The Witch's Unfamiliar Familiar

Darnell sleeps curled atop a worn stool before the crackling fire, his body a small circle of warmth and contentment. His deep, rumbling purr fills the room, whiskers twitching as he dreams. His fur is midnight black, except for the small white cross emblazoned on his head, a mark that has always unsettled his mistress. Aisling Elmina is a witch, from a long line of witches, and such symbols seldom appear by accident.

For fifteen years, Aisling and Darnell have made a suitable pair. From the time he was a kitten, Darnell has been more than a familiar—he has been her anchor. Aisling’s spirit, though gifted, is delicate, and it is Darnell’s presence that steadies her. Familiars, after all, serve more than ritual, they offer comfort, companionship, and the calm clarity upon which true magic depends.

But something in Darnell has changed. He has become distant, aloof, and detached from her worries, her woes, and her endless insecurity. In fact, he seems to be evading her altogether, going out of his way to avoid her company.

“This will not do!” she fumes inwardly. “He’s been the crutch I’ve depended on for as long as I can remember. Steady, patient, and ever so endearing. I won’t have him turning cold on me now. I’ll bring up this matter first thing tomorrow!”

From his perch, Darnell cracks one golden eye open, the slit of his pupil glinting in the firelight. Then, with deliberate indifference, he closes it again.

Aisling gasps softly. “Surely he hears me! she thinks. And if he can hear my thought, could he leave me?” The idea is unbearable. A wave of panic tightens her chest; she bites her knuckle to stifle a sob.

Darnell’s purr cuts off mid-rumble, replaced by a weary sigh. His tail flicks once.

“What is it now?” he mutters, voice thick with feline resignation.

Aisling wipes an errant tear away with her knuckle and steadies herself. “Darnell, we need to talk. I’ve noticed a very distinct change in your attitude toward me lately. You used to listen to my concerns with such understanding—but now it’s as if they’re a nuisance to you.”

Darnell lifts his head, his eyes narrowing. “Concerns? Is that what you call them, Aisling? Concerns.”

The sting of his words catches her off guard. Aisling clasps her trembling hands together and presses them to her lips. Every instinct tells her to be still, yet she stands her ground, desperate to understand what has gone wrong. “Yes, Darnell—concerns! You’ve always been so patient, so kind with my feelings, but lately…”

“Stop right there!” Darnell hisses. He springs upright on the stool, his eyes widening, his tail lashing back and forth—the air between them crackles, alive with fury.

“Don’t you dare start making accusations about me!” Darnell snapped. “For years I’ve put up with your whining and indecisiveness. It’s driven me half-mad! You don’t need a familiar, you need a psychiatrist! By the gods, have you forgotten what a familiar can do?”

Aisling’s chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths. She is speechless. Never has she seen Darnell like this, his fur all puffed up, his tail bristling like a bottle brush.

Darnell’s eyes narrow to slits as he glares at Aisling. “I’ll take your silence as a yes,” he snaps. “Then let me remind you.” His tail lashes once, sharply. “First off, I’m not some slobbering lap dog whose sole purpose is to calm you so you can fly on a plane. I offer more than “emotional support.” Have you ever heard of energy amplification? We strengthen the magic in your spells and rituals—make them sharper, stronger, deadlier, if need be. Pretty good, wouldn’t you say?”

He paces in small circles atop his stool, fur on end. “And what about spiritual guidance? We bridge the veil, fetch messages from the other side so you witches don’t go stumbling around in the dark!” His voice rises another notch, almost a growl. “And protection! Don’t you dare forget that. We familiars are ever-watchful guardians, Aisling. Your shield against curses, against every holy thing that wants to rip you apart!”

He stops suddenly, chest heaving. The firelight flickers across his face as his anger lowers to a simmer. “If you’ve really forgotten all that,” he mutters, lowering his head, “then that’s... that’s just sad. Because this is who I am, Aisling. A familiar, not a pet.” Garnell says“pet” as if he’s spitting something distasteful from his mouth.

Aisling’s shoulders shake as she sobs, her head buried in her arms upon the table. At last, she lifts her tear-streaked face and pleads, her voice trembling. “Darnell, it was never my intention to treat you as anything less than my equal. Our bond is precious to me. I can’t bear to see it torn apart. Please forgive me?”

Darnell flicks his tail and snorts, his golden eyes flashing.“Aisling, the problem isn’t us—it’s you! You were never meant to be a witch in the first place. You’re far too kind for the craft. When a man comes to you with coin in hand, begging for a curse of vengeance, what do you do? You try to dissuade him!”

Aisling lowers her gaze, her voice barely a whisper. “I don’t like violence.”

Darnell rolls his eyes and sighs deeply. “Be that as it may, that’s exactly what he wants! Maybe someone stole his livestock, kidnapped his children, or ran off with his wife! He comes for revenge, and because you refuse, he takes his silver and his business elsewhere.And so we’re left rotting in this miserable hut, with a dirt floor and rags covering our windows! “You’re too weak, you’ve got no spice!” Darnell hissed, his tail lashing. “It’s as if you fancy yourself Glinda, the good witch of the South! Well, I’ve got news for you—there’s no such thing as a good witch! Witches are born of shadow, of power, of darkness!” He stands, fur bristling. “And for that very reason, I’m going to the Council of Witches and Familiars to demand a transfer. I’m sorry it’s come to this, but what choice do I have?”

His voice cracks into a snarl. “Do you even know how I got this cursed cross on my head? The other familiars had their witches brand me—to mock me—for serving a bleeding-hearted saint instead of a proper witch! You’ve made me a joke, Aisling! You’ve ruined my reputation!” He let out a sharp, trembling breath. “I’ve heard there’s a witch who’s familiar wishes to retire.I’ll ask to take his place. I’m done here. I’ve got nothing left to say.” With that, Darnell turns and drops heavily onto his stool, his back rigid, refusing to face her.

Top of Form

In a matter of seconds, Darnell senses a strange vibration in the air. A charge, sharp and electric, prickles through his fur. The atmosphere hums with energy, heavy and alive. Darnell cautiously turns to look over his shoulder, only to find Aisling surrounded by light. Her hair stands on end, her eyes wide and burning with a fierce brilliance.

The fear in Darnell’s voice is unmistakable. “Aisling! What are you doing?” His pupils dilate until his eyes are almost black. He can see her lips moving, shaping words that chill him to the bone. “Is she—no! She can’t be casting a spell, can she?”

Aisling raises her hand and points a trembling finger at Darnell. Her voice cuts through the crackling air:

“Anima sine cordo,

Sus avarus,

Nunc transforma,

Ex Fele in Canem!”

A great burst of thunder follows, shaking the hut to its very frame. The ground quivers, then splits open, spewing fire and white smoke into the room. The laughter of the damned echoes through the rafters. Darnell’s claws tear into the stool as his back arches and his fur bristles. He yowls in terror, but it’s no use. The spell strikes, and he collapses to the ground as the light and smoke engulf him.

Aisling sits at her table, watching the smoke thin and curl into the rafters. The corners of her lips twitch upward—first in amusement, then in cold satisfaction.

Darnell’s eyes snap open. For a moment, confusion clouds them. Then he sees her calm, composed, radiant with power. “Aisling! What the hell have you done?” he shouts, his voice cracking.

Aisling chuckles, low and deliberate, before murmuring, “What? My little display of magic startled you? Did you truly believe I’d let you stroll into the council and label me unfit to serve as a true witch? That I’m so beneath you that you’d find another to flatter your ego and protect your reputation?” She rises slowly, the light flickering across her face as she lifts a small, ornate mirror. “Oh, and by the way—what do you think of your new face?”

Darnell stares. Staring back at him is a wide-eyed brown and white puppy, ears drooping, nose twitching. He tries to hiss, but what escapes is a pitiful yelp. His paws—his paws—fly to his snout. “Why?” he whispers, his voice trembling with disbelief.

Aisling only smiles. “Because, my dear Darnell, of all the qualities you listed that make a familiar great, you forgot the most important one—loyalty. Dogs are loyal beyond reason, even unto death.” Her tone softens as she crouches beside him, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “And you,” she coos in syrupy baby talk, “are such a cute little doggy-woggy. I just know you’ll be the best boy ever.”

A strange sensation stirs inside Darnell, warm and buoyant, fluttering through his chest. Is this joy? His tail begins to thump of its own accord, and before he can stop it, his whole body is wagging. When Aisling scratches his chin with her long nails, he nearly melts with delight.

Then she snaps her fingers. A dog biscuit appears in her hand. Without thinking, Darnell snatches it, devours it in seconds, and immediately lusts for more.

Aisling pats his head, her grin widening. “I see we’re going to be excellent companions. Later today, we’ll visit the village to get you a proper collar—one with your name on it. Then we’ll call on the townsfolk, see who might need our assistance. Doesn’t that sound delightful?”

Throwing back her head, Aisling lets out a gleeful cackle as Darnell lifts his muzzle and howls in perfect harmony.