kinkfest | the witch who wants (Kingdom Hearts, Maleficent/Namine)

Title: the witch who wants
Author:

nekokoban
Rating: PG
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 606
Prompt: Kingdom Hearts: Maleficent/Namine: Teaching - "A witch's work is best with others of her kind."
A/N: I meant to post this on time. But then gdocs went down and I didn't have a backup. :(

+++++

Little witch, this is your life: a white room, a white table, a blank page. There are no mirrors in your world, but there is your shadow on the wall; perhaps that's enough. There is a single window, and through it, you can see the clouds. There are a hundred shades of white, and you've learned this from watching them; you'd like very much to capture that in the pages of your sketchbook, though you're not sure how. Crayons are limited, after all.

There are no shadows in your world, little witch, no matter how hard you press with your black crayon and try to cover an entire page with darkness. You have to get these memories out somehow, so you hunch at your white table and you draw, filling book after book, till your fingers cramp and your shoulders are knotted together and you think: ah, she was taller, ah, she was thinner, ah, her face was sharper and her mouth was a slash in her face and--

In your fingers, the crayon snaps. You look at it in surprise for a moment; the broken-off pieces of color are obscenely bright. When you touch your finger to the edge, there are bits of wax that come off onto your skin, like bleeding. Press it to the page and drag: there's a trail left behind. You could draw this way as well, but they'd be pale whispering echoes, not the vivid clear things you want to convey. Just like yourself, there's something faded out and untouchable, and everything comes to you through some heavy filter.

These are the pieces of yourself that are part of your birthright: as Princess and as Nobody and as Witch. That is what the darkness whispers, ebbing and flowing around you like tidewater at your ankles -- yours-but-not -- as it runs its fingers through your hair and pulls your head to rest upon a bosom and a steady heartbeat. The sound is more hypnotic than it should be by any rights, and you close your eyes. You could put the pieces together if you tried: there is a memory of your uncle -- not-but-yours -- and his disapproving face at the darkness that curtseys to him and shows even sharp white teeth just for you. A crow followed you to class every day for a week. It sang you funeral dirges when you would have fallen asleep.

She touched your face once -- the other you, but still you because you were one and the same then, and your cheek still burns with that cold. She kissed your forehead like benediction, and she said remember me though you're the only one who does. You're the only one who ever will. This is something you could keep for yourself, your self, though it shames you to be so greedy. She wasn't kind, not at all, hard edges and cold green eyes, but she looked at you, she saw you, and there is potential in you that would rise to the understanding you saw in her expression.

Open your eyes now: the room is empty. The room is white. This is your world, all white and blank and bare, a canvas you've not yet filled it yet. There are shadows lurking just at the corner of your vision, but if you turn your head you'll see nothing. No trees grow by your window; a crow could not perch there.

Little witch, this is your duty: you have things to shape and worlds to create, you have things to create and things to destroy. There are miles to go before you can sleep.