The Witch’s Caretaker

Anto Colmensin, as one might observe, was a strikingly beautiful young man, often mistaken for a maiden. A renowned pharmacist in the Northern Kingdom, he typically bristled at being perceived as female, preferring a neutral style that led most to regard him simply as a handsome youth with delicate features. Yet, there was one specific occasion when he unfailingly donned a dress and meticulously adorned himself.

This was whenever he spent time with the witch, Hillevi.

“…Madam, I have arrived.” Anto gently pushed open the familiar door, a portal leading into the witch’s mysterious cottage.

“Have you come?” From beyond the threshold, a placid voice resonated. Anto stepped inside, approaching the figure who lay upon a bed, engrossed in writing with a pen. The woman’s skin was pallid and drawn, her long hair, neglected for an age, lay disheveled around her. Despite her haggard appearance, a tender smile graced her lips. Though she was a witch, the expression she cast upon him was imbued with such profound gentleness, even Anto recognized it was not truly meant for him.

“Did you go into the city, Livia?”

“…Yes. I went to buy flowers.” As Anto drew closer, Hillevi offered no further pleasantries, simply closing her book.

“Did that Otherworld Traveler speak to you again?”

“No, I merely went to instruct him to tidy his dwelling.” Anto, who was often perceived as a blonde girl, replied, taking a seat beside Hillevi. The innocent, romantic smile adorning his face starkly contrasted with his own delicate, yet weary features.

“Do you feel any better?” Anto inquired softly, extending his hand to rest it upon Hillevi’s head. Hillevi, in that moment, resembled a small child, making a peculiar expression.

“If you hadn’t returned, it might have worsened, you know.”

“Then I would truly find it hard to leave.” Anto murmured. At that moment, Hillevi—her mind adrift, believing herself to be Livia—closed her eyes. She extended a frail, almost skeletal hand, placing it upon Anto’s arm before speaking.

“I had a dream…” The woman, long confined to her sickbed, spoke with a drawn-out sigh. “…I repelled them, those people, and rescued you from… from that scoundrel’s grasp… It should have been over then… but in the dream, they returned… they came back… that man, he crawled out of hell, bringing his pursuers with him…”

“That is not real,” Anto soothed her with his words. “I am here, and I have always been here… Hillevi, rest now. Do not overexert yourself… and remember your medicine.” As he comforted the woman, she gradually drifted into sleep, much like a child. Yet, she was no mere child; she was his adoptive mother, once the indomitable “Witch” who had forged countless legends across the continent. Now, however, this was her twilight. Gazing upon the woman whose face, though not truly aged, was framed by a cascade of withered white hair, a profound sorrow welled within Anto’s eyes.

****

Only after ensuring Hillevi’s breathing had settled into a steady rhythm did Anto rise. He then set about tidying the scattered books and the various implements used for potion-making that lay strewn about the cottage. Hillevi had never been one to leave things disarrayed, unlike Eric, nor was her nature ever so unkempt. However, with the passage of years, her former resolve had waned. Imperceptibly, she had begun to forget countless things; her mind would wander mid-experiment, and she could no longer recall the precise locations for gathering materials. Yet, she had never voiced these lapses, merely allowing Anto to handle them, until one day, upon waking, her first words to him were…

“Livia, you… have returned?”

“…” Having finished organizing the books, Anto moved to the kitchen to prepare porridge. As Eric had once explained, this was a common affliction: people, as they aged, would begin to shed their memories, for after navigating a long life, they yearn to retreat to the moments they cherished most, effectively trapping themselves in the past. Hillevi’s case, however, was peculiar. Eric theorized it was a severe mental impairment, the direct consequence of prolonged, exhaustive spellcasting. This mental deterioration was mirrored in her physical decline; she had grown progressively weaker, transitioning from mere fatigue to being utterly unable to walk in less than a year. Within this span, she had forgotten an increasing number of things, retaining only her memories of Livia.

“The taste is acceptable.” Anto sampled the concoction. He meticulously blended the medicinal soup, knowing full well it likely held no genuine efficacy. Yet, as Eric had once wisely remarked, the true importance lay not in whether an action yielded a tangible result, but whether the act itself offered solace to one’s spirit.

“Hillevi, awaken. It’s time for your medicine.” Anto spoke, drawing closer. He gently roused the witch, then carefully helped her to sit up, noting that her weight felt even lighter than before.

“…Hehe.” Having been helped upright, Hillevi merely offered him a faint smile, then spoke with a hint of petulance in her voice.

“Feed me.”

“…Truly… Are you a child?” Anto questioned with a furrowed brow. Hillevi chuckled softly, then leaned gently against him.

“…It is truly strange…” she mused. “I have become this, yet Livia remains unchanged. It makes one rather envious.” She lifted her head, her gaze fixed on the “maiden” before her, as she perceived him.

“Despite everything… I have become so unsightly.”

“Have you?” Anto countered, turning his head slightly as he placed the medicinal soup on a nearby table, leaning in closer to speak.

“You remain as beautiful as you ever were, Madam.”

“How naughty of you,” Hillevi responded with a soft laugh. Anto merely tilted his head.

“My genuine hope for you now is to rest well. When you awaken, we shall venture into the woods to bask in the sunlight.”

“Mm!” Hillevi nodded vigorously, then settled back down. Anto continued to soothe her, feeling as though he were gazing upon a reflection of his own past self… No, Hillevi had never offered him such comfort. She…

‘—It is all your fault!’

‘Why… why must you resemble her so much! Your eyes… your hair…’

‘You are the progeny of that bastard beast, and because of you… everything is because of you!’

‘Livia… oh, Livia…’

He had been raised by the witch, yet as he matured, she grew increasingly unable to reconcile with his appearance. Perhaps in her eyes, every facet of him served as a tormenting reminder of the one who was no longer there. She desperately sought to eradicate every trace of “that person” or “that beast” from him. To this end, he was forced to ingest body-altering concoctions, compelled to grow his hair long, and taught the intricacies of a maiden’s cosmetics. He was forbidden to resemble his father, for that man was detestable. Yet, Anto had never even laid eyes upon him.

Not even once.

He mused that he *should* despise Hillevi; there had been countless instances where she had struck him, screamed at him, and subjected him to torment. She had forbidden him from any contact with others, confining him within the forest. Yet now, she had forgotten all these cruelties, reduced to this fragile state. Even if anger still simmered within him, there was nowhere left for him to unleash it.