Moths

“What is a moth?” a witchling asks; an innocent question, just a glimmer of the voracious hunger that set her along her path. She does not understand the look on her teacher’s mask, the strange reflection in its mother-of-pearl eyes. “Find out for yourself,” it finally answers. She is not yet wise enough to understand what it really means; young and hungry enough to believe in her own immortality with a strength that almost makes it real. And so she does not take her time to prepare: she slips away as soon as she can find a chance to. ...

There’s just something about the way it growls—that hungry, needy sound. It almost makes you want to unchain it, to let it feed the need roiling in its belly with your tender flesh. But the witch wouldn’t want you to. She put in so much effort to capture this beast, this strange shifting thing; to bind its wings and cuff its many limbs. So you don’t. No matter how it growls when you blend close—when you clip another flower from its antlers, or bring the shears to its fingers to harvest another bit of the precious sap inside—no matter what that noise stirs inside you. ...