The assembled elders glared down at a woman wearing a thin, white tunic. It was too large for her slender frame, and its fine quality mismatched the roughness of the elders and their village a few hundred feet away from this small clearing in the forest. The tunic, of course, was a ritual garment that had been prized and cared for throughout at least four decades. It did not fit because was never meant to be worn by a woman. That perversion of tradition began a week before.

The whole village had been waiting for the appearance of the flowers as soon as the last snow melted, heralding the end of winter and the coming of the spring. It was the time of their most sacred ritual, in which they would appease the Divine, the goddess of the cave, who assured they would have plentiful food in the days of bounty to come. It was up to the Divine to initiate the ritual, however, by sending her flowers to wreathe the home of the chosen man. He was always a man who had recently marked his transition into adulthood, and one who was often a vision of physical strength and beauty. As the village was small, there were many years it was the same man. He would be sent into the forest cave of the Divine, to meet with her and give what she took. It was unclear what happened, as these men were sworn never to tell. And if you asked them enough questions, it would seem they themselves did not know. They could not even describe the Divine.

The only one who could do that was the witch, much to the chagrin of the village priest, who sought to be the sole expert on the gods. But the Divine only spoke to the witch, welcoming her into the forest cave with flowers that would bloom at her feet, even in the dead of winter, leading a trail to the cave's entrance. For years, the young woman had followed the witch around, offering to help her with her tasks and receive what knowledge she had. The witch seemed glad of the company; though the other women of the village respected her, they dared not to speak to her for any reason other than necessity. Many of them referred to the young women as the witchling. The witchling was always treated with caution, but not disdain as her parents and siblings were beloved by the village, as they all excelled at many of the village tasks. And although the witchling was considered beautiful, many of the young men kept their distance out of confusion and fear.

When the flowers did come, they did not help the witchling's reputation. At first, it was thought the flowers were there for her brother, a few years her senior. He was tall, strong, and had a handsome face. But he was not at the family's lodge the night the flowers appeared. Of the two other brothers, the eldest was married and gray had begun appearing throughout his beard and the younger was just beginning puberty. It would not be them. But the village waited another night for a clearer sign. And the Divine gave it to them.

The witchling awoke to flowers growing across the ceiling and wall that circled her bed. They grew across the roof of their lodge, only above the nook where she slept. There could be no mistaking the Divine's chosen. And yet the priest began to draw omens and read bones. He was given answers, so plain even the least literate of these magics could read them. The witchling was the chosen. The witch herself confirmed it: the witchling would be sent to meet the Divine at dawn, one week hence.

And here she stood, chilled by the early spring morning, the thin tunic giving no warmth. It came from some land, far to the south, where all were rich and wore such beautiful things, or so that is what the trader had told the villagers. If that were true, it must be warmer in the south, the witchling thought, or else such beauty would quickly bring death. As the sun rose, mist began to rise from the grass and trees, further shrouding this hidden clearing. The tunic was placed upon her after a night of ritual cleansing in the nearby river, after which she had briefly been allowed to warm herself by a fire. But the chill had not been knocked from her bones, and it was about to get worse.

The priest approached her, scowling. It was clear if there had been any question in the bones, if any sign had come to stop this, he would have. But it was as if all of the earth was screaming at him to send the witchling into the cave. He held a bowl of dark liquid, and into this he gingerly placed one finger. He swirled the liquid around gently before lifting the finger and placing it upon the witchling's head, allowed the liquid to drip from his finger onto her forehead and down her nose. It smelled of both blood and herbs. The witchling pushed the thought of it from her mind.

"Disrobe," the priest said, gruffly.

It did not take much, all she had to do was shrug to let the large tunic fall off her shoulders and down her body. The cool mist prickled at her exposed skin. The chosen must reveal himself to be perfectly clean and also a prime example of youth and virility. The people of her village were not shy of their bodies but having all the elders stare at her form while the cool morning air caused her skin to prickle was an uncomfortable experience. They quickly began to nod, showing their approval of her cleanliness.

The priest walked behind her, leaning his head near her ear.

"Go forth, little witch. Meet our goddess."

And so, she took a breath and went.