Fragrant smoke rose softly, curling through the air in attenuated spirals, and winding into Yuuri's dark hair. Rosemary for remembrance, he thought, inhaling the medicinal sweetness of the burning herbs. Sage for healing. Lavender for the spirits.

He picked up the wooden bowl, and began to wave it in front of the small shrine. Carefully, he allowed the smoke to permeate every corner of the small wooden house, breathing deeply and slowly in time with his motions. A small, sleeping poodle that was curled under the table sneezed in his sleep.

Mum, Dad, Mari, he thought. I am well, and I am happy.

The smoke seemed to curl more tightly about Yuuri's body, hugging the soft shape of his figure and tickling his chin.

I miss you all, every day, he thought. You are not forgotten.

The smoke curled tighter than ever for a moment about Yuuri's body, and then dissipated, drifting through the half open window that faced on to dense woods, and winding about the tree trunks like insubstantial lichen.

Yuuri breathed out slowly, pushing his dark hair out of his eyes and standing, rubbing his knees where they had pressed into the reed matting of his floor. He surveyed the room, watching as the final wisps of smoke drifted into nothingness in the still air.

The small wooden house was comfortable, if not large; lived in for twenty years by the same person, it had absorbed Yuuri's personality. The octagonal wooden walls were hung with black ink drawings of local trees, and rare flowers. The huge wooden table was scattered with books, and one wall was entirely taken up by an immaculately organised selection of dried herbs, with fresh herbs growing quietly and happily on the windowsills. Ceramic bowls half full of tea dotted the shelves, clearly abandoned half way through when the drinker had become distracted. The atmosphere was quiet, sunny; at this late hour, the purple light of dusk slanted through the half open windows, colouring everything it rested on in muted violet and grey.

Yuuri's eyes drifted over the small space, and came to rest on a small, nondescript cupboard that stood beneath his herb collection. Before he shut the windows, Yuuri peered out of them, stretching his neck as far as it would go to see down the small hard earth lane which led to his house. The dim light of dusk showed no person as far as Yuuri could tell; the only moving creatures that broke the serenity of the moment were the bats, beginning to wake from their daytime slumber and flitting quickly across the darkening sky.

Satisfied, Yuuri crouched carefully in front of the small dark oak cupboard, easing open the door, which made no sound as it swung open to reveal a small cauldron. Yuuri picked up the cauldron, carried it to the table, and began to lay out the herbs he would need for the potion he had been planning to make for a week or so. Quietly, and with many a flick of his eyes to the shaded windows, Yuuri summoned a small fire beneath the pot and went to work.

Yuuri Katsuki was a witch. In the small kingdom in which he lived, this was enough to ensure a swift death without a trial, as witchcraft had been banned for close to forty years, and the law was ruthlessly enforced by the King, whose vicious persecution of magic had become a byword.

Yuuri had been alone since the age of six, when the sweating fever had taken his family. From that day onwards, the broken hearted boy had, between wracking sobs, vowed that he would never let another suffer this fate if he could help it. He had been taken in by and trained for years with the ancient town herbalist, learning every aspect of the local flora, learning when to pick gentian and thyme and yarrow, how tarragon could bring strength to the body and borage strength to the mind.

When the old herbalist had died, he had left his practice and his home to Yuuri, along with all its contents. Yuuri had continued to live in the octagonal wooden hut, providing the townspeople with remedies and cures when he could, and consoling them in their grief when he could not. One day, exploring the tiny unused attic space with the thought of turning it into somewhere to store the autumn crop of apples, Yuuri had come across books that he had never seen his mentor use; books covered in strange symbols, and cramped archaic writing. He had spent many nights deciphering their meaning. When he had finished, Yuuri realised that he now possessed the means to learn magic.

He fully intended to put the books back and never look at them again, mindful of the decree banning all magic use, but that autumn sickness had come up from the lowlands, and the villagers had begun to fall ill, one by one. First the old and the infirm, then the children, and finally the young and the strong. The illness wasn't always fatal, but Yuuri sat up for too many nights beside the beds of those who wouldn't see the morning.

One night, after sitting with a young mother who would never see the dawn, Yuuri had come home exhausted, dashing tears of impotent fury from his eyes. His herbs and cures were helping, but they weren't enough. He knew he had the means to save people; he couldn't bear the sight of any more young children, reminding him terribly of himself, asking where their parents were. He had stayed awake for many nights, teaching himself by candlelight the forbidden arcane knowledge his teacher had unknowingly left him; when he shut the final book, several nights later, he did so with a determined spirit and an iron will that no more of the people he nursed would be taken by the black god of death.

That had been the starting point. That autumn the sickness had slowly disappeared; there had been no more deaths. The villagers, and those living in the castle nearby, had put it down to luck and providence, but the exhausted and pale Yuuri had smiled, knowing that it was not down to the impenetrable workings of chance that the sickness had finally left them.

From then on, Yuuri had practiced magic by night, always by night, allowing the velvet darkness to cloak his incantations and his potion making. Slowly, he had gained in proficiency, until he had memorised everything in the books, and had begun to experiment with his own cures. The villagers praised Yuuri's herblore, calling him their saint, their saviour; no one ever suspected him, the quiet and sunny-smiled botanist, of being anything more than he presented himself to be.

And so that evening found Yuuri measuring dried herbs, pure water and some hair from the local deer into his cauldron, chanting softly and rhythmically, while a blue flame burned steadily beneath the pot. Fumes began to rise from the cauldron, permeating the air as his earlier ritual had; after several minutes of this, Yuuri ceased chanting, and poured the dark green liquid from the cauldron into several small glass bottles, stoppering them and storing them along with the cauldron in the dark oak cupboard.

He flopped down into his easy chair, stretched his arms above his head, and yawned. Magic was tiring, not physically but in a deep part of his soul, and Yuuri was looking forward to collapsing into bed in the loft above the main room.

Suddenly, the still night air was broken by the sound of pounding footsteps, and the heavy breathing of someone running faster than their body was meant to run. Yuuri sat up, startled; moments later, there was a heavy pounding on his door. The poodle that had been soundly sleeping sat up, barking, adding its noise to the heavy pounding din.

"Yuuri! YUURI!"

He flung himself out of the chair, and wrenched open the door, his dark eyes wide and startled.

"Nishigori?" Yuuri gasped. "What's happened?"

"It's….it's Yuuko" Nishigori gasped between panting breaths. "The baby…it's on the way, and something's wrong, something's not…"

Yuuri's eyes widened fractionally, and he dove back into the house, emerging a minute later clutching a bag and, if anyone had been watching, one of the small stoppered bottle containing a dark green solution. His poodle stayed at his heel, nearly tripping him. They ran towards the distant sound of cries which split the still air, fear lending them speed.

When Yuuri got back several hours later, exhausted but so, so happy (triplets! All healthy! And Yuuko…Yuuko was safe), he didn't notice that the door of his small, dark oak cupboard was slightly ajar.

Viktor Nikiforov, Crown Prince of Belaria, was bored. He was painfully, excruciatingly, world-endingly, cosmically bored. He had breakfasted with his uncle, the King, and spoken of inconsequential happenings throughout their kingdom. He had killed a few hours tending to his beloved horse, Makkachin, and then had brutally murdered some straw training dummies in the outhouses (they hadn't put up much of a fight). And now, as always when he had nothing better to do, he found himself wandering the castle library, the high ceilings lined with books stretching away above him and promising diversion if he could find the hidden gems scattered among the armour-and-swordplay periodicals.

Viktor paused in his slow perambulation, and reached out an elegant, pale hand to the ladder that would allow him to reach the top shelves, pulling it to the very end of the stacks. He quickly, lithely ascended the steps, and retrieved a well-worn, small blue book from among the huge ancient tomes, along with a much larger leather bound book.

Holding both carefully, he leapt down from the top of the ladder (anything, anything to provoke some small adrenalin rush) and hurried past the tall shelves to a hidden bay window, surrounded on three sides by book stacks. Seating himself elegantly in a tailor's seat on the cushions in the bay window, he carefully positioned the smaller book within the open larger book, and angled both so that anyone approaching would see only the cover of 'Comportmente For Gentle-menne'. Thus positioned, Viktor opened the small blue book, and for the hundredth time, began to read.

An hour later, he sighed, and closing the small book, leant his head back against the cold grey stone of the window frame. Magic, he thought. Real magic, not the pitiful show that his uncle's Fool put on, with wands that turned into flowers and coins that appeared from behind ears.

Prince Viktor had not been alive when his uncle had instituted the ban on all magical practice in Belaria. His parents had died when he was barely one year old, taken by the sweating sickness that had carried off so many in the town; Viktor had been left with only a confused memory of laughter that sounded like bells, and a man's deep, rich voice. His uncle had taken him in; his wife, the Queen, had died in childbirth some years earlier, and the baby had perished with her. He had treated Viktor not as his own son, but much as he treated every other occupant of the castle; with a chilly indifference. Viktor had been afraid of him as a young boy, thought he wasn't any more; the King stood as tall as Viktor did now, his iron grey hair kept in check by the iron grey crown that rested on his head, his dull robes always in shades of black and brown. Not a warm figure; not someone that Viktor could ever grow to love. He was not a popular King; his taxes were harsh and his rule strict, and Viktor had seen more than one supposed traitor locked in the dungeons to rot before he reached adulthood.

So Viktor had grown up wandering the cold stone halls alone, his long silver hair reflecting the light of the rush torches that burned all year round in the perpetually chilly castle. His uncle had largely left him alone, apart from a daily gruff enquiry into his studies at meals; his nurse had raised him, and been mother and father to him, teaching him what he would need to know as the future ruler, and educating him in the histories of the land.

Viktor had, when he was young, been particularly entranced by the stories of magicians and wizards and dragons, such as the one he now hid within the large volume of proper deportment for princes; he had asked his nurse to tell him stories of the days before magic had been outlawed. His nurse, a kind, gentle woman, had always refused, saying that it was just a lot of old fairy stories, and that his uncle would be most displeased to hear him asking such questions. However, one day when Viktor had been very ill with a fever, and the herbalist and his apprentice (such a sweet, quiet boy) had done everything they could, she had given in to his illness-slurred pleas. She had told him of the old days, the days before the Queen had died, when magic had been freely practised, and unicorns had still lived in the forest. She told him of firework shows that lasted for hours, forming glittering flowers and meteor showers in the sky; of potions that could cure any fever, and wise old men who knew the secrets of the stars. Viktor's wide, illness-dry eyes had stayed fixed on his nurse as she talked, mouth slightly open in wonder. She had then told him of the Queen's illness in childbirth; her may hours of pain, and her eventual death, which magic had been unable to fix or to help with. She told him of the hardening of his uncle's heart, the rage which he had unleashed on the magic users who had failed to save his wife and child, and his subsequent ban of all magical knowledge and use throughout the kingdom.

But then, Viktor had reached the age of sixteen, and his uncle had decided it was time for him to take his education into his own hands, instructing him in the princely arts of sword-play and riding. His nurse had been sent away, and now lived in the village; Viktor often snuck out of the castle after he had said goodnight to his uncle to go and sit with her, the woman who was his real family.

Now at the age of 23, Viktor reflected, his life seemed to have reached a stopping point. His uncle no longer taught him, having passed on everything he felt Viktor should know; they had nothing in common beyond their mutual appreciation of horses, and Viktor saw him only at mealtimes, in which they had little to say to each other. Viktor was grateful that his uncle had taken him in, grateful that he had made him his heir, and aware that his was a position of enormous privilege; but, Gods, he was so alone.

As he had been reading in the window alcove, the last of the day's light had slipped away. Viktor turned his head to the glass, wanting to look across the moat to the woods beyond, but saw only his own reflection; pale, aristocratic features, with an elegant swoop of silver hair perpetually brushing into his crystalline blue eyes. A strong nose was contrasted by a wide, sensitive mouth; from looking at his face, one could guess that this was not a man to be crossed, but neither was he a man who would ever refuse a laugh if it presented itself to him.

Staring at his own reflection, Viktor mused. Was the magic his nurse had told him of real? Had it ever been? Was it all just stories that his uncle had banned because they distracted the populace? He pictured himself as a knight in a tale, fighting a mighty dragon; and snorted at his own folly, causing a small cloud of condensation to form and blurring his reflection.

Abruptly, Viktor unfolded himself from the alcove, and slid the books back into place. His ruminating had reminded him that it had been some time since he had been to see his nurse, and he had decided to go now, that minute, rather than waste any more time on his own pointless speculation.

Twenty minutes later, Viktor was walking the narrow earth path that led to the village, having decided that on such a perfectly still night he didn't want to shatter the peace by riding. His silver hair was covered in a dark green hood; he preferred not to be recognised as the prince in the village, as it meant that he would spend hours having people being polite at him and then cursing his uncle as soon as he left, and his hair was much too distinctive to leave anyone in any doubt who he was. He hummed a tune as he walked, his light tenor winding into the darkness and becoming part of it.

As he approached the village, he looked for his nurse's house, but saw that the windows were dark, the door bolted; no one home.

Viktor sighed, resigned to a long walk home after a visit for nothing, but then a cry rent the air, sounding like a woman in terrible pain. Seconds later, a tall, burly man came sprinting out of the house; within the three minutes it took Viktor to run closer to the noise, he had returned with a second figure, who disappeared into the house followed by a small dog, leaving Viktor with only a brief glimpse of dark hair and darker eyes before he was gone.

The cries abruptly ceased. In the darkness, Viktor walked closer to the building, and managed to catch a brief silhouette of a woman lying on a bed, clearly in the midst of a very difficult labour, outlined against the firelight. Viktor, disgusted with himself for seeing such a private moment, immediately retreated and began to walk through the village, loathe to go back past that house and be thought a tourist to the woman's pain. He wandered further into the deepening darkness, unable to bear the thought of going back to the castle, where he knew that the only diversions waiting for him were his books and his horse and his own thoughts.

Aimlessly, Viktor followed the track as far as it would go, coming to the edge of the wood, and listening to the soft calls of owls and the skittering of bat's wings. He had never been this far into the village, seeing it only on feast day, from the back of his horse.

Looking around him, he saw a small path that led off into the darkened trees. He followed it curiously; it skirted the edge of the forest, crossed a small stream, and finally ended at a small octagonal wooden house, overhung by ancient willow trees and surrounded by thick roots that wove together to form natural cobble stones, waiting to twist the ankles of the unwary.

Viktor paused, intrigued. The house looked so natural, like it had grown out of the roots without the help of human hands, that he felt himself an unwanted intruder into the small clearing. He wandered closer, wondering what sort of person could live in a place like this; surely someone extremely unusual, maybe someone as old as the willow that brushed the roof, or as twisted as the roots which wound around the path beneath his feet. Waking silently closer, sensing instinctively that he ought not to break the quiet of the clearing, Viktor peered in through the shaded window, trying to glimpse the inside of the house for clues about its occupant.

However, despite the warmth of the evening, the window was tightly shut and had cloth pulled across it, making the inside of the house invisible to Viktor's inquisitive eye. Viktor walked slowly across to the door, the mystery of the place making him more curious than he had been in a long time. His mind seemed to sense what he himself could not consciously know; that here, in this house which he had never noticed before, was the key to adventure, and the thing which might give his life some of the meaning and direction that it was so painfully lacking. Pausing only for a minor quibble of his conscience (which Viktor quickly squashed, mentally pointing out that as the Crown Prince he was permitted to go anywhere his subjects did), Viktor pushed open the ancient wooden door, and softly stepped inside.

The inside of the room was dim, but not dark, and smelled of medicine. In the gloom, Viktor could make out a disordered sort of industry; clearly, the occupant was not at home, and was passionately interested in herblore. Viktor walked closer to the drawings covering one wall. Large and detailed, they depicted the local flora, and they were drawn with an accuracy which Viktor could only assume came from a lifetime's study. Turning, he inspected the cabinet that took up another wall; it contained dried herbs, and seeds that had been sorted by some logic that Viktor couldn't fathom.

He looked at the wide, wooden table; was that a burn mark? A careless candle, maybe?

Suddenly, his conscience smote him. He was in another person's house, and no matter how pointless his own life was to him at present, he did not have the moral right to invade someone else's without their knowledge. Turning to leave, Viktor's eye was suddenly caught by a small cabinet, made of what appeared to be age blackened oak. He found it strangely compelling; the weathered door called to his fingers, and Viktor found himself stooping to softly open the door.

Inside was a cauldron.

Heart beating fast, Viktor told himself that this meant nothing, that plenty of people thereabouts used cauldrons for mundane purposes; cooking, smithing. But, whispered a small vice in his head. This house. This cupboard. It was a hidden cauldron. What it if isn't mundane at all? What if…?

Mouth dry and silver hair falling into his eyes, Viktor lifted the cauldron out of the cupboard, and reached in to grasp what was stacked behind it. Books. Ancient books, their writing clear as day to one who spent his leisure hours in the library. The title shone up at him, picked out in silver on the ancient leather binding. 'Ars Magica'. His brain, schooled as it was since childhood in the classical languages, supplied a translation without conscious thought: The Magical Arts. Viktor's heart beat so loudly that he was sure it would be audible from the castle itself. He had just moved to open the book to the first page, his fingers shaking with excitement, when he heard in the distance the sound of an infant squalling. The sound grew louder, then faded again, as though a door had been opened and shut. And, coming closer as Viktor listened, there were quick, purposeful footsteps.

Viktor's mind raced. He quickly and carefully replaced the book, and the cauldron, and was already turning to leave when he pushed the door of the cupboard to. Heart hammering against his ribs, he flung himself out of the door, and sprinted (narrowly avoiding turning an ankle on the blanket of roots) behind the wide bole of the willow that hung over the small house, from which he could see the front door. Pulse throbbing in his ears, Viktor waited; the footsteps quickly approached, and before another minute had passed, a figure had appeared on the darkened lane, walking more slowly now in sight of home, shadowed by a small dog.

Peering out from behind the willow, Viktor saw the dark hair and eyes of the stranger he had seen earlier, who had run to the woman in pain. Now seen for more than a few seconds, Viktor could see that the mans face was round, and soft; he had a determined chin, a rounded figure, and shoulders that were hunched in exhaustion.

Viktor slowly and silently let out the breath he had been holding. Beautiful, his mind supplied.

The man paused at the door, and as though sensing Viktor's gaze, turned around for a moment, eyes searching the darkness for the hidden watcher, felt but not seen. The dog sniffed the air questioningly, its bright eyes looking at the man as though trying to communicate something. Viktor pulled his head back behind the tree, and tried to slow his breath to an inaudible rhythm.

Evidently dismissing the sensation of eyes, the man turned and walked into the small house, followed by the dog; moments later, light bloomed behind the covered windows. Viktor slowly and silently edged around the willow, and as softly as he could walked through the cover of the trees out into the wide main lane.

The journey back to the castle seemed to take only minutes. Viktor's racing mind compelled his feet to keep up, and before he was aware of what was happening, Viktor had crossed the drawbridge and practically flown back up to his chambers.

There, he flung himself on to his bed, the wide open window showing him the full moon as it hung above him. Witchcraft, Viktor thought. Witchcraft. It's real.

And, for the first time in what felt like years, he felt excitement coursing through his blood, an addictive rush which made his breath come faster and his cheeks flush.

His last thought before he fell into a deep, exhausted sleep was of the witch who lived in that tiny cottage, with his fathomless eyes and his perfect drawings of flowers.

Tomorrow, Viktor thought.

Tomorrow I will go back.