Clipped

Chapter 7.

​The carriage finally came to a halt where the road simply ceased to exist, swallowed by a forest that looked as though it had been carved from the bones of the earth. This was not the Whispering Woods. Where her home had been soft, dappled in sunlight and song, the Nightshade territory was jagged and fierce. The trees were massive, gnarled pines with bark like dragon scales, their needles a green so dark they were nearly black.

​As Fenris opened the carriage door, Rhiannon stepped out and was immediately hit by a wall of sensation. The air was thin, cold, and carried the heavy, musk-laden scent of a hundred predators.

​"Welcome home, Rhiannon," Fenris said. He stood tall, his posture shifting the moment his boots hit the soil. The "Fenris" who had sat by the pool was gone; in his place stood the Alpha, his presence expanding to fill the clearing.

​Rhiannon looked at the trees. She reached out a trembling hand to touch the rough bark of a nearby spruce, expecting the familiar hum of nature to greet her. Instead, a sharp, dissonant vibration shivered up her arm. The forest felt... angry. It was a low, subsonic thrumming that made her teeth ache. Without her wings to catch the wind’s frequency and without her wand to bridge the gap between her soul and the wood, the trees treated her like a parasite. A stranger.

​"They’re shouting," she whispered, pulling her hand back as if burned. "They’re shouting at me to leave."

​Fenris paused, his brow furrowing. He looked at the silent trees and then at her pale, distressed face. "The trees? Rhiannon, I don't know much about fairy-kin- only that you lived in the woods. Are you alright?"

​"I am a nothing to them," she said, her voice hollow. "I can hear the music, but I’ve forgotten the words. It’s... it’s too loud, Fenris."

​"Then let’s get you inside," he said. He didn't understand the metaphysical agony of a clipped fairy in an ancient forest, but he understood the way her hands shook.

​He led her toward the Great Hall, a massive structure of stone and timber built into the side of a cliff. As they approached, figures began to emerge from the shadows of the pines. These were the Nightshades. They were tall, broad, and carried themselves with a lethal grace. Some were in mid-shift, with elongated fangs or fur tracing their jawlines; others were human in shape but held eyes that glowed with predatory hunger.

​A low murmur rippled through the pack as they saw her. Rhiannon shrank against Fenris’s side, her blue hair a shock of color against his dark furs. She saw a woman with a jagged scar across her throat sneer, her nostrils flaring as she caught the scent of the "broken" creature their Alpha had brought home.

​"Alpha," a tall man with silver-streaked hair stepped forward, his eyes landing on Rhiannon with blatant skepticism. "You’ve returned. But you brought... this? A clipped scrap? She smells of the leech-house."

​Fenris’s reaction was instantaneous. He didn't shout; he didn't have to. He let out a low, vibrating growl that seemed to rattle the very foundations of the hall. The silver-haired man immediately dropped his gaze, baring his throat in a reflexive gesture of submission.

​"She is my guest," Fenris said, his voice a low, terrifying promise of violence. "She is Rhiannon Deeproot. Anyone who looks at her with anything less than respect will answer to me. Am I understood?"

​A chorus of "Yes, Alpha" echoed through the clearing. The tension didn't vanish, but it went underground, buried beneath the absolute law of the pack.

​Fenris ushered her into the hall, where a massive hearth fire roared, casting flickering orange light over long wooden tables. The smell of roasting meat hit Rhiannon like a physical blow to the stomach. Her digestive system, long accustomed to thin gruel and the occasional piece of stale bread, rebelled and yearned all at once.

​"Sit," Fenris said, guiding her to a smaller table near the fire, away from the main throng of the pack.

​A young girl, perhaps sixteen, approached with a wooden tray. She looked at Rhiannon with wide, curious eyes but said nothing, setting down a bowl of thick venison stew, a loaf of dark crusty bread, and a cup of warm cider.

​"Eat," Fenris encouraged, sitting across from her. "Slowly. Your body isn't used to real fuel."

​Rhiannon picked up a spoon with a hand that felt like it belonged to someone else. She took a small sip of the broth.

​The explosion of flavor was almost painful. The richness of the fat, the earthiness of the herbs, and the sheer saltiness of the meat felt like a violent awakening. As the liquid hit her stomach, her vision swam. For a moment, she felt the phantom sensation of her wings fluttering- a cruel trick of the nerves as her body finally received the nutrients it had been screaming for.

​She tore off a piece of the bread, the crust crunching loudly in the quiet corner. It was dense and warm. As she ate, the hollow ache in her bones began to throb. It was the pain of a body trying to repair ten years of damage in a single night.

​"Is it... is it too much?" Fenris asked, watching her closely. He looked confused by the way her eyes were watering.

​"It’s life," she choked out, her throat tight. "It’s been so long since I tasted something that didn't taste like... like shame."