CW: This chapter contains allusions to self-harm and depictions of physical violence.

In the Witch's Town

They formed a rough circle, hacking at her without much skill. Aisel and Igor were the exceptions, defter with their swords than the others, but still clumsy acting against a single foe in a group so large. At first, Valla avoided their strikes easily, but her weariness began to weigh her down. As the sky grew lighter, her injured side began to bleed through her outer shirt. Neema noticed first, shouting as she struck towards it, perhaps thinking one of the others had struck the blow that caused the bleeding. Never mind that her shirt was uncut, thought Valla, grimacing slightly as she ducked a club, sidestepped the pitchfork, and leaned under two sword strikes.

Finally, though, the chaos grew dangerous – once again, more for the villagers than Valla. Igor's sharp strike cut past Valla, ferocious but poorly timed, sweeping straight towards Peeter's chest. Valla swore again, leaping under another thundering if clumsy strike from Harman to grab the sword before it could hit Peeter. Her grasp was careful, fingers clamped on the flat of the blade, but even her strength and precision could not prevent the blade from slipping just enough to cut into her palm as the backlash of her pulling the sword met Igor's alarmed release of the blade's momentum. She let go quickly, ignoring the cut. The others' attacks had continued as she broke her pattern of avoidance, and the first to hit was the pitchfork, striking a glancing blow along her left shoulder blade. She rolled away and back up to her feet, knowing that no matter what else, she needed to stay standing. If she fell, it would be over, their frenzy wild enough that despite their lack of any training or skill they might well beat her into oblivion. Welem's club hit her right side on the wound, not hard enough to do her any real damage, but painful. Valla kept moving, avoiding most attacks but slowing slightly with each one that hit its mark, earning a gash on her hip, then a bruised shoulder. It grew worse as the blows rained down, Aisel and Harman and Igor dealing stronger attacks than the rest – one solid hit with a club which she was sure cracked ribs, another which left her with a ringing skull. Still, she moved in a way careful to keep them from hitting each other or wounding her too badly, keeping the circle wide and calculating which attacks she had to take and which she needed to avoid. Her power raged beneath the bindings and against her own willpower, aching to break free and eliminate the threat. She could not trust herself, though, the power was hard to control like this, and she was very out of practice. The rush of it distracted her more than the blow to her head did, a druggish haze of sparks forming at the edges of her vision. She lost the pattern again. Two strikes hit her one after the other, a sword flat across her lower back and the pitchfork again at her left thigh. It was too much, and a flash of power broke free and knocked the villagers back, a silent thump hitting them in a scarlet-tinged wave of raw aether before a thud sounded as they all hit the ground.

Valla fell to her right knee, struggling to stay upright and to remember - what was her goal here again? It seemed so ridiculous now that she hadn't just found Doren and told him they needed to leave. She could have avoided this. Wasn't she dooming the villagers as much as herself this way? The Witch would punish them for their violence against her. Her actions, passive and foolish, had been as good as a simple provocation, and no matter how dramatically she protected the townsfolk now or how stoically she bore the brunt of their fear there was no way she could view it as honorable. No way she could spin this as anything more than a means to punish herself for being something strange and to punish them for despising her for it. If she could actually remember anything about herself, perhaps she would know whether or not she had a habit of this stupidly self-pitying and masochistic behavior. Perhaps she would have realized the absurdity of her actions sooner. Igor and Aisel and Neema were shouting, Harman was groaning. None were hurt badly, she knew, just the wind knocked out of them, bruised, maybe a cracked bone or two if they had landed unluckily. They were lucky. Valla was lucky. It could have been so much worse. Self-loathing flared hot in her chest, more painful than her injuries.