[ WP ] Evil is its own kind of beautiful .

Her name now is the Witch. She hates it: Vuen knows she does, because when she hears the title—the name—her face shifts in the way she holds her mouth and eyes, and there is a strange line to her posture, but she accepts it. 
 
 `` Vuen,'' she says, at night, when they are pressed against each other, eyes weak and vulnerable in the way she never is otherwise, `` say my name.'' 
 
 Vuen does. 
 
 -- -- - 
 
 Vuen has loved the Witch ever since they were young, with knobby legs and long hair. She remembers their earliest kisses, then, exchanged between them without question. After some time, when their legs grew longer, and they wore their hair up, they stopped. 
 
 The times then were still full of fondness, though restrained. The hold of a hand became a brush of the fingers; a hand on a cheek became a touch of the hair; the way they had rested on each other before dissipated, but they smiled at each other, and in there was the unspoken leaning. 
 
 When she had to go back home, they wrote letters, and often, the Witch would send her poetry, written in that incredibly elegant handwriting, ink and loops: soft phrases, curved, and so quietly tender that Vuen never really bothered to write poetry in reply, though she too had learned how to write the sian and the rekil. She had tried to send her a poem, once, and felt her message dilute within the confines. 
 
 I miss you dearly, Vuen wrote, instead; the Witch replied a month later with a letter charming as the rest, ended with a cutting and beautiful poem about the sun and the moon, and to wait, and to never end. The only thing they had in similar, their words, was the unmistakable whisper beneath. 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- 
 
 Vuen remembers very distinctly when it began: the Witch ’ s first kill, won in a duel over herself. It had been an obvious thing that she should win, and not so surprising that she had gotten so heated over an insult to Vuen, but the kill was unprecedented against such a noble man, and the Witch ’ s family exiled her. 
 
 “ Where do I go? ” the Witch asked, not even crying; she was beyond that. Her face was empty, hollow. “ Where can I go? ” 
 
 “ It doesn ’ t matter, ” said Vuen, gently, “ I ’ ll come with you. ” She took the Witch ’ s hands, a gesture they rarely gave, now, and swept her thumbs over her knuckles before the Witch ’ s hands clenched, and they both gave a shudder before the Witch pushed her away, and then she was burning. 
 
 “ God, ” she said, in the ancient tongue, not as a blessing or prayer, but as a curse, “ God! God! Why have you forsaken me? ” There she trembled, swathed in golden flames as if they were silks, and when Vuen reached out to grasp her, undeterred, she shook her away. “ Stop, ” she sobbed, golden and shining and terrible, then, desperately: “ I ’ ll hurt you. ” 
 
 That was the kind of person the Witch was, before she was the Witch. 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- -- 
 
 They said no goodbyes, and went to an inn. 
 
 “ I ’ m sick of this, ” the Witch said, softly. “ I ’ m sick of the people. I ’ m sick of everything. ” I ’ m sick of myself. Vuen heard that, underlining her meaning, and when the Witch ’ s hands fisted, Vuen came and held her. 
 
 Vuen did not say, you did not realize, no matter how much she regretted it now. There were many high tales and praises of the daughter of one of the greatest magic families, and they existed for a reason. 
 
 The kill was not a mistake. 
 
 “ I ’ ll get my vengeance, ” said the Witch, into Vuen ’ s shoulder, numbly. “ I have sacrificed everything for their stupid honor, to be the perfect daughter, and this is what they have done. They have cast me away, like I am an animal. ” 
 
 “ I ’ ll help you, ” Vuen said, and the Witch drew back, but this time, the only thing aflame was her gaze, molten and angry and full of something that made Vuen ache to see. 
 
 “ But, I don ’ t— ” 
 
 “ I don ’ t care, ” Vuen said, knowing what she was going to say. “ I don ’ t care. ” She didn ’ t: who cared if she had killed him? Who cared if she had been wrong? Who cared? Vuen saw her, wounded yet strong, furious yet sorrowful, and saw her the most for herself, in all of her cruelty and kindness, in the fire that burned and the fire that kept away. She loved her. “ I don ’ t care, ” Vuen repeated, more fiercely. 
 
 When they kissed, there was no starter: it was a mutual agreement. 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- - 
 
 Vuen stops counting their kisses, and stops counting the corpses. Both numbers grow too high to keep track of. 
 
 “ I wonder, ” says the Witch, then, who is just beginning to grow into her title, “ I wonder, when will it be enough? ” 
 
 She steps over more charred flesh. Her eyes are wondering and strange and lost. 
 
 Never, Vuen knows, but does not say it. 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- -- - 
 
 “ I miss home, ” the Witch tells her, one day, when they are staying at a stable, pretending to be merchants. She has a pure, soft light at her fingertips, which she holds up so they illuminate the darkness, just a little. 
 
 “ Me, too, ” Vuen admits, and the Witch inhales at that, sharply, and the lights dim. Vuen catches an ankle with her hand. “ I would have missed you more, ” she says, a reminder, and the Witch trembles. 
 
 “ I don ’ t deserve this, ” the Witch says. Vuen says nothing: she will not lie to her. There are some things love does not permit. The Witch knows this, and turns her head. “ Goodnight. ” 
 
 “ Goodnight. ” 
 
 The lights extinguish, but neither are afraid. 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- -- 
 
 “ Have you heard of the Witch? ” they hear, another time, when they are eating at a stall. It is piping hot, roasted apples, covered in melting cheese. The Witch freezes at that. 
 
 “ Of course, dolt, ” someone replies. “ The newsman came last week. Said she ’ s burning everything in sight. ” 
 
 “ We ought to head out, ” the original speaker replies. “ She ’ s dangerous, and some tell me she might be heading this way. I ’ d watch out. ” 
 
 “ She ’ s crazy, ” someone says, and a chorus of agreeing hums rise. 
 
 “ Let ’ s go, ” Vuen says, and they leave. In the future, people will puzzle at the absence of a burning of a town in her path. 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- 
 
 She is, Vuen thinks, beautiful when killing. 
 
 There ’ s something clear about the way she does it, without thought, acting solely on the heart and mind, and awash in radiance of flames that go crimson to white to gold, setting her hair to gleam and her face to shine, distant from the crisping humans, from the trembling screams. 
 
 It is, Vuen realizes, like the purity of a child. 
 
 It is, Vuen realizes, later, watching the tears roll down her cheeks as she sleeps, caught in a nightmare, the purity of her heart, simple in its honesty, in its horrible nature. 
 
 Later, when the Witch wakes, Vuen asks her what she was dreaming of. 
 
 “ I can ’ t quite remember, ” the Witch replies, and both know it is a lie, but the topic is not breached. 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- 
 
 One day, they are walking, and picking roses from stray bushes. It is only then when Vuen realizes, as she plucks yet another blossom from its home, that in history, she will be remembered as the Witch, as the burning one who set the land to flames over bitterness. 
 
 They will never see her, holding a spray of sweet flowers in her arms, rosy as her cheeks, her laughter simple and bright as daylight; they will never know her poems, more wonderful than even her laugh; they will never know that she fought over an insult to her beloved. 
 
 They will never know her name. 
 
 “ Ilaese, ” Vuen says, and Ilaese turns, smiling. 
 
 “ Yes? ” 
 
 Oh, her! Clasping such broken life, killing such innocent life, her, passionate and awful, unredeemable and undeserving, cruel and unbelievable, and beautiful in it, in her purity and her humanity, in her stains and monstrosity, in herself, incredible, a heretic, a bitch, the Witch, Ilaese: loved, beloved, the only and the one, forever and always. 
 
 How beautiful, truly, and how ugly, and how beautiful in both of those things. 
 
 “ Nothing, ” Vuen says, and smiles back, feeling her heart rend with love. 

