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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 2 years

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Into the Woods

The path to its depths is deep and dark and dangerous.

This is part 14. We’re almost three quarters of the way through this long and winding story.

The Tale of the Cursed Raven:

Part 1 I Part 2 I Part 3 I Part 4 I Part 5 I Part 6 I Part 7 I Part 8 I Part 9 I Part 10 I Part 11 I Part 12 I Part 13

Dire,

When this letter finds you, time will have started ticking for me again. I will be gone, and the girl will be at your doorstep.

As per our arrangement many moons ago, I am entrusting you with the care of my apprentice. She is a mild-mannered little thing. She will work well and work efficiently if left to her own devices. All you need do is provide her with the basic necessities—food, water, clothing, shelter, and, of course, paper, quill, and ink.

But I am not writing to you out of kindness, nor as a courtesy. I am writing to you to give a warning: there is something unsettling about that girl.

Her stare wakes me in the dead of night. She’s sleeping by then, but I feel her gaze piercing me all the same. Those big, curious eyes, always wondering, and always wanting to know more. When she looks at me, I feel as though she is scraping talons across my mind, seeking a way in to steal away my thoughts.

She watches for fun. People, animals. When I take her into the town, she observes and asks questions. Too many of them.

Strange things started happening.

Rats infested our pantry, nibbling only at the pumpkins. The neighbors would mysteriously vanish. My eyes would spontaneously water.

I do not cry, Dire.

I thought her to be a child favored by misfortune.

Then I read her stories, and I knew it was no coincidence, nor a string of bad luck.

When she told of vermin seeking out a pumpkin carriage, she summoned the rats to her. When she wrote of people dying of heartbreak, they did. When she wished for sadness or anger or happiness, they would manifest and lead others down her desired path.

The weather, the world—they would not bend to her, no matter how often she described dark and stormy nights. Time and space are not hers to wield—but minds? Of that, I am uncertain.

She plants seeds that take root in the heart, then fester in the head. Drives people mad.

That girl has the capacity to be dangerous, Dire. The stories she spins can will people into serving as mere playthings.

I do not understand how it works myself. I believe she doesn’t yet know the full extent of her powers, either. She is too young, too naive. Perhaps that is for the better. For her, for us, and for all of Twisted Wonderland.

But even a storyteller cannot stop the hands of time.

One day, she will cultivate those powers. Whether they are used for good, for evil, or for something inbetween...

That is in your hands now.

Farewell.

I shouldn’t have let her out of my sight, Crowley worriedly fumes, chiding himself. He flies down a corridor, harshly raking fingers through his hair. It was foolish of me to think she would not act rashly.

He should have noticed the warning signs sooner. The loneliness, the mounting frustrations, the constant push to pursue higher heights, the blot.

What had happened that night? And what had been the missing piece that had fallen into place, the part required to make her magic work? What had stopped it all those times she had practiced?

He recalls the color of Nostalgia—a pleasant pink, rosy like the fondest memories. It had been fuzzy, but tingly and warm, if only for a few seconds before it escaped him and burst like firecrackers into the world. She could never quite get it to concentrate, to collect, and to stay that way.

But if she did… there’s no telling what she could drive a man or a monster to do.

Crowley shivers, batting the thought away as he descends upon the Mirror Chamber.

As usual, it is dim, darkness illuminated faintly by the flames set in sconces and crystalline lights. Floating coffins in a circle around the perimeter, and a grand mirror in the center. The Mirror of Darkness.

Crowley steps before it, bowing his head in reverence.

Please don’t come looking for me, Raven had pleaded in her note. This is something I have to do alone, and by my own hand.

Her voice had permeated in every letter, in each stroke of her pen. He could almost feel her leaping off of the page, could almost see her peering into him, silently pleading. Curious eyes, the sort that stared into his heart and soul.

Seeking something.

Please, Uncle.

A ghoulishly green face emerges from the depths of the mirror. Its features are carved from marble, eyes adorned in an intricate, swirling black lattice.

“Speak,” the Mirror of Darkness booms.

Please.

Crowley shakes his head.

… Forgive me.

“Show me Raven. Tell me where she has run off to.”

The face in the mirror pauses, silently searching for the answer. Moments later, his lips move, the reply falling from them heavy as stones. “... Impossible.

“What?”

“It is impossible to ascertain her location at this time,” the Mirror clarifies.

“Well, try again. Try harder!!”

“I have reached, and I have found nothing. Her presence is unknown to me.”

Everything in Crowley goes cold. His heart and his blood slow to a stop, his limbs turning limp and frigid. Goosebumps prick up on his flesh.

“Th-That... That cannot be. If her presence is unable to be detected, then that means she is...”

No longer a part of this world.

“... Alive. The raven is still alive.”

The headmaster jolts, jump-started again by sparks of hope. He practically seizes the Mirror by its frame, but—miraculously—restrains himself.

“The presence is faint, but I feel her,” it continues. “There is a great wall of magic, a force preventing interference. I know not how it was deployed, or by whom. It does not belong to Night Raven College. But she has fled beyond that barrier, beyond the boundary.”

“Beyond!”

The word carries in the cold quiet of the chambers, rattling the crystals on the grand chandelier hanging overhead. The dancing flames flicker, shuddering at the suggestion.

“Beyond,” the mirror confirmed. “Where exactly, I cannot say.”

“If that is all the information that you can provide…” Crowley doesn’t finish, letting the hopeful lilt in his voice speak for him. To his dismay, the mirror offers no more clues. The green faces fades into oblivion, leaving the headmaster alone.

Gears in his head turn. Spinning and spiraling as fast as they can.

It’s far too large of an area to scope out by my lonesome, he muses. I need more bodies to cover such an expensive swathe of land, but to endanger the students is… No, there’s no time to waste. A small elite team will do.

Crowley twirls his walking stick—an elongated, sleek ebony key, with a golden head and teeth. Magic spills out from it, emitting a faint glow.

Speakers all across campus come to life.

Crowley clears his throat, bringing his mouth close to the head of his walking stick—to his microphone.

“Ah-HEM!! Good morning, all. This is your oh-so-very kind headmaster, Dire Crowley, speaking.” He can already feel the collective, unanimous groans shared by his students and staff through the intercoms, but he presses on regardless. “I am here today with an important announcement.

“All classes are cancelled. This is a not a drill; this is a campus-wide lockdown. Students, please return to your dorms until further notice.

“Dorm leaders and staff, assist students to their rooms and ensure that the grounds are free of loiterers. Report to the Mirror Chamber when all your students have been filed away and safely accounted for.”

We’ll be going on a bird hunt.

Deep in the heart of the woods, someone rests by a great lake. The lake’s face shimmers and reflects the sky, a giant mirror throwing light and colors and shapes back from whence they came.

“Breakfast for you, my pretties,” they croon, their trill filling the forest.

Crouching, hand outstretched, they set bits of bread into the grass and bobbing upon the water. Wild birds collect around them, taking turns pecking at the morsels. Blue jays, robins, ducks.

Swans and doves.

Fragile and pristine little things, creatures yet to be soiled by the cruel world.

They chuckle, tossing their final chunk of bread into the lake.

“... Have you heard the Tale of the Cursed Raven?”

They whisper the question, which skips across the waters. The swan and the dove closest to her perk their heads up, keen on listening.

“Long ago, a loveless king was cursed to storytelling. That man would pass his burden unto another. Now a bird bears his legacy, making his story into her own.” They looked across the lake at something that none of their bird companions could see. “... It has yet to be finished, but I believe I know how it will end.”

Stories are set to repeat themselves, after all. And if that cowardly man failed to redeem himself, then...

“What do you think will become of her?” They weave their fingers through the water. It ripples, rings overlapping in the lake. The swan and the dove stare back at their visitor with curious eyes. “Straying from the path as she has...”

Defy the story, and the story will snap back, baring its teeth and claws to correct itself.

To put you back on its path.

“Do you think her deserving of a happily ever after?”

Rook had seen this scene play out before; countless renditions of it, in fact: Raven, a basket in hand, delving deep, deep into the woods.

So why is there such dread collecting in his stomach this time? Things writhing and twisting into chaotic knots. His huntsman’s intuitive is on overdrive, screaming danger, danger at him.

Yet as far as he can tell, this is nothing more than her usual stroll for ingredients for a new batch of enchanted inks. As quaint and as mundane as a sleepy Monday, a return to the norm.

He tenses from his hiding place, letting the cool shadows swathe his skin and conceal him from view. His heart stills in spite of his racing thoughts and the accumulating worry.

Rook waits.

From not far off comes faint rustling, then a whoop.

“Found some!” Broad-capped mushrooms, colored a startling shade of blue, are tossed into a basket.

Raven looks worse for wear.

Her feather shawl and impossibly black clothes are stained with dirt and smears of chlorophyll. Hair either clings to her face, which is damp with sweat, or sticks up, frizzing in the humidity. She’s dusty and haggard--but a single drop of joy lights up her entire face.

Raven leans against a tree trunk, producing a quill and a small booklet from within her shawl. The gemstone inlaid in her writing implement is still foggy with remnants of last night.

“Inky milk caps... check,” she murmurs, crossing it off of her list. The bird glances into her basket, taking quiet inventory of her collection.

A scattering of navy berries, a few cerulean wildflowers, a single stone that was tainted the faintest periwinkle, and then the mushrooms. Some vials of crystal clear water, not blue but a base in which to suspend it. Altogether, not a lot of ingredients to pick and choose from.

Raven bites her lower lip, nervously dragging her tongue along the back of her teeth.

There weren’t many natural sources of blue in nature. It was as though the sky had claimed most of the pigment for itself, leaving the rest of the world to scrounge for its scraps.

Think, think. Where else can I find this color?

Raven scrunches her brows, delving deeper and deeper into her brain to pull at budding suggestions. Alas, she comes away empty-handed, the residual frustration gnawing at her, and discarded ideas laying at her feet.

“.. Tch.”

She casts a forlorn look out upon the glistening lake. At first glance, it looks as blue as the sky—but she knows that it is only a trick of the light.

You just had to pick the hardest color, didn’t you? she scolds herself.

But nothing else would have been appropriate. Nothing else could encapsulate all the sorrow and the joy, could adequately tell her tale.

Maybe there’s something deeper in these woods.

Raven tucks her book and quill away, looping her basket of ink ingredients on her arm. She begins her shuffle around the perimeter of the lake. Her reflection in the water follows perfectly.

Every wobbly, uncertain movement.

This is where I was, once upon a dream.

Picking flowers with Rook. Floating in a boat with Jade. Flying freely, doing as she pleased and going wherever the wind took her. A dream so wonderful she never wanted to wake from it, and wished to chase it when she did.

She sets her jaw, determined.

“I can do this.”

She says it out loud, willing the dream to become reality.

“I can.”

Raven takes another step, and the forest exploded with shrill shriek. She yelps, slapping hands over her ears to block out the noise. It comes to her muffled, but stays just as desperate.

That’s…

She slowly lowers her hands—and sound slips through her fingers.

“… lp………………..”

Words spoken in bird tongue. High-pitched and frightened, young and confused.

“… elp….! Help me!!”

Raven’s spine stiffens, her head snapping in the direction of the call. The opposite way of the path she had been treading on.

Ignore it.

She bites her lip and wrenches away, guiltily shrinking into her shawl.

“… hurts… I-It hurts…”

Her foot crashes down on the spot.

“Mommy…! Daddy…! Where… where are you?”

She spins around, her ears straining to pick up more, her pupils pinpricks.

“Someone… A-Anyone…!!”

Raven is flying before she even knows it. There are no thoughts in her head, no hesitation in her gait, as she tromps through the forest, drawn by the cry.

“I’m coming…!! I’m coming for you!!” she shouts back. Raven is just as frantic and as lost as they are, voice warbling unnaturally. “Keep calling, keep singing—I’ll find you!”

The bird’s call is weak, but it grows in volume as she approaches. A vague murmur becomes a whisper, and the whisper, a sob in an empty room.

Distinctly there.

A feeble coo weaves through the thickets. So small that it would shatter from a sigh, fragile like a glass slipper.

With voice as her guide, she stubbornly presses on, fueled by foolish wish. To cradle and to mend, to restore what was lost.

“Here. I’m here.”

She pushes aside the last of the shrubs in her way. “I hear y—”

Raven stops when she finally sees it. Her stomach tightens into a knot.

“Oh… Oh no…”

Raven crumples to her knees.

A handsome baby robin small enough to fit in her palm lies in the grass. Its belly is a deep orange, bright against the dark feathers on the rest of its body. The bird watches Raven with wide eyes—round and dark, lit by a faint spark.

Its wings are askew. Twitching and tender, set at unnatural angles.

“They’re broken.”

“It hurts, it hurts,” the robin babbles, fighting back tears.

A million feelings seize her at once. She blurts out a hastily cobbled response, held together by pins and tape and patchwork.

But it is a binding promise, a vow.

“I-It’s okay!! Leave it to me, I’ll figure something out!”

Raven slams down her basket and hurriedly digs through it. Her mind is suddenly blank, as though all of her thoughts were notes torn out and crumpled into a ball, then discarded.

Plants, a rock, some water. All useless. No medicine, no first aid kit.

Think, think. What else is there? What else can I do?

She grits her teeth.

Gripping her skirt and anchoring it in one hand, she tears with as much force as she can muster with the other. A loud RIIIIIIIP resounds as a piece of cloth comes loose, then a second one.

“I’m going to reorient your wings, then bandage them. Please bear with me, it might be… uncomfortable.”

The robin flails against her as Raven scoops it up, her finger firmly holding the bird down. Fear and distrust flash through its eyes, spiking when she comes upon a wing. She holds her break and snaps it flush to the robin’s body.

A bloodchilling scream tears through the forest.

Raven winces, but wills herself to work quickly, while the robin is still stunned by pain. She weaves a cloth of her skirt fabric in a criss-cross on the wing, securing it with a bow at the end.

The same was done for the other wing—and by the time both sides were done, the baby robin was in shambles, more tearful than it had been to begin with. Pain barks through its small body, plunging talons into what remained of its calm.

“My wings,” it chokes out, “I can’t fly…!! I can’t go home!! I’m… I’m going to be left behind!!”

“No. No, that’s not true! Your wings… They’ll heal over time. You’ll be back in the sky in no time! Your family will come looking for you…!”

She reaches for the robin, laying a hand on its head, smoothing the feathers back. It kicks and screeches and bites, snapping at the air until its beak cut clean through her glove.

“My wings, my wings…! It hurts, it’s over, it’s over…”

The robin is delirious, speaking nonsensically and in circles.

Raven’s hopes sink, and she pulls her hand away, gently setting the robin back on the forest floor. It continues to wail, staring up at the sky through the crevices in the tree leaves.

A sky so blue and so beautiful.

You’ve done what you could, a part of her reasons. Leave it. You can’t afford to exert yourself any more than you already have.

Raven’s chest aches, pushing back against the thought. He’ll be easy target for the predators. And… this is no way for him to live, either.

A little bird that knew nothing of the world. Dazed, afraid, and lonely. Longing for something now far out of reach.

Hadn’t this been her own position not too long ago? Wasn’t it still where she stood now?

Bird and bird, soul to soul.

Herself reflected back in the face of a mirror.

… No. That’s not me, not anymore.

Raven harshly balls her hands, creasing her skirt. Dirty, disheveled, and distressed, she’s the pauper in any fairy tale—but the sweat upon her brow sparkles like a tiara, and she wears the muck like proud armor.

Her spirit shines as brightly as her eyes.

She draws her magical quill. Its gemstone lacks clarity, the color shrouded by black blotches.

“I won’t go,” Raven declares. “I won’t give up on you.”

“I don’t believe this.” Riddle angrily swats at a low hanging branch with his staff. It flings away from him before recoiling, almost claiming his head on the rebound.

“For classes to be cancelled,” the redhead grumbles as he stomps over a log, “and the dorm leaders to be sentenced to busy work…!! The headmaster’s priorities are all out of line. A tardy student should be located and disciplined, but surely it isn’t necessary to deploy this many…”

“Riddle-san.”

A little ways ahead of him, Azul has craned his head over his shoulder. His mouth is twisted into a wry smile.

I don’t like that look.

Riddle bristles, but allows his tirade die down into an inquisitive quiet. “… You seem oddly unperturbed by this turn of events. This is wouldn’t possibly be Octavinelle’s doing, would it?”

“Perish the thought. What could I possibly hope to gain from forcing a campus wide lockdown? The Mostro Lounge will receive no customers in these circumstances.” The sunlight catches on his lenses as he pushes them up, but obscuring his eyes.

“I understand how to keep calm in stressful situations. Why, you saw it for yourself. The headmaster was simply beside himself with worry at the emergency meeting.”

“This matter is hardly urgent,” Riddle scoffs. “Even if Raven is the headmaster’s relative, a single missing student does not make or break Night Raven College.”

“That was not the case for your Overblot, now was it? Nor mine.”

He twitches, riled by rage. “That is a different matter entirely. That was Overblot. We were… out of control. Out of our minds.”

“… Permit me to ask you this, then.” Azul makes a full turn to face his fellow dorm leader. “Do you believe there is a unique magic that is capable of controlling the world?”

“What sort of a silly question is that? Of course there is no such thing.”

Azul laughs airily. “Impossible, yes? No one, not even Malleus-san, has such power. But… what of the living beings that inhabit the world? Then it would be an entirely different story.”

“That would be in the realm of possibility.” Riddle pauses, narrowing his eyes. “… Where are you going with this?”

“You recall Jamil-san’s unique magic, don’t you? It can seize the mind of another person, turning them into little less than a puppet.”

“I am aware.” Riddle grimaces at the grim reminder. “How does this relate to our mission?”

“What if I were to tell you that Raven-san’s unique magic is just as dangerous? Through it, forcing one’s will is possible—for if one speaks to the heart, the mind will follow shortly after.

“Thoughts don’t always disappear. They will linger and influence us well after the magic has faded.

“Unending rage that reduces all to ashes. Sorrow so deep it floods the earth and drowns its people. Joy strong enough to lift the sun and the moon on its shoulders. It would be a rewritten world with us set upon paths predetermined, for emotion is the impetus which compels us to act.”

“You don’t mean…”

“That’s right.”

Hers is a unique magic that rewrites one’s emotions.

#twst oc #twisted wonderland oc #Raven Crowley #Azul Ashengrotto #Riddle Rosehearts #Rook Hunt #Dire Crowley #twst #twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #very mild spoilers for episode 6 😂#Tale of the Cursed Raven

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