Rest Abundant

in a land far, far away, a small firelight appeared—an ember of golden, warm magic, mysteriously blossoming within the heart of the enchanting sorceress, Cyra.

Though Cyra’s immortal beginnings have long been a lively source of debate, none can deny that her powers are boundless. Revered as a great healer by all creatures of the realm, she is most known for her shapeshifting allure and warming essence, appearing only to those most in need of her firelight.

Many women swear her ember came to them in the dead of night, setting ablaze the homes of wicked men. They boast that her wild heart and passionate nature need only be summoned to answer vengeance with fire.

Others whisper that her dance within the flames can soothe even the most tormented souls, lulling them into restful oblivion.

Whatever the truth may be, the ever-elusive shapeshifter remains a legend of both great power and deep comfort.

Yet Cyra would not be found weaving through the night in this way had she not been saved by the sorceress Althea.

Legend tells that Mother Nature discovered Althea—broken and near death, deep within a dark and terrible forest.

The great Mother, seeing the evil that had nearly devoured Althea whole, took pity on the fallen woman.

With a breath of life, Nature mended her wounds and blessed her with immortality and the magic of water, herbs, and flowers.

Althea used these gifts to become one of the realm’s most renowned healers, drawing weary travelers from far and wide in search of her signature brews and enchanting potions.

One potion in particular, Rest Abundant, was coveted above all—a beautiful blend of chamomile, lavender, lemon balm, and valerian, sending all who bathed in its magic into a deep, restful sleep.

Yet, Althea sought no gold, hiding from crowds as best she could. Like Cyra, she walked the night, searching for those in true need of her liquid sorcery.

And it was on one such night that Althea and Cyra stumbled upon the same campsite—an encounter that would forever intertwine their fates.

Cyra was the first to arrive at the dreadful scene.

The night sky was void of moonlight, with clouds veiling the stars—darkness stretched far and wide. Cyra had been shifting and weaving her way through the forest green when she found him.

A man lay in a clearing, his body failing, gripped by a chill so deep it seemed rooted in his very bones.

Without hesitation, she knelt beside him, cradling him in her golden, glowing arms, and sang a lullaby unknown to any but her.

A song so powerful that to hear it was to be pulled from the edge of death, infused with a strength beyond one’s years.

As Cyra sang, the man before her began to melt—his form dissolving into liquid shadows, her lifegiving lullaby swallowed within. 

Power siphoned. 

Horrified, she realized the trap too late as her firelight was ripped from her body, and drawn into a box that emerged from the pooling darkness.

She tried to shift, to reclaim her ember—but before she could, her once-glowing arms froze in place, her curved body encased in ice.

Her fair form trembled, light eyes darting toward the trees just as a figure stepped from the shadows.

Moonlight spilled over him, revealing the half-demon man, Dusan.

Dusan had wandered the realm, searching for his willful wife, Isa, who had fled their home in the arms of another.

Heartbroken and crushed by the elements, he had pressed forward despite his failing body, his mind unraveling with each sleepless night.

In his desperation, he had made a deal—a bargain struck deep within a dark land, where restless shadows whispered promises of power.

They had granted him the ability to live without sleep, so he might search for his lost love endlessly.

But the price had been steep.

Every night without rest chipped away at his true essence, feeding the demon that now lived within him.

The demon before Cyra was no longer a man.

Dusan’s form had become horrid and twisted, his sanity unraveled by a life of unrest.

He approached the trembling firelight, his crooked grin stretching wide, and said,

"Fire’s might will be mine tonight."

With laughter that could have shattered the minds of mortals, he inched toward the box.

Cyra tried to scream, tried to move—but her very essence had been bound.

She knew that if the magic of a restless shadow touched her ember—now suffocated by the power of her own melody—the firelight would be set wild.

It would grow beyond control, a storm of flames fanned into chaos, until the world itself turned to ash.

Dusan, now only a breath away, reached for the flame.

Cyra closed her eyes.

She felt the energy within surge, her ember turning wild, ready to consume.

And then…

Nothing.

Only stillness.

Her eyes snapped open.

Dusan lay motionless, collapsed just inches from the box.

Her ember—no longer gold—had turned blue, its essence trembling on the edge of eruption.

Cyra thrashed against the darkness binding her, her body writhing in vain.

Then...

A scent.

Something sweet. Earthy. Floral.

A warm wave washed over her, and before she could react,

Her body went limp.

The last thing she saw was a pair of violet eyes, shimmering like twilight before sleep took her.

Morning light greeted Cyra as she fluttered open her eyes.

She found herself in a bed of leaves, beside a fire—neither of which she had made.

Scrambling to her feet, she pressed a hand over her heart, willing herself to breathe as she searched for the warmth of her flame.

With exasperated relief, she felt it—her quiet ember, shimmering in greeting, just as it had every morning before.

Cyra took a steadying breath, her gaze drifting around the site.

The trees still stood—lush, green, untouched.

A man lay in a deep sleep, not more than six feet away.

She startled, eyes widening as she recognized him.

Dusan.

The darkness that had once twisted his form seemed to have drained away, leaving only a man, his breath slow and steady, his face peaceful.

"He’s a bit less tormented now, I imagine."

Cyra whipped around, her hand pressing over her racing heart.

The stranger tilted her head, amusement flickering in her violet eyes.

"You seem spritely," she mused, pressing a hand to her own chest. "I’m Althea."

Cyra had heard the name Althea whispered through the ages—the witch with eyes like violets and hair spun from stardust.

Both women had stepped into immortality around the same time, yet their paths had never crossed.

Until now.

But Cyra had not expected this.

The witch before her was as vibrant as spring, brimming with quiet power.

Althea gestured to the camp, her voice casual yet knowing.

"I hope you understand—this was all wildly necessary."

Cyra glanced around, her thoughts tangled, words failing her.

A flush of embarrassment crept in as she imagined Althea dragging her unconscious body through the night.

She turned back to her savior, meeting those enchanting eyes.

Althea dipped her head in a gentle bow, a shy smile gracing her lips.

Cyra blinked, suddenly aware of just how long she had been staring.

The shapeshifter shook her head, exhaling a soft laugh before lowering her hand from her glowing chest.

"Thank you," Cyra murmured.

Althea extended a graceful hand, cradling a delicate vial in her palm.

Cyra recognized it at once—the legendary sleeping potion that, it seemed, could even lull a restless demon into peace.

She took the offering, gazing deep into the swirling, glowing liquid cupped in her hands.

Alethea’s voice was soft but certain,

"I find that even the most beautiful fires deserve to rest and start anew."

Cyra looked up, her vision blurred with unshed tears.

In all her existence, she had never been given a gift.

Yet, Althea had not only saved her very essence and protected the realm, but now offered her Rest Abundant—freely, without expectation.

Her flame fluttered, her golden skin shimmering with light as she met those violet eyes once more.

"Well," Cyra whispered, a smile curving her lips,

"I find that even the most beautiful brew deserves warmth."

Every flower, leaf and vine around the the two witches swayed in agreement.

tales of the witches’ intertwined magic spread like wildfire.

Althea’s water cooled Cyra’s fire.

Cyra’s hypnotic dance emboldened Althea’s flourishing flora.

They were as balanced as the potions they brewed and as breathtaking as flames against the night.

The potion of Rest Abundant was forever blessed with the lullaby of an ember, remaining the most sought-after magical brew of all time.

Whether its liquid is consumed or its magic bathed in,

The flowers and herbs are said to hold tight,

Whispering sweet dreams until a deep, peaceful sleep finally takes hold…

Giving even the most beautiful flames time to rest.



Until the next story unfolds,

Yours in tea & tales,

~Faerie Good~