Chapter Text
Webby plucks the strings of her web like one might pull at a harp, sliding her fingers across it, weaving a melody from silk and sorrow. The song winds its way up through white strands and echoes through the silent sky as Webby plays. White and Black. Black and White. The world pulses with the notes of her melody, the colors shifting with each strum.
She turns to address the army of trees that sway with no wind to speak of.
“Spring is where the story begins, see.” Her voice sounds a bit strange as it carries through the desolate forest. “You remember Spring, don’t you? When the grass is just…just starting to turn green and the blossoms on the bushes blush pink and red. I’ve…I’ve never seen Spring, not really. But my friends have. And I thought I’d share it with all of you. It’s nice, Spring. Some of my friends said it was a time for new beginnings.”
The trees chitter with something of childlike excitement, a cacophony of wind on branches. Webby strains her ears and lets the voices settle before she begins again.
“I know about new beginnings,” Webby said. “I weave them all the time. I’ve had many new beginnings and endings of my own. So have my brothers.”
She tries to push away beginnings and endings she has helped weave, those she struck down because she wished it, those she placed her faith in because she was lonely, those she drove to power, and those who she got killed. She was the weaver of fates. In a way, all death was her doing, even when the intricate web she weaved got away from her.
“But our story isn’t about…it isn’t about my brothers, and it’s not about me either. It’s about one of my friends, a good friend. She’s a hero, through and through, you know? This is about the beginning of one of
her
stories.”
Webby plucks another string.
“It’s springtime in a diner in a town called Hatchetfield. It wasn’t tiny, even if people might’ve…said it was. And the owner, well, she’s a witch. Not a bad witch, mind you. She’s a good witch, well, most of the time, anyway.”