Worn leather boots sank lightly into the soft moss, muffling the intruder’s movements, absorbing his presence. Lush green hues prevailed in this place; grey-green moss blanketed the numerous trunks of this dense forest like animal fur, countless leaves on sprawling trees blotted all sunlight save for precious green-yellow beams of light that sliced through the shadows and offered glimpses of this forest’s shrouded radiance. Deep green ferns whispered against legs clad in patched dark trousers as the intruder weaved deeper into the secrets of these woods. His dark countenance—a thin, lithe frame of underwhelming height clad in dark, thread-bare tunic, a moth-eaten cloak, and a snug, dark hood that masked every facial feature save for his eyes—moved like a dark wraith against the backdrop of ancient nature, clearly not belonging to such a wild place… but was he unwelcomed?

His heart hammered in his chest, a deafening sound despite the only one that could hear it, afraid that he would actually find what he came to seek and end up dying here. A small part of him, perhaps not too small, welcomed the possibility as he tried to ignore the sting of fresh rope burns around gloved wrists or the dull, throbbing ache of the bruises that battered his carefully concealed body. Better to be torn limb from limb by some fearsome monster in his effort to gain some power than to die as a victim, without any control of his own life, merely because of the color of his skin.

Still, it did not mean that he did not fear death or that he did not desire to live, however pathetic this life was. Not when he could exact vengeance on those that dared to maim him.

In the distance, a twig snapped, the soft sound like an explosion in this eerily quiet place. Forests usually teemed with noise, with the business of life, but it was as though this place was holding its breath to see what would happen to this wandering fool. He jumped to the sound of the noise, one hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of a dull sword that was no longer at his hip. He had barely managed to escape nearby Shadowdale with his life, lucky still that he had managed to recover a few of his possessions along the way, but his weapon was not among them. Why? The realization of his foolishness only strengthened his fear, and he shifted silently to the nearest tree, prepared to ascend its heights should he need to.

The forest did not stir. Yet something had snapped that twig.

Deeply unsettled, he thought about turning around, abandoning this suicidal quest for power and acquire it by some other means. He had come to this forest to seek out a dragon. Or was it a wyrm? Or was it a chimera? The stories were so different, but they all held one consistency: the creature’s blood would permanently enhance the strength and power of anyone who drank it. He had come to find a creature, to observe it, and to see what he could do to draw enough blood from it, dead or alive, for his needs. But he was not a skilled fighter and his magical prowess was not strong. He had let his guard down for a moment, loosening his cowl to scratch an itch behind his ear, and someone had seen him for what he was. In the struggle to escape imprisonment from these strangers, he had lost most of the items he counted on to help him. Did he really think to sneak up on a magical beast?

Why did he even come here?

Spooked, frustrated, and confused, he turned around to head back the way he came, to take his chances in sneaking around those ignorant villagers, and noticed that the narrow track that ought to stretch before him was gone.

Outwardly, he stared, motionless. Inwardly, he panicked, then took a few hasty steps forward, forgetting that he needed to stay quiet. No, he would have remembered that knotted tree over here, that dead fern over there. He walked and circled, searching for his footsteps, looking for a familiar marker, seeking the narrow pathway he took to get into this place. Nothing. For the first time in his life, he was lost.

Not used to this kind of helplessness, he spun around, breathing hard, unremarkable brown eyes wide beneath his cowl. He resisted the urge to call out, not wanting to draw attention to himself, and willed himself to calm down even as his hands began to sweat beneath his gloves and his mouth dried. If he had somehow gotten lost, chances were good that no one would be able to find him. He had time to regain his wits, time to find a way to escape this forest on his own, the very idea of calling out for help worse than being stuck here forever.

“Another one? What’ll that be then? Two n’a month? No, no, wasn’t but I’d jest seen Halla’s circle that last…” And the old crow was bound to fly over again within the next month or so. Huh, there went more time she’d lost track of. “Well an’ who’s it this time? Mercy, but it’s never I’ll want for brave fools, these parts. Though ifen is that boy agin… E’ll be earnin’ a right tanned ‘ide, will.”

Grumbling to herself as she straightened and turned from her basket of acorns to scowl towards the forest’s edge, the woman brushed several sweat curled, loose strands of hair off her face. The flyaway wisps made a halo in the sunlight streaking through the branches, and softened the lines of her face despite the bothered frown. The rest of her light red hair was pulled into a tight braid and pinned up off her neck out of the way. It had been neat that morning, but the intervening hours and steady labour had teased loose enough fine hairs to leave her looking mussed without the addition of a dusty streak on her chin, or the bark in her hair, or the tear in her oft-mended kirtle, or the dirt staining her apron. But those were there too, just the same.

Herring was on her knees gathering the oak’s crop, planning to make flour over the next few days. Enough to see her in bread for a month or so, and the rest she’d put up and grind down later. The acorns lasted somewhat longer than the flour they became if she prepared them right. So, she only had to go gathering once her stockroom was depleted, which she’d managed sooner than she’d expected, this time around. The gather and grind were a necessary effort, if she was to eat well, but it was rough work, all told. She wasn’t keen on interruptions breaking her routine.

Wasn’t keen on interruptions any time of the year or month or day, if she was being honest. Interruptions usually meant trouble. Didn’t matter where she was or what she was doing, they were a bother to deal with. Her home, however, had good reason to make interruptions both rarer and less welcome than most other places. So, with a final tsk as though anyone was around to hear the reproach, Herring pushed herself off the ground, tucked the long skirt of her kirtle into her waist to keep it from catching on the undergrowth, hefted her basket against her hip and set off without further hesitation.

Despite her bothered muttering and hasty estimates, Herring was somewhat intrigued by this newest intruder. The count was more likely to be two brave, fool souls in some three, maybe four, months, but even so, that was surprisingly high, for all the number was so small. Not many took to visiting Aberlynn Forest.

Those that did were following dangerous, life-threatening rumours. Risking their hide, their lives, on the off-chance they might get lucky. Power mad, was all she thought, but as it seemed too early for another man—women had more sense—to be come about the beast and its blood, Herring was wondering if it wasn’t the pigherder’s lad lost track of his sounder again. Poor lad was as terrified of his father’s upset as of the monster in the woods, but he couldn’t seem to learn the lesson of paying proper attention to his charges. Seemed the right time of year… Pigs would be after the acorns, same as her.

Made sense to her, and seemed the likeliest bother, until she caught the chiming note between her skull bones tugging away from the route she was walking. From the north? But it was west where the fields and the hamlet lay. Young Ogden and his pigs came from the west. So then… She frowned in both directions before altering course: not pigs, it seemed.

Herring didn’t know the direction precisely. Her charms were rarely that efficient. It would have taken her the year entire to get through the smallest ring she’d set up, otherwise. And this new stranger had only just set off the widest. But she could tell where he wasn’t, as the charms weren’t active that way, and the farther he walked, the less she’d have to look. At least, if he kept on in a somewhat straight line… If he couldn’t even manage that much, she wasn’t planning on chasing him down. She had better things to do with her time.

With that thought uppermost in her mind, the woman moved at a steady pace more designed for endurance than quick turns of speed. But she knew this forest better than anyone and rarely broke her stride, bare feet stepping without concern on soft moss, sharp stone and prickling pine cone dross where the squirrels had been feeding. She knew where stream crossings were slick, and where winding animal trails were the easier route. Skidding on her heels down one steep bank and splashing into a puddle at the bottom couldn’t even give her pause. Though it did leave a splatter of mud across bare legs and skirt alike. She’d only lifted her basket of acorns beyond the water’s possible reach and kept on with a huff.

Still, by the time she’d made it to the trees she’d marked, where the lichen grew in odd patterns, the woman was breathing somewhat harshly, and the sun had moved a fair ways in the sky. Wasting the light, she was. But the man who’d walked between the trees, setting off their silent music in her head, had not been idle either, and she knew he’d continued deeper into the trees. Another chime, pitched lower, had joined the first a little before she made it to these ones. Pursing her lips, Herring eyed the route he must have taken, though she could see no immediate proof of anyone’s passage. “Well, we cain all ‘ave it easy. Let’s twist ‘im up, will we, then?”

She was talking to the trees—and you could be sure they weren’t liable to be talking back anytime soon—as she set the basket down and pulled out a small paring knife. It was one of the few metal pieces she owned, and sharper than a spinster’s tongue. Useful, for a good many things. Now, she needed it only to slice through the knot holding a thin thread around the tree’s trunk. She’d pulled it from her mother’s dress, the memories it offered were greater than the fabric’s value. And, slowly, she was losing both. But the loss worked wonders.

As soon as the knife undid the knot, the thread collapsed into ash. As did the trail she’d devised to give these beast hunters direction. Now, she could see the traces of his movement left behind. The twist of toes on a root’s exposed edge. The scuff of a boot heel in the fresh loam. Good. Now, he’d have nothing to follow and she’d know where to find him. Nodding to herself with a grim smile, Herring tucked the knife away again, hefted her basket, and kept on after her quarry.

It was turning towards dusk by the time she finally caught sight of the cloaked figure ahead of her. Thin and ragged, his shape did not strike her as the usual sort of confident swagger wanting to make a name for himself or his lord. He had no companion. No retinue. And, as she slipped closer, no weapon… Or at least, no sword to snag at his cloak’s trailing hem. And no bow to carry. Knives might have hung from his belt or been tucked into his boot. But he did not seem equipped for a hunt, no, nor a lengthy wait if he planned to try trapping the beast and its blood. So, it was just as well that there was no beast to be found, but Herring wasn’t feeling generous.

Eyes narrowed in suspicion, and looking every inch of her disgruntled with his poor showing as she stopped beside a tree and caught her balance there, one hand on the mossy trunk and the other still keeping her basket at her hip, she called after the thin fellow. Her manner gruff and not the least bit friendly. Nor satisfied that she’d finally found him, either. Wasn’t much to look at, any way. “An’ may Maudlin strike me full a sorrows, but didn’t ye never ‘ear a word of it ‘fore yeh went wanderin’ int’th’trees there, boy? Doan y’know th’woods yehr walkin’ through?”

Was he really come after a dragon? Maybe the word had changed since she’d last heard and all he thought he’d have to kill was a rabbit… Now there’s a tale she’d never have put stock in.

Jeron almost wanted to laugh; for once, his panic stemmed from something other than the echo of angry shouts in the distance, the cacophony of frenzied dogs on the hunt, or the harsh jeers for his blood.

He wished he could sink into the tree that he clung to, for his skin to turn to wood and bark, for leaves to sprout in place of his hair, for him, at the tender age of 12 years, to become inconspicuous, ordinary amongst ordinary trees. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut and bit down hard on his bottom lip while perched on a high branch, hoping that by not seeing the mob search for him, they would not see him. He could hear their angry shouts and the erratic beat of several footsteps on the forest floor. He could feel the heat of torch fires beneath him. He could smell their fear, their anger, their maniacal elation. His own terror threatened to loosen his grip on the tree, to tip his balance, to make him fall. He fought against it with nothing more than the meager will to see another sunrise.

No one was after him at this moment. No one wanted his blood. He was so lost that he doubted anyone could find him. Lost. He was panicking because he was lost, such a petty thing, almost amusing, except he didn’t want to die here, not when he had so much left to accomplish; getting lost in these woods was certainly something to take very seriously.

Funny that he came to the Aberlynn forest of all places unarmed.

A sudden voice tore through the silence, and Jeron nearly jumped out of his skin as he whirled around towards the source of the noise. One hand flew instinctively to his face, assuring himself that all parts of his body were covered, that none of his moon-white hair peeked through the cowl. His other hand moved to his hip where the tip of his sword ought to be, grasping at nothing instead. Of course. What a fool he was!

Except he did not face a mob or an armed soldier. A woman stood before him instead, completely nonthreatening in her cumbersome attire and her basket of whatever. This did not make Jeron any less tense. Women had screeching power—this creature could run off into the woods, squawk his presence to everyone, throw him into certain danger. He needed to silence her before she could make a peep, but he had no damn sword--!

Only then did her words finally register, fear transforming to mild disbelief. Was she chastising him for entering the forest? No one ever took the time to chastise him for anything! He realized that she regarded him with…annoyance?

She obviously did not know what he was.

Not sure how to properly react to this woman, Jeron decided to follow instinct for the time being.

“Nothing says—“ He cleared his throat, croaky from lack of speaking, and tried again. “Nothing says I cannot enter this forest,” he snapped. “Whatever lurks in here is far less dangerous than anything that lives out there.” He pointed in the direction of what he once believed to be the edge of the forest. “Now leave me be!”

It was not Herring’s usual practice to address any stranger that came tromping in between the trees like they owned the place. Ordinarily, she spoke not a word to them until they hadn’t the strength to argue. Get them turned around and blundering about and, though she hated the mess they made, once she separated them (if they came in a group, at any rate) they were inclined towards starvation or making their own way out and never coming back. Many a fool hadn’t the good sense of even a sparrow, and ate the least likeliest things to keep them alive. Turned out the wrong way round, but ended it all the quicker, leastways, though it often amounted to even more mess and greater stench, but wasn’t as though the forest was so small she couldn’t wander wide of the place for a year or so without bother. Some days, she thought it might make a better deterrent if she gathered all the skulls and set them around the borders to glare at anyone thinking the same as their previous owners.

But this fellow hadn’t come swaggering, or tromping, or blundering anywhere. He wasn’t looking to play hero. He had the shape and manner more of the huntsmen who had their look around and decided whatever had been here wasn’t anymore. Or was impossible to find. They were the ones who left of their own volition, and the ones best able to make her work all the harder in keeping track of where they wandered. They weren’t meant to go just any old where. But if they were well-mannered in their visit—and she couldn’t care less how gruff or surly a man was if he knew how to clean up after himself—sometimes she’d send them a parting gift. Nothing special, just a bit of keeping the magic alive so they wouldn’t go blabbing about that it was a perfectly ordinary forest with fine wood for logging, or great hunting for boars.

He hadn’t the least bit of preparedness about him though. So, she was of a mind to think he’d actually lost his way without her help, and the faster they fixed that, the sooner she could get back to acorn gathering. So, she spoke up, and promptly bounced off her heels when he spun so quickly, startling herself by frightening him with his leaping like a rabbit, and only scowled all the harder as he stared back. Pity it was too dim under the trees to let her see his expression, might have been a sight worth her trouble. Though not by any means comparable to forgetting the colour of her mother’s eyes.

It was strange though, she thought, as they stared each at the other, that he truly had been frightened by her. Not merely startled into reaction, but spinning into stepping back and crouching down, reaching for whatever weapon wasn’t there… And, she realized a moment later, it wasn’t the light keeping her from seeing his face, but the depth of his cowl. Her eyes narrowed even farther at the gloves… If she’d known he thought of her only as a screeching alarm to be silenced, she’d likely have thrown her basket at him and given him a proper lecture on minding his manners in someone else’s home if he wasn’t even brave enough to show his face. As it was, his first angry croak had her about to explain that sure and common sense ought to be enough for that, if he did know the stories, when he followed up with a line she’d never heard before.

Head tilting slightly, Herring couldn’t help herself. She laughed. Deep, full-throated, raucous merriment that lasted a good minute as she struggled to regain her breath and composure. “Ah, mercy. Mercy, Merry Maudlin, no. I cain breathe.” She was leaning against the tree, whooping and wheezing, as she gasped the words. Finally, she ended it with a snort, still bracing herself upright and shaking her head at this surprising fellow. “Isnit never as I 'eard th’like! Y’do be thinkin’ what grimauld minds itself a forest ‘as better manners’n th’lot as come round no knockin’? Well, Rabbit, there’s a pretty thought, only it were true.”

Jeron was as still as the trees around him, his eyes assessing this laughing girl warily. No one had ever laughed at him before.

No, that wasn’t true.

Maura laughed, her smile wide, the joy in her eyes twinkling even in the darkness of night. She pulled back some of her frizzy hair even as the wind teased it from her head scarf, refusing to be hidden and confined, like the rest of her. Only eight years of age and already she held more compassion and understanding than any elder Jeron knew. For her to laugh around him instead of run away was astonishing and altogether fascinating.

“You’re so weird sometimes, but it’s funny. I like it. No one makes me laugh like you do.”

Jeron looked away. This woman, whoever she was, was not Maura. He knew with certainty that if he lowered his cowl and revealed his face, she would react like all the rest of them—with fear, with anger, with ignorance. So, why was she laughing? Her words her difficult to follow, and he dared to pull his focus away from this stranger long enough to chew on her heavy dialect. He wasn’t used to anyone talking to him. What did she…?

He sighed, breaking his stillness, and brought up his guard once more. “It’s true,” he remarked defensively, hoping he understood her well enough to respond correctly. “The danger out there really is worse than anything in here. But you wouldn’t know. You probably were never captured, strung up, enduring beatings and all manner of torture just because you look like someone that could harm your children. You were never told words that cut so deep you felt like your soul was bleeding, of how vile and worthless you are, every single day, for reasons you still do not understand. You’ve never been unanimously hated. You—“

He cut himself off, gasping in mortification of the way he let himself go, trembling in shock. He had let his emotions get the best of him. At any time, she could have lunged at him, all because he was distracted. By things he could not change.

Subconsciously, he rubbed at his wrists where the rope burns still stung his skin, a reminder of what letting his guard down at any time meant. He had to pull himself together.

“Take me to the dragon that resides in this forest,” he said with as much confidence as he could muster.

Well, and ‘e sure ‘as some fancy words, doan ‘e?

He didn’t, really, but while he had difficulty with her accent, so she had some with his word choice. Not much, if she was being truly honest. It was more that Herring never considered any sentence starting or finishing with an accusatory you wouldn’t know, or anything with similar intent, deserving of a proper listening ear. Wasn’t any reason to hear a stranger imagining they knew anything at all about her, was there now?

Granted, most of this fellow’s assumptions were true. She’d never been strung up or beaten, had never been told she was vile or worthless—the very idea had her tilting her head again—she didn’t know what it was like to live his life anymore than he could know hers. Didn’t change the fact that he was pretending he did. It left her standing with her free hand on her hip, head still angled back and to the side in a manner that suggested confidence while her still narrowed eyes allowed for a hint of uncertainty. She didn’t have a plan for strangers who weren’t lost or here for glory. One you led out of the trees, and the rest you left to follow their destinies to an early grave or a new life. She didn’t deal with strangers, and she hadn’t the faintest clue how to treat his outburst.

Was she supposed to know how to respond to that?

Did he mean her to feel sorry for him? Because he was still walking where he wasn’t wanted, no matter what set his boots in this direction. She might have gotten angry in turn, traded outburst for outburst, but a quick puff of air to get the hair out of her face reminded her that she was tired and didn’t care. He was letting out steam like a kettle reaching boiling point, probably didn’t have a thing to do with her and if she only waited him out… there, see? The man cut himself off conspicuously, making no effort to apologise or explain himself.

Either way, she was only glad he’d stopped and didn’t seem to want her to pay it any attention. So, she pretended like he’d held his tongue properly the whole while, and even ignored the way his hands went to his wrists. Memory or recent affectation, she wasn’t going to care. He had his problems and she had hers, and unfortunately for him, he was hers.

And whatever he thought about her just now, reasonable assumptions aside, she didn’t feel the slightest sense of concern over his life up until now. Why should she? So, when he jumped back to the idea of a dragon, Herring continued staring at him.

Bringing her basket to the front so she could hold it there with both hands, and taking advantage of the height their respective positions afforded her, she made it clear she wasn’t just physically looking down on him. Making demands no please or thank you like that… her laugh, when it came, arrived after a suitably lengthy pause to make sure it was obviously mocking. And she leaned forward over the acorns ever so slightly, using what he gave her to make her message clear. If the rest of the world didn’t want him, she saw no reason to act any differently. She wasn’t going to beat him, but she wasn’t just going to do what he wanted, either. And it wasn’t just because there wasn’t any dragon.

“What makes ye think I’ve any knowin’ on where that beastie kips? Better for us both I show ye th’hole y’ought t’crawl int’ like a proper rabbit so’s isnit any trouble whate’er it be ye brung t’th’forest.” She didn’t like biding by doing as she was told. And she saw no reason to play nice now. If he was only here to hide from the rest of the world, then he could find himself some other hole and hide there. She wasn’t looking for company.

“Doan need a monster lettin’ loose round ‘ere, do I? Isnit any a one needin’ that.” Straightening up, Herring sniffed and turned away to leave him to it, whatever it might be, since he apparently wanted to join the vaunted ranks of dead heroes. She didn’t need to waste more time on him, and wasn’t about to explain that he was barking up the wrong tree looking for dragons here. There wasn’t enough light left to go back to work, but she had other chores to finish up before heading to bed.

So, off she went, muttering to herself. “Waste a time an’ good mem’ries, all these ‘ere fools. Right plague a’them.”

Jeron narrowed his eyes to the laugh, knowing when he was being mocked when he heard it, numb to the way this woman’s gesture aimed to hurt the way skin forms callouses over consistently damaged areas. He had heard such a laugh before, usually while captive and pleading his innocence over things that had transpired while he was never around. Did she think she could discourage him with that barbed laugh and those harsh words? He had heard worse, endured worse, though he had to admit that this was the very first time anyone had mocked him before learning what sort of creature he was.

Usually, he made great pains to avoid talking to anyone at all costs.

A charred rope cut into her scorched skin as her corpse hung from a tree, and he knew he would never hear poisonous words pour from her mouth again.

Empty blue eyes like glass marbles gazed at him, unblinking, as a shock of dark blood stained the white snow beneath her, and he knew he would never hear kind words from her or anyone else again.

Each lash of the whip marked his failure to save his mother, his failure to save his only friend, his failure in life, as his pain-filled cries rang out desperate pleas to kill the greater pain that consumed his heart. All the while, the mocking jeers nibbled away at what little of his humanity remained.

He needed to try harder to keep from interacting with strangers.

Once Jeron realized that this woman was not going to help him, he ignored her entirely, her presence suddenly insignificant. As she turned to leave, he turned as well, dashing her from his thoughts as he moved in the opposite direction.

~~

It was odd how quiet this forest was. No bird prattled its business in the treetops above. No lizard or squirrel scurried about in the thin, mossy undergrowth. Bears did not lumber and snort through the shadows, wolves did not slink about around him. It was as though the forest knew what he was and had chosen to shun him like every other living creature; ruefully, he almost thought it a wonder that the grass beneath him did not wither and die beneath his feet and that the trees did not fall every time he touched them.

For all that this forest was, it had a strangely calming effect on him. He could feel energy, magical energy run through this place like life-giving blood veins delivering nourishment to flesh and bone. It was something he never sensed before; he could not say from experience that he felt in tune to the enchantment around him, yet somehow he knew, like how one knows he is hot or cold when he feels it. Jeron began to wonder if he needed to find this rumored magical beast at all or if he could just simply live in this forest for a time, somehow absorb its magical energy, and use it to carry out his plans.

Thought of killing the beast made Jeron suddenly aware of how late it was, the last breath of twilight threading through the thick trees. Suddenly feeling uneasy, Jeron shifted his focus to prepare for nightfall survival. He ate moss, the only thing familiar in these strange woods, and hoped such instinct would not prove to be his folly in the consumption of it. He prepared a makeshift lance with a long stick simply by breaking off the end in such a way that it formed an uneven edge, like a point. He wished he had his carving knife, or most of his other things. He used another stick as a torch, channeling the only magical spell he knew within it—fire—a chill running along his body each time the top of the stick ignited with flame. With nothing flammable to keep the torchlight going on its own, Jeron used his light sparingly, knowing that if he didn’t, he would freeze to death in the middle of this summer before sunrise.

Hungry and woefully unprepared for survival in a magical forest let alone for hunting an enchanted beast, Jeron climbed up a tree for the night, settling within its sturdy branches. For reasons he could not fathom, the moon did not shine in this place, making it difficult for him to see in the darkness despite his somewhat enhanced night vision, an unintended gift from his father. Yet the forest seemed to come alive. Jeron smelled the blood-tinged breath, heard the frenzied snorts, and felt the trembling weight of some sort of creature moving about below him—no, several of them. He dared not make light to see and could only make out indiscernible shapes below, but the creatures did not sound docile. Could this be what he was looking for? As eager and desperate as he was to finally consume dragon’s blood, to obtain untold power, and to finally hold an upper hand in a world bent on snuffing him out, he did not attack what he could not see, what he could not anticipate. He realized, woefully, how foolish he had been to come here. He should have tried harder to look for his sword when he had escaped the humans that would lurk for him outside the forest walls. He should have not gotten himself caught in the first place—again.

So he sat there, clinging to the tree, waited for the sounds of hungry beasts to subside, and eventually succumbed to exhaustion.

”You can’t hide forever,” Maura intoned, swinging her legs from the tree limb she sat on as she bit into a pear.

“I know,” Jeron replied with a sigh, gazing at the moon that rose into the darkened sky like a friend come to greet him. He found its cold light warm, soothing. “But the others aren’t like you. Mother says—“

“Forget what she says. She beats you and curses you every day. She poisons you with her words of blame and hate.” Young Maura grasped Jeron’s dark hand, her own skin like ivory in the moonlight, and cast him a pleading gaze, her expression not any less clear in the dark. “But she is wrong about you. You are kind and thoughtful; a good friend. I see the good in you, the humanity in you, and I know that if I just introduce you to the village, they’ll love you as much as I do.”

She had seen the humanity in those that sought to kill what they did not understand.

Jeron, fast asleep unable to secure himself on the tree, slid off it and plummeted to the ground hard. He awoke to the jarring impact, the gnashing of teeth, the loud and eager snarling, and of something sharp lashing through his clothes and skin. He returned to the waking state screaming, at first thinking that he was being tortured by an angry mob of humans. Instead, he realized in disoriented panic that he had fallen from the tree and was being torn apart by the creatures below.

Somehow, he managed to stagger to his feet, casting fire in an arch in front of him, not caring how the act plunged his body in a cold shock. In that brief burst of light, he could see the creatures surround him, but the flames moved harmlessly through them as though he was attacking shadows. But somehow they were not mere shadows as he felt something intangible very tangibly bite into his arm in an attempt to drag him down. He swung his stick at it, not hitting anything, but the act of doing so seemed to be enough for the shadow creature to let go. So he continued this assault, whirling around and swinging his stick, flinging fire everywhere, screaming in fear and ferocity. But still they came, lashing at his clothes, tearing open his flesh, until Jeron could barely stand, swinging his stick listlessly…

Sunlight pierced through the darkness, heralding a new day, and the shadow creatures vanished as though they had never been.

Jeron, his clothes in tatters, his face exposed, silver hair spilling around his shoulders, gasped for breath, in so much pain that his other senses were numb save for the intense chill from using too much fire. He collapsed on the ground and did not bother to rise, this slender creature with ash-grey skin, pointed ears, and silver hair. This elven creature, who looked very much like a dark elf, appeared to be part of a race of beings that were perceived to be more frightening than anything this forest could produce.

It didn’t take Herring as long as she’d expected to reach her home and squirrel away her own stash of acorns after leaving the stranger to his ways. Even so, she spared little mind for him as she finished her chores for the evening beyond tilting her head consideringly when he tripped another circle of charms. He was still moving forward, impressively, but sideways too, and if he kept on, he’d miss the forest’s centre, and was reassuringly far away from the thatch-roofed cottage she called home. And he gained a scowl in the direction she’d last known when she felt the wind wind warm around her as she sat in the doorway and used the low light to sew up the hole in her old quilt. Too warm for the forest. Full of stolen heat.

Should have known. Bringing magic here… Of course, the lack of weapons made sense now. She didn’t get as many mages after glory though—like women, they didn’t feel the need to prove themselves, she supposed, or felt they already had power of their own—so she forgave herself for not seeing it right away and bent back to the slightly uneven row of stitches she’d already made. It didn’t matter that they weren’t neat, only that she could pull them tight enough without making kinks to keep the down inside. Never perfect, but she spent effort only insofar as she was required to. When it saved her from having to work harder sooner, she did her best, when it wasn’t likely she’d be saving the quilt much past the next winter, if even, she saw little use in straining her eyes or her fingers in getting everything just right.

Pulling the knot tight and biting the thread to break it, she held the piece up for her own inspection beneath the last of the light, squinting to make out a bunch of nothing and shadows and shrugged to herself. She’d finished, if it was absolutely horrible she’d fix it tomorrow. Or the day after. She had half the summer before the frosts returned. And much else to do, besides. But for now, as dusk slid into dark and the earth trembled beneath the running deer, she listened for the snuffling breaths of its hunters and slid inside, shutting the door softly behind her and forgot, entirely, that anyone else might be hiding from the shadows tonight.

The quilt went back into the trunk at the foot of her bed, which she dropped into without much fuss, and drifted off. Her sleep was heavy, dreamless, dragging down and down until morning drifted close and called her back from the void.

She rolled over, grumbling… and didn’t stir again until soft light crept beneath the door. Prompting her to sit up when she noticed and curse the temptation that kept her from rising with the dawn. It was late. Later than she usually woke up, and there were things…. Chickens! Chickens to feed, a goat to milk, Ibi would be after her behind for the wait, and still all those bloody acorns to gather!

Her preparations were somewhat scrambled then, and she finished her breakfast beside the dairy goat, Ibi, sharing her crust with the petulant creature as she milked her and laughing at a chicken perching itself on her back. But soon enough, water drawn and goat pegged to a different section of ground where she’d find fresh fodder, chickens penned up away from predators—like the owl nesting in her rafters—Herring set out again, empty basket swinging in her hands, and steps a little more animated today, still full of energy.

Until she caught the scent of blood. It lay in the still air, and crept into her conscious like creeper vines, curling around her thoughts until she paused and turned, frowning. Remembering.

Right, moonless nights and forest guests went well together. Poor lad’s rotten luck they’d found his scent. Well, best to make certain it was him. Much as he’d not bothered her thoughts all this time, it would be a solid start to the morning. One trouble gone and dealt with, and barely any effort on her part and not even a full day in Aberlynn. Might have been a record, if there hadn’t been that one fellow slipped crossing a stream, knocked his head and drowned in naught but an inch of water.

Didn’t take long to find him. Ragged and torn, bloody and nothing else made it into her observations as her hazel eyes fell on pale hair and dark skin. Pointy ears. Grey elf. She stepped back in realization. Dark elf… Herring turned her head to spit away the curse of just seeing him. Free hand drifting towards the hilt of her small knife before she paused. Dead elf?

Looked as though the night hunters had been after him. But blood still oozed sluggishly from his wounds, and, as she stared, his chest rose, stuttered with the struggle, and fell. “Well, an’ I seen worse crowbait, though still think she’s turned ‘er eye thisaway for yeh.”

She knew what he was. Understood, now, why he’d been covered head to toe. Stories told her she should leave off and let nature take its course. If he managed to survive the next night—it was always three, when the moon vanished, and he’d only missed the first—she’d be sore impressed. But he’d be that much closer to death and dying and causing no more trouble. Dark elves could drain your strength with a touch. Smiled with teeth sharp enough to slice meat from a child’s bones. Their eyes, she’d heard, glowed in the dark, like a predator. But she’d also been told that they lived in the ground, in caves so far away she’d never have to worry. So, what was one doing here?

And when would she ever get another chance to see one up close without it trying to eat her?

Moving cautiously, unable to ignore temptation now she’d had the notion, Herring set her basket down and unsheathed her knife to have it sooner to hand. Wounded beasts were the most likely to bite.

She stepped closer, following the flow of silver hair past his face. Watching his hands, his closed eyes, flickering… Wary, as she finally stood over him and looked down. Didn’t look like much from this angle. Nightshades would have him for sure.

Sunlight began to thaw Jeron, but with the ebbing of the chill came the rise of the pain. He could feel that familiar sting of ragged cuts on every part of his body, the sensation pulling him to waking. Being in the shallow water like this didn’t help—feeling the gentle current push around him only seemed to tenderize the cut areas.

Jeron opened his eyes, an ordinary human brown instead of the frightening red of his kind, focusing on the shape that hovered over him. Maura? He wanted to make out her slender frame, her frizzy hair, her kind eyes, and her gentle smile. Instead, his vision focused on that woman from before, the one that laughed at him, the one that didn’t run away.

He could feel his hair slide against his skin in the water and knew that he was exposed. If she wasn’t running away, it meant that she was in the processing of killing him. Jeron wanted to jerk away, to snap his arm out defensively, to scream, to run, but his body was in no condition to do any of those things, and it wouldn’t have made a difference anyway. But he wasn’t going to surrender to this strange woman as she finished him off. Thus, with a low groan, he began to sit up, very slowly, pivoting away from the woman as he did so. His wet hair clung to his shoulders, casting rivulets of water to run along his many wounds. He took a moment to catch his breath and prevent the pain from knocking him out, then made the slow, arduous struggle to his feet, his back facing her the entire time. He managed with some effort, his back hunched over, his knees shaking, his face contorted in a grimace of constant pain. He was like a newborn deer attempting his first steps, but he was no child of the forest entering a world in which he belonged. He was, instead, a creature fighting against the call of death, moving forward despite the very real chances that he would not survive another night out here because… because…

He did not know why he continued to fight to live when dying was so much easier. All he knew was that he must, that the act of living was the one thing that no one could control or take away from him regardless of their many efforts.

Shakily, Jeron picked up his pack from the mud beside him and let it dangle from his loose grip. Without so much as acknowledging the woman’s presence, he began to move forward, away from her, each step taking considerable effort and requiring a moment’s pause.

Admittedly, despite her curiousity and memory of stories as frightening as madness in a dog, Herring saw nothing exceptional when she looked down on the prone form. Dark elf or not, she’d seen more than her fair share of bodies in these woods. Irritation was prone to have her exaggerating the number and the fuss, but it was not complete fabrication. Despite the foreign pigment of his skin and that shock of hair, his sleeping face was remarkably alike to a dead one. Slack, inanimate, and utterly banal.

He had himself a nose, lips, two eyes, two ears, albeit she could see that one was pointed. Supposedly the other was, as well. Nothing much to remark upon otherwise. And caught so easily by shadows, was there really anything to be frightened of?

He’d been rough, the day before, gruff and sharp and she’d thought he’d had a certain arrogance about him, making demands without no by your leave. But when she’d surprised him, hadn’t he acted like a scared little rabbit? Surely some dangerous creature would have attacked then, taken advantage of the moment, and her lack of suspicion. So, what was he? Dangerous monster come wandering out of his hole and gotten lost? Or victim of a good story’s wont to build itself up beyond recognition. His eyes certainly hadn’t been glowing beneath his hood yesterday, though, she couldn’t remember seeing them either. Not when he’d spun around, nor when he’d made pleasant suppositions about her life. She hadn’t appreciated that moment of release on his part, letting loose at her over troubles she’d been no part of. Still, if anyone might be able to understand the disparity between hearsay and truth, it was surely the woman living in a cursed wood without concern.

When his eyes flickered beneath closed lids, she tensed, despite her growing certainty that he might not fit the ideal she’d created in her head. Appearances could be deceiving, and though he’d had little reason to try tricking her into thinking himself harmless instead of merely killing her, he might have liked playing with his food. Who was she to judge his character before she knew him? (Ignoring, if you will, the fact she’d done just that before ever even seeing his back.)

Needless to say, Herring was frowning down at him in consternation when he finally opened his eyes, though she’d relaxed her arm so the knife was at her side rather than held ready. Dangerous pretender or no, she didn’t expect he was capable of doing much harm anymore. Besides, with him lying in that stream, she had the advantage of being up the bank and almost out of reach of him standing, which he most definitely was not, at the moment. And his eyes were brown. Nothing bright or alien about them. She wasn’t even sure he could see her, though he seemed to be staring right through her. Had he hit his head?

Ah, no, there it was, the slightest widening of those eyes and, finally, motion.

Slipping back beyond his reach as he sat up, and raising an eyebrow at what must have been a laborious effort, Herring evinced a natural caution that had not been evident the day before. That he was a still alive unknown in her forest merited the extra suspicion, but it certainly did not help that he seemed to belong to a race of elves she’d never heard a kind word about. If he wished to stand, she was not going to stop him. But she wasn’t going to help him either.

Had he been facing her, letting her see his pained grimace, she might have been more inclined to offer the advice of staying sat, if it was so much trouble to stand, but he seemed not the least bit interested in her company. In truth, had she not discovered his secret, Herring might well have left him to it. He was wobbling so much she doubted he’d make it far before falling on his face or his ass. But now that she knew he wasn’t human, she found herself curious as to the reasons a dark elf, already plenty dangerous as the stories told it, would come seeking the promise of strength here. Maybe it didn’t matter where a man came from, they were all simple fools, powerhungry and eager to chase after any stray hope no matter the risk. Or was it something else had drawn him here? What, she wasn’t sure, as he’d already asked her to show him where the dragon lived, but maybe he didn’t want to kill it.

Either way, as he picked up his pack and shambled off like the living dead chasing after Halla’s tailfeathers, Herring glanced ruefully at her neglected basket and the task she’d set herself for the day, already knowing full well she was about to abandon it. Then, guilty conscience and future regrets acknowledged so she could say she told herself so come some near morning when she was lamenting the lack of good bread, she followed her curiousity.

Her easy, quiet steps after him were a strong contrast to his wobbly shuffle. Bare feet leaving hardly a mark behind and movements so obviously easier that her caution felt nearly like making mock. Even so, she kept her knife out and a good ten paces between them, dogging his shadow and wondering if he had any notion as to his direction, or if he was simply walking because he still could. Moving forward rather than leaving himself to rot. She’d seen the same in mortally wounded beasts, merely struggling to take that next step to somewhere. Maybe he hadn’t the presence of mind to realize he was wasting energy now, or maybe he thought the nightshades wouldn’t find him again if he only moved far enough away. Well, rate he was going, there was nowhere far enough. They ran the whole woods through when they came, and it was only getting beyond its borders that would keep him safe.

Either that, or climbing a proper tree, or lighting a bonfire, or being behind the door of her own house, though she’d certainly not be inviting him there. He wasn’t liable to outrun them as the deer did. Nor hide in holes too small for them to creep through, as the little creatures did. Was he even thinking about the night to come? Given the angle he was leaning at, Herring was inclined towards believing he wasn’t thinking at all.

Peaceful sort of way to go…

Though the path he was taking wandered like a brook, all wide turns and no direction, until she finally couldn’t take it anymore. He obviously wasn’t planning ahead or trying to reach some goal. And his stumbling pace and lack of any threat towards her had long since ruined her remaining vigilance. A soft breeze could have knocked him over!

Stopping where she was, feet set on the log she’d been stepping over, Herring finally sheathed her knife and crossed her arms, taking a deep, calming breath in of rotting wood and damp earth before she broke the stillness surrounding them. “Isnit a one thing worth th’walk thataway, Rabbit. What’s movin’ yehr feet any road?”

How was he still standing? And where, on this good earth, did he think he was going?

Each step was agony. Each step threatened Jeron's consciousness. Each step was like a battle not to lose his strength, and he was not sure how long he could keep up the fight. He wandered for the sake of wandering, knowing that if he stopped, he would fall, and if he fell, he would never rise to his feet again. His ragged breathing reflected the pain that stabbed through his whole body, every inhale expanding the wounds on his torso like a form of torture, every exhale like tearing a knife through his flesh. His wound oozed, in need of care, and Jeron knew this, knew that time would claim his life eventually.

He couldn't remember why he was originally here but knew that it was something of great importance to him. He feared that pondering the matter would sap the last of his power, so he didn't bother. Why would it matter? It wasn't as though he had the strength to do anything about it. Survival was the only thing on his mind now, a goal like reaching a light at the ceiling of a tall, dark room with no ladder to speak of.

Jeron couldn't sense the woman following him, the weak throb of his heart the only thing he could hear, his own blood the only thing he could smell, and everything around him appearing as large shapes. It was a wonder he didn't trip and fall over a root, though his feet caught such protrusions many times, a frantic grip on a nearby tree the only thing keeping him up during those times. He paused to catch his breath at these moments, flailing to keep upright using a tremendous amount of energy he simply did not have.

It was during one of these long, pitiful pauses that her voice managed to pierce through the slowing cadence of his life force like the sharp bleat of a trumpet. Instinctively, Jeron's body snapped to attention, that alone almost a regretful act due to the stabbing pain it elicited. He sucked in a breath, his vision suddenly clear and sharp, and gripped the tree tightly with one hand. Why was she still following him? Did he not already prove that he was not a threat and couldn't kill her if he tried? Why trace his wandering steps for this long? Perhaps she intended to kill him at some quiet place and he needed only to wander into the ideal location. Perhaps she wanted to watch him die so she could be assured of his passing. Whatever the reason, he could not bring himself to show concern or care. At this point, there was little he could do about it. She will watch him fight to live, and that was that.

Jeron did not turn to face the woman, instead tilting his chin towards his shoulder, damp strands of silvery hair falling free around his face. "I wish to live," he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper despite the effort it took to speak. Then he continued to move.

Knowing that he was being followed did much to heighten his alertness. His vision didn't fade, and he could hear the woman's footsteps behind him now, always a respectable distance away. He did his best to ignore her, instead sweeping the ground with his gaze for a specific herb. He needed something to clean his wounds and stop the bleeding, something low growing with small white flowers...for the life of him, he could not remember the name...

There. In this strange forest, Jeron spotted something that looked familiar, a most common weed. Of course it would grow here. Gratefully, he dropped to his knees and almost passed out right then and there, his eyes rolling to the back of his head, his body swaying. Somehow, he regained his senses, returning to the present, and Jeron began to pick and pull at the plant, a normally quick procedure now a slow, arduous process.

Oh…

She’d surprised him again. Of course, she had, the poor fellow hadn’t the hope of a babe in high water of noticing much of the world, the way he kept tripping over himself and clinging to the trees. They held him up indifferently, and Herring paused, now and then, to look at their trunks, noting the brush of red across the grey. Watered down though, and he didn’t seem to be leaving any other trail now his clothes had dripped themselves damp instead of waterlogged. So, she couldn’t have said if he was staggering from bloodloss or exhaustion, but she was willing to bet his injuries weren’t small. Knowing what she did of those hungry teeth, if he’d been bitten even once, the wound would be deep. No poison or irritant though, and the water he’d fallen in was generally clean, though there might have been something gotten into the punctures. At least he didn’t seem to have any broken limbs.

Though, why that mattered… She wasn’t worried about him dying! Only living! He’d be less trouble dead.

She scowled at his back as he rasped something barely audible, certainly not nearly loud enough to make sense, and straggled off again. Did he think he’d answered her? Or had he even heard the question? Was he only talking to himself now?

Cursed ruin of a man, tottering like he’d grown ancient overnight, and blind and deaf to boot! Well, clearly, he wasn’t so bad off that he couldn’t summon the energy to keep walking, so, since he’d made it this far, she was going to keep following. If he made it all the way out of the forest, she’d be sore impressed, sure, but glad enough to be rid of him. And if he didn’t, well…

Well, she’d just leave him lie!

Although… As she watched him, almost hoping he’d fall on his face right there so she could prove her conviction, Herring noticed that he seemed to have gained a second wind. He was still no more coordinated than a drunkard, and she’d seen young Ogden’s father enough to know what one looked like, thank you. Yet he’d somehow gained greater purpose in his movements. He tripped less, though he continued to use the trees for their support, and his head, rather than hanging, seemed to be swinging back and forth. Was he looking for something?

She had her answer shortly after coming up with the question, as he tumbled to his knees. Well, not immediately, she thought it may have been a moment of clarity before the final breath, a surge of wasted energy since he wouldn’t need it anymore, as he swayed there and leaned so far over she was convinced he’d topple in another second. Except, he never did. Instead, he pulled himself back upright, more through some mental force than any true strength, she thought, and began plucking at the ground. He lacked the coordination to call it anything else, and Herring wasn’t feeling generous enough to call it anything more than luck whenever he actually managed to grab some leaves.

Still, it was clear enough that he had been looking for something. And found it, too. Though, he’d have found it all the faster if he’d only looked the first time he was standing. Herring was near certain there’d been some marrenwort where she’d found him that morning. Well, no matter, either way, he was managing more random devastation than experienced selection, and after about the twentieth time she saw him dropping what he’d gathered from clumsy fingers and continue his attempt—like carrying water in a sieve, it was—she couldn’t stand it anymore. Not only was it a waste of energy, but a waste of resources, too. And that poor patch of weed, hardy though the plant was, looked as though it had been host to pigs trying to toss a salad.

With a huff, the woman stalked over and swatted his hands away from the next plant he was so set on stripping bare and ruining. “Doan jest pluck th’poor lot like yehr makin’ ready a bird. What use t’ye’s a bundle ifen yeh keep droppin’ it?”

Scowling, she spoke harshly, without minding whether there was any chance of upsetting the man. It was her forest, not his, and if he’d anything to object to, well, that’d be his waste of energy, not hers. She’d decided, a spur of the moment decision and never mind her early convictions, that if she’d followed him this far, wasting some small part of her day, then she might as well waste the rest of it and see about getting him out of the forest before she got back to her chores. A proper man, she might have quietly cursed to be sat there caught pulling leaves until exhaustion overcame him. Though, honestly, magic didn’t seem necessary to accomplish such a feat. This, though… This one wasn’t human.

He was worse, and hardly acting it. She hadn’t the patience to sit about watching him until he keeled over. Not now he was sat and making some useless gesture at saving himself. It had always frustrated her to see a task done clumsily, the same rough actions repeated over and over with no better result. So, it was either leave him to it or help. And after seeing him failing so well, she couldn’t manage the leaving. Something else to frustrate her, and she didn’t bother holding in her irritation at herself, him, or circumstance.

“Jest ye set yehrself still there an’ breathe. S’all th’good yehr worth, that state.” So saying, she got to work herself, gathering what he’d dropped, and handing him a few petals to chew in the meantime. Batting his hands aside if he tried to continue. Of course, as they were, the leaves weren’t much use. They needed crushing up and grinding into a paste with maybe a few other bits and pieces added. Nothing she had to hand, and she wasn’t about to go chewing and spitting anything for him when she had a perfectly functional mortar and pestle at her home. The problem, obviously, was that they weren’t at her home, and she had no desire to invite him there, either. So, did she gather the lot for him, hand it to him and walk away?

Now here was a sorry mess she’d stuck her nose into. Why hadn’t she gone gathering acorns like she’d set out to?