In a world where everything grim was more than just a charming accessory to the setting sun, there existed a witch named Seraphine. If you were to meet her on the road to the Isles of Autumn, she would likely be the first witch you could see, if you kept your eyes open; her glimmering robes dyed with the ugly colors of regret and the remnants of bad decisions. Each thread was woven from the shadows of misfortunes she had inflicted upon others, and she draped them over herself as proudly as a hunter with a fresh trophy.
Now, don’t mistake her for a cackling crone who’s more bat than woman. No, Seraphine was the kind of witch who would sip herbal tea in the morning, nibbling on raspberry scones while she considered her next victim—er, client, I meant (but what, really, was the difference?). Her skin glimmered as if perpetually polished by the tears of those she’d helped and those she had most certainly not helped. She had a knack for being both omniscient and completely oblivious, depending on how well the latest hex had gone. A real charmer, I assure you.
Living in a tower that loomed like a headstone over a graveyard of lost hopes, Seraphine’s lair was decorated with all the latest trappings of terror: jars of pickled frog legs, mummified lizards, and the occasional dust match featuring the lost souls of burnt-out adventurers who had dared to knock on her door. “Consulting hours are from never to never,” a sign outside proclaimed, though it was mostly obscured by the remains of the last hapless libertine who thought to disturb her solitude. One might think being a witch would afford her an air of mystery, but it mostly lent her an air of heavy sarcasm, as though her irritable demeanor was rooted in a deep-seated philosophy that she simply found humans exasperating.
Now, one might imagine that witches spend their days concocting spells or brewing potions with mystical ingredients carefully harvested from faraway lands—an inspiring thought! The truth was much less glamorous. Seraphine found herself more mired in paperwork than potions; there were endless forms to fill out, permissions to acquire, and a relentless stream of unqualified applicants seeking transformative magic that wouldn’t turn them into toads. The bureaucracy of the Arcane Society was enough to make anyone reconsider their career path.
So, when a particularly desperate soul, a young lad named Alaric, staggered into her tower with a case of debilitating angst—disguised as a request for a simple love potion—Seraphine couldn’t help but be intrigued. “Ah yes!” she exclaimed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “A young man who believes his true love can be brewed in a cauldron! How original! Tell me, does your heart also require a pinch of salt?”
Alaric, deflated and utterly oblivious to the shades of her sarcasm, explained his plight: the village girl of his dreams had taken a liking to a dashing brigand with a smile so bright it could blind lesser men. “She’s supposed to love me!” he squeaked, as if this was some sort of universal law laid out by the elders of the village, which, of course, it wasn’t. Quite the contrary, it seemed.
Seraphine sighed, already regretting her next words. “So, you want a potion to make her feel the heart-pulling tugs of love that you so desperately feel for her? Does she even know you exist? Or are you just a shadow lurking in the bushes, waiting for her to notice you?”
Alaric blinked. “I’m not lurking! That’s not fair. I have feelings!”
“Ah, yes, feelings. The lead ingredient in many a love potion, I believe,” she said, tapping her chin. “Here’s an idea: why not write her a letter or have a meaningful conversation instead? Imagine how cute that would be! You could cry about your inadequacies in person!”
Naturally, he dismissed her sage advice—men often did, especially when dealing with a witch. Alaric plopped down a rusty handful of coins on her cluttered desk, coins that had probably seen more hard times than he had. “No, no, a potion! I must have it!” There was a determination in his eyes that spoke of naïveté, the kind that made Seraphine want to reach for her reading glasses and instruct him on the many ways life could cultivate despair.
“Very well, then,” she said, her tone dripping with reluctant interest. “You shall have your potion. Just this once, let’s have a little fun!” And with that, she began the elaborate ritual that involved far too much stirring and incanting for her taste, as well as the tossing of a handful of dubious herbs that smelled reminisce of an unsanitary barn.
Hours passed; the potion boiled and frothed. Its color transitioned through various shades of questionable hues—much like the emotional spectrum of young Alaric. Finally, she presented him with a small vial containing a viscous liquid that shimmered like a weak star. “This, my dear boy, is the essence of the fleeting emotion you so wish to be reciprocated. It may only last until the next full moon, or perhaps until she tastes it and decides she prefers the brigand.”
Alaric took it with trembling hands, practically shaking with glee. “You really think it will work?”
“Of course! It will work splendidly! Right up until it doesn’t! And remember, don’t blame me when she screams and runs off into the arms of that brigand!”
He left, buoyed with the elation of a fool who was blissfully ignorant of the chaos he was about to unleash. Seraphine, meanwhile, returned to her stack of unpaid bills and misplaced soul contracts, feeling oddly proud of herself for indulging in this little slice of drama.
Days passed. The moon waxed and waned, and tales of love—instantaneous, foolish love—began circulating throughout the town. Alaric’s foolishness had worked. The village girl, Cynthia, had taken the potion—bless her naiveté—and suddenly, amidst the chaos of the village square, she was besotted with Alaric, all charms and smiles, while the brigand reeled back, shocked by her sudden change of heart.
Seraphine watched the ensuing spectacle from the shadows, a smirk curling upon her lips. The villagers, being the astute observers they were, began to murmur about the enchanted state of the girl who had forsaken the brigand. They speculated about a witch’s influence, watching with wide-eyed wonder, while Seraphine rejected their assumptions, not wanting to associate herself with such mindless gossip.
But the tide of adoration swiftly turned. For you see, the thrill of enchantment is short-lived, and Alaric’s potion, while temporarily effective, couldn’t compete with the reality of love—or the lack thereof. As the moon shone bright above, it brought not the sweet sounds of love, but rather the shrill cries of betrayal when Cynthia, still intoxicated by the potion, discovered that she could not feign authentic affection—not even for the length of a baleful moonlight.
Chaos erupted. Alaric, who should have been the hero, stood paralyzed, caught in the crossfire of a love that wasn’t his own, too foolish to realize that the heart was not a thing to be commanded or controlled. Cynthia, with tears streaming down her cheeks, ran through the village, casting Alaric a gaze that could only be interpreted as bewilderment mixed with a hint of rage. Meanwhile, the brigand was not one to take such a betrayal lightly, especially after having spent an entire week perfecting his smirk.
Seraphine could only chuckle at the unfolding drama; the irony was rich enough to drown a man. “Oh dear,” she muttered, “it seems love potions are far riskier than amateur alchemy. Who could’ve foreseen that?”
By the time night descended, the village was in disarray, and the whole affair had become the fodder for the next tavern tale. Alaric, shoulders slumped and face red, made his way back to Seraphine’s tower, presumably to complain about how the witch had ruined his life. She could hardly wait to hear him complain, her heart warming at the thought of his naïve confrontation.
“You know,” she said, leaning against the doorframe as he stumbled in, “I think I could charge for my wisdom as well. You should consider it. After all, I gave you exactly what you asked for—a love potion.”
He exploded. “You didn’t warn me! You didn’t tell me it would end up like this!”
“Oh sweet, precious Alaric,” she said, waving her hands dismissively. “Why would I? You humans always need a catalyst, a little chaos to upset your dreary existences. And look at you! What a story you’ll have to tell! Think of the valiant knight’s tale you might spin when you’re forty and bitter!”
He gritted his teeth. “Do you not care about the destruction this has caused?”
“Care? Good heavens, no! It’s not my job to care, my dear boy. It’s my job to make sure that you understand that love cannot be forced, only experienced. And that, alas, is not something a potion can ever grant you.”
So it went on—Seraphine, the witch whose spells were often far more literal than they seemed, watching as Alaric navigated the wreckage of his dreams, while she returned to her paperwork, her eyes twinkling with mischief. She had successfully conjured a little drama, and sometimes those were the most potent spells of all.
Life, after all, was just a series of poorly edited stories, and she could play the role of the witch as beautifully as anyone could. And in a world desperately seeking magic, chaos, and some semblance of meaning amidst the absurdities, perhaps that was enough.