Choosing
There are rivers and there are rivers of blood. The witch thought both dangerous. The one was too hard to cross, the other too hard to squelch. In a sense, she'd prefer neither. If she had the choice, if she could make her own destiny, there would be nothing that soaked through. But that presupposed she had not chosen her lot in life. And that was something with which she would not hold. She had chosen to be a witch, and she would have to take the lot that came with it. One didn't often have the luxury of choice. She had. It was exhausting to think that choice could just keep going. Thus, she plunged into the river and waded across to the other side where she staunched the wounds on several fallen men, and then went home, soaked on both fronts. The cottage that awaited her was small, but clean and mostly empty. She changed into her other set of clothes, and boiled the kettle over the fire. ...