by Sacchi Green
Men dove into the clear water to wash away the worst of the week’s dust, and the princess watched their easy nakedness with envy. She had seen so much of male bodies that their shape held no mystery for her, nor much interest. She only wished that she might bathe as openly, instead of stealing into the woods at night, scrubbing herself in icy streams or tepid ponds. She wandered the edge of the river now, sweat beading beneath her leathers, wishing she might strip and disappear beneath the gentle waves.
When she had walked a fair distance, the shouts and laughter of the men fading away behind her, something dark broke the surface of the water. The princess started as the witch emerged with her head tossed back, gasping for breath.
“My errant knight,” she said, blinking droplets of water from her eyelashes. “And here I thought I might sneak away unnoticed.”
“I do not wish to intrude.” The princess found her gaze drawn unwillingly to the witch’s bare shoulders, just visible above the water. “I shall leave you to the river.”
“Not one for swimming yourself?” the witch called out, even as the princess made to turn away.
“No, I…never learned.” This lie had worked with the men, and though she earned a fair amount of teasing, it meant that she could keep her clothing on.
“I can teach you, if you like,” the witch said, swimming closer. Her collarbones gleamed. “I was raised on the banks of the Western Sea. They say children there learn to swim before they learn to walk.”
The princess could not picture the witch as a small child in a common fishing village. She could not imagine her as anything other than this woman in the water, drawing ever nearer like a predatory mermaid. It made the princess take a nervous step back.
“I rather prefer the land, thank you.” The princess looked down the banks to where some of the soldiers had climbed out of the water, buckling into their mail and armor. “I think we are nearly on the move again as well.”
“Such a shame,” the witch said. “There is nothing so refreshing as a swim.”
With that, she walked calmly to the shore and stepped up onto the bank.
For a moment, the princess was so shocked that she could not look away. Water ran in rivulets between the witch’s full, dark-nippled breasts, over her curving stomach and ample thighs. Between her legs there was a thatch of thick black hair, glistening with water like a scattering of jewels. The princess realized that this was the only female body she’d ever seen, save her own. Did all other women look like this—as round and soft as sweet fruit ripened by the sun? More strange tattoos covered the witch’s legs, and the princess felt her lips part, wondering what those tattoos might feel like beneath her hands. Was the skin raised, or was it soft, or…
“Your face is red, my lad,” the witch said, stepping closer. The princess quickly turned her head but not before she caught sight of the witch’s breasts again, nipples hardened like black cherries. “Too much sun, perhaps.”
“You should exercise more modesty in the company of men,” the princess said, fumbling for words she imagined an earnest man might say, a man whose pulse was not fluttering like the wings of a moth. “Think of your virtue—”
“My virtue.” The witch laughed. “Yes, think of that.”
She was so close that the princess could smell her, and she smelled like smoke and soil and the river. The princess closed her eyes as the witch leaned forward, brushing a damp kiss against her cheek. Then the witch laughed again and walked away, hair spilling like ink down her back. The princess kept her eyes on the river. There was an ache inside her she had never felt before, radiating out from the wound on her leg, where rough hands had once smoothed cold clay.
That night, alone in her tent, she did not yearn for blades or weapons. She did not know the words for what she wanted.
The next battle was worse than the last. The princess lost count of the number of men she wiped off the edge of her sword. A particularly vicious soldier even attacked her horse, and the princess took his head off before he could do much more than scratch the beast. Still, the horse’s cries were terrible to hear. The princess got to her knees on the forest floor until she found that same gray clay, smearing it across the animal’s bleeding ribs. That seemed to calm him, and she rode through the aftermath, seeking out men in need of help, or men who were too slow in their dying. She saw the witch from a distance, burning sweetgrass at the feet of a crumpled body, performing her strange green-fisted ritual. The princess also saw the enemy soldier staggering to his feet behind the witch’s back, picking himself up with ruined hands and raising his dagger.
She was across the clearing in an instant, sword cutting the man down before he could take more than a step in the witch’s direction. The witch turned her head just in time to see the soldier bleed and fall, but the look she leveled at the princess was not grateful.
“The battlefield is no place for a woman,” the princess said, voice unsteady with fear and relief. Her sword was dripping scarlet.
“Nor for children,” the witch said, gesturing to the body over which she prayed. The princess had to cover her mouth with her hand. The boy was wearing armor, and the bright colors of their king, but he could not have been older than thirteen. How had such a child found his way into the army? The princess did not recognize him, but she felt like she should. She felt like she should have seen him and sent him home, where children belonged.
“I am sick to death of this war,” the witch said.
The princess leaned forward, offering her hand. She wanted to put the witch on her horse and take her far from the meat of the battle, take her somewhere where she might be safe.
But the witch shook her head. She looked away, returning to her prayers over boys that should not need them.
The princess rode away alone.
That night, the princess woke to find someone in her tent. She was sitting up and reaching for her dagger before her eyes adjusted to the dim firelight coming through the canvas. It only took a moment to recognize the figure crawling toward her, eyes wide and lambent as the moon. She was dreaming, she told herself, because she had had this dream before.
“What are you…”
“I cannot sleep while you lie alone in this tent,” the witch murmured, climbing boldly into her lap. “You are keeping me awake.”
She threaded her fingers behind the princess’s neck and leaned down, placing a biting kiss along her jawline. The princess gasped with shock, hands rising to the witch’s waist to push her away. Strangely enough, they held her in place.
“Yes, there.” The witch bit the other side of her neck, tracing the pain away with her tongue.
“I do not know how to…I’ve never…”
“I’ll show you,” the witch said, breath hot on the princess’s skin.
She took one of the princess’s hands and suckled at the fingers, a long slow slide of lips that made the princess cry out. The noise would not be contained no matter how she tried, and she heard some of the men chuckle around the campfire outside.
“Lift my skirts,” the witch told her, unashamed, and the princess did. She rucked up the heavy layers of wool, sliding her wet-fingered hand underneath and finding warm, bare thighs. Her hand traveled up those thighs of its own volition, and soon there was coarse and tangled hair against her fingertips. She had seen that hair when the witch stepped naked out of the river, and the thought of that moment made the princess cry out again.
“Inside,” the witch said, hips jerking slightly. “Put them inside.”
The princess pushed inward, finding warmth and wetness. She knew what men and women did together, and she knew what they did alone. There was a great difference between knowing, however, and feeling someone else’s pulse around your fingertips, sliding deeper and deeper until a dark-haired woman threw her head back and moaned brokenly.
Someone whistled outside the tent, but the witch did not seem to hear them. She clenched her thighs, raising and lowering herself over the princess’s fingers, and the pri
ncess felt something flare low in her stomach, a want so fierce it was almost pain.
“That’s a good lad,” the witch gasped. “There, yes, there.”
The princess wished to touch herself, but she wanted to touch the witch more. Her free hand tugged at the laces of the woman’s bodice until one breast spilled out, and she cradled it in her palm. The nipple was large and soft and dark, and when the princess grasped it, the witch gave a panicked little cry.
“Harder,” she said, and the princess squeezed her harder, the way she wanted to do on the banks of the river, her hands ravenous.
The witch leaned forward then, pressing their mouths together. The sensation was alien and yet so familiar, and when the witch licked her tongue into the princess’s mouth, the whole world went white-hot as a star. A cry was building low in the witch’s throat, the princess could feel it humming against her mouth, but it grew and grew until the witch turned her head and wailed, hips rocking, hands clenching on the princess’s shoulders. There was more laughter from the world outside the tent, but the princess barely took notice. The witch was kissing her slow and deep, her body pliant. When she pulled back, their eyes locked, and the princess saw shadows of a young girl from a fishing village, and a woman wet from a river, and magic both light and dark.
The witch put her hands on the princess’s shoulders, pushing her gently down until she lay flat on her back. She crawled forward then, spreading her skirts and her legs until she straddled the princess’s face, and the princess found her mouth full of wet flesh and salt-sweet hair. Skirts fell on every side of her, blocking out the light.
“Again,” the witch said. The princess parted her lips and tasted.
That night the witch showed the princess how to use her fingers and her mouth, how to touch her above and below to make her writhe with fearsome pleasure. The witch rode her tongue and her fingers and her thigh and her fist—pushing her down, pulling her hair, taking her again and again. As dawn approached, the princess found hands on the lacings of her tunic and the ties of her leggings and she was so exhausted and transfixed that she didn’t resist until it was almost too late.
“You must not,” she whispered. “There is something I have not—you do not know—”
“Hush love.” The witch arranged the princess on her hands and knees, kissing down her back. “Let me tell you a story.”
The princess tried to protest, but was shocked silent by the feeling of a hand on her bare stomach, traveling toward her ribs. It seemed a lifetime since she had been touched.
“Once upon a time, a daughter was born to a great king,” the witch whispered, pushing the princess’s tunic up across her back. The princess heard the words from a great distance, weightless and reborn. “This princess was tall and strong, and could wield a sword more skillfully by ten than many men by twenty.” The witch’s hand reached the binding keeping the princess’s breasts flat, but the princess barely noticed. The witch unfastened it with one hand, loosening the material until it slid to the ground. When she took one of the small breasts in her warm palm, the princess arched her back and nearly wept. It was if she had been dying of thirst since the moment she laid eyes on this woman, and was finally being offered wine.
“She had a strong jaw and a sweet voice.” The witch lowered her hands to the princess’s hips, easing her leggings down. “And when her father had no more sons to offer up in battle, the princess cut her flaxen hair and rode to fight for her kingdom.” The witch rolled the princess’s leggings over her thighs to her knees, gently guiding one leg free and then another. The princess felt as if she were watching someone else’s life, someone else’s naked body kneeling in a tiny tent, with a dark-haired woman crouched behind them. Her hips were jerking unthinkingly, knees trembling. No one had ever—she had never—
“Oh, please.”
“Of course, it is just a story,” the witch whispered, hands sliding between the princess’s shaking thighs. “But I would so love to meet a princess such as that. How…remarkable she must be.”
The witch knelt down and spread the princess’s legs. She pressed her mouth between them, and the princess was lost.
***
Grave news was carried on the morning wind, spreading across the kingdom like dry leaves. The king had sent messengers to every battalion with news to make a grown man weep: the princess, his only daughter, had been murdered by the enemy while she slept. Her body had been defiled in such a way that it was nigh unrecognizable, and the king burned the corpse in despair. He only hoped that this tragedy would inspire his armies to fight even more fiercely for their kingdom. The destruction of their enemies to the south was all that could bring the princess peace.
The soldiers wailed and cursed while the message was read aloud, swearing vengeance in one breath and murder in the next. Astride her horse, thighs still loose and aching, the princess wiped away a single tear. Then she pulled on the reins and turned her horse around.
It took no time at all to find her; the witch stood out like a smudge of black ink on clean parchment. The princess brought the horse up alongside her, but the witch kept her gaze straight ahead.
“Tragic news,” she murmured.
“I am sick to death of this war,” the princess replied, uncaring who heard.
This earned a sharp glance from her dark-eyed love. Love, yes—that was the word for it. The princess had finally found the words for what she wanted.
“As are we all,” the witch said. “If only there was someone who might speak against it. Someone the kingdom might heed.”
The princess rode beside her in silence for a moment, considering this.
“There is a rumor that my family is cursed,” she said. “That none of my line will ever ride away from battle.”
She stopped her horse, and leaned down. She offered the witch her hand.
The witch smiled.
Swinging her up into the saddle was as easy as breathing. Easier. The witch wrapped her arms around the princess’s waist, and the princess broke a curse.
THE PRIZE OF THE WILLOW
H. N. Janzen
There was once a couple who went to live on a small farm where there had been a great fire a hundred years before their time. Though the farm was far from any towns or settlements, the man had inherited it from his uncle, and both he and his wife being the youngest children in large families, they had moved to the remote place in the hope that they could make a better living than they might have at home.
As they traveled through the young woods between the last road and the house, the woman became quite tired, and they sat down to rest by a creek in the very center of the budding forest. She lay beside it for a spell, and as the early spring sun in the leaves lit up her hair, her husband was struck anew by her beauty. Though they had been married fifteen years, they had never had any children, and it was without any concern for the possibility of conception that they enjoyed each other. Sure enough, though, by the end of the winter, a baby girl was born to the couple. Her name was Agatha, and she was good.
Agatha grew to be strong and tall, with skin as tan as an acorn and long blonde tresses that she kept tied back in a braid. Her hands were rough from long hours of work, but her eyes sparkled with the curiosity and wonder of a girl half her age. She cared for the animals, threw herself into tending the crops, and had never been tempted to leave the farm by the visits they made to town to sell their harvest and buy what they could not produce.
Despite herself, though, it was the growing woods that held the most allure for Agatha. Every year, the new trees grew tall and strong as she did, and every year, when she could, she would remain out amongst them late into the night. Her parents warned her against these journeys, telling her tales of bandits and beasts, but when she was sixteen, her mother passed away, and by the time she was eighteen, Agatha tended the farm alone.
One warm summer night, after she had finished in the fields, Agatha decided that she had time to wander the woods. Past the birch with the crow’s n
est and through the shortawn meadow foxtails grew what Agatha estimated to be the oldest tree in the forest. The weeping willow sat in the center, long branches hanging like a veil. On the edge of its perimeter was a large rock that stretched from the earth like a giant’s thumb, and it was behind this that Agatha was seated when she saw the dryad.
First a foot emerged, then a leg, then hips. A woman’s hips. Agatha was transfixed as the dryad materialized out of the tree as easily as if she were stepping through a waterfall. Her skin was a deep brown, like the bark, but as smooth as a petal, and instead of hair, she had long, hanging branches just like the willow itself. As she lit on the roots of the tree, her full breasts bounced, and Agatha felt something stir within her that had never awoken before. She gasped, the sensation searing her, and immediately the dryad turned to the rock. Before Agatha could react, the dryad had closed the distance between them. The moment her eyes set on Agatha, she drew back.
“Wait!” Agatha cried out.
The dryad paused.
“My parents told me stories of the fair folk. By what manner do I keep your company? Is there a riddle or a quest? I will do whatever it takes, for I am all alone on my farm,” Agatha said.
The dryad stepped back tentatively.
“You are all alone?” she asked.
Agatha nodded.
The dryad smiled. “I am also alone,” she said.
The dryad claimed to not have a name, so Agatha called her Willow. She said that she did not remember the fire, but it had devastated the forest, killing the previous dryad and leaving only a handful of sprouting trees alive. As such, Willow, too, was alone. All she had learned about herself and her situation, she had learned from a nymph passing along the small creek that flowed through the copse. The nymph had advised her to avoid the violent humans, too, but like Agatha, she was lonely, young, and eager. Against any reservations she may have had, Willow agreed to see Agatha again, then again, and by the end of summer, Agatha had worn a path to her favorite tree in the middle of the woods.
