You are not born alone (a witch story)

Hey all! Here's a fun little dramatic story about a world of witches and other supernatural creatures. I have a longer story coming to Patreon this weekend, all in one part! Enjoy :)

Based on this prompt:

https://writeroftheprompts.tumblr.com/post/635175572956495872/hi-i-was-wondering-if-you-have-any-prompts-about

• They are known as the most powerful witches in the      world. Everyone fears and respects them. Nobody would dare cross them.      They’ve seen what they can do to each other when they get into a fight.

--------------------------,

You are not born alone.

There’s significance in that fact—you were born intertwined and enmeshed, your blood and her blood one and the same. The first thing you remember is the shrill cry of your sister, the feel of her hair against your arm, her brilliant orange eyes staring straight into yours. You are connected in ways that no one can possibly understand.

It would mean more if she believed in its significance too.

“Witches need to be registered,” your boss growls to the seated officers, “or they need to be dead.”

You know that your colleagues don’t agree with him—half of them are centaurs and vampires and creatures of magic themselves—but it’s hard to argue when there’re photos of the city burning behind him.

The boss is still yelling as the presentation slides to the next photo, this one of a school cleaved in two from above. Then another photo of a street torn asunder, cars upside down like beetles, and glass glimmering in front of shattered store fronts. Finally, there’s a blurry capture of her, red hair fanning out behind her as she launches herself in front of the full moon.

Oh Lilian, you think, hands fisting on top of your thighs, what have you done now?

“I want this witch out of the city,” your boss snarls, slamming his hand so hard against the wall that the ceiling-mounted projector shakes, “tonight.”

You leave the meeting room with the other supernatural control officers, letting the hum of conversation wash over you. You’ve let this go on for too long. You thought that by moving away you could avoid meeting her again, but…

It’s no coincidence that she’s here in your city. She didn’t come here on a lark nor is she doing this for something as simple as enjoyment. She’s written your name in destruction and flames and she won’t stop until you answer.

You slip out of your work and stalk down the sidewalk home.

She’s made the first move.

You’d make the last.

-------.

No one at the office knows that you are Cress Walker. They think of you as Cress Palmer, your mother’s maiden name, and know you for the your dedication to the job. They know that you’re a witch, of course, no way to get around that part, but they don’t know about the vows you’ve taken or the rituals carved into your bones.

You are not ashamed of who you are. Everything gained is something you hold respect for and every power utilized is done so with caution. But witches are creatures of war and you don’t want them to know how big of a player you’ve been in that regard.

And, of course, they don’t know about Lilian.

Lilian is exactly like you and you are exactly like her. There are no absolutes in magic but this: your sister is your sister and your blood is your blood. The magic that comes when you call is just as powerful as hers though your intent is always cleaner. Kinder.

Less likely to set the world on fire.

“You idiot,” you mutter under your breath. You’re wearing dueling leathers for the first time in years. You’re tired of going to war with her. “Why do you always push?”

Lilian always pushes too far. When you were ten and your parents allowed you a puppy, she wanted a whole pack. When you were twelve and choosing your own grimoires, she wanted the biggest and most powerful one in the shop. When you were fifteen and pledging to obey the High Priestess, she wanted to be the High Priestess.

And now, like always, Lilian wants to be the best, the most powerful, the most famous. That’s why she’s here to challenge you for the title of Exalted, once and for all.

You love her, but you won’t cave to her. Whether it’s her ambition or your pride that has damned you sisters, you don’t know.

Either way, it ends tonight.

--------------------.

You find her in the middle of town, standing on top of where the ley lines intersect and, coincidentally, in the center of the biggest intersection in downtown. There’s already an explosion of destruction around her, the same overturned cars from the pictures your boss had shown and gouges in the street that keep the police from advancing any further. It’s the middle of the night but the fire Lilian brings lights up the whole area, throwing the faces of her victims into stark relief.

Of course her victims don’t know that they’re victims yet. No, they think that they’re holding the line and stopping her advance into the residential districts. They don’t know that the grin on her face isn’t madness—it’s confidence. Well-deserved confidence.

“Cress,” an officer says when you appear behind the police line. You recognize him as the centaur who works two desks down from you. “Command is up on 8th and Main. Get away from here.”

“Sorry, Dave,” you say. You look up at him and his eyes widen at the markings on your cheeks. Runes for focus and clarity. War runes. “I can’t do that.”

He stares. “You’re an analyst. You can’t seriously be thinking about facing her.”

You go to step around him and frown when he neatly blocks your way. “Let me pass. I’m the only one who can stop her.”

“No.” His hind foot stamps. “I don’t know what’s gotten into your head but you’re not—”

High-pitched cackling cuts him off, too close. He spins on his back legs, firearm already aimed at the source of the sound, right above you both.

Your sister hangs upside down and grins ghoulishly. “An analyst? Really?”

“Get everyone back to Command,” you tell Dave. Your magic is already a drum in your veins, beating faster and faster. You don’t take your eyes off Lilian. “You’ll just get in my way.”

Dave starts to say your name. “Cress—” Then he gets a good look at the way your eyes are melting from a nondescript brown into a fiery orange and he swears. “You’ve got to be kidding—"

You launch yourself into the air, fist first. Your sister squeals and spins back, sparks of her yellow magic exploding in front of your eyes. Your swing misses and she cackles again. “Little Cressy, always so quick to violence—”

You don’t want to hear it. She always does this, taunting you like you’re the one who threw the first punch when she’s the one who set the city on fire. You reach for the well of your magic and send the earth after her.

She hoots and hollers as spears and pillars lunge into the air after her. “You’ll have to do better than that! Oh, nearly got me! If Mom saw you swing like that, she’d—”

You grit your teeth and risk a glance back at the ground.  Dave, at least, is listening to you. The officers are falling back and are well behind the wall of earth you’ve made between them and this fight. You won’t let your battle pass that line. You won’t let another city fall to your battles again.

“Hand over the title, Cressy,” Lilian says. She’s not even pretending to be bothered by your attacks now. She’s laying in the air as comfortable as she’d be on a bed, looking down at you. “You know that’s all I want.”

The pendant around your neck burns. If it was as simple as that, you would have done it a long time ago. But, as usual, things with Lilian are never simple. She wants the title and the prestige, not the responsibilities.

“You’re not worthy,” you say evenly. You land on the top of one of your earthen pillars. Flying is not one of your strengths. “Look what you’ve done already. Destroyed people’s homes, their livelihoods, killed—”

“Just humans,” Lilian dismisses. Her red hair, so much like your own, writhes around her head. “You’ve always been fussy.”

You snarl. “We’re humans, Lilian.” You clench your fists. “Last chance. Get out of town or this ends tonight.”

“You’ve always been too serious,” Lilian says, eyelashes fluttering. She shrugs, shoulders loose. “If I were you I’d—” her orange eyes flash “-lighten up.”

Your body goes weightless, feet leaving your earthen pillar and stomach flipping at the sensation. You instinctively flail to try and regain your balance, but your mind catches up to what’s happening within moments. She’s playing a juvenile trick on you and, worse, a familiar one. The fact that she’d uses a childhood spell here when lives are on the line makes you furious.

“Being down to earth,” you hiss the counter spell, “is not a crime.”

This time Lilian is the one who swears as her flight falters. She manages to reactivate her runes before she hits the ground but you’ve made your point.

She may be able to cast childish spells on you, but you can do the same, faster and meaner.

“Give me the title, Cress,” Lilian says as she rises again. This time she isn’t pretending to lay down. Her arms are outspread, hands already glowing with new spells. “Last chance.”

“I already said ‘last chance,’” you tell her. “Quit copying me.”

A hundred clones of you burst into being, falling from the sky like leaves in an autumn storm. Lilian spins out from under the onslaught, a hastily hissed spell lengthening her fingernails and turning her hair into blades. Three of your clones are caught in her defense and you watch dispassionately as she rips their throats out.

The rest of your clones surround her, their feeble magic barely keeping them in the air. They clasp hands and where their hands meet glows orange.

“Sorry to tie you down,” you start to say and the threads of magic gathering between your clones rise, knitting and weaving into a cage, “but it’s time to close the curta—”

“Quit singling me out,” Lilian barks. Her own magic bursts like fireworks from her hands. Your clones burn when the sparks touch them and, as the light clears, you see Lilian and Lilian alone. Her eyes glow. “Let me knock you off your pedestal.”

You swear as your pillar crumbles to dust underneath you without warning. She presses her advantage and swoops at you, hands filled with pure magic. She hits you right in the sternum and the blow sends you rocketing into the ground.

“Sticks and stones—” you chant just as the air is knocked out of you. You cough and twist in the crater you’ve created. If you’d been a second slower with the strengthening spell, you’d be dead.

Lilian lands and stalks towards you, air crackling with electricity. “You can’t beat me, Cress, not when you’ve got one foot in the grave—”

“A death spell?” you ask, voice wheezing. You pull yourself up onto your hands and knees and grin without humor. Blood drips from your lips. “That’s how far you’ll go?”

Lilian hisses at being interrupted. She kicks you in the stomach hard enough to send you flying. “If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”

You’re too slow. You feel your lips sealing shut on a desperate gasp for air. You breathe in through your nose greedily and try to convince your oxygen-starved body to get up from the crumpled heap you landed in.

“I should be the Exalted,” Lilian says. “You stole the crown from me, admit it. That’s why you ran away. That’s why you’re hiding here of all places. Admit it.”

I can’t steal something that was always mine to begin with.

Your body isn’t cooperating. You flip onto your back so that you can see her coming to stand over you. You study the way she’s scowling, the way her magic is sparking at her fingertips, at the way her aura is practically screaming for your blood.

You’ve well and truly lost her, haven’t you? You think you’ve known that for a while now. At least since you saw that picture of her in the briefing room, silhouetted against the moon.

You close your eyes, brow knitting with concentration. Time out.

The world freezes around you.

---------.

You are not born alone.

There is magic laced through your soul before your body is fully formed. It whispers to you as your fingers grow and as your heart begins to beat.

You are Mine, magic whispers. And I am yours.

But who am I? you ask.

Mine, magic answers and it’s the only answer it’s ever given you.

So when you learn that you’re a twin and that Lilian looks like you, walks like you, bleeds like you, you’re confused. Why are you magic’s and why isn’t Lilian? Why is she your sister but you’re not hers in the same way?

That’s dumb, you think and decide to love her like there’s no such thing as magic. You love her like you’re her sister and there are times growing up when magic doesn’t like that. Times when your spells twist in your mouth and the rain you were fighting off falls on your head or the water you were heating boils your hands. It hurts to love her. She hates your gifts like they’re personal affronts and she is never kind the way you try to be to her.

But, still, you love her like you can love no one else because you weren’t born alone and she’s one of the reasons why.

That’s why when Lilian twists, you ignore it at first. You make excuses. She wants magic like every witch does and she’s motivated enough to reach for it. That’s not a crime. She wants power because she has often felt powerless next to you who understands spells so easily. She wants status because she is ambitious and that’s not a crime.

But this---

Witches are creatures of war. There are ages of war behind the magic that rampages through your veins. Clans who wanted the land over the most powerful ley lines and great sorcerers who would sacrifice hundreds of humans for just a little more oomf in their spells. Your title is a response to that violence—you are the one who stands between what used to be and what is. War is a thing of the past. Your role is one of peace.

That’s why it’s unacceptable you’ve ignored your sister’s twisting for so long.

You observe the way Lilian’s face is twisted in primal fury. Her hands are curled like claws and, when you stand, you can see the way her back is straining with the force she’s attempting to strike you with.

Oh Lilian, you think. You always push.

You approach your frozen sister with regret already forming like a rock in your stomach. You take her face in your hands and attempt to smooth out the wrinkles with your thumbs. But, like everything else, her skin is frozen in time. It will be until you’ve set things right.

“You could have let me love you,” you tell her. You like to think that she can hear you like this. Your eyes are dry. “We could have lived this one life by each other’s side.”

No, magic whispers, you couldn’t.

You sigh. “No, I suppose we couldn’t.”

You say goodbye to your sister.