#very rare Page-warping-the-shape-of-her-glasses-to-emote moment

[transscribepage]

I summon you to fulfill your oath:

Trick-or-Treat!

Sorry this took so long I was at work gjhjyrwkl I am an oathbreaker pls forgive

Halloween is a (mostly) Christian holiday- originally known as All Hallow's Eve, the day before the All Saint's Day Feast, the day was linked to mourning the souls of the lost thanks to its relation to the Fall season, which is linked with death due to lowering temperatures and dying plants. Soulcakes (a kind of cookie) were handed out to children.

Today, however, most of the religious connotation has been removed in favor of the macabre death and terror themes, with fun costumes and the handing out of sweets.

Christmas, however, was the opposite; it was not originally a Christian holiday, but became one through religious syncretism.

Ever wondered what yule means? It was a German Winter festival that got Christianized when all of Germany got Christianized.

A big man flying through the sky on a sled pulled by reindeer is, oddly, based upon Odin and the Nightly Hunts. Some tellings of the Nightly Hunts, where the spirits of dead hunters fly through the sky on horseback, might drop gold in your open windows as a present. Or kill you. Sources vary

Christmas was a conglomeration of several other Winter festivals being conglomerated as Christianity forced other religions to syncretize with them, because monotheism

Anyways. You get; trick? treat? both?

[sidhewrites]

Excerpt. Previous Installment found here, summary page found here. Approx. 2600 words. As always, feel free to send Asks or Messages about what’s written or anything you’re curious about.

She had always preferred taking lesser-known routes. Zorya was grateful to find the servant’s passageways accessed most of Clare’s estate, even if the very idea of them disgusted her. What was so terrible about seeing the people working for him, keeping him and all his attendants comfortable while other people were forced to struggle just to provide themselves with coal or firewood? Would he really be that inconvenienced by seeing someone carrying fresh linens from one floor to the next?

But at least it meant she could avoid the chance of running into him when Zorya found herself unable to sleep in the middle of the night. She shoved her boots on and stuffed Noski into his bag before slipping through the obscured doorway that led behind the walls.

Noski rarely stayed in his bag for long. He hopped out the second the door latched behind her, and stepped into his true form.

“The children’s home again?” he asked, wrapping one of his two tails around her arm.

She shook her head. “The aftermath of a battle. Remember the man who had his stomach ripped open?”

“He was half bunt up from the fire that caused the explosion.” Noski butted his head against her, mimicking the sounds of licking one’s lips. “Smelled like cooked ham.”

On some nights that made her smile. The grim, fatalistic humor of a creature that was made from death hit a certain note in Zorya. But she nodded without a grin. “It shouldn’t have made me so hungry.”

“Are you hungry now?”

She was. She wasn’t. She didn’t know. 

Zorya shrugged -- and stopped.

The sound of someone whimpering echoed down the passageway, poorly-stifled, punctuated by hissed curses in Russian. It had to be Vittorina. No-one else here spoke Russian so well, not among the women anyway.

“You think she’s remembered something, too?” Noski asked.

Zorya shook her head with a half smile that didn’t hold. “Probably how to remember what it means to be a decent human being.”

Noski chuckled and purred, rubbing up against her. “Let’s go. I like the way the cold feels here.”

Zorya nodded, making her way forward -- but stopping again just as she passed Vittorina’s door. She seemed genuinely distraught over something immediate. Not just nightmares, not just bad memories or hunger. Something was happening right now. Zorya couldn’t make her feet move any further.

“Zoryenka?” Noski turned towards her, head curved upside down, one tail swishing in curiosity. “Are we going?”

“Yes,” she said, and didn’t move.

Noski waited a moment, then righted his head. “I see.” He stepped into the shape of a cat and hopped into the bag obediently, if a bit put out.

It took another few seconds for Zorya to finally give in, scoffing at herself, and turned back to Vittorina’s door.

The whimpering hadn’t slowed on the other side, but the cursing had gotten more colorful.

WIth a sigh, Zorya knocked lightly.

Vittorina went silent.

“Vasiliyevna?”

Shuffling answered her on the other side of the wall. A thunk, and Vittorina hissed out a curse. “Is that you, Kosheka? What do you want? Where are you?”

[what’s up]

Vittorina’s hair was down, limp about her without a single strand floating about in a magical breeze. She’d been clawing her fingers through it, no doubt, and now she kept her arms crossed tightly about her, hands hidden within the folds of her housecoat. She scowled a beautiful scowl, pale eyes blazing. “What do you want?”

“I heard you crying.”

“And?”

Zorya wasn’t sure what else to say, hesitated for a moment while struggling for words. Finally, she shrugged. “I wanted to see if you were okay.”

Vittorina’s face twitched. For a second, she looked weak. Looked ready to cry again. And then her mask went back up, and she moved away, haeding to where Yaga still sat obediently on her perch. “I don’t know why,” Vittorina said. “It’s not like I needed your help before.” She pulled a hand from the robes and reached out to pet the owl before realizing --

“Your hands,” Zorya gasped.

Vittorina flinched, stuffing her hand back into the folds of her housecoat. “Are you still here?” she hissed. “Don’t you know it’s bad manners to walk into a young woman’s room in the middle of the night?”

But it was too late to pretend Zorya hadn’t seen the damage. I thought I was a windwitch for the longest time, Vittorina had said on the train. Her skin had always been pale and transparent, but her fingers were worse. The tips of them were starting to fade, like mist disappearing in the night, and the little finger on her left hand was almost entirely gone. Zorya could just see the hint of bone and blood vessels underneath, just the barest hint of tendons still holding the structure together.

Noski meowed.

Zorya ought to have left. Ought to have shrugged it off and turned away then and there, leaving Vittorina Vasiliyevna to deal with the magic rot on her own. She should have left. Wanted to, as well. 

But guilt made her stay. A protective instinct that Zorya had never learned to shake, no matter how much she’d like to, no matter how much Noski-Nezhit warned her of the trouble it would cause. Even as a child in the children’s home, Zorya was standing up to bullies twice her size, even after the revolution Moscow, where she had been all but isolated from the rest of the world simply by virtue of working at night.

 No, she couldn’t just walk away from this.

“When did this happen?”

Vittorina stiffened. “Go away.”

Zorya stepped closer, wringing her own soot-covered hands. “It wasn’t there last week. How are your toes?”

“They’re --” Vittorina hesitated, as if uncertain, and shifted her weight. “Fine.”

Zorya nodded, and stepped closer. Noski mowed again, clearly uninterested in offering any kindness or assistance, but his complaints went ignored. She didn’t know what to say, not really. Zorya wasn’t good at this -- at talking to people. At being a person herself. Words came with difficulty, and she sighed. “Your fingers started to tingle a few weeks ago, didn’t they? Like they were falling asleep?”

Vittorina said nothing. Her breathing was forcibly controlled, though she couldn’t keep from sniffling from her runny nose.

“Then your fingerprints started to look strange, right. They started to shift and warp, just enough for you to feel like something was wrong, but not enough to know what. Right?”

After a long moment, Vittorina finally nodded.

“Yeah.” Zorya nodded as well, for all the good it would do. She thought back to the firewitch she’d seen those years ago, whose hands and arms were ruined to the point that he couldn’t even make a fist. The healing witch who couldn’t walk a foot without shattering the bones in her leg, only for them to mend on the next step, a cycle of pain that offered no relief until their death. No wonder Vittorina spent so much time researching with Caron, desperate to stop her body from dissipating entirely.

No comforting words came. What could be said when they both knew what awaited anyone who used magic? She looked about uselessly, noting how little the bed seemed to have been used. How many books were piled up on the desk, with bookmarks and notes on scraps of paper strewn haphazardly besides them. Most likely hours of research, rendered useless if Vittorina had been hoping to make a breakthrough before something irreversible happened. Something like losing her fingertips.

Noski mowed again, and trotted out of the room, no doubt fed up with what he would deem as needless emotional struggle. Everyone knew about magic rot. How magic slowly overtook a witch’s body until they held themselves together with more spell than sinew.

But knowing one’s fate didn’t make it any easier to face when it finally reared its head.

With a labored sigh, Zorya nodded again. “I have vodka in my room. Good, strong stuff they don’t make on this side of Europe.”

At that, Nina turned her head -- just slightly, but she looked over all the same. “You’d give your vodka to me?”

Zorya made a face. “I’d share with you.”

Nina let out a short half-laugh, and nodded. “Fair enough.” She glanced to the door and hesitated. “But…I don’t …”

“Why are you looking at the door? I came through the wall, remember?”

Nina looked back again, brows furrowed, the slightest hint of a smile flickering at the corners of her mouth. “Let me get my shoes on.”

#

As it was, Zorya had far more than just vodka in her room. A vintage wine, whiskey, and even a few bottles of kvass sat in the decorative cabinet just besides a side table armed with multiple cups and a decanter. No doubt the last person to have resided here had been something of an entertainer of guests, but Vittorina was the first person to have joined Zorya in her room since their arrival. 

She sat awkwardly on one of the plush chairs while Zorya poured the drinks, hands tucked again in her robe, looking smaller and more out of place than she ever had before. It felt somehow wrong to Zorya, like Vittorina deserved to be here more than she did. A room like this belonged to a proper magic user, a powerful Magician chosen for their prowess and mastery, not because they just so happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Vittorina thanked her when taking the glass, but hesitated before drinking it. 

Zorya grit her teeth, well aware of the smudges she’d left on the surface of the crystal. “I didn’t poison it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Damn. Maybe it’d be better if you did.”

“Just let me know, and I’ll see about getting you some arsenic.”

Vittorina laughed mirthlessly. After a long moment of silence, she lowered the glass and looked up. “Does it hurt? The rot, I mean.”

Zorya shook her head. She sat down on the other chair, separated from Vittorina’s by a small table, before taking a sip of her own drink and savoring the vodka’s burn on her throat. “I’m lucky. Doctors say they’ll most likely crumble into ash by the time I’m thirty, but I’ll lose all feeling in them first. My tongue, too. That’s going to be fun.”

Vittorina grimaced. She finally took a long draught, draining half the glass in one go. Zorya couldn’t help but be impressed. “I can still feel my fingertips sometimes somewhat, but…” She held out the left hand, fingers extended, for just a moment. Then, she flinched, curling them into claws and stuffing the hand back into her robe and out of sight.

Finally, she admitted, “I’m jealous of you.”

Zorya scoffed, amused.

“No, I mean it. You don’t … you don’t care. You don’t try. Nobody’s going to be upset if you’re not perfect.”

Her wry smirk faded. Zorya shrugged, contemplating the contents of her glass. Best not to tell Vittorina that there wasn’t anyone to be upset at her in the first place. “Nobody’s immune to magic rot,” she said instead, and drank.

“Doesn’t matter.” Vittorina shook her head. “If my family learned that it’s happening so soon, they’d be furious. Probably tell me that it means I’m weak.”

“Who? Your family?”

She nodded. Took another drink. “My parents.”

“Are they witches”

“No. Not in the least. I’m the only one out of the nine of us.”

“Oh.”

Vittorina nodded. “I was born fifth out of seven children. It was easy to forget me sometimes. Can’t tell you how many times I got left outside overnight or went without a bath just because someone forgot to look for me.” She shook her head, grimaced again, and finished her glass. 

Zorya leaned over without a word and filled it again.

Nina nodded her thanks, and went on. “When I started using magic, they put all their hopes on me. Suddenly I was the most important child, the only one they cared about. I could make food last us weeks instead of days, fix tears in clothes and keep the house warm. And if I messed up...well, they left me to my siblings instead.”

“Why was that so bad?”

“Are you joking? They hated me. They’re still begging for table scraps, and I’m getting coffee and a real feather pillow. If I wasn’t on guard, they’d lock me in the cellar until our parents noticed I was gone.” Vittorina sighed again. “If they knew, they’d beat me themselves for being clumsy.”

Zorya didn’t understand, reached out before remembering herself and set a hand on the arm of Vittorina’s chair. “But it isn’t your fault -- you can’t control it.”

“Can’t I?” Vittorina looked up, glassy-eyed and angry. “I can do everything else in the world. Make bread out of dust, turn tin cans into gold. Why can’t I do this, too?”

Zorya didn’t have an answer. She didn’t know how to help, or what to say. Vittorina’s parents had taken her for granted, used her as a tool, rather than cared for her as a child. And wasn’t that what all the parenting books said to avoid?

She sighed, and leaned her head back against the chair. Wordlessly, she held the bottle of vodka out for Vittorina to take.

Vittorina hesitated, brows furrowed. “Really?”

“Just take it before I change my mind.”

There was no denying the hint of a smile on her face as Vittorina took the bottle and took a hearty swig, abandoning her cup on the table between them. After a long moment of silence, Vittorina spoke again, soft but genuine. “Thank you.”

Zorya smirked. “I was wondering if you knew how to be polite.”

“Asshole.” 

“I believe the phrase is, one cannot recognise the flaws in others that one does not first possess herself.”

At that, Vittorina laughed. It was small, not too hearty, but genuine all the same. Laughter still felt too rare to Zorya, too hard to come by, and Vittorina’s smile was enchanting. More real than her usual smug grins or smirks. Her face was still red, eyes still swollen from crying, but it warmed Zorya all the same.

[something]

“What do your parents think of all this? I didn’t see them saying goodbye to you at the station.”

Zorya’s joy faded quickly. She looked down into her cup, and shook her head. “Buy me a drink first, and maybe I’ll tell you about them.”

“Is that a promise?” She winked.

“No. Maybe. We’ll see.”

“Then as I said before -- you’re an asshole.”

Zorya shrugged. “I’ve been called worse. At least you aren’t giving me a nickname, eh?”

Vittorina grinned, eyes alight with mischief. “A nickname?”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes, dear Zoisha. I should be glad to count you as one of my dearest friends.” Her voice had become sickeningly sweet, and unbearably sarcastic.

“Give me my vodka back.”

“No.” Vittorina held it close, cradling it lovingly. “You gave it to me as a gift.”

“That’s when I didn’t hate you.” But she couldn’t deny her own smile, the rare humor she found in this easy bickering, insults thrown back and forth without meaning. She didn’t know it could feel so light.

“Oh, don’t be like that. I’m still sad, see?” She pulled a pout.

Zorya shook her head. “The most miserable person…” She hesitated, trying to think of a nickname in turn. “Nina,” she finished, rather lamely.

Vittorina threw her head back and laughed. 

Zorya didn’t know what to do. She blamed the vodka, making her dizzy. Making her silly. But she shook her head, and laughed as well.

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