Chapter Text
Once upon a time, there was a powerful sorcerer. Magic flowed in her veins as sure and as plentiful as blood. She was clever and brave but it was a time when cleverness in a woman was proof of cunning, and bravery, evidence of arrogance (has that time ever ceased?). A time when magic wielded by a woman was condemned as witchcraft.
She refused to bend to the will of those weaker than her, and she found her rebellion in a cloak dark as pitch, an impenetrable fort for her identity. She was known only as Pitch. But a secret is only a truth delayed. It bares itself eventually, inevitably.
She loved her kingdom above all, fought to keep her people safe. But where there is one whose greatest motivation is love of people, there is always a counterpart whose only aim is control of people. An opposing magician who called himself Mage, as if he were the only one who could wield the magic in his body. Pitch had as much magic as Mage in her littlest finger. He was no match for her in fair battle. So, he changed the scales. He called upon a group of nasty warlocks whose appetite for mischief was as large as their greed for gold. He plied them with tantalising promises of treasure from the royal treasury once it was his.
As Mage was weaving his plot for destruction, Pitch was delighting in that ancient act of creation. The warlocks were cackling, discussing their plan to make a sorcerer take her last breath, while a baby was crying, taking its first. Pitch knew that if her child’s identity were to be discovered, it would mean certain death. And so, she surrendered her greatest protection to protect her child. She wrapped that little boy in her magical cloak so that none could glimpse his soft brown skin.
Mage had set his trap. He called upon the river to rise and rise and rise until it could swallow the village whole. Pitch rushed to the scene and called upon her magic, called upon the fire in her veins to save her people. There were gasps and shudders and mouth agape as she burned the water into mist. She opened her eyes to see that her people were repaying her by wielding sharp pitchforks and narrowed eyes. There is no greater crime than being a powerful woman. Their powerful sorcerer, their saviour was a woman, they had not known this was possible, and in that surprise, there was fear. There never was a more dangerous sentiment than fear.
As they circled her and drew closer and closer, she grew more resigned. She would not hurt these people for the lies they had been taught to believe. If the cost of saving them be death, then so be it. But as she shut her eyes to face her doom, the warlocks appeared and cast their spell. Mage knew the strength in her blood and so he knew that it was not just her he needed to defeat but also any offspring she might have passed on her magic to. And so, under his instructions, the witches began chanting.
‘Tyger tyger burning bright,
Fire shall be your blight,
Blood within, blood without,
May your protection be for nought.’
The magic of all those warlocks together would have done little more than stun her but even the magic in her blood could not save her when her spirit had been broken. Magic is an extension of one’s will and at that moment she could not save herself because she did not believe she was to be saved; the people she had saved had condemned her. As the flames in her poured forth from her body and coated her skin, she let out but one long scream. A scream of anguish not for herself but for her little boy who would grow up without a mother. As she screamed, a tower burst forth from the ground. People would not know until years later that in the tower was a cloak, black as pitch, wrapped around a boy who slept and slept and slept. Magic is an extension of one’s will and hers had saved her son.