She couldn’t remember a time before her exile to Ironwood. Time had ceased to mean anything here. The solitude was at times too much to bear. It was during those times that she was tempted to use the magic that had brought her to this fate.

She longed to see her children one more time; to see HIM one more time. But it could not be. The world believed her dead. After all, she had been put to the pyre. The village had watched her die. Little did they know it was an illusion.

And so, she spent her days in the small cottage at the heart of the forest, tending her small garden, her goats and chickens, and longing for things that could never be again. It wasn’t a bad life, she mused. And after all, her children were safe now. That thought helped her when the loneliness crept in.

As she sat outside in the fading twilight, a cool breeze teasing her hair from her loose braid, she thought about what had brought her here. Her fingers never stilled as she spun the wool through the wheel in front of her. Had she truly deserved her fate? When she was honest with herself, which wasn’t often, the answer was yes. She had broken the first rule of the sisterhood. “Harm ye none.” She had done great harm in hurt and anger. She had driven a gentle soul to madness for cruel words spoken to her children.

And for what purpose? In truth, they were the bastards the woman had named them. She had no claim on their father, save for his affection. She had not known he was married. But in her heart, she knew it would not have mattered. She was no more capable of refusing him than she was of drawing blood from a turnip.

And now she had lost him, her darling fierce boys, and her gentle, trusting daughter. Her only consolation was that he would keep them safe. But somewhere deep inside, a nagging voice whispered that she should have one glance to be sure. That voice grew more insistent with each passing day.

She gave in, closing her eyes, and reaching out with her magic. And then she opened her eyes with a sigh. No, today would not be the day. She could not bring harm to the ones she loved by so much as a whisper of her presence.

And so, Angrboda, witch of the Ironwood, returned to the cottage, her magic contained for now. She would live as a mortal for this time. She would allow herself to be forgotten, a whispered name of myths of old.