Magica De Spell (
lifesa_witch) wrote in
happilyeverbeginning2020-10-06 07:25 pm
Entry tags:
Blessed be the meadow, blessed be the forest (magica x scrooge)
As far as Magica was concerned, change only came in two ways - huge, overpowering impacts, and then things so subtle you didn't notice until it was pointed out. Her farmhand had a bit of both - his arrival was the former, and him staying was the latter. At first she had expected him to leave once the weather was warmer, yet now they were in the fresh brush of spring and there were no signs of him moving on. With every passing day, it was if he became more attached to her life, and it was getting harder to think of life without him. She wasn't sure what to make of that.
With his help, the farm house that was once falling apart was regaining life, with the holes patched the animals taking shelter longer than usual. The land itself was thriving more than ever, with her harvests bringing in more than their usual share of food. There had even been changes to Magica herself, though she had yet to notice - fuller meals meant a fuller body, and nights without worry of survival removed the darkness underneath her eyes. But there would always be things that could not change - the mask covering the right side of her face was proof of that.
Scrooge hadn't been able to pry what happened underneath there just yet, but there were little hints here and there - whatever had happened might have happened to her entire right side of her body, as there were days she was so full of pain she needed a thick wooden cane to make it to the nearby village to sell her wares. She was the Witch of the Woods, known to the village as a heretic for going outside the laws of the gods - so the villagers saw. Little did they know she was more of a purist than they'd ever be.
The day had been growing dark, and Magica headed to the farmlands, calling out to Scrooge as kindly and cordial as ever.
"Get inside, rags for brains, it's about to rain. If you catch a cold, I'm not going to be your nursemaid."
With his help, the farm house that was once falling apart was regaining life, with the holes patched the animals taking shelter longer than usual. The land itself was thriving more than ever, with her harvests bringing in more than their usual share of food. There had even been changes to Magica herself, though she had yet to notice - fuller meals meant a fuller body, and nights without worry of survival removed the darkness underneath her eyes. But there would always be things that could not change - the mask covering the right side of her face was proof of that.
Scrooge hadn't been able to pry what happened underneath there just yet, but there were little hints here and there - whatever had happened might have happened to her entire right side of her body, as there were days she was so full of pain she needed a thick wooden cane to make it to the nearby village to sell her wares. She was the Witch of the Woods, known to the village as a heretic for going outside the laws of the gods - so the villagers saw. Little did they know she was more of a purist than they'd ever be.
The day had been growing dark, and Magica headed to the farmlands, calling out to Scrooge as kindly and cordial as ever.
"Get inside, rags for brains, it's about to rain. If you catch a cold, I'm not going to be your nursemaid."

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The truth was that Scrooge was no mere vagrant; he was The Wandering God she worshipped.
Scrooge was one who liked to reward hard work, getting down among his people to work side-by-side alongside them as he searched for his lost family. He had spent time in the realm of the gods and had thoroughly hated the petty moochers. So seeing one as devoted as Magica struggling had pulled him towards her. He intended to make sure she had all she needed including replacement help when he finally moved on.
"I'll be in in a moment!" he called back. "Just want to get this done."
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He doubted she would. True, her crops were doing better, but she didn't have much surplus.
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He went about doing just as he'd said. Honestly, he would've been fine but he didn't want to give himself away.
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When he had first stayed, Scrooge was forced to live in the broken, dilapidated farmhouse. There had been a few nights he was allowed to stay in her hut, and it seemed this was one of them.
The outside was dull and seemed to have no life or color to it - but the inside was a whole different story. Shelves were full of bottles filled with all sorts of herbs and liquids, with various smells wafting the air at any time. The cauldron was bubbling with dinner, with a lone raven pecking at anything he could get away with. There was a small stockpile of meat waiting off in a corner, but given it was the thickest and freshest of the hunt, it was not going to be eaten - that was an offering.
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Honestly, he would've allowed her to use lesser cuts of meat so she could properly feed herself. Another reason why he'd taken notice of her: She didn't try to skip out or give the leftovers.
"It smells really good," he told her, giving an appreciative sniff of the air.
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"Of course it does," Magica said haughtily. "Nothing from my hands is ever less than the best." She offered the raven a kiss before scooping a ladle into the cauldron and pouring it into bowls - dinner for her and Scrooge.
"But... I suppose the herbs this year have grown thicker than before. The Wandering God may be pleased with my boons for this year."
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"But now I have to work for two, to make sure he doesn't give your tailfeathers a kick for all your mockery."
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He took a spoonful of the stew, eating it with relish. "Though perhaps he should come in person to get some of this stew. He's missing out."
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She sat down to eat, taking slow sips herself. "The texts advise against offering full meals, anyway. It's seen as a waste. Last thing he wants is his own followers starving themselves."
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Still, there was nothing stopping him from enjoying the meal. Magica really was a good cook. He'd argue she was better than the servants in the realm of the gods. Then again, that wasn't hard. The other gods wanted more and more decadence which meant less substance. Scrooge liked to eat a hearty meal that stuck to his bones, not a few drops of something fancy.
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How long had that been now? How many weeks, how many months? It'd been hard to keep count once she stopped actively trying.
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Though she hadn't invited him in back then. Not that he'd blamed her. He had been, after all, a complete stranger when he'd first arrived. For all she'd known, he could've been planning to kill her or worse.
"Is that a problem?"
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She took several more heavy spoonfuls to keep her mouth occupied before she spoke again. "It's been a while since then."
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He said it casually and a tad fondly, wondering how she'd respond to it.
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She then downed her (hot, burnt tongue) stew in one bowl gulp just to avoid looking at him any further.
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She then moved to place her bowl away, fetching a hairbrush for her long locks. One could guess she initially grew her hair out to hide her face before she had the mask, but at some point decided to just let it keep growing.
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"What makes you so sure of that?" he asked.
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The damage done to her face and body was proof of that, so she told herself. Society wouldn't accept her, nor would any man, and it was anybody's guess whether this wrecked body of hers could even feel pleasure or give birth. So instead of even bothering to try, she'd shut herself away from the world before it could hurt her further.
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He said nothing, carefully plucking the brush from her grip and starting to sweep it through her hair.
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He didn't put any power behind his words even though he could've easily. He didn't want to be like them and manipulate mortals for his own amusement.
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