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Moon Varga

By @Underliner92

Enter: Whitestone

Far away, in the land of Meriva, lies the great kingdom of Whitestone. The land was ruled by a good king, who lived with his queen in a great castle.

For a long time, the Queen had wished for a child, but this fortune had never struck. One day, as she was wandering and tending the royal gardens that embraced her home, an old woman in tattered rags appeared to her.

“Before the year’s end, ye shall have a child. Heed my words and time, to thee, shall be mild,” she proclaimed.

The Queen didn’t know whether to compose herself or laugh. “I have tried for years already. There is nothing you can say to convince me that it is possible.”

“I shall, however,” the crone lifted a warning finger and continued as if she hadn’t heard the queen’s comment, “Tell no-one of your carriage and you shall live out your marriage. A male, you give to me when one month, be told. Refuse, and your body shan’t surely grow old.”

The Queen thought this old hag to be quite weird. She casually dismissed the news, but agreed to the conditions, and was, to her surprise, given a fine linen band.

“The old one continued to chant, “T’is the seal of our pact. Remove before birth, and there no child shall be. Heed my words – heed them for Thee.”

The queen was awestruck by this remarkably generous gift, admiring it, but when she looked up from tying it to her wrist, the old woman was gone.


By the end of the year, a cold, dark and white day, in a cave in the mountains away from the reaching gaze of the King, the queen bore forth a son. The child lay wrapped in cloth in her arms, and his face was wet with the joyous tears shed by his mother.

“Elazar…” she whispered endearingly, but her heart skipped a beat as a crack of lightning smacked down on the rocky cliff edge. Her eyes widened in horror as the hunched frame of the crone rose out of the smoke rising from the ground zero of the lightning.

“A fine name for a fine steed,” the old one chanted. “But he is mine indeed, pay heed.”

The Queen begged and pleaded to keep her child in exchange for riches beyond a man’s wildest dreams, but the old one would not change her mind, and eventually the Queen had to give. It was better to have her son live on as someone else’s than pass away due to his mother’s thoughtlessness.

“A wise choice, hear my voice,” the witch – for that was indeed what the old woman was, the queen had realized – congratulated. “If interested my may have another attempt tested. The same rules apply – interested?”

The Queen, burdened with tears over her loss, sobbed but nodded in acceptance.

“As you wish, my Queen. The child will be born in years twenty-one minus fourteen.” She pulled a silk band akin to the linen one, which the queen had not yet removed from around her neck, from the wide sleeve of her garb and handed it to the queen. “Recall my words – apply – and ye shall get by.”

And with these words she was gone.


Seven years passed and the Queen birthed a girl in the deepest dungeons of the castle. Despite the pain of childbirth, her heart felt light as a feather. It was a girl, meaning she could keep the child! She smiled down at the drowsy miracle, which had been wrapped in the usual garb. The girl sobbed silently for a while, but turned her round head in the direction of the clacks of slow footsteps.

The Queen followed the gaze of the little one, who suddenly was completely quiet, eyeing the dark corridor observantly.

“Oh, a lass?” The crippled old witch sounded surprised where she stood in the doorway to the cell. “Is the young one’s calling yet engraved in brass?” Her poisonous eyes kept shifting between the queen and the child.

“Her name is Timna, and you may not have her,” said the young turned-again mother, pulling her newly acquired treasure defensively further from the woman, who cackled a raspy laugh that seemed to even chill the air around them.

“My Queen, be not afraid. I uphold the pacts which I have laid.” Then she pulled a third ribbon from her long sleeve, this one seemingly made of pure gold. The queen grew nervous. She knew by now what was coming. The witch chanted, “Fourteen years shall pass without a tear, but heed my words and a child ye shall bear.” She then smirked cunningly as reaching a scrawny, white hand out for the woman, palm up and with the ribbon in her hand, as if she was inviting to a dance: “If Her Highness would care…?”

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