In the blackest of nights, without the light of the moon or the glow of the stars, only one witch in the world would dare to walk.

She travels with her head hanging low, her posture bent and warped. Whispers follow her, ghosts of rumours caught on wind, blowing past her fragile body, threatening to tip her with every breath.

The men who pass her by are not her friends. They glance at her, their gazes filled with contempt; they push past her, not caring if she stumbles; they turn their heads in disgust, desiring no more than to leave her presence.

It is said the story that follows her is colder than the middle of winter, perhaps even colder than the heart of the witch herself.

I know little about the woman. I am merely passing by this road as I continue on my travels. However, I shall give you the best I can.

~*~

Once upon a time, as all stories must start, there was a small town very near here. The town was filled with happy people, where everyone knew one another, and no one would dare to taint it with misery.

There was a beautiful stream running through the town, leading to a beautiful fountain, where musicians would come and play for all to hear. Or where children would go to play, their mothers watching fondly; there was a large church where all of the believers would pray once a week; there was even a small street dedicated entirely to shops, backers, butchers, seamstresses- everything a villager could ask for.

Leading away from this town, there was a path. The path was old, dusty and unused by many, for it led to a deep and treacherous forest. The brave men would often make for the outskirts of the forest where they would do their hunting.

To follow this path through the forest and out the other side would be a fruitless effort. For once you emerged from the trees, it would be hills and marshland for as far as the eye could see.

To travel through these marshes would be more foolhardy than to travel through the forest. Much more foolhardy; to try is like purposely walking into death’s arms. To attempt the journey, one must be either stupidly brave, or bravely stupid such was the fate of many who attempted the trek. Still, many men struggled to prove their worth by taking the path down through the treacherous lands. Upon leaving, the men were often brave, charming, and more often than not, handsome. A few had fought in battles, many had slain monsters, and some had even mastered the fickle art of magic.

It was rare to ever see these men again.

Upon departure, a great fuss would be made by all members of the town. A party would often be held, and kind words would be uttered. Then, as the man left for his path, the townspeople would stand and watch, waving goodbye in bitter morbidity. For a whole week after, the fountain would cease to run, and the town would be covered in black. Black clothing, black paint, black hearts.

Their betrothed, or the woman that they had chosen to court, was often left alone upon the moment of departure, mourning her loss under public eye.

The few who ever did return were never the same as the men they were when they left. Instead, they came back merely shells of their past, living their lives with routine and habit, yet never enjoying a second.

Something would happen to the men out there, something that would remove all of the joy from their lives, forever, but no one has ever been sure what. For none who went out to see ever came back able to recount their tale.

Even now, all these years later, there is only one person seen entering and leaving those lands, and that would be the witch. She comes and goes as freely as she pleases, never stopping long, never speaking a word. Just like all those returning men, left alive without living.