Aggie Melwyn of Esselsea, by way of Bridgeford
full name: Aggie Melwyn age: 24 gender: cis female pronouns: She/her occupation or position: gardener (with wisewoman/witch background) birthplace: Esselsea by way of a Bridgeford family
Her mother was one of three sisters born in Bridgeford, children of a woodworker and wisewoman. Her father was born of no consequence, but learned his trade as an apprentice and eventually married one of the three daughters, Maren, in the woodworkers family.
Quick to be married and quick to be pregnant, quick to leave their rainy homeland for somewhere quiet by the sea, that was the story Aggie was brought up believing when she still had her parents.
She was Aggie, just Aggie. Not Agatha, Agnes, or Agnella. It was noted on the sea-salt stained record of her birth, the first Melwyn born in Esselsea. Water called to her more than anything. Maybe it was the ebb and flow between peace and violence as water hit the banks, and she liked the way the drops would blend in her hand or follow the command of her steps in damp earth.
Maren Melwyn watched. She saw there was something natural in her child's workings. There were even a few times where she saw a branch or two from the brush reach out and snag gently at the tips of Aggie's skirts.
So her mother did give her the family book with tips, tricks, tonics, and more to see where her child best excelled. It was rather a shock to see that their traditions and rules seemed to invoke something...less controlled under Aggie's whispered words.
"Practice" Maren said softly to her daughter.
This wasn't as intuitive as bending branches or commanding a few drops of water, Aggie felt her energy deplete pretty quickly and gave up on her family's tradition as her mother had taught.
There was no disappointment, maybe some relief instead to think her daughter would do better than selling cure-alls and wish-sticks. It was true, there was something stately in Aggie who wore her hair pulled back tight and interacted well with the few nobility that passed through their town every so often. Maybe she'd be a governess, live in a city.
It was a pleasant thought that Maren kept with her even as illness took over. She'd stayed too long in wet clothes and withered wistfully with her husband and child near her bedside.
Aggie tried the family book often during that time, looking for something that would pull the cold from her mother, fill her with warmth. But things sizzled, burned the edges of her robe, turned off shades until there wasn't any time left.
On their last day in Esselsea, Aggie held her family book over the flame swearing off the attempts for now. Her father felt it best too, there was no need to share Aggie's knowledge of the practice as they headed back to Bridgeford when she was sixteen to be with whatever family still remained.
It was there that Aggie learned just a little more about Maren's life before leaving. Of the sisters, only one remained, Mavis, the oldest of all. Aggie stayed in Mavis' home while her father returned to the woodworking trade and watched silently as Mavis had apparently continued on with her own version of the family book.
This book was different, less instruction and steps scribbled into tight lines on parchment. This was ideas and feelings, greenery and gold seemed to sprout from its edges if you looked at it too long.
Mavis caught on. "Your mother," she said "was a more by the book woman than myself or our sister." And that is when Mavis gave the story of the sister who entered the witchwood to Aggie.
She never spoke her name, as if its weight was to heavy to say. It was when her mother was newly pregnant with Aggie, that the third sister's impulsiveness drew her out. The loss was too much for Maren who took her husband and child away.
That's where Mavis left the story , perhaps fearing she'd told too much to someone too young. For the next few years of Aggie's life, she did no more than teach the girl her own brand of wise-workings. It seemed Aggie did excel in the very least, where plants were involved.
Tightly bound hair loosened, feeling most herself at dusk or dawn with dew drops touching her fingertips in the garden. It drew her when everything else said be confined. It drew her out so much that she often found herself walking east, far off her family's land where suddenly her breath would catch and she'd realize where she was going. Maybe it was fascination, or something else but Aggie couldn't cause more pain because she lacked control.
When she told her father and Mavis, it was decided they'd need to leave Bridgeford again. Her father would return to the property in Esselsea while arrangements were made for Aggie to take a job as a gardener in Fiellew.
She arrived, hair again bound tight. It was close enough to her mother's wishes for her. But Mavis had left something in the bottom of Aggie's satchel. Her own book, with the workings she's established best. Far away from Bridgeford, some magic here or there to help with her gardening work would really cause no harm.
Aggie used it sparingly, a little worried that something wild still might call her as things in the kingdom turned dark with the dissapearance of the King.
She kept her head down and the book tucked beneath her pillow. Only to find, what was intuitive to her now was not something she could place in ink to a page.
