and acorns, poppies and grapevine. The staff has hung up the richly-coloured tapestries, and arranged thousands of orange-red candles that give off a sweet nutty smell. The rest of the decorations consists in a sizeable amount of stars, half-moons and apples carved from natural or bleached wood, that Sofia personally fished out of the attic. And best of all, the smells wafting their way from the kitchens are no less hearty and delicious than those for much carefully planned events.
Sofia lets herself fall on the bed with a huff, mirroring her bunny. Clover chuckles at her.
"How's your leg, kid?" he asks. "Still holding up with all the running from today?"
She waves a hand. "It's fine, just sore, you know?" She rolls off the bed to try out a couple of the soothing stretches Mr. Popov showed in class, to see if it helps with her pulled muscles. "It's always worse the next day. I'm more worried about limping all over the dance floor."
"Well," Clover glances around for something to distract her with, and hops on the bed to gesture at the lovely gown laid out for her. It's a heavier fabric than her usual attire, in the earthy colours she isn't much used to wearing, complementing the season. "Ohh, at least you're gonna limp with style, am I right?"
Sofia half-grins. "You're always right."
"Yeah! And if anyone gives you sh―I mean, a hard time about it, you can just say you're inventing a new dance!" And he pivots on the bed, falling down and giving her two thumbsup.
"Perfect!" Sofia claps her hands, chuckling. "But it's not that... I don't really care about that anymore."
And she falls into her thoughts again, sobering up. Clover has to prop his elbows on her undamaged thigh and prompt her gently a couple of times.
"I just... I don't want Dad to worry, you know?" she finally manages, rushing her words. "It's like he thinks I'm going to have an accident or be in trouble every time I step out of the castle."
"Well, you can be a wee bit reckless, kid," the bunny says evenly. Sofia sighs. "And he doesn't even know half of the adventures you've had."
Sofia's stomach twists in discomfort at his words. "But I… it's not like I like all this trouble and keeping things hidden," she says defensively, wringing her short fingers. "But what if he wants me to quit the team? What if he doesn't trust me anymore? What if someone else gets the blame for my mistakes?"
"Yeah, the man's a tad over-apprehensive at times," Clover concedes, tilting his head in agreement and patting her leg to calm her down. "But he knows you love derby, he wouldn't take away something you like so much. And from the way he sought out your advice, I'd say he trusts you a lot, right? It wouldn't change just because you got a few little secrets."
Sofia inhales deeply and breathes out. "I really hope you're right again," she sighs, the whirl of worry in her stomach easing a bit nevertheless. "Speaking of little secrets... there is just something on his mind these days, I can smell it. But of course he's not gonna tell me."
"Maybe crankbird gives him the creeps," Clover snorts. "Turns out he's right, though. Nobody knows exactly what, but word in the forest is that something really weird is going on."
"Tonight?" Sofia asks, and the worry flares up again. The rabbit nods. "... there really is something against this feast! Maybe I should go find Mr. Cedric, and ask him to look into it before the guests start to arrive..."
An odd expression crosses Clover's face, a sort of alarmed hesitation. "I'm... not so sure it's a good time―" he starts, but before he can continue, a golden glow to their left catches their attention.
"Oh," Sofia says, "Mr. Cedric's crystal ball is doing the thing again."
"Are you ever gonna give that back or...?" Clover asks, as he and the Princess reach the puppet cart to investigate. Sofia picks the ball up, and like last time, the intermittent glow becomes permanent at her touch. She leans in, almost touching it with the tip of her nose, squinting to see if she can espy something in it.
"Hello?" says a female voice from inside the sphere, and girl and rabbit both let out a high-pitched yelp. "Is it Princess Sofia? You are too close to the glass, step back a little bit so I can see you, dear."
"What the...?" Clover wheezes, peering from behind Sofia's wide skirt.
Sofia doesn't know how she hasn't dropped the ball from the startle. Maybe her dazzleball training. She breathes out and lays it down on the floor, and as soon as she sits at a step distance from it, she can also put its golden contents into focus. The narrow green eyes of the sorceress peer back at her.
"Ms. Winifred?!" Sofia says, dumbfounded. "How...?"
"I have a twin sphere here at the Meadows, dear," she explains. "So this is why Cedric wasn't picking up..."
She rubs her chin pensively for a moment, while Sofia and Clover exchange a glance. When Ms. Winifred speaks again, they both jolt a little.
"Would you mind lending me a hand, dear Princess?" the sorceress asks sweetly. "I'd use the portrait, but it seems we have some sort of glitch."
"Oh, sure," Sofia says good-naturedly. If she were to be honest, she didn't grasp much of what the sorceress just told her. "What can I do for you, Ms. Winifred?"
"You see, these crystal balls are very good for finding things, but their reach is quite limited," Ms. Winifred explains. "If you check through the ball you have with you, I'll be able to see what you see. Please, ask it to show you your own location, as check if the calibration is good."
Sofia blinks, a bit lost again, but Clover shrugs noncommittally and gestures at her to go for it. "Crystal ball," she says, "please show me... uh, Princess Sofia?"
At her words, the sphere fills with dense custard-tinted smoke. It twirls and twirls, and then clears, revealing the shape of a little girl and a bunny, sitting on the floor of her room, in shades of yellow like a scenery painted with sunlight. She raises an arm and waves it, and the small figure in the sphere does the same at the same time.
"Is the... calibration thing right, Ms. Winifred?"
"It seems in good order, yes." The sorceress's voice still comes loud and clear although her image isn't visible. "Would you mind doing some more testing for me, dear?"
"That's some nosy lady," Clover mutters, scratching his ear.
Sofia splays her fingers a little. Ms. Winifred has surely taken care of the kingdom alongside Mr. Goodwyn back when he was in charge, she reasons. There's nothing wrong if she checks around the castle that was her home for so many years, right?
Sofia asks the sphere to show her family. Her mother is with Dad, patting his shoulder in that comforting way of hers, as he looks kind of cross about something. Amber, the completed checklists Dad entrusted to her still on her vanity, is choosing her gown for tonight; James, who volunteered as extra errand boy for the day and spent it darting all over the castle on his wheelie shoes, is napping on a couch with Rex on his chest.
"Thank you, dear," Ms. Winifred says after a while, with the same pensive hum Mr. Cedric does sometimes. "But may I ask why do you have the ball?"
"Oh, Mr. Cedric just forgot it the other day," Sofia evades out of habit. "We are all busy this week."
"Of course, of course, the Equinox and all," Ms. Winifred muses, and Sofia can hear a vague edge of secrecy in her voice, carefully hidden.
Maybe it's just nostalgia, she thinks. Sofia wonders if she misses royal life sometimes, all the celebrations and the people's smiling faces, the light and magic of a decked ballroom. Maybe Sofia could ask Dad to invite her and Mr. Goodwyn sometimes, if they feel like traveling.
"But tell me," the sorceress continues, "has something out of the ordinary happened recently? Some odd accident, perchance?"
"Yeah, the accident's named birdbrain," Clover snorts, but of course Ms. Winifred can't hear him.
Sofia hesitates. She can tell the sorceress wants to know of her son, but being vague about it for reasons she cannot fathom; Sofia has therefore no idea how vague she must be in return. Mr. Cedric was so strongly against telling his father about Wormwood… and she has the feeling he wouldn't want either of his parents to butt in on the matter. But maybe Ms. Winifred could understand, she muses. Mothers are always the ones to understand better, after all.
"Well, you know, the usual bumps and scratches, Ms. Winifred," she settles. "Nothing to worry about."
"Well. Aren't you the reckless lot," the sorceress says, her voice low. For a moment, but it might be the light of the crystal ball, a strange cold glare clouds her kind face. Then, her eyebrows pull up in affected anguish. "Princess Sofia, as you certainly know, mothers are prone to worry. Would you mind asking the sphere to show me my dear boy?"
Under direct request, Sofia has to comply. It would come off as suspicious if she were to refuse at this point. She heaves a sigh, and asks the crystal ball to find Mr. Cedric for her.
It shows only a vague image, two figures walking through what looks like the gardens. The fog is very dense, blotting out most of the image... which is a relief, Sofia supposes. She doesn't know what they're doing so far out in the gardens, since she knows they were busy with some potion Dad asked for... but the place looks kind of familiar.
"Uh-oh," Clover mutters behind her.
The two figures arrive at a crooked gate, and the image wavers and dissolves. A chill runs down Sofia's back.
"I'm sorry, it just cut off... they―I mean he must have gone out of reach," Sofia says, trying to hide the tremble in her voice.
"Doesn't matter," the woman says, sounding pleased and oddly excited. "I've seen what I needed. Thank you, dear. Now, I must leave you."
And, just like that, she ends the communication. Sofia and Clover are left blinking at the empty, clear glass.
"Now we know where the magic man gets them bad manners from," Clover comments. "Hey Sofia, call her back, let's see what this is all about."
Sofia bites her lips in hesitation. "But Clover, then we would be the nosy ones."
"Hey, she was nosy first," the bunny says, and that settles it.
She takes a deep breath, and trying not to think about it too much, she asks the sphere to call Ms. Winifred's sphere. She and Clover lean in close, and the magic goes through. Yet, they can't see anything but an indistinct blur, and the only voices they hear are muffled.
"Look, look, it's that tacky ring," Clover whispers excitedly, pointing at a vaguely shaped line in the blur. "She's keeping a hand on the thing, that's why we can't see. This is all very suspicious, lemme tell ya."
Sofia shushes him with her forefinger on her lips, and leans in to listen. She recognises the muffled voice as Mr. Goodwyn's. He sounds frantic, Sofia can imagine his fluffy eyebrows arched and his moustache all in a flutter, gesturing wildly.
"... you gave your word, Winifred!" Mr. Goodwyn is saying. Sofia leans in closer, her ear all but glued to the cool smooth surface. "Was I a fool to trust it?"
"He isn't a child anymore," says a woman's voice. The tone is harsh, like the one Constable Miles puts on when he orders the guards around. Sofia can barely reconcile it with the kind face of Ms. Winifred. "It is time you stop fighting what is meant to be, Goodwyn."
"But―you know how he is, it could be a disaster," Mr. Goodwyn almost yells. "He could mess it up, anything could go wrong―he could very well die!"
That moment, the hand lifts, and the elderly sorcerer and sorceress are revealed to Sofia's wide eyes. Mr. Goodwyn is exactly in the state Sofia imagined him to be.
Ms. Winifred, instead, has on an expression Sofia would have never imagined her face could make. Cold and stern, more similar to the scowling portrait in Mr. Cedric's workshop than anything Sofia has seen. The sorceress looks her straight in the eye through the warmish glass, and the line cuts.
Sofia balks a little. "Has she seen me?" she squeaks, her heart beating fearful for some odd reason.
"You were practically on the thing, so I think not," Clover says. "But what do I know? I'm a rabbit, and that sounds like stuff for people who like to look for trouble."
"I'm going to find Mr. Cedric," Sofia says. "He must be the one Mr. Goodwyn was talking about."
"There we go. Sof, Sof, hang on," Clover says, while she rushes to her feet and makes a beeline for the door. "I might be seeing things… but that looked like the gate to Amber's Wishing Well."
Sofia freezes. If Clover also got the same impression... it means she saw right the first time.
The nightmarish afternoon washes over her, all at once. The chase, the creepy soft voice of the Well, the panic on Amber's face when her last wish failed to fix the problem. If the Well has the power of transforming people into animals...
"A―ha!" she realises, tapping a fist on her palm. "So that's how Wormwood did it!"
"That explains a lot." Clover sucks in air through his front teeth. "That Well is up to no good, and my radishes can testify."
"And Dad said that place is forbidden, but wouldn't tell me why."
She paces for a couple of steps, debating with herself. It doesn't take her much self-convincing to decide the circumstances are, once again, leading her to defiance.
"It means it must be dangerous, and what Mr. Goodwyn said only confirms it," she tells Clover. "Maybe Ms. Winifred wanted me to hear, and send me over to help! Right?"
But, to her surprise, Clover isn't with her on this one.
"This isn't the time to play detectives," he says. "You don't have to solve every problem people mention around you, kid. And this one may not be for you to solve, trust the prey critter here."
For a moment, it really makes her doubt her resolution. Clover is usually up for anything, even if it might get dangerous.
"But I can't just stay back, Clover," Sofia says, shaking her head, her hands tense into fists.
The two lonely figures in the dark gardens, and the fear in Mr. Goodwyn's voice echo in her mind―and she knows they won't leave her alone, unless she does something to fix it.
"If they are going to be in trouble, I must go and help them!"
Cedric marches forward. His wand is balanced on the flat of his palm, using a Compass spell to keep track of where he and Wormwood are going.
The air of the gardens, cold and damp and almost too heavy to breathe, leaves beads of moisture in their hair and clothes, and has managed to chill him all over in the span of minutes. In his free hand, he keeps a pinch of Wormwood's sleeve, as not to lose him in the foggy whiteout.
The deeper they wander into the back gardens, the denser the mist, until the white air presses on them like cottonwool, and even the sound of their steps grows stifled.
"After you brought me back yesterday, Wormy," he starts, and the raven jolts at the sudden sound of his voice. "Was it the last time you saw the Well?"
The raven just nods, his tense jaw twitching. The little yellow fog-light on the tip of the black wand, that Wormwood keeps at waist level to shed some light on their steps, wavers slightly.
Cedric presses on, "Was it already this bad?"
"It wasn't... I was able to find my way," Wormwood says thickly, clearing his throat. "I could still see my feet on the ground, at least."
He seems genuinely scared of what they are about to encounter. It's not like I'm keen to see that place again, either, Cedric tells himself. Especially not after the carriage ride with the King, all the buried ghosts that came back to haunt him. But I must.
Now that the dots are connecting, he sees all the signs he should have been faster to notice. A sudden, dense fog can appear in unusual places if the soil gets a magical charge. The more he observes the dark-coloured copy of the Family Wand Wormwood is brandishing, the more certain he grows there is no way the Well was already powerful enough to corrupt an object like the original Family Wand. Or generous enough to arm Wormwood without drawbacks, for the matter.
It must have kept the true Wand, and put the seal on the shadowy copy so that Cedric wouldn't touch it and realise it is different. For all he rakes his brain for answers, though, Cedric still cannot fathom why.
It's a well, he reasons. A magical object built to fulfil a specific purpose. Maybe there is no why, he finds himself thinking, in uncharacteristic hopefulness, and it's only malfunctioning.
The fog-light is trembling hard in Wormwood's hand now, rendering it all but useless. The raven keeps his lips pressed together, and says nothing each time Cedric glances up at him.
"Steady, will you?" Cedric tells him, tugging hard on the sleeve. Wormwood's frown tinges with an odd pitiful look, but he keeps silent.
By the time they reach the rusty gate, which appears in front of them as though it swam up into the fog, the raven looks greyish around the ears, and ready to throw up. The clearing's hedge is reduced to a dried out heap of twigs. Barely visible in the distance, the shock of green Cedric has seen from the flying coach sticks out like an eyesore.
"I don't think we can do this," Wormwood blurts out, stopping in his tracks as soon as Cedric has laid his hand on the gate. "There must be some other way."
"Wormwood, if you're scared of an old well and some dry weeds, you can go back," Cedric says. The raven looks at him like he just backhanded him in the face. He tries again, "I mean, you don't have to stay: I should deal with it, as Royal Sorcerer and as my father's son. Then they'll all see if my role is too much for me."
Wormwood hesitates a moment, just a moment.
"I am at your side." His voice is low and anxious, thick with words unsaid.
"Alright then." Cedric has to avoid his eyes as he pushes the gate open, shying from the awful warmth in his middle, mixing with the fear settled there, drying his damp bones like a campfire. Needlessly, he announces, "Here we are. The Queensgrave."
He takes in the clearing, the huge green climber sprawling on the skeletal hedge, the scraggly well, the old marble bench. Roland has sat right there, and made the wish that brought tragedy upon his family. The place is forbidden, and he feels his steps on the ground tremble and creak, as if the very grass knew he isn't supposed to be there. I must, he repeats.
"I haven't been here in quite a while." He steps forward. Trying to keep his voice steady, he speaks up, "Hello again, Wishing Well. I hear my father's lock hasn't been very effective, lately."
"Greetings, little sorcerer," the Well answers. "I hear your resilience is being severely put to the test, lately."
After all those years, the strange sing-song voice is still just the same. Cedric's jaw tenses, the old itch back in his hands and neck. The Well talks differently than I remember, he thinks distantly.
Then, with unmistakeable glee, Well speaks again, "You have one wish remaining."
A beat passes. Behind him, Wormwood's tightly controlled breathing hitches. Keenly, Cedric becomes aware of the raven's eyes burning a hole in the back of his skull.
"Cedric," Wormwood gasps, "y-you have...?"
"Why yes, raven-child," the Well says, before Cedric can speak up. "We all have our little secrets, don't we? Must have been a whole decade, by now, hasn't it?"
"Indeed," Cedric grits out.
Shortly after the Queen's death, he had found himself in the Well's clearing.
To honour her wishes, an empty casket had been publicly lowered in the family sepulchral of House Winslow, on the cypress hill far across the lake.
The new Queen and the old King, both gone in one night, the people were murmuring. Has the Royal Family been cursed? The ceremony had an air of surprise to it, a sort of quiet, stunned disbelief. The silence was as heavy as a thousand stares, as tall ramparts of piled stones.
Cedric, obliged to attend, had somehow held it together. It was another oddly rainy day of summer, the black-draped carriages were following the sombre funeral coach, and Mother's long nails sank into his elbow, keeping him upright each time his knees threatened to give out.
He made it through the carriers remarking how light the Queen's casket was, and how heavy the King's. Through the slow, interminable ceremony, through the empty gaze of Roland's lightless eyes, and his voice that didn't crack as he delivered his speech.
The widower King stood tall next to his mother the Queen Regent, between the royal twins held tight by their wet nurses, draped in matching black shawls.
Then, bothered by having been jostled around for too long, Amber started to wail, and the word spread like a great wave, the little Princess grieves for her mother! She grieves for her grandfather! and at once, the crowd's restraint was lost. Neighbouring royals and nobles in full regalia, emissaries from every known land, entire villages worth of peasants, all weeping on the hill in countless, wretched laments. It brought Cedric back to the chorus of caws, out on the seastacks, the air as heavy as water in his lungs.
Later, a second ceremony―quiet and private, almost secretive―was held, in the thicket just behind the Well's clearing. Just the King, the Steward, and a few trusted aides were permitted to attend the her actual burial.
The very evening, still according to the Queen's uncustomary wishes, there would be a ball for the birth of the Royal Twins.
The air in the castle was intolerable, unbearably empty and at once ripe with fuss and hustle. Cedric snuck out, restless, and tried to watch the burial from the shadow of dripping firs. He didn't last long.
Eyes in a blur, hem of his funeral robe grazing the dewy grass, he turned away and wandered off in the gardens. When he dried his eyes, in a cruel twist of fate, he found himself at the rusty gate of the Well's clearing.
Give me your riches, and I'll grant you three wishes, the soft monotone voice had said, just as it did more than a decade prior, like a beacon of destiny shining in the night.
Behind him, in the castle alight with celebration and forced good spirits, he could picture the people toasting to the twins' long life and health, their wish-bound perfection. The hair on his nape stood on end, his body wracked with shivers. He braced on the stone edge, and watched the tears bounce off the cold golden slab, falling ten feet into the water below.
You've killed her, he told the Well, in a high croak. And they think it's all my fault.
The events of the previous night stood fresh in his mind, like a bright red gash, like words scratched in indelible ink. The guards had intervened, holding back the young King, but no one could hold back his words. They would ricochet in Cedric's head for days and days, louder at first, then quiet, so quiet they started to resemble his own voice, and they never really went away.
I merely grant wishes, the Well said. And tears are not riches.
Something snapped, and Cedric found himself rummaging his pockets for the last two coins of his allowance. His training and good sense strongly advised against this―but what good had ever come from being careful with it? Nothing, he thought bitterly, nothing at all.
I wish they'd just... see me, he stuttered, his spirit in shreds. See that―I've done all I could, that it wasn't my fault... I just want―
Your wish has been granted, the Well said, but nothing happened. You have two wishes remaining.
Nobody came running to apologize and tell him he did nothing wrong. Nobody let him crumble and build himself back up―he could stay in pieces for all they cared. Arm wrapped almost too tight over his aching middle, Cedric gritted his teeth and hurled the last coin into the Well's ready mouth, anger rising and crashing like a great wave over him.
I wish to find out where the Amulet of Avalor is! he shouted then, his heart charred with dark intent. And once I get my revenge, they'll see―they'll all see―
Before he could finish, the Well told him his wish had been granted, and that he had one wish remaining. Again, nothing happened.
Just my luck, he had muttered, bundling angrily in his robe to crawl back to the tower, the place everyone tells him he belongs to, as though saying it will somehow make it true.
"This thing still works, then," Cedric says, to snap himself out of the memories, glancing up at Wormwood. "I was led to believe... the magic had run out, after the Royals' wishes."
"I thought the same," Wormwood says. "But that day I chased Princess Sofia, I saw it in use, and I... ended up making the same mistake."
The Well's metallic smile, though it shouldn't, seems to widen.
"I am quite strong in this time, as Wormwood here has been so generous with his payments," it interjects. "And I see he has decided for the best, despite all his doubts. You shall be rewarded, Your Majesty."
"Is this how it played you? Taunted you with your age, and drew you in with the Crown?" Cedric asks, a deep unease settling in his stomach at the Well's words.
The raven's eyes are wide and downcast, lines of disgust deep around his mouth as he nods once, like it pained him to do so.
"I have been… a fool," he breathes. "I…"
"Nevermind now," Cedric interjects, holding up a hand. "It admitted the Family Wand is powering it, and now it's talking like it can think. We really must―"
Something slithers in the mist, near Cedric's feet. It brushes against his ankle and makes him jolt, tearing an alarmed yelp from his throat. It's a vine, he realises, looking to the green climber to his right and recognising the pointy oval shape of blackberry leaves. As he steps away, the small thorns catch unpleasantly in his sock.
Unbothered, the Well addresses the raven, "I am deeply grateful, as you've brought to me what I asked for," it says. "Now, if you were so kind as to open my lock, dear Wormwood, I will presently grant you the ability to use magic. Just as promised."
Cedric steps back, his limbs chilled with unease, a dull sound rushing to his ears even as he attempts to keep calm, and fight down the rekindled sense of betrayal. He's at my side, he thinks forcefully, staring down at the dozens of vines creeping on the ground towards him, like an army of thin green snakes. I have decided to come here. He tried to stop me. The Well asked him, but he told me the truth, and tried to stop me instead. He's at my side.
"You filthy liar―I haven't brought him here," Wormwood snarls at the Well, disgusted. The raven glances at him, his expression still hard and filled with such hatred―but when their eyes meet, Wormwood immediately falters, "I know how this looks, but please―"
"I believe you," Cedric cuts him off, but his voice comes out high and frightened all the same.
"Do not fret, little sorcerer," the Well says sweetly. The vines slide higher, curving and twisting in a tangle after his retreating feet. "It is marvellous timing, for you to be here right on this night! By the power of your bloodline, you will do perfectly."
The tangle snaps fast around his ankles, like a bear trap. He leaps away, crying out in pain when one of his feet is caught, and he's yanked flat on his stomach in the brittle grass. His dropped wand disappears under the vines that slither all around, as though they had spawned from the mist itself ―I'm surrounded, he realises, trying to twist his foot free, heart hammering in his throat.
Right then, a blast of static makes the vines break and retreat, hissing. A cutting spell, quick and efficient, from the same wand the Well has provided.
"Keep your filthy appendages off him," Wormwood growls at the main body of the climber, still barely visible. Then, to him, almost begging, "Quick, use your last wish, and get the real Family Wand back."
"Are you kidding?" Cedric gasps, still kicking the piece of vine off his leg. "This thing wouldn't accept my soul as payment for that. Don't you see how much power the Wand is yielding?"
"Look, I just want you to be out of here," Wormwood says earnestly, marching towards him with his free hand outstretched. "So, if you have a better idea, it's time to use it!"
Cedric's legs are laden with fear, so he crawls towards that reaching hand, reaching back. "But I must―"
A vine slaps between their outstretched hands like a whip. Wormwood is quick to blast it away with another cut, and Cedric realises it's a wind spell, so sharp and well-aimed it cuts like an axe through the tough fibres. So taken with the painful thorn of hope in his heart, Cedric doesn't even feel the draining of energy it entails.
"You dare oppose me, you ungrateful avian?" the Well roars, now completely removed from its usual monotone, snapped vines retreating.
"Yes," Wormwood snaps, the now familiar sarcastic sneer in his voice taken to its most aggressive, dry octave. He is an impressive sight, towering before him in his billowing cloak, conjuring wind to clear the fog away. "I will not let you harm him again."
The Well cackles, a sound as jarring and dissonant as a straining metal brake. "Do not blame the Wishing Well for your stupidity, raven-child. All I do is grant wishes."
The fog lifts, revealing the full extent of the bramble's main body. The stalks sprouting from the broken soil are thick as tree-trunks, engulfing the bare chestnut tree and the whole side of the hedge. The thing keeps coiled onto itself, like a great green octopus stranded on land.
Something that looks like a branch, composed by many tendrils wrapped around one another in a sharply pointed spiral, hisses in the air right above Cedric's left ear.
"Try a fire spell," he says in an undertone, dodging. "So I can get at least my normal wand back."
Wormwood looks at him, and he knows what he's thinking: fire spells require a great deal of energy, and by now they both know who provides it. With a nod, he gives Wormwood permission, and braces for the toll it will take.
Wormwood aims the spell at the base of the bramble, hoping to cut the battle short. The plant lifts the vines on the ground to shield itself, uncovering Cedric's dropped wand. As the branches used as shield shrivel up and fall to pieces, sizzling, Cedric darts forward and snatches the wand up in triumph.
"It worked!" Wormwood cries. "Let's burn the bloody weed to the ground."
Wands raised like scorpion tails, they start attacking from two sides. They have never fought together, but as they dart and lead the thing to tangle and knot, their steps have the confidence of rehearsed dance. He's on my side, Cedric tells himself again and again, clinging to the thought like a lifeline in the heat of battle, gritting his teeth against the loss of energy behind every shot the raven lands. He's not wasting a single one. He's on my side.
"Enough!" the Well bellows, in the tone of a peeved teacher. "I have grown tired of this little game. Let's end this."
A vine hisses fast towards Cedric's head, but he doesn't even need to dodge. Wormwood, out of nowhere, grabs it in his bare hand, steps on the length of it, and breaks it in a single, harsh snap.
"Hah! We can do this all day, you metallic meddler," Cedric crows from behind him.
Softly, the Well says, "That was a mistake."
The main body sways, uncoiling, and tendril after tendril wraps around the snapped one. They form a fist, a battering ram that moves through the air with the whistle of a fired cannonball. Seeing one step ahead, Cedric feels the blood drain from his face.
"Duck!" he yells at Wormwood, but the thing comes at him too fast. It socks the raven right in the stomach, and sends him flying to the other side of the clearing. When he lands heavily into the bare hedges, the ground shakes under Cedric's feet. "Wormy!"
Cedric barely has the time to take a step towards him, when the branch comes shooting after him instead.
He's fast, and this time he's ready: all the years he spent dodging chewed paper balls and his own misaimed spells are finally paying off. He flicks his wand in a diamond shape, and ducks behind the silver shield thus created. When the branch rams into it, the bones of his arms rattle with the force of the blow, but the shield withstands.
"Hah!" he sneers, jaw clenched in a tense grin, whole body quivering with the effort of holding the wand up, the spell in place. Pushed back by the mighty force, he feels his heels dig into the soil. "You thought I would be so easily―"
"Cedric―behind you!" Wormwood heaves, staggering forth with an arm around his ribs, pointing urgently. Cedric makes to turn around―
The sound reaches him first, a sort of wet crunch overlapping with Wormwood's voice―No, no, the raven cries, over and over―then the impact, in his upper back, like something sharp has just been thrown at him. The push is at once sudden and prolonged, stinging―he's shoved down on his knees, and his shield dissolves. Instead of crushing him, the branch falls lifeless to the ground.
He hears the raven let out a bloodcurdling scream, like he were being skinned alive―it's his name, Cedric perceives somehow, but garbled, barely intelligible. Wormwood looks like he's seen his worst nightmare, eyes trained on a point a little below Cedric's chin, his face so twisted in pain and horror.
What is it? Cedric tries to ask him, but his voice refuses to come out: the hit has knocked all the air from his lungs, and his heartbeat is too loud, deafening, each beat like a burning drum. For a moment, he feels nothing but a great confusion. He looks down.
Protruding a little left from his sternum, running his chest straight through, is a thorny green vine the size and reach of an arrow.
In the empty echo of his own breath, he stares down at it in utter astonishment. Blood glistens on the bright green fibres, bits of fabric caught in the small thorns. His stomach gives a sudden, mighty lurch, and he bends over to cough out blood-streaked acid.
The burning starts so low he barely notices, too distracted with the horrid taste in his mouth―it is a vise, clamping over his chest and shoulder so tight, his pulse heavy around the thing stabbing him, until it grows unbearable. He's down on all fours and he doesn't know how he got there, dry heaving and shuddering.
Then, the vine curves upward, like a fish-hook, and starts to pull. He hears his ribs creak, like rusty door hinges. Someone is screaming, in his own voice, and great waves of pain-induced nausea wash over him―through the blur in his eyes, he catches a glimpse of Wormwood's horror-stricken face, and a wall of green things rises around him, a thorny cocoon with no escape.
He is lifted, blinking in and out of consciousness―the beating of his heart growing rarefied, not a drum anymore, but a flutter, a whisper―and he feels all the emptiness of his weight in his twisting gut, in the hook buried in his heart.
Then, the vines fasten around him, the plant pulses and stifles, constricting, as though it wanted to rip his limbs off, the thorn in his chest growing redder, the chilling sound of suction filling every inch of him with terror.
In the haze of pain, he sinks into buried memories. His feet are not numb, but wet, then his ankles and knees and thighs, and he loses his breath when the inevitable tide gets to his chest. It feels like kicks, pricks and needles. Like being swallowed. The water rises, and his nails sink useless into the slimy rock all around him, saltwater still stinging through his screwed-shut eyelids.
Make it stop, he begs, almost a last wish. And all light leaves him.