Sometimes the Broken Battered People Get Lucky

 The wind turned. It kept doing that lately. It was trying to turn the tide of something. But at the moment, it was just irritating. These were the witch's thoughts as the wind whipped at her from the other side. She was tired, bordering on exhaustion, and the wind was just enough to tip her in that direction.

    It was all from the burden that she carried.

    A child. A little girl.




    The witch had found her that way, carelessly discarded as though she were worth nothing. The witch knew differently. The girl was worth everything. Worth being carried the miles to the witch's home. It wasn't that there was anything particularly special about the girl — as could yet be determined, anyway. But one could never be too careful with any wounded creature. And a human child was special... just because. 

    Just because.

    No technical term, that.

    But it was true. It was one of those true things the witch knew in her bones. Strange that not everyone knew. She assumed their bones were off.

    She wrapped her arms around the child, holding her close while she still could. While the child drifted in and out of consciousness. While the child couldn't remember.

    The hearth fire roared. It raged, too. Hopefully, if all went well, the child would feel free to do the same. 

    If she felt safe.


    If the child did, then it would be a privilege to witness it, the witch thought. A privilege to see some true healing. Potions were all well and good, and the healing of wounds into scars a noble thing to further. But there was no greater privilege than being a safe place for a child. 

    As the witch sat down to a cup of tea, her eyes resting on the child, she heard the wind turn again. All will be well, she told herself twice. After all, sometimes the broken battered people get lucky.

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