the Heart of a Beast

Run. Run. RUN. Her feet pounded against the earth as her heart pounded within her chest, leaves and branches tugging at her clothes and hair. But she did not look back, nor did she draw her dagger. She could not. She could only run. Never stopping, never hesitating. The ground was damp, the air frigid as she followed the winding path through the trees – unmarked and untrodden – known only to her. And the thing that followed her, the thing she could not see or hear, was barely a more than ten feet behind her. She could feel it. She could feel it in the way the air shifted, in the way the animals fell silent even as they scurried away. Terrified to make a sound. Her hands she used to haul herself over logs and under branches. Moving through the dark trees; she was no wraith, she ran, her footsteps like thundering hooves. She focused on her breathing; she focused on each step. Each leap. Each swing. Keep running. Don’t slow. Don’t stop. Keep running. Don’t slow. Don’t stop. She chanted it over and over in her head. She could feel it getting closer. The shadows, the darkness enveloped her, trying to keep her there, trying to keep her in the forest. Beneath the cursed bower that she’d been foolish to brave again so soon. A glimpse of sunlight, streaming ahead, through the thick branches and leave. Sunlight. Her foot caught on something, or perhaps the thing had reached out and caught her ankle, just as the exhalation left her. She rolled as she’d been taught, across the damp ground, handing in a crouch and twirling to face the way she’d come. Her knuckles white on the hilt of her dagger. Fuck. Her heart drummed against her chest as she peered through the darkness – the bracken trembling still from her barrage and her fall. The small ferns and grass flattened where she’d rolled; the fronds danced in the half-light that reached the floor from the canopy. She could feel its eyes, just beyond view, hidden by shadows and cloaked in some sort of moon-cursed magik. It did not cause the flattening of grass and plants; for its feet did not touch the ground. Get up. Her heart beat faster. Her grip tightened. Move. She leaped upward and spun, surging towards the light. She ran. She did not look back and she did not sheath her dagger. Twigs cut at her cheeks and the branches lashed at her limbs, but she couldn’t stop. The sunlight was so close. So close. She burst through those last trees, vaulting herself over the fence that marked the edge of their property. But still she did not stop running, her muscles burned, she ached, but she didn’t stop until she had reached the stonewall that surrounded their home. Her fingers sunk into the cold moss, trembling against the wet stone, the dagger clattering atop. It was only then she turned towards the forest, up the small hill that she had just traversed. There was nothing there, nothing amongst the ferns and bushes that waged war with the fence, where shadows always lingered even when the sun shone at its highest point. She exhaled softly, her feet shifting on the hard-packed dirt beneath her. There was nothing there. Nothing that would cause her heart to beat like the thundering of a hundred horse's hooves. The forest, dark and dangerous, taunted her. She knew what those dark trees hid, though beyond the tree line everything was cast into shadow, hidden from view. She had seen the figure; she had seen the silver talons; she had started running just as it had turned in a flutter of colourful silk. And though she’d not seen its face, she had felt its eyes burn into her. She had not waited to see. And Anya could feel it watching; she could feel it along her spine, by the way the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She knew that somewhere just beyond view there was a creature of unearthly beauty with its eyes fixed upon her, as if it would devour her very soul. And so, her fingers found the grooves in the stone, the rune-marks, though she had no magik to make them glow, to charge them with power once more. Until the wolf-hunter visited again, they would offer no protection, no magikal barrier that would keep the moon-cursed creatures at bay. But beneath the rays of sunlight, she did not need the runes to protect her. Instead of protecting her, those runes steadied her frantic heart. She stayed where she was, loathe to move from where the orange tree hid her from the view of the house. She did not want her sisters to see her as she was; she did not want them to see her as she was, with errant curls plastered to her brow, chest heaving and legs quivering still. She gripped the small pouch at her waist; at least her venture into the forest had not been in vain. Thud. Thud. Thud. Breathe in. Thud. Thud. Breathe out. Thud. Thud. Thud. It was all she could do to focus on her breathing, to calm herself as her teachers had always taught her. To centre herself. Slowly, ever so slowly, she let go of the stonewall, sheathing her dagger once more. She touched the runes once more. Not wishing, but hoping, hoping that there was something within her. But if there was a thread of magik in her, it was far too deep for her to reach. She inhaled, that beautiful smell of the farm. Of fresh rain, of citrus and the earthy scent that seemed to cling to everything in the frigid north. Under the soft afternoon light the citrus fruits glowed a rosy, fresh colour, brighter than they did at midday. The branches of each tree spread out as if proud of the bounty they brought and the sweetness they gifted to those who consumed them. It was a cluster of colour, of chaos, of order. In the next few weeks those patches of brilliant colour would be gone. The sun peaked over the rolling hills and forests, touching everything with its soft glow – warding off, for a time, the cold breath of winter. The road that led to their farmhouse was run down; a bare dirt-track that would be overrun by the small, white-flowered weeds that dotted the hills when spring arrived. Weeds that Lina thought were beautiful, and so she could not get rid of them. She'd tried to once, and Siri had scolded her harshly, standing beside her with a fierce scowl. For beautiful women deserved to be surrounded by beautiful things. And her sisters would find weeds beautiful. Anya snorted as she walked, trailing her fingers across the stonewall. Her fingers trailed across the deep, harsh lines of the rune-spells carved into the wood. Simple. Crude. Effective. For there was no damage that she had found so far, and she had spent the better half of the morning checking for any wreckage caused by the moon-cursed creatures of the night. This time there had been no claw marks under the kitchen window, nor were there any tufts of dark fur caught in the stonewall or gate. She glanced towards that road once more, the road which if one followed for a quarter of a day, they would reach the village of Rhaerynn to the south-west, passing only three other farms on the way. Far away from the dark forest that loomed behind the farmhouse; away from the ill-fated family who had lost everything. Their father had followed that road, yet he had gone far farther than the village; he had embarked upon the sennight-long journey alone the Lesser Merchant's Road. To the Floating City of Albaa, with its bustling markets and white buildings and tall ships in the harbor. It would still be many moon-phases before he returned to the farmhouse and to his daughters. Anya shook her head, banishing the thoughts of her father. Wishing him back would help no one. Unbidden, her eyes were drawn to the forest once more, beyond the stonewall that encircled their farmhouse, beyond the orchard that was dotted with citrus fruits. Towards the trees that touched the sky, taller than even the Lords Manor in Rhaerynn, perhaps even taller than the stone buildings of the Floating City. She shook her head as she reached the small gate. Pausing. Assessing. The wood stacked on the side of the long farmhouse was at halfway – she would have to ask for Elias’s help before the snows began to cut more for them. The chickens clucked as she passed, let out into the yard for the day. Wanting attention or wanting more food, she didn’t know. They already had more food than they’d ever had before, for there was two less chickens to feed than there had been the month passed. The top half of the door had already been opened, to allow for air to enter the house, though come winter it would be locked shut to keep in the warmth. And though the air was already beginning to chill, the three sisters took advantage of the fresh air while they still could. And as she stepped inside the door, the overwhelming aroma of home filled her senses. Such a different scent to one she would have associated with that word two years passed – the scent of hay, of citrus, of the fire that burnt in the centre of the house day in and day out. And as her eyes adjusted to the dim light within the window-less house, she focused on Siri, who sat upon the one of the built-in benches that served as her bed, her hands lost in folds of cloth. Each of them had claimed one; their father had the only room at the end off the shared hall. Siri looked immaculate as always, her hair braided to perfection around her head like a crown, her maiden-band sitting proudly upon her brow, the tiny moonstone catching the light. Really, who did she think was going to call upon them? It was near a half hour horse ride to the next farm, and Anya had it on Lina’s own authority that neither she nor Siri were fond of the middle-aged couple who lived there, nor their young children. Dark eyes met unblinking blue. Appraising, judging; and Anya ducked her head, moving to the tiny space they called the kitchen. Little more than a bench and tub beside it that served as their sink; the fire of the hearth warm at her back. Lina had begun cooking, she could smell the soft scent of the bland broth, could hear the tiny bubbles as it simmered away. But her green-eyed sister was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she had been at the back of the farmhouse? Tending to her small garden most likely, to the herbs and foods she had meticulously cultivated. And Anya, the youngest daughter of Adresyn, who had once been a Master Merchant, hoisted herself up onto her own platform, saying not a word to her older sister. Siri’s fingers were red, a stark contrast to the dark blue wool of the mittens she was embroidering. Mittens she would very soon need. The old thread in a tangle beside her, taken out so the mittens would look like a new pair. Her sisters, forever embroidering the skirts and mittens that they would always wish were more beautiful, more luxurious. Like the dresses they'd once had many years passed – long gowns of the finest silk that fanned out as they twirled through ballrooms. As they danced through people's hearts and wishes and dreams. Before they'd had to sell everything they had owned. She shook her head once more, banishing the thoughts that threatened to cloud her mind. She would not dwell. She would not be unhappy with that which she could not change. She could only make the best of it, as she had always done; as she had always tried to do. The only thing she could do with the past was learn from it; she could not change it. She would not wish for anything different, for wishes were useless things. One could only make things happen. Siri did not ask her where she had been, and Anya knew that she did not really care. So what was the point filling the house with useless chatter? Instead, she sat against the wooden wall, tilting her head back against it and watched as the smoke gathered. She listened to the hearth that crackled, the to broth that bubbled. “Where had you been all morning?” Anya turned her head slightly to see Lina standing in the doorway, eyes the colour of a fresh leaf fixed upon her. Though she’d clearly done her best to brush it off, dirt clung to the apron she wore over her dark wool skirt. Her eyes were alight, a small smile on her lips though she was doing her best to look stern. In her apron she cradled small brown lumps – surely to be added to the bubbling brew. Anya scanned her face – the slight flush on those high cheekbones, the quirk of full lips; concern was there, yes, but nothing that showed that Lina had seen her flight from the forest. “Well?” Anya froze, her pouch heavy at her waist. i***t, you should have hidden it already. “You’re bleeding,” a soft gasp and Lina was by her side, the potatoes tumbling to the ground as she picked her sister’s hand up. Anya had no choice as her sister tugged her over to the small sink, cleaning the blood. Bright, crimson blood, stark against her pale hands and against the paler myriad of criss-crossing scars that covered them. And like that, as the sink water changed to a soft pink, as Lina picked out bits of bark and bracken, the question was forgotten. She’d not noticed the pain before; but as Lina showered her with attention, it became more and more uncomfortable. When had she done it? When she had fallen? Or when she had been pushing the branches out of her face? Was her blood smeared across leaf and fern for any moon-cursed creature to find? She shuddered. What if it was awaiting nightfall to follow her? To follow the scent of her blood to the house? You i***t Anya, you f*****g i***t. “Anya, be still.” Lina was stern only when she was concentrating. And those leaf-green eyes, so alike the colours in the forest, were riveted on her hand as she tenderly wrapped it. Anya, used to being chastised by her sisters, crinkled her nose and turned. Only to find Siri’s gaze upon her. No, the question was not forgotten, she could see it burning in eyes the colour of the hottest flame. “You shouldn’t go into the forest, it’s too dangerous,” Lina’s voice was soft; not in the way that she was trying to whisper, to hide a secret. It was the softness of a feather pillow, or silken sheets. She patted her hand, as if petting a frightened animal. “Especially without father here.” If something were to happen to her… What would happen to her sisters? She looked at her dagger, resisting the urged to touch the pouch at her waist. She would protect her family with her own two hands. And she would let no moon-cursed creature harm them.