Polpom
21st, December, 1623 CE

Fierce sirocco winds threatened to tear the tattered, trembling parchment from the young royal's hands as he struggled to make sense of what was written on it while a frail woman in faded gray tunic lay next to him... bleeding.

Endless days and lonely nights,
Each day, a Woodgrip fights.

Anchorless, the ship will be,
Adrift, alone, to wander the sea.

For centuries four, they will be,
As alone as one can be.

In darkness, a heart saved,
Thrice met, twice separate.

Nine years it shall take,
Feline, what choice will you make?

At twenty and five, love shall bloom,
Might spell joy, or be the marked-ninth’s doom.

Amidst chaos, hearts will thrive,
A struggle, a race against time.

To mend what was broken in the past,
You must bear the pain, act fast.

To win the battle fought so far,
Let love enter a heart.

His Highness, Prince Dalton Buttercutter, read the poem for- what felt like- the hundredth time in the past twenty minutes. His savior, Ms. Poppy, had inscribed it with her blood on a worn parchment paper previously home to a recipe titled: 'To create fake toads'.

The prince knew not the reason one might find themselves in need of fake toads, but then again, he didn't know much about magical beings or their dietary preference. After all, he had just become acquainted with a world beyond his. A world where practicing magic was as common as changing clothes.

He had seen Ms. Poppy, a seamstress in his kingdom, visit his mother, Queen Arabella Buttercutter, on and off. It came as a shock to him when she saved his life from human-eating duckweed and revealed that she was a witch.

Dalton knew as much as anyone- which was saying he knew absolutely nothing- in his father's circle of trusted nobles. But he had heard whispers about punishments reserved for the wicked.

He believed not in status but in actions. Since the kind lady had bravely fought and saved his skin, Dalton concluded that witches were loyal and benevolent beings.

The prince, who had managed to find shelter under an oak tree only a few paces from the place where the weed and the witch had had a show-down, wiped the woman's sweat-drenched brow with the sleeve of his ivory shirt. "I have committed it to memory, My lady," he said, holding up what he thought was a poem.

"Are you sure, Sire?" Poppy's voice barely made it past her pale lips, but Dalton heard it. It was strange, very much so, but not more than all the other things his ears had been picking up since the past few minutes.

The sounds were peculiar: a child crying a few hundred meters away, bees buzzing in the neighboring field, and ants whispering about him stepping on their nephew.

"Yes, my lady," the prince said, covering the dark-haired woman with his burgundy blazer. "Is there anything I can do to make you comfortable? I have sent for my physician. He will be here soon."

"Sire, there is something I need to tell you." Poppy got the words out with difficulty.

Dalton noticed the woman struggling to speak and leaned in. "Go ahead."

"I am not just a witch; I am a seer. Do you know what that means?"

"I don't, My lady. But if I had to guess, I would say you see things others don't or...can't."

Poppy nodded. "I don't see things, per se. I hear the words. I may not always understand what they mean. But I know who to tell them to. You need to never... "

By now, Dalton was only half-listening to the witch. Her ghostly complexion, spoke volumes. She had gotten worse, and at this rate, he was going to lose her even if his physician arrived with aid.

"...and that's why you must use it sparingly. Do you understand?"

Oh, dear! It looked like he had missed out on an important detail or two. But seeing as the woman was in a terrible condition, he just nodded.

"What you memorized just now is a prophecy. I can not predict when it will come to pass, but the place you need to be at that time is beyond the valley, on the highest peak of Mount Balsh."

"My Lady, the poem sounds bleak. It doesn't fare well for the Woodgrip family. How will I find them?"

"I am a Woodgrip, Sire. But since I spelled out the prophecy, my daughter will be the first Woodgrip."

"Oh." Dalton bobbed his head, pretending to understand. He hadn't mulled over the poem… the prophecy enough to make sense of it, but he recalled it mentioning a marked-ninth. What did it mean? The prince thought it would be highly unlikely for a human, even if he was a prince, to live that long. "You have a daughter?"

A heartbroken smile tugged at the witch's lips. She winced. "Sire, I see good in you. A pure, well-meaning heart, too. My time in this world is almost over, can you promise me one thing?"

"Anything, my lady."

The witch signaled Dalton to help her up. The prince complied. "Give it to Patty. Make sure she is not caught," she said, handing the young boy a broach she had plucked out from over her heart.

Dalton ran his fingers over the irregularly shaped night-black pearl. "Why would she be caught? Has she committed a crime?"

"Sire, in your father's kingdom, to be different is a crime."

The woman's words were like a blade to his heart. They cut him deep. "My father is a just man. He doesn't-"

"Are you sure about that, Sire?"

"Without a doubt."

"Would you like to test it?"

Dalton Buttercutter contemplated for a few moments. He believed his father to be a good man. A beloved and just king to his people. "Yes."

"Whatever be the outcome, you will protect my Patty, yes?"

"You have my word," he said, "but if you are wrong-"

"Then I will not hold you to the promise anymore."

The confidence in the woman's dark eyes scared Dalton. The contempt in her words made him almost shiver.

The witch closed her eyes. "Your physician will arrive soon. Tell him that I am a witch. After knowing the truth, if he willingly treats me, you will be free; if not, you will turn into that which your father is trying to rid the land of. Do you understand?"

What does she mean? What is my father trying to rid the kingdom of?

The prince wanted to refuse. Every fiber in his body pleaded with him to do so, but his confidence in his father stopped him. "What will I turn into?" he asked instead.

"Something not quite human. Last chance, Sire. Once I cast my spell, you would be powerless to fight it."

Dalton stood up; he could hear the physician. Don't do it, a tiny voice within him warned, but he gave it no mind. "I am ready," he said and watched. 

Later that evening, truth about his father's regime shone in the prince's green eyes, and his belief in the monarch crumbled.

Chapter word count: 1208
Word count so far: 1621