Forbidden Magic
written by Lizzie Scamander
Magic was always hated and feared in the Middle Ages, so that is why a 17 year-old witch is nervous as her magical symptoms become more and more pronounced than ever. And then she meets someone else with magic, someone who changes her life - changes her life a lot.
Last Updated
05/31/21
Chapters
1
Reads
595
The Girl With Not-So-Normal Abilities
Chapter 1
The thatched cottage had always stood by the forest. How it had survived the harsh, snowy storms of Winter, how it had failed to crumble in the wild, raging winds of Autumn seemed like magic. And perhaps it was. Because no ordinary people had lived in the cottage.
But now there was only one. Only one of them left, and this was a seventeen year old girl lying sound asleep on the straw pallet that was her bed.
But she was waking up. As the morning rays of sunlight crept into the one roomed cottage, she stirred, slowly opening her eyes and brushing the chestnut strands of hair from her face. She blinked, then propped herself up on her elbows. There came a snuffle from the corner of the room by the fire, and a stocky bulldog stood up, shaking its head and wagging its tail. The girl smiled. Sitting up, she stretched her arms above her head and yawned. Then she slipped off the pallet and hurried over to the fire to stir up the ashy embers. Soon flames sparked into life. The girl patted the dog's head then headed outside. Frosty dew carpeting the grass crunched beneath her feet as she walked, and the hem of the long skirt of her kirtle brushed the ground. She inhaled the cold, crisp air appreciatively, and felt pleasantly refreshed. Then she approached the edge of the forest and gathered up handfuls of pine needles and an armful of wood. It was slightly damp from the dew, but would soon dry.
Guinevere Blackwood's life was a daily routine. Every morning she would stir up the fire, go out to collect more wood, make her breakfast, feed the goats, and see to other additional tasks such as laying the floor with fresh rushes and pulling up vegetables from the garden. She was very used to it. But inside there was a flickering spark, one that was always there yet seldom unleashed. She knew she wasn't like the other ordinary peasant-folk around. She was very different from them.
For she was capable of very odd, somewhat magical things. She had always been like that, ever since her mother had been alive. But ten years ago her mother had died, and she had been left to live independently. She had done fairly well for a seven year-old, but life was still hard.
Guinevere headed back into the house and deposited the pine needles into the fire. They hissed as they made contact with the embers and began to crackle. She then laid the wood on top. Due to the dampness of it, the wood merely began to smoke, but hopefully it would soon catch. Standing up, she headed back outside, this time to the garden.
After she had satisfied herself with raw peas and tomatoes, she took a basket from inside and started walking toward the other cottages. They were quite far away from her home, but she still went there every morning. The bulldog,
IN PROGRESS
But now there was only one. Only one of them left, and this was a seventeen year old girl lying sound asleep on the straw pallet that was her bed.
But she was waking up. As the morning rays of sunlight crept into the one roomed cottage, she stirred, slowly opening her eyes and brushing the chestnut strands of hair from her face. She blinked, then propped herself up on her elbows. There came a snuffle from the corner of the room by the fire, and a stocky bulldog stood up, shaking its head and wagging its tail. The girl smiled. Sitting up, she stretched her arms above her head and yawned. Then she slipped off the pallet and hurried over to the fire to stir up the ashy embers. Soon flames sparked into life. The girl patted the dog's head then headed outside. Frosty dew carpeting the grass crunched beneath her feet as she walked, and the hem of the long skirt of her kirtle brushed the ground. She inhaled the cold, crisp air appreciatively, and felt pleasantly refreshed. Then she approached the edge of the forest and gathered up handfuls of pine needles and an armful of wood. It was slightly damp from the dew, but would soon dry.
Guinevere Blackwood's life was a daily routine. Every morning she would stir up the fire, go out to collect more wood, make her breakfast, feed the goats, and see to other additional tasks such as laying the floor with fresh rushes and pulling up vegetables from the garden. She was very used to it. But inside there was a flickering spark, one that was always there yet seldom unleashed. She knew she wasn't like the other ordinary peasant-folk around. She was very different from them.
For she was capable of very odd, somewhat magical things. She had always been like that, ever since her mother had been alive. But ten years ago her mother had died, and she had been left to live independently. She had done fairly well for a seven year-old, but life was still hard.
Guinevere headed back into the house and deposited the pine needles into the fire. They hissed as they made contact with the embers and began to crackle. She then laid the wood on top. Due to the dampness of it, the wood merely began to smoke, but hopefully it would soon catch. Standing up, she headed back outside, this time to the garden.
After she had satisfied herself with raw peas and tomatoes, she took a basket from inside and started walking toward the other cottages. They were quite far away from her home, but she still went there every morning. The bulldog,
IN PROGRESS
