She was being watched. It was decent work, but Samaire suspected that the woman, Ilaeyra, had been chosen more for her loyalty than her silent footfalls. She was subtle, though. Never stared, never lingered, and never acted strange. But Ilaeyra made for a constant shadow and shadows always had cause.



The week passed in a blur of mud and aches. They slowly dug out the rest of the houses, drained the fields and life, finally, began to return to some semblance of normal. Or not quite. There were still whispers and nervous prayers around every corner. No one could make head nor tails of the stag in the wood nor the slope, but most people seemed to agree that they must be connected.



Samaire rather hoped that it had just been heavy rain.




The next night, a patrol found another stag without its heart. 


_____________________________________________________________________________



The pale column of her mother’s throat is marred by the burn of chains. Her hands are raw and blistering, but she is gloriously _alive_. Samaire helps her into the spring, winces as her mother shudders in its healing waters. Somewhere in the forrest, the nymphs are weeping, their songs like mournful bells in the shadows.



Her mother has not cried since Samaire found her in the courtyard, cradling her Gildas’ headless corpse. She whispers the names of her sons in mournful refrain, like a prayer will somehow stitch their heads back onto their shoulders.



Samaire cleans her mother’s slender hands, lets the waters do the wishing because all of her wishes are for fire and death. Her mother collapses when Samaire gently tips the water over her throat, slumps against her and they weep in the water.



Later that evening, her mother tells her to leave and to never come back.

 
_____________________________________________________________________________




“’Nother stag? That’s what, three now?” Rin’s voice interrupted the relative peace of Samaire’s meal. She looked up from a soulless bowl of broth and potatoes, brow arched. Rin was a slim man, and his voice was thick with accent, but he had always been sensible. Samaire appreciated his brevity. He had never pried, never questioned her about old secrets. He was one of the few who would still speak with her, cast with suspicion as she was.


“Six. Olan’s patrol found more just off the road last night. A stag and doe. Her fawn was cut out as well.”



“Mother’s mercy,” he swore, shadows in his eyes. Samaire found she lacked her appetite. She forced herself to continue eating. She needed the energy. The mud had been cleared but patrols had been doubled in the mad hunt to find the perpetrator.


Samaire suspected that they wouldn’t want to meet the monster responsible face to face. She kept this opinion to herself. Unable to stomach another bite, she rose, bringing her bowl to a pock-faced serving girl, turning a blind eye when she scurried off away from the kitchens. There was little food, with the harvest in ruins and it seemed the smallest were always the first to go without.


“Spirits be with you,” she clapped Rin on the shoulder as she passed, thunder shattering in the heavens. Her eyes narrowed. Rain again. It had begun this morning, barely a drizzle. The storm in the heavens now was hardly tamed. Samaire fastened her oiled cloak about her shoulders, drawing her hood. What misfortune, to be on guard duty for the cell with the Thunder Maiden at war with her sparking sisters.



Turnover was performed quickly, even with her missing watch partner. She could watch the man-thing well enough on her own, and the men needed a meal and a warm hearth. 


The wind stung her face, the spray of rain smearing her vision. Samaire burrowed into her cloak, pacing around the iron. The man-thing had been fed, she noted a bowl filling with rain water and earth. Sometime in the past week he had been forced into something that must have once resembled clothes. He was fouled with mud, looked smaller in the driving rain.



“What are you?” She wondered quietly, but her reverie was broken by approaching footsteps.