The Rootwomb Binding
“It was never meant to keep them out. Only to ask one of them to stay.”
They never speak the name before the Binding is done.
The name is a gift, and you don’t give gifts before something older has been asked to look away.
So the cradle stays unnamed for seven nights. Milk is warmed. A silver pin is set on the sill. The old root is pulled from the hedge under a waning moon—never cut, never bartered. A bundle is made. Promises are whispered. Some forget the words. Others invent them. The Wild doesn’t seem to mind, so long as you sound like you mean it.
At dawn, the milk is gone.
Sometimes.
Other times it sours.
And sometimes it sits—warm, full, untouched—and the air around it feels too quiet.
Those mornings are not discussed.
But the ritual is still done for the next child.
No one teaches this. No one writes it down.
But it spreads.
From hearth to hearth. From blood to breath.
A rite with no scripture, still carried out by those who’ve long since forgotten what it was for—only that it is necessary.
And that once, long ago, it was kind.
A Gesture Older Than Faith
The Rootwomb Binding is not a rite of worship. It predates the Church, the One True God, and every scriptural amendment the Sanctifiers have tried to staple onto reality. It is not light-born. It is not sacred. It is a gesture—a knot in time, offered by mortals to the Wild in hope of being overlooked.
Not worship. Not protection.
Courtesy.
At its core, the Binding is a braid. The newborn’s umbilical cord, still soft with life’s memory, is coiled around a living root—bindroot, thornvine, or storm-touched ivy, depending on region. This is not symbolism. It is the entangling of origins. The child’s root, bound to the land’s root, fixed in place by blood and soil and the understanding that no one is safe until someone older says so.
It was never about power.
It was about asking not to be interfered with.
And for a time, the Neighbours obliged.
When Meaning Was Burned Away
The Church came later.
It did not understand the Binding, and so declared it corrupt. A folk rite. A charm for the weak-minded. Then, inevitably, a heresy.
The old bundles were confiscated. Midwives were hung. Shrines were torn out and replaced with candle-box altars and light-locked chapels where no one watched the thresholds anymore.
The Neighbours did not leave.
But they were no longer asked politely.
The ritual, severed from its meaning, persisted. Fragments carried forward through habit. The cord replaced with string. The knot made symbolic. The milk poured as metaphor. A gesture still performed, but emptied of contract.
And the Wild, no longer respected, learned to come hungry.
A Ritual Misremembered
Ask a priest, and they will call it a superstition.
Ask a mother, and she will say it keeps the baby from slipping away in its sleep.
But no one asks the fae.
No one asks what it is like to be remembered incorrectly.
Most who perform the Binding today believe it a blessing. They use a root, yes—but a plant root alone. The cord is often burned. The knot is tied without knowing why. The seventh promise—once spoken to the hearth itself—is now improvised, shortened, or omitted entirely.
And yet… sometimes, it still works.
That should concern you more than it comforts.
When It Still Works
There are places in Duskworn that the Church has never pacified. Ridge-top farms where the mist is older than the law. Villages with doors nailed shut at dusk and cellars full of stories no one will tell with the windows open.
In these places, the Binding is still done correctly.
The cord is kept.
The root is chosen.
The knot is tied beneath breath, not speech.
They do not speak the child’s name until the eighth morning.
They do not light candles on certain moons.
And they do not ask the Church for advice.
They remember that the Binding is not a ward.
It is an invitation—to one fae among many, to watch. To stay near. To claim, gently, and thus make the child less available to the hungrier kind.
In these places, the milk is always taken.
And no one dies by accident.
The Veil and Those Who Crawled Through
The Veil was not torn by monsters.
It was worn thin by certainty.
Every witch burned. Every offering mocked. Every name forbidden. It was not one scream that broke the world, but a generation of them—all asking why no one remembered how to ask for mercy without making demands.
The Neighbours did not vanish.
They were replaced—by things that looked similar but did not know kindness.
Now, when the Binding is done incorrectly, something still answers.
And it does not always intend to leave.
The Danger of Incomplete Rituals
Milk spoiled.
Pins untarnished.
Bundles tied with string instead of blood.
The Binding always functions.
But an incomplete invitation is no less an invitation.
And half a contract is just enough for the wrong kind of guest to arrive early.
Final Thought
Duskworn remembers rituals better than it remembers names.
The Rootwomb Binding still works—not because the faithful believe in it, but because the Wild does.
The Church calls it corruption.
The Wild calls it familiar.
I call it what it is: a signal.
I have watched the milk vanish.
I have seen the knot tied properly.
They call Duskworn a land of monsters.
They are not wrong.
And some of us do not need the flame.
At a Glance
For those who prefer their knowledge quickly. And their consequences slowly.
What This Is
The Rootwomb Binding is a quiet rite, still practised in Duskworn by those who either remember too much, or understand just enough to be afraid. It is performed on the seventh night after birth—milk warmed, root buried, words whispered. Most believe it a ward. Fewer know it is an invitation.
What It Was Meant to Do
Its true purpose was never to repel, but to request. The child’s umbilical cord—once called the first root—is meant to be coiled around a living plant root, binding the newborn to the land itself. This bundle, placed beneath the threshold, forges a knot of blood and soil and breath. The silver pin marks the promise. The milk seals the offering. The Wild decides what comes next.
What It Has Become
Today, most forget the cord. They tie the root with string. They light candles when they should listen to the wind. The seventh promise is shortened, improvised, or left unsaid. And still, sometimes, the cradle remains warm and the milk is gone by dawn. The ritual works. It does not forgive being misunderstood.
Where It Still Works
In the far hollows of Duskworn—where the flute girl walks and the mist remembers its name—the Binding is still done properly. No one speaks the child’s name before the eighth sunrise. No one thanks the empty bowl. And no one opens the door after dusk unless they are very sure of who they invited.
Who Answers
The fae who answer are not always kind. But they are old. And they are watching.
Final Note
The Binding does not offer safety. It offers attention.
If the rite is done well, something may choose to stay near.
If it is done poorly, something else may answer first.
Either way, the child is no longer alone.
And in Duskworn, that is not always a mercy.
When the Binding Is Done Properly
This is not instruction. It is memory. Speak it as it was given.
You do not light the fire. You breathe the milk warm.
Not too hot. Not with iron. Not with haste. Just enough to keep the dark from tasting it too soon.
You pour it into a stone bowl, smooth and old, and place it beneath the cradle before the seventh dusk. Not during. Not after.
The root must be pulled, not cut. It must come free because it was willing—not because you demanded. Thornvine is best. Bindroot if it bends for you. Ivy only if there is no other way.
You take the cord. You do not clean it. You do not bless it. You do not name it.
You wrap it around the root, once, twice, thrice—never four. That is a closing. This is an asking.
Wrap it in cloth taken from the mother’s left sleeve. Not the right. Never the right.
If there’s no cloth left, you wait until there is.
Place a silver pin beside the bowl. It must have drawn honest blood.
A kitchen prick. A mercy-cut. Never a wound made in anger. If it shines too bright, cloud it with breath.
Then the promises.
Seven of them. One for each day the child has breathed. Whispered low, and not for anyone else to hear.
Six are for the Wild.
The seventh is for the hearth. Never say it twice. Never say it aloud.
Lay the bundle beneath the threshold. Do not cover it. Do not bless it. Do not explain.
Close the door before the sun has finished leaving.
Do not open it again until the light returns.
Do not name the child until the eighth morning.
Do not move the bowl.
Do not look directly at whatever is near.
If the milk is gone, something is watching.
If it is soured, something refused.
And if it is still full, and the room is silent, and you feel like something is waiting—
do not bind another.
Comments