Cosmic Offering, or perhaps Devotional

Myth Banality 

After all arrivals had settled into their rooms in borough inns and private estates and rooms in the royal hearth, the witch shook off all invitation and without devout hands reaching instead snuck herself home. The shine of universal acclaim had worn off generations ago and now all the witch thought of was freedom; her thoughts lilting forward, like a bird, captured, the moment of flight.

In her earlier years she had built herself the grandest of hearths in the mortal queen-style but for the last few decades her desires shrank to restlessness and she altered her home with some regularity, trying to find a better fit.

She eventually built herself a small woodland that held a life-sized replica of a bird’s nest. The nest’s nested interior held a doll of its own: another bright young forest’s groves of trees, a sweet creek, dappled light through woven walls and soft lichen, everywhere. She simply put a giant bed in one of the groves and a nearby bower held her dressing room and a sunken warm spring in the floor and installed her hearth in the center of the nest; otherwise, she let the inner forest do what it wished. 

She no longer used a laboratory or an atelier for spellwork, so she did not install one.   

She shut her door and her brooding orb sent the nestled forest to hang itself high into the air, away from the deluge of well-wishers and visitors leaking their desire to at least touch the mythic witch of the world. 

At last, to the heart of the witch: talent scaffolded with boredom, or perhaps despair.