#atozchallenge: Ragana

Previous: (Fairy) Queen

Ataneq sat at the edge of the court, watching both with fear and relief. Relief that he hadn’t been called out for judgement, as Euthalia had, fear for the life of his friends. Petals came to settle on his shoulder.
“See, I told you she was angry,” she said.
“I didn’t say I didn’t believe you. I just said I couldn’t do anything about it.”
“You could have delivered her to the Queen and forgone the growing of her anger.”
“Would you betray your own house guests?” he asked pointedly. Petals didn’t answer, but shifted uncomfortably. He saw the phoenix fly into the court, wondering at its beauty, but before he could point out the bird to Petals, there was a loud sound, and a sharp, bright light. He threw up his hands to cover his face. All around him, the different fairy folk stirred and talked, and he turned to look at the tall woman, face as grim as the queen’s who stood with an arm around Jane.
He stared in wonder, but something else caught his eye. Far beyond the throne, half hidden in the recesses of the wood, an old crone stood, silently watching.
“Do you see what I see?” he said quietly to Petals. “Just there, behind the Great Yew.”
“Hmmm,” Petals hummed to herself. “I have seen her before. She wanders these woods quite often, with two or three others.”
“What do they call them?”
“I believe in their language they are Ragana. Minor witches who deal in herblore and hedge magics.”
Ataneq looked at her carefully again, but it was too far to make out her features clearly.
“Do they ever travel alone?”
Petals shrugged. “Not that I’ve seen. Now that you say it, it is a little strange.” With that, the fairy zipped away. Ataneq turned his attention back to the court.

“So you finally return, Iliana,” The Queen said.
“Return, Mother? No, I come to claim back what is mine.”
“Yours? Impossible.”
“Did you not have human lovers before, mother? Am I not a child of one your unions?”
“But far in the land of man without the strength of our powers, how do you not consume him? How is he still alive?”
“That is a tale not for this court, Mother. Restore him to me and I will tell you of it one day.”
“No, tell me now or he does not leave alive.”
Ivy looked down at her husband. “Jane, take care of your father,” she said before answering the Queen’s summons.

He was fading, and I had no clue how to keep him alive, when there was a knock on my door. The imps answered it, divining that it was a fairy creature. An old crone entered my house and walked right into our bedchamber.
“What do you want?” I asked her, both angry and distressed.
“Do you treat those who would help you this way, Leanen Sídhe?” she said mildly.
“Can you help? How? Who are you and how do you know who I am?”
“Oh, the Ragana can help you, sure enough. That is your name for us, is it not?”
I told her frankly then that I had never seen hide nor hair of the Ragana in years and knew nothing about them but a name. 
“Oh, we are old crones, we are, we keep to ourselves, we do. But I divined that you needed help this night. And so here I am.”
“What do you wish for in return?”
“Ah, the price, always the price. You are wise to ask first. I ask for safe passage in the Old Kingdom, for as long as I shall need it.”
I wanted to ask her why she could not ask you herself, but I felt in my heart she had reasons of her own. So I assented. “For as long as you shall need it, and not a moment more.”
“You drive a hard bargain. Ah, well. But that will suit my purposes.” 
That night she taught me her herblore - medicinal flowers, herbs that protect, herbs that strengthen, roots that deaden your need for power. I have lived as a human for long enough that my secondborn is of almost pure human blood. But my firstborn has inherited, as all firstborns will. How he survived until the night I learnt the Ragana’s craft, I do not know. For only once I staunched the need for lifeblood did realise how much I drew of him.


Next: Sylph
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From Wikipedia:

Ragana, is an old looking female, or witch. Mostly has dark intentions and powers to control forces of nature. They probably were old ladies living by the forest, having a good knowledge of plants and their use for medical and other purposes

#atozchallenge: Phoenix

Previous: Ogre

Ivy heard a long, piercing shriek from the kitchen and came out of her room running.
“Mother! Help!” Mary cried as she huddled on the table, looking at a sea of little faces that blinked at her.
“You have done it? Where is she?” Ivy demanded.
“Mother?”
“Hush child, don’t be afraid.” The imps made a path for her as she walked over to her younger daughter and hugged her close. “Well?” she demanded.
“We found her. She is in the Old Kingdom.”
“Why didn't you bring her back? Is she safe?”
“You asked us to find her, not to bring her back,” the imp said with annoyance. “She is safe with her father.”
“Her father!” Ivy exclaimed, turning pale. “He is there?”
“Yes. Now about that matter of payment…” The imp grinned.
“What is it you want?” Ivy’s thoughts kept turning to Darrick. He will die before I get to him, he will die unless someone intervenes. Oh Mother, what will you do in your anger?
“The firstborn of the firstborn is sacrosanct. But will you release your secondborn to us?”
“What?” Ivy focused again on the imps. “What do you want of her?” She held Mary close, young Mary who stared at them with bewildered eyes, and looked at her mother as if she had never seen the woman before.
“To cook for us, to slave for us, to do the many things we have done for you all your life!”
Ivy glared down at them and they withered.
“You know we joke, Leanen Sídhe!”
“I begin to wonder. What is it you need?”
“As we have always needed.”
Ivy sighed. She beckoned Mary, who clambered down from the table and stood beside her mother, gripping her hand tightly.
With slow, clear words, Ivy incanted:

The protection of this house is yours, now and forever more.
Our sustenance is yours for as long as you need,
Our lives are pledged as friend to friend
That those who come against you will face our wrath.

The silence grew heavy as her words hung in the rafters, absorbing themselves in the wood. With quiet nods, the imps disappeared into the woodwork. Ivy felt a great weariness fall over her, and she leaned on Mary as she stumbled to a chair. Her daughter still stared at her wide-eyed.
“You have seen a lot of things I did not wish for you to know of yet,’ Ivy said gently. “And you will have to see more that I cannot hide from you. For now, will you make my tea? I have need of great strength.”
As Mary set the kettle to boil and mixed the special strengthening brew of herbs her mother relied on, Ivy sat staring at the fire. “The imps will not harm you. They will listen to you as my daughter. Do you feel safe here alone?”
“Yes, mother,” Mary answered as she placed the cup in her mother’s hand.
Ivy smiled as she caressed her face. “I am going to do a dangerous thing. Your father is in danger and this is the only way I can think of to get to him fast enough.” She held the cup in trembling hands, and took a long draught.
“Can I come with you?”
“I wish you could, but I do not know how.” Draining her cup, she took a handful of the herbs and threw them in the fire, muttering words under her breath. “Do not be afraid, Mary. Look for us when the sun sets.” With that, she threw herself into the fire.
Mary screamed as the fire seemed to greet and envelop Ivy. The bright shimmering blinded her and when she opened her eyes again, a beautiful, crested bird stepped out of the fire, seemingly surrounded by a halo of light. Then it unfurled its wings and flew away.

Next: (Fairy) Queen
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From Wikipedia:

In Greek mythology, a phoenix or phenix (Ancient Greek φοίνιξ phóinīx) is a long-lived bird that is cyclically regenerated or reborn. Associated with the sun, a phoenix obtains new life by arising from the ashes of its predecessor. The phoenix was subsequently adopted as a symbol in Early Christianity. While the phoenix typically dies by fire in most versions of the legend, there are less popular versions of the myth in which the mythical bird dies and simply decomposes before being born again.[1] Herodotus, Lucan, Pliny the Elder, Pope Clement I, Lactantius, Ovid, and Isidore of Seville are among those who have contributed to the retelling and transmission of the phoenix motif.
In his study of the phoenix, R. van der Broek summarizes, that, in the historical record, the phoenix "could symbolize renewal in general as well as the sun, time, the empire, metempsychosis, consecration, resurrection, life in the heavenly Paradise, Christ, Mary, virginity, the exceptional man, and certain aspects of Christian life".[2]

#atozchallenge: Leanen Sídhe

Previous: Kelpie

“Why do you search for the Witch’s daughter?” They’d been walking for hours through the forest, making an incessant racket. Darrick figured he might as well add to it since he had nothing else to do.
The imp beside him looked at him with a confused expression. “Because the Witch asked us to.”
“Oh. So it’s true then, that the imps answer to witches?”
The imp shrugged. “Most. But mainly to this one.”
“Why’s that?”
The confused expression on the imp’s face turned to curiosity. “Because she is also Leanen Sídhe. Did you not know?”
“Leanen what?” Darrick had a vague feeling that he was supposed to know who the imp was referring to.
The imp chuckled. “Oh, he does not know! The elf-man does not know!”
“What do you mean?”
“The Witch is Leanen Sídhe. She is of the fairy folk. In fact, elf-man, she is the daughter of the Fairy Queen, the reason of the Queen’s hatred of the race of men! Oh, the horrid humans who stole her precious daughter far, far away!”
“The Queen hates humans?”
“Oh, with an undying hatred. If she catches the Witch’s daughter or her husband, there is no knowing what she will do!” He chuckled with glee.
And Jane is in there, Darrick thought, a queasy feeling in his stomach. “How much longer until we get into this Fairyland?”
“Almost there, impatient one.”
They stopped at a large clearing surrounded by oaks. Darrick looked around, his eyes narrowing. He recognised this place. It was here, more than twenty years ago, that he had first seen his wife.

He run so far for so long that he didn’t know where he was anymore. He almost fell to the ground in exhaustion, his tiredness for once overpowering his grief. Why would anyone raid his village in the night and slaughter all his family but him? What had he done to deserve this? Why was he still alive? His father was dead. His mother had died in his arms this morning. His little sister, sweet Adele Adanessa, barely six, had been hacked to pieces before his very eyes. He lay himself at the foot of a great oak, inviting Father Oak to take him into his bosom.
“What are you doing here, child?” a soft feminine voice woke him up.
He looked at the young woman standing over him. “Child? You can’t be more than a year older than me.”
“Is that so?” she smirked. “How old are you? You huddle into that little piece of ground like a twelve-year-old.”
“I’m fifteen,” he got to his feet angrily. “What do you want?”
“Is that how you talk to girls?” 
Darrick looked down at his feet. “No, sorry,” he said. 
She laughed. 
“What’s so funny?” He looked up again looking into her eyes.
“You’re blushing.”
Darrick opened his mouth, but couldn’t find anything to say.
“Anyway, as I was saying, what are you doing here?”
“Uh - I got lost,” he replied. 
“Hm, I can tell. Come on, I’ll show you the way home.”
Darrick followed her through a clearing onto a clearly marked forest path.
“Just follow this path. You’ll get home soon enough.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh, I have ways. I’ve been there before.”
“I’ve never seen you before.”
“Maybe I didn’t let you.”
“Will - will I see you again?”
She smiled, winked and walked away.

Darrick felt a tinge of guilt. He should have gone home and told Ivy what he was doing. Or he could have sent a note. She would be worrying herself half to death by now.

Next: Mermaids
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From Wikipedia:

In Celtic folklore, the Irish: leannán sí "Barrow-Lover" (Scottish Gaelic: leannan sìth; Manx: lhiannan shee; [lʲan̴̪-an ˈʃiː]) is a beautiful woman of the Aos Sí (people of the barrow or the fairy folk) who takes a human lover. Lovers of the leannán sídhe are said to live brief, though highly inspired, lives. The name comes from the Gaelic words for a sweetheart, lover, or concubine and the term for a barrow or fairy-mound.
The leannán sídhe is generally depicted as a beautiful muse, who offers inspiration to an artist in exchange for their love and devotion; however, this frequently results in madness for the artist, as well as premature death. W. B. Yeats popularized a slightly different perspective on these spirits with emphasis on their vampiric tendencies:[1]

The Leanhaun Shee (fairy mistress) seeks the love of mortals. If they refuse, she must be their slave; if they consent, they are hers, and can only escape by finding another to take their place. The fairy lives on their life, and they waste away. Death is no escape from her. She is the Gaelic muse, for she gives inspiration to those she persecutes. The Gaelic poets die young, for she is restless, and will not let them remain long on earth—this malignant phantom.

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