Woven Magic

"Don’t bother with weaving magic, my dear," Gwen’s teacher said, apologetic and soothing all at once. "It is a weak and barely sought after craft, you’ll do better focusing your efforts on brewing like your grandmother or on enchanting items if you’d like to make things magical."

Her teacher’s hands reached out, overlapping Gwen’s clumsy attempt at weaving a friendship bracelet and gently taking it away.

Her teacher cooed softly when Gwen started to tear up, fat tears rolling down her chubby cheeks. Her best friend had gotten sick, and Gwen just wanted to give her something that turned all misfortune away and that kept her healthy and happy.

"You’ll thank me one day," her teacher said, pressing a quill into her little hands instead. "Focus on your studies, and you’ll do well."

Gwen sniffled and wiped her tears away and put on a brave face, but deep down, she felt like big hands had crumpled her together like a piece of paper and then tried to smooth her soul back out again. There were bends and crinkles now where none had been before, a child’s hopes crushed by soft and certain words.

The moment school was out, she hurried home, breaking out into tears once again once she saw her mother’s kind face.

"Oh, my sweet child," her mother whispered later at home, hugging her close "You’ll be a great witch one day, never doubt that. Come on, we’ll make this bracelet for your friend, and then we’ll brew her a healing tonic, alright? That will take care of the problem."

Gwen needed some coaxing to make a second attempt at a bracelet, and she wove so much magic into it that it gave off a soothing sensation just by being near it.

Gwen’s friend recovered well with the tonic, and she loved the bracelet, and they played together like always. Gwen smiled and laughed, and while her friend had soon forgotten the time she had been so very sick, Gwen kept remembering her teacher’s words.

And all throughout her time growing up, from the lessons she got from her mother, father and grandmother, all the way to the schools she visited for witch classes, one thing remained the same.

Everyone told her that she should not bother with weaving magic. That it created weak magical effects at best and nothing special at worst, and no one wanted that. People wanted spells and potions and enchantments. Everyone knew that.

Magic could do a great many things. If one knew the right runes, one could pin spells in place for a time, like shields or protective wards. Magic brought people back from the brink of death, helped communities rebuild after a great tragedy, and allowed many a young sorcerer to cheat at dice.

Gwen never told anyone but her parents that magic felt different to her. That sometimes she just wanted to pick up a needle and use a strand of magic instead of actual thread so she could make something that wasn’t quite an enchantment. She didn’t want to make a spell and just stick it to a surface until it wore off eventually.

Her parents did their best to support her, but they could not drown out the voices of everyone else. Gwen learned to keep quiet about her love for weaving magic, and she tried to soothe her crinkled soul by taking crafting lessons after school.

She learned how to sew and knit and crochet and whittle and carve and mold clay. Those lessons were more fun than her actual magic lessons because Gwen was, quite honestly, a terrible witch.

While her classmates made coin by selling cloaks lined with weak fire spells for warmth, performing in taverns with sparkling illusions, or, if they were especially talented, working in apprenticeships with powerful mages, she was struggling.

In all honesty, it was a minor miracle that, once graduation was upon her, she managed to pass at all. Barely, mind you, but she did pass with grades so shoddy she knew no one would want to hire her.

"You’ll figure it out," her teachers had told her, giving her awkward smiles. "Some people find their talents later in life."

"Maybe you should help your grandmother for a while," her father suggested when Gwen came home, exhausted and feeling kind of hopeless. "She’s been talking about retiring eventually for a while now, you know?"

Potions were about the only thing Gwen was somewhat decent at, and even that was only because she had grown up being taught by one of the greatest potion makers of their coast.

So she packed her bags, her grandmother more than happy to welcome her, and she left.

Her grandma really was intending to retire, and she showed Gwen the ropes, spending months teaching her the finer details of running and managing the shop, along with brewing tips and tricks the teachers hadn’t known.

"You’re good enough now," Grandma proclaimed one day, two years later. "I’ll leave the shop in your hands; I’m sure you’ll do fine. And if you ever need one of the really dangerous and complicated potions made, call for me, and I’ll swing right by."

Gwen made sure to smile at her grandmother and bite back the soul-deep doubt that she’d be good at this. She just hoped she’d be reliable enough that she’d keep the store up and running.

Her grandmother swiftly left to go traveling and visit friends and  bicker with an old rival of hers that Gwen was willing to bet would end up being her lover once both of them got their heads out of their asses. Seriously, the tension between them was ridiculous.

Gwen meanwhile tended to the shop by herself, days passing by until they all ran together. She kept making things outside of potions, knitting cute little hats she ended up selling in the shop as well, along with mittens and wooden pendants that she had carved into various animal shapes with great care before painting them delicately.

It was a quiet life. Not necessarily a happy life, but Gwen was alright with that. She was willing to settle for the fact that she was content enough most days and that her crinkled soul didn’t bother her too much.

Sometimes she got annoyed at that feeling within her chest, frustrated that something a trusted and beloved teacher had said to her when she had been but seven years old still haunted her so vividly to this day.

It was, quite frankly, stupid to still be upset about the fact that the world had no need for woven magic. That the thing she was actually good at was the one thing no one wanted. She told herself that being sad didn’t make things better, and she did her best to try to find joy where she could.

Gwen’s life was so mediocre and predictable in its steadiness that the day the sky exploded into violently flung spells, she nearly fell off the stool behind the counter. Hurrying outside, she stared up at the sky with wide eyes as two mages battled it out with such intensity that the air itself grew thick with power.

One mage was dressed in the colors of the Bone Cult, an organization that had devoted itself into cutting people open and making them into mindless servants. Puppets to build them an empire.

She had no idea who the other mage was, but the boy had a shock of bright red hair and was easily one of the most powerful mages Gwen had ever come across. The battle was fierce, and halfway through, Gwen was forced to toss up some wobbly shielding spells to keep the shop safe.

A couple of scared residents hurriedly sought shelter within the potion shop while Gwen stayed outside, watching nervously.

At long last, after a heaving, powerful wave of magic as large as a mountain that made Gwen feel as though she had suddenly gotten crushed to the bottom of the ocean, the evil mage was defeated.

People cheered and crowded around the kid when he floated down, only for him to collapse the second his feet touched the ground. Gwen hurriedly fetched some potions when someone called for her, and the kid was ushered away to rest once he was up again. She watched as the proper authorities came to claim the unconscious but not dead evil mage.

To her surprise, the guy was the leader of the Bone Cult, one of the greatest monsters to ever live, and he had been undefeated for nearly seventy years, his reign of terror uncontested. Until now.

Frowning, Gwen hesitantly returned to her shop, and for days the magic of the fight lingered in the air, slowly dissipating. A couple of sorcerers and witches passed through to ensure the lingering energy would do no harm, and life returned to its steady, reliable rhythm.

At some point, she put up a few flyers around town, letting people know she was looking for some help in the shop. Money was coming in reliably, but Gwen held no love or passion for potion making, and she would love to have an extra set of hands around to make things easier.

To her surprise, when she emerged from the back of the shop a few days later, the young, powerful mage stood in her shop. He looked exhausted, she thought, dark shadows hanging under his eyes and his red hair limp and without shine. It was long enough that it looked like he was trying to hide behind it.

There was a grim downturn to his mouth, and as she looked at him, she was startled to realize that he was younger than she had thought at first. Tall and lanky, his eyes more troubled than most adults', the boy was no older than fifteen at most.

"Are you still hiring?" he asked, and his voice was quiet and a little rough. He sounded like he was expecting to be told no, a tense wariness to his shoulders.

"I am," Gwen answered, coming to a stop at her usual spot behind the counter. "I could use someone to dust the shelves, help with gathering herbs, and otherwise lend a hand with the upkeep and care of this place. Does that sound like something you'd want to do?"

If he proved himself adept, she was even willing to let him take care of the simpler potions and salves and tonics.

The boy blinked in surprise, and now he looked so hesitantly, achingly hopeful that Gwen got the sudden urge to stomp outside and find someone to punch in the face. His parents, maybe, or his teachers. A kid that young, hell, no person ever, should look like this when offered the barest courtesy.

Gwen wasn’t even being particularly kind right now; he was the first person who had shown up who seemed to be genuinely interested in the position.

"It does," he said quietly, and she noticed the way he had pulled the hems of his sleeves over his fingers, worrying at the fabric with his nails. A nervous habit, quiet and hidden.

When she told him what she’d pay him, he didn’t even argue or haggle or anything, just nodded hurriedly as though he feared she’d change her mind.

And just like that, in the span of two minutes, Gwen had gained aid for the shop. The boy’s name was Herald, and he struggled with looking her in the eye even as they shook on it.

Gwen didn’t mind that he kept his sleeve pulled over his hand when he reached out, not when she noticed the still-healing pink scars on his fingers when he pulled back. It seemed he had gotten rather hurt during his fight against the Bone Cult leader.

Over the next couple of weeks, as Herald came by to help, Gwen realized a couple of things. Herald never spoke loudly, and it took him a while to relax enough that his shoulders weren’t constantly knotted with tension. He was very thorough with his tasks and did everything exactly as asked.

He never smiled, and he flinched whenever someone came up behind him without him noticing them beforehand, so Gwen made sure to walk with a bit of a stomp whenever he seemed preoccupied or distracted.

And most of all, he never wanted to go home.

Gwen had no idea how it happened – only, no, she knew exactly how. All it had taken was one look at that grim, exhausted face, shadows still under his eyes, and his great reluctance to leave when she locked the shop up early due to a heavy, continuous downpour, for her to fold like wet paper.

He followed her when she told him she’d make dinner and he was welcome to wait out the rain at her place. He helped her cook and ate with careful bites. He even washed the dishes with her without being asked.

When she sat down to knit, he seemed content to curl up on her worn couch with a book while the fire crackled merrily.

At one point, Gwen glanced over and blinked in surprise to see the kid asleep. She kept knitting, keeping quiet as she finished another cute hat.

It was stupid; this wasn’t her kid, nor was he her responsibility, but as he slept, she selected yarn in his favorite color. Or, she hoped it was, since he was wearing a lot of dark forest green. She made sure to pick the softest wool she had.

And she knew woven magic was unwanted, that people preferred to put magic into spells or distill it into potions, but she found she wanted to do it anyway. She tried to weave comfort and safety as she knitted, hoping the wearer of the sweater would feel protected and surrounded by care and love at all times.

Gwen was a good and fast knitter after years of making all kinds of things, and with Herald actually sleeping for once, looking exhausted and far too small for his lanky frame, the sweater took shape at a steady pace.

At one point, Gwen fell asleep with her knitting in her lap, and when she woke in the morning, Herald was still there. He was bleary and surprised when he woke to the smell of breakfast, and then he immediately was embarrassed.

"I fell asleep before I could wake you," Gwen said. "I meant to send you home before it got too late."

She hadn’t woken Herald at first because she had thought that he needed the rest, and then she had dozed off herself. She doubted that he minded, though: he was never in a rush to leave back in the shop, always lingering and finding just one more thing to do before he had to go.

She couldn’t remember the kid ever smiling.

Barreling over his meek protests with all the bullheadedness her family was known for, Gwen ushered him into the bathroom to freshen up and plated him a hearty breakfast. She didn’t care that he didn’t eat much despite his best efforts, all that she cared about was that he seemed a little less weighed down when they went to work.

Herald went home that day, but the next he lingered after work again. Before she knew it, Gwen told him she wanted to try a new recipe and she needed a poor sod to play taste-tester.

He ate better this time and again fell asleep curled up on her couch, a book clutched to his chest this time. She knitted until it got too late, and then she spread a blanket over him and went to sleep.

He mumbled an apology the next day, and she waved him off, plating breakfast and slowly getting a feel for what foods he preferred. Oh, the kid never once made a peep that he didn’t like something, and he dutifully ate what he was given, but he did have preferences.

It made her seethingly furious that he had learned to choke down things he hated as though he had never been given a choice in the matter. As though he had never been allowed to not like something. And didn’t that paint a pretty picture of his upbringing?

Before she knew it, she kept waving him up to her apartment after work, and slowly, he looked less wan and exhausted. Slowly, he looked more and more like a kid his age should, even if he had defeated one of the worst mages of the last several decades. Which, for that matter, why had he been all alone up there in the sky?

Herald never talked about the fight or about having studied magic. In fact, Gwen never saw him do any magic at all. It took her an embarrassing amount of time to figure out why. He had burnt his magical pathways to shit when he had heaved everything he had had up and out in order to defeat the leader of the cult. There was a good chance he might never be able to perform magic ever again.

Gwen didn’t bring any of that up because the kid clearly wasn’t ready to talk about that, and instead, she slowly but surely saw the boy come out of his shell. He stopped tensing and ducking his head, shoulders hitched up protectively. He stopped speaking quite so quietly and was less rigid about doing things exactly as told.

And despite it all, Gwen only realized the kid had essentially moved into her apartment above the shop when she stood in front of the spare room she used for storage and considered clearing it out so he could have it.

She had to sit down and panic for a bit, questioning herself and her decisions. And yet, in the end, she still carried out all the crates and boxes and even a couple of old artworks and cleaned up the room.

Herald, who had gone out to buy food, was confused when she told him to come to the market her the moment he was back. When they stopped by the carpenter and she told him to tell the man what furniture he wanted, she saw him stare at her wide-eyed.

"You might as well stay," she said, trying for nonchalant but probably missing by a mile. She had no idea what she was doing, if she was being honest. Semi-adopting a kid had not been on her agenda, ever.

She was a shit witch who was good at nothing. She was barely okay enough at potion making to keep the shop up and running. Her life was so bland that some days she hated it viciously, and her soul felt all crinkled and wrong.

And yet, despite all that, she did not want the kid to go back to a home that he hated. A home that had painfully obviously failed in being everything the kid needed.

She pretended she didn’t notice him tear up, and they commissioned the furniture, and afterwards, she took him clothes shopping. The kid needed some stuff if he was going to stay at her place whenever he wanted.

He fell asleep in front of the fire again that night, and Gwen at last finished his sweater. It had come out very well-made, she had to admit, and she felt briefly proud of herself. She folded the sweater up and left it at the foot of the couch with a note that it was for him, covered the kid up with a blanket before she went to sleep.

Herald was wearing the sweater the next day, and she felt quietly happy about that. Gwen hadn’t gotten to make many things for the people in her life.

Her mother had always been happy to receive her gifts, bragging to others that her daughter had made them, but even she only needed so many things.

Gwen had even overheard her getting into a fight when an aunt had sniffed and remarked that there was no need to make things sorely by hand when they had spells to do most of the work.

Her father had never been one for handmade gifts, always smiling politely whenever he received something, but then Gwen never saw the items again. They had probably gotten stashed away in some forgotten corner. Or thrown away.

And now she had a clearly traumatized fifteen year old living with her, and she was terrified that she was going to mess it up. That she was going to make it worse.

Herald’s parents at least never showed up to demand him back, not even when he moved in for good. He brought a bag full of possessions with him: books and clothes and an old toy that looked like someone had once tried to throw it away and he had fished it out of the gutter.

The new furniture arrived a day later and was carried up by two helpful lads. Gwen had made Herald a few carved decorations in the meantime so he could pretty up the place, as well.

No one was allowed to judge her for that, though she had maybe had a few anxiety-riddled nights in which she had panicked because she knew nothing about child rearing and especially nothing about how to look after an abused kid.

But Herald was here, and she’d sooner carve out her own heart than tell him to leave.

It wasn’t all easy. Herald was terrified that he’d end up kicked to the curb if he messed up, so Gwen dealt with his old behavior resurfacing with a vengeance. The quiet voice, the hunched shoulders, the tension. The dedication to do exactly as she asked.

But it got better, and she kept making things whenever she couldn’t sleep from worrying about the health of what was essentially her kid now. She was not giving him back to his parents, that was for damn sure, and he was going to stay for as long as he wanted to.

Slowly, Herald told her bits and pieces of what had happened to him. Of harsh training, of knowing he had to fight because he was the only one strong enough. That his magical reserves had been large enough to take on one of the world’s greatest evils all by himself.

He had nightmares, and he once admitted that he was relieved that Gwen never did any magic around him. It was probably the first time in her life that her utter incompetence at spellcraft was a good thing.

Gwen found herself weaving magic into every wooden decoration she carved, every sock she knitted, and every rip she repaired, and every coat and jacket she sewed for Herald.

She just wanted a little bit of magic to cling to the things she made, even if it wouldn’t be much at all. She wanted nothing more than to wrap the kid in love and protection and the unshakable, undeniable knowledge that he would be shielded for once. That he would not have to fight anymore, that someone was fighting for him at long last.

Even if she was the worst witch her family had ever seen, she’d fight tooth and nail for him. Quite literally, too, most likely, since she might as well skip trying to cast shoddy spells and, instead, throw a punch right away.

Slowly, the two of them settled into a new life until Herald came home one stormy, raining day, wild-eyed and clutching the hand of an equally wild-eyed little girl.

"Please," was all he said, dripping water pooling around his feet. He looked half ready to grab the girl and run away, to hide and protect her, even as his fingers trembled, and he stared at Gwen like he hoped she would save him again.

"Alright," she said because she couldn’t not, and she grabbed them both a change of dry clothing and set them down in front of the fire with a bowl of warm food.

The story tumbled out of Herald the moment she sat down across from them. The girl’s name was Violet, and she was, like him, a magical prodigy.

"I am proficient in war magic," Herald said, and his grip on his bowl was white knuckled. "She’s..." He broke off, and instead, Violet spoke up for the first time.

"Death," she whispered, staring down at her stew like it would rise to shield her if she just held it close enough.

Gwen had to grit her teeth against a wave of fury and sadness. "Well, you’re none of that here," she said so firmly and with such an underlying fierceness that the girl looked up at her, eyes big and with that aching hopefulness of a child desperate for someone to care for them.

"You can stay here," Gwen decided, even though she was panicking in the back of her mind. "For as long as you like, or even forever. You’re safe here." She’d get her mother to send a couple of guarding stones so she could ward the house, just in case.

Violet broke into tears, and Gwen and Herald hugged her, and as Gwen held both kids close, she vowed fiercely to protect them with everything she had.

The apartment, however, wasn’t big enough for all of them, so Gwen ended up looking for a different place for them, leaving the shop in Herald’s capable hands for an hour here and there as she talked to people.

It was different, adjusting to having a small kid underfoot, but Violet was smart and bright, and once she healed a little, she smiled easily.

Gwen found a house at long last, and to her surprise, her family helped her buy it.

"You shouldn't have to pay rent when we can pitch in, instead," her mother’s voice rose with genuine disdain from the voice stone that had stored her message until Gwen touched it, delivered along with a bag of gold. "I’m just glad you’re looking for a nice big place for yourself."

Gwen hadn’t yet told her about the kids she had taken in, unsure how her family would take such news. Her mother was supportive, but it was one thing to run a reasonably okay-doing shop by herself, and quite another to feed two growing children. But she was glad for the money, and immediately went to buy the house.

The owner hadn’t cared if he’d got to sell it or rent it out, so long as he wouldn’t have to care for it any longer. Violet was excited when they explored their new home, and for the first time, as they moved furniture and got settled in, she got to see Herald smile.

Gwen rented the old apartment above the shop out to two tired students, and between weaving magic into the things she made for both her kids, she brewed enough potions to keep earning money reliably.

As soon as Violet had come fully out of her shell, she brought a street girl home, determined and yet afraid of overstepping at the same time. Her name was Mariette, and she looked like she was maybe, possibly, around eight years old.

Gwen looked at the thin girl who had scars that peeked out along her shoulders, most likely stretching down her back. Fury and horrified nausea took hold of her, and she immediately decided that the girl was going to stay, if she wanted to.

Before she knew it, Gwen’s house became known as a safe haven for kids who had nowhere else to go. One winter, just before a blizzard hit, a desperate child named Ash knocked on her door, crying as they told her they had nowhere else to go. That they didn’t want to hurt people anymore.

Gwen calmed them down enough for them to tell her the whole story, and afterwards, she had to go into her workshop and carve away at wood and stone until she no longer felt like she was going to commit murder.

She made more potions to support the kids, and one day, Herald whispered that his magic was coming back.

"I don’t want to use my magic ever again," he said, quiet and tense. He was a boy of seventeen now, and he had grown to be taller still.

His hair had grown out long, and he loved to put it into elaborate braids and to decorate it with clasps and rings. She had overheard quite a few young folk his age whispering and giggling over how pretty he was, voices admiring and just a little bit smitten.

"Then don’t," she said simply. "This is your life, Herald, and anyone who tells you otherwise can go eat shit."

His breath escaped him in one big, relieved rush, and the tension seeped out of his shoulders. He smiled at her. "Thanks, Mom."

Gwen wasn’t tearing up. She absolutely wasn’t, damn it. Herald got up to hug her, and quickly, the other kids filtered in to do the same, all of them calling her mother. They were far too sweet, and she very much was not crying, no matter what anyone else said.

She loved these little terrors so damn much.

Gwen’s life was good, now. She was happy, even if she held no love for potion making, almost disliked it, in fact, but the kids made it worth it. And if her handmade creations had a large shelf in the shop now, well, people bought them, so why not.

Her kids ran around in clothes she had either made or mended, wearing jewelry she had made for them, and they were laughing and happy.

Magic couldn’t be woven into something great, but sometimes, Gwen liked to think that maybe an echo of her hopes and wishes for the kids managed to cling to their things, anyway. That they helped them sleep better at night and made the rough days less bad.

All was good until one day, three people darkened the doorstep of her shop. Considering the way Herald, Violet, and Ash all went very still, eyes horrified, she could venture a good guess as to who they were.

"He’s not yours," a man who was visibly Herald’s father said, staring down his son past her head like she wasn’t even there. "And we need him. The Bone Cult is on the rise again, and if he doesn’t fight, countless innocent people will be slaughtered."

Gwen knew her boy. She knew Herald had a soft, kind heart that bled for anyone less fortunate than he. He was always so willing to give to others, helping wherever he could.

She could sense his surrender even before his father finished speaking. She knew her boy would go without protest, to be once again dragged into war and bleed and possibly even die for it, just to save others.

"Violet’s talents are indispensable for creating cures against necromancy and for putting a stop to vile souls," a stern woman with a heavy magical presence said next. Most likely a teacher of some kind, for she and Gwen’s daughter looked nothing alike.

Violet was hiding behind the counter, Gwen noticed that from the corner of her eye, her little face terrified. Violet wouldn’t fight back, she was too scared of her own magic and had refused any and all lessons with vehemence. She, like Herald, never wanted to use it ever again.

And Ash, sweet-natured Ash, had a strong, resilient mind for a child and an even stronger talent for breaking the minds of other people. Ash, who had woken from nightmares, retching and trembling, and who hadn’t calmed down for hours. Gwen wasn’t letting the person who had come for them speak a single word more.

"Out," she snarled in a tone she had never heard from her own throat, a protective fury rising within her so strongly that she felt like a dragon, ready to spit fire and bite and tear until the threat was gone and eradicated. "You are not welcome here."

"You cannot stop us," Violet’s teacher said mildly, dismissive and almost bemused. "We know of you, Gwendolyn the Talentless. The witchless witch. You are wholly unsuited for magic and especially for magical combat."

That was all true, Gwen knew that, but she refused to budge, her magic coiling and rising within her. The irony was that Gwen had never been a weak witch. She had solid magical reserves, coming from a magically strong family. By all means, she should have been a good witch.

Her magic unfurled like a massive flower, reaching out to spread and cover everything around her, from the shelves she had made for the shop a year ago, to the repaired floor and walls and the things her children wore.

"They are not yours, they’re my kids," she answered sharply. "And you cannot take them."

And behind her, around her, above and below, lined and woven into everything, her magic pulsed back at her. Every strand of magic she had pressed and brushed into and wrapped around everything she had made rose up and came to life.

Guarding wards sprang forth, made of love and fierce protection, engulfing the kids and the space around them like warm hugs and good food and quiet, gently happy days.

Every bit of fear and terror and hopeless helplessness was drowned out by a sudden rush of home and belonging and comfort, like being welcomed inside after getting drenched by cold rain, a fire crackling merrily in the fireplace.

And just like that, her shop had turned into a fortress of tightly-woven magic. It wasn’t the result of spells; spells could have been countered or broken. This was something else. This was every hope and dream and wish Gwen had ever had while making things with her own two hands come to life.

This was the line she had drawn between her children and a cold, cruel world that had failed to treat them with the kindness and love they deserved, and it would not yield.

All three adults stumbled back, eyes wide as they stared at her in horrified awe.

"Don’t ask children to fight your wars for you," she growled, her magic growing and billowing up until it felt like it was enveloping the entire house, a bubble of something so tightly woven nothing could have slipped through. "Don’t you dare come back here for my kids. You will hurt them never again."

They believed her, even though they didn’t want to. She could see it in their eyes when they looked from her to the guarding wards. They could see how the magic wrapped around each kid, a protective force that surrounded them with all the endless love of a parent, unwavering and rock-steady.

No matter what might happened to her or where she was at the time, her magic was woven into everything, and it would rise to defend her children again and again, no matter what. No matter who came to try to harm them.

Because she wanted them to be happy and loved. She wanted them to know that they were safe, that they would never be hurt by anyone again.

At last, she watched the adults retreat and leave, looking dazed and angry and baffled-confused all at once.

Arms wrapping around her drew her out of her protective stance, and before she knew it, her kids were hugging her, Mariette emerging from where she had hidden in the potion brewing room to join them.

"You’re safe," Gwen said quietly as she held them, and they cried. The tears weren’t just tears of fear, but also of relief. Her kids were slumped against her as though a great, massive weight had been lifted from their shoulders.

"You’re safe," she whispered again, and she could see that at long last, they truly believed it.

As she held them, whispering that everything would be alright, that they were free, that they were loved, her own soul felt like it smoothed out again for the first time since it had gotten crinkled when she had been a small child herself.

Because people had been wrong, she realized. Everyone in her life had been wrong. Magic could be woven into something powerful and grand, as long as it was done with love and care. As long as one didn’t force it to be something and, instead, just let it decide its shape on its own.

"I love you," she whispered to her children when they stopped crying at last. "And your monsters are never coming back."

Not when they knew they stood no chance. Not when they had felt what her magic had done and become. Not when they knew that it would always and forever stand between them and her children, wrapping around them like a warm blanket at the end of a long, tiring day.

"I want to do that, too," Violet whispered, half muffled with how she kept her face hidden. "I want to do that kind of magic."

For just a brief second, Gwen felt the knee-jerk reflex to tell her it wasn’t a good idea. To repeat all the denial and refusal she had been subjected to throughout her life.

But... none of those people had been right. Just because they had failed at weaving magic into something worthwhile didn’t mean that no one else would succeed. Gwen had seen proof of that just minutes ago.

She smiled down at her daughter and said, "I’ll show you how I do it."

And her kids smiled back, and that night, for the first time, Gwen allowed herself to really talk about what she was doing as she taught them various crafts. How to take strands of their magic and add them to what they were doing.

Her little show at the shop hadn’t gone unnoticed, either, and soon people swarmed to her, hoping to get one of her crafts for themselves. Before she knew it, the potions disappeared from the shop, and instead, the shelves filled with knickknacks and clothes and all kinds of things she had made with her own two hands.

"Well," her mother said when she visited, startled to find she had become a grandmother all without knowledge and thoroughly scolding Gwen for thinking that those children wouldn’t be wholeheartedly welcome. "It seems everyone was wrong."

Her mother then smiled, a little sharply, and her eyes became pleased. "Good, let them eat their words for what they had done to your spirit." Her mother’s fingertips brushed over a downy jacket on a shelf, and she looked up at Gwen, her eyes softening. "Ah, at long last, I see my daughter truly happy."

She was, Gwen realized. The joy her children had brought into her life was now made complete by her getting to do the thing she really loved for a living.

Something she was actually, genuinely, really damn good at. She was surrounded by love and pride, for both her children and her work and, at long last, she was completely and entirely happy.

Her mother smiled, the sort of wide, toothy smile Gwen rarely ever saw. "I’m proud of you." And before Gwen could tear up, she added, "Now, let me meet my grandchildren, they sound delightful."

"They are," Gwen said, and before she could stop herself, she grabbed a dandelion-yellow cape and threw it around her mother’s shoulders. It was her favorite color, after all. Bright and sunny and filled with the hope for equally bright and sunny days. "For you."

Gwen pretended she didn’t see the reverent way her mother touched the cape or how she teared up and instead marched ahead to where her children were curiously peeking out of the backroom. And, well, if she was smiling so wide it hurt, she really had every reason to.

For how could she do anything else when she loved her life and the people in it?