“A woman must not depend upon the protection of a man, but must be taught to protect herself.”

                                -Susan B. Anthony

White witches were frowned upon by the magical community. They lived to heal and protect those around them. Their objectives clashed with the dark ways of sorcerers, enchanters, and witches. They kept to themselves, deep in the woods. One could not merely stumble upon a white witch.

Their reclusive nature was not brought upon by preference. White witches were hunted by the community they used to call their own. Any creature willing to aid hunters was frowned upon, lest it be an angel.

Anja knew the stories well. They had been recited to her since her birth by her mother. She was bound to help the hunters by the blood magic of Morgan le Fay, the first of the white witches. “You must protect yourself,” her mother always said. The words echoed in her mind, a constant reminder of the dangers that lurked beyond the safety of her woods.

The old stories never failed to find their way to her. They whispered in her ear when she wandered the perimeter of the woods; always in her mother’s soothing voice. Anja gazed at the portrait of her mother over the hearth.

A heavy sigh passed her lips as she stood from the armchair. Her footsteps echoed throughout the lonely house. Anja had no qualms about living by herself, but at times, she wished for some form of company. She had taken to making friends of the critters that burrowed in the corners of her house.

Restlessness hypnotized her as she reached for her cloak. A little walk wouldn’t hurt. She thought to herself. “Great, now I’m talking to myself,” she muttered.

The air was thick with the scent of wet moss as droplets of water dripped from the leaves above her. A light fog had settled near the floor of the woods. She froze as her senses picked up on another presence. Her ears strained, catching the sound of dampened footsteps.

“Why, hello there,” greeted a cloaked man, “My name is Yamaa. What’s yours?”

“Anja,” she replied hesitantly.

“Anja. That’s a beautiful name. What are you doing out in the woods all by yourself?” he asked.

Anja stayed silent as she studied the stranger before her.

“You know,” he continued, “I’m pretty hungry. I haven’t had anything to eat in days.” Yamaa eyed her with a mischievous smile. “You look pretty tasty,” he muttered before launching himself toward her.

Anja raised her hands and willed forward a blast of energy. The impact with the stranger’s chest threw him into a tree. Her eyes watched warily as he slid to the ground. She noticed that he remained immobile after falling on his face.

She carefully walked towards the man and flipped him over. Her breath caught as she saw him at a closer proximity. He had a defined jawline, and his hair fell messily over his eyes. Anja felt something tug at her heart as she watched the rise and fall of his chest.

Reciting an old incantation she had learned from her mother, she levitated his body and walked back to her house. Upon returning, Anja laid him in her bed and washed away the blood that trickled from a small cut just above his brow.

Picking up a tattered, leather-bound book, Anja situated herself in a chair by the bed. She had been reading for what seemed like ages when a cough interrupted her. Her heart lurched as his eyes bored through her.

“A-are you okay?” she asked quietly.

“You’re not human,” he stated bluntly.

“No, not really,” she replied.

“Why did you help me?” he asked, propping himself up against her headboard.

Anja remained quiet as she played with the hem of her sleeve.

“You’re a witch,” he said pointedly. “Why are you out here by yourself?”

Anja looked at him in shock. “You haven’t heard the stories of old?”

“What stories?” he asked. He looked at her blankly as she gaped at him in disbelief.

“The stories of Morgan le Fay and King Arthur, of course!” she replied. “It’s the reason why white witches live a solitary life.”

“Oh, so, you’re a white witch,” he said.

“You’re not very bright, are you?” Anja asked.

“Did I mention that I haven’t fed in days?” Yamaa replied.

“Oh,” she mumbled. “Do you want an apple or something?”

A laugh escaped his mouth at her question. “I doubt an apple will do me any good. I need blood,” he stated.

Anja flushed as she realized the stupidity of her suggestion. She hurriedly walked to the kitchen and returned with a knife. A wince lined her features as she pressed the blade across her wrist. “Here,” she said, holding out her wrist to his lips.