Ecarlate et Vert
By Mizhowlinmad (HBF), 2010
Disclaimer: All the Beauty and the Beast characters belong to Disney. The OCs are mine. This is not a crossover with Ranger's Apprentice as such, but if you've read that series, it may help.
Prologue: Lost and Found
The rider was lost.
He was also soaked to the bone, ravenously hungry, and down to three arrows in his quiver. Even the short dagger he normally carried at his waist was gone; he'd foolishly thrown it after what he thought might be his quarry, but had turned out to be only a shadow.
And that's why you never try tracking in a steady rain.
His horse's breath came out in small puffs of vapor, which dissipated quickly into the light drizzle and growing darkness. Even the sturdy animal beneath him was beginning to grow impatient with this crazy, ill-fated trip deep into the woods. If the wolves caught scent of them…
The youth astride the horse tried not to think of that. Wolves were of no concern to him. He'd make his way back to the lodge, rest the horse and himself, and then spin the whole thing into a tall tale later on about how he'd been attacked by highwaymen and fought them off using only his dagger and his wits. The villagers would lap it right up.
Only it was getting dark, and quickly. What little light there was was fading, and with it any hope he might have of being able to use reckoning by the sun. He turned the horse toward what he thought was a westerly direction and clapped his heels to its side. It grudgingly set off at a slow trot.
He rummaged in the pouch at his waist for his last bit of dried venison. It was sodden, like everything else he carried, but at least it was something to eat. He shoved it in his mouth and chewed without tasting it.
Had his father been there, he could only imagine what he might have done. Probably a few strokes with his leather belt for sheer foolhardiness, but then perhaps a grudging respect for his son's nerve, and, after a few rounds of ale, a good hearty laugh at the whole thing. Then they'd spend the rest of the night telling hunting stories, singing dirty ballads, eventually crashing into their warm beds for the night.
But his father was gone. And the young man only had his memories.
Horse and rider passed a small outcropping of rock next to a towering oak tree. Hadn't he passed that same spot not an hour ago? He frowned, dark brows knitting together. If so, it meant he was merely heading in a slow, winding circle. And that meant he was doomed to spent a cold, shivering night under whatever scant cover he might find. Not good.
Frustrated, tired, he dismounted the horse and paused to survey his surroundings more carefully. He could see no more than a few meters ahead of him in any direction, what with the encroaching mist and the darkness. Somewhere, far to the south, he swore he heard the first, plaintive call of a wolf seeking its prey.
He almost laughed to himself. The big boar he'd been hunting was God knew where by now. No sign of its passing remained in the thick mud underfoot. Just this morning he'd ridden out from the hunting lodge, supremely confident that by nightfall, he'd ride back triumphantly to Ste.-Eulalie, a conquering hero, with the boar's lifeless body slung across the back of his horse. He'd be basking in the adulation of the villagers for a month to come. That was the way of things. That was what he lived for.
And now, he wasn't sure that he wouldn't catch his death of cold. If he'd known the word for it, he might have described the whole situation as ironic.
Resigned that he was lost, at least until morning, but not wanting to admit it, he turned to the small provisions at his saddlebag. The flint and tinders were all but useless. The young man growled. The only blanket was the horse's, and it was smelly as well as soaked. He'd just have to find whatever meager cover he could and get through the night as best he could.
After a short search, the hunter found a low cluster of bushes beneath a pair of pines. Surprisingly, the ground below was almost dry. It wasn't a warm bed, but it was better than the alternative.
The young man shrugged. He had nothing to eat, so he didn't even attempt a fire. He stripped the scarlet jerkin from his torso and wrung it out, then replaced it. It wasn't genuinely cold yet, but he knew it would be as the night progressed. For the time being, he sat there, tired but not enough so to sleep. He kept the hunting bow and its remaining arrows close. That was one lesson his father had managed to teach him well.
Minutes passed, maybe hours; the young man had no real sense of time without the sun to guide him. It was simply dark, and cold, and, he noticed, unnaturally silent. The only sounds were the slight chuffing of the horse where it stood and the almost inaudible sigh of the trees as they swayed in the wind. He knew, from his experiences, that most forest animals (for good reason, he thought) took cover during a storm. The only ones that didn't, like the wolves, would not let something as small as a storm deter them from their business.
He knew they were out there, somewhere. Usually he didn't bother them and they in turn did not bother him. That was also the way of things.
The horse's ears pricked up. Something had caught its attention.
They had a visitor.
Slowly, carefully, the hunter strung his bow, nocking an arrow to its string. All the while, he scanned the barely visible treeline, blue eyes unblinking as he did so. Something was out there. The horse made a low, apprehensive grunt. It could see and hear things a man could not.
He was puzzled. An animal, even a small one like a rabbit or fox, would have made some kind of sound. Whatever this one was made none.
The hunter rose from his crouch to his full six-plus feet in height, the bow held at the ready. He would not be caught by surprise.
"Put it down."
His breath escaped him in surprise. A small, curved dagger was held firmly at his side with an unseen hand. A few centimeters more, and it would bury itself in his ribcage. He dropped the bow as if burned.
The speaker's tone had been low, little more than a whisper. He thought he knew the speaker just by his voice, but couldn't be positive.
"Wh…who are you?" said the young man, aware that his voice broke as he said the words.
The dagger did not budge. "Quiet, boy. Just kick that bow of yours away and we'll talk."
The young hunter could hardly oblige quickly enough. As he did, the dagger pulled back ever so slightly, but he still sensed its owner meant business, so he did not attempt anything stupid. He simply held up his hands and turned around.
"All right, now what…"
He stopped. He did know the man, though it had been a few years. He was almost as tall, though wiry instead of muscular, and clean-shaven aside from a trim nut-brown mustache. He wore a tunic and pants that, in their muted shades of grey and green, were a sharp contrast to his own flamboyant red. The man was not smiling, but his black eyes bore the slightest trace of amusement.
His dark-green cloak was the giveaway. The man (and Gaston recognized him now) was a Ranger.
As a boy, he'd always heard the foresters and travelers talking about the Rangers, or Green Men, as they were sometimes called. He hadn't seen one for himself until he was about eight, and even then, it had been a fleeting glimpse. At the time he hadn't been exactly sure what they did. When he'd asked his father, Antoine de Valois had responded as he did to anything he didn't understand fully. He'd dismissed it entirely.
"They're strange folk," Gaston remembered his father saying. "They have some sort of arcane powers. Blend right into the trees, just like magic. You stay away from them."
That hadn't been sufficient explanation to his young son, and Gaston had managed to learn, through rudimentary research and a lot of tavern gossip, that the Green Men were actually a sort of cross between secret police, sworn to whatever nobles ruled their province, and woodsmen like himself. Before he knew any better, he'd asked Antoine to join the small, elite group, to which Antoine had only laughed.
"You're a de Valois, boy, a hunter! You're not some damn sneaker like them!"
Gaston winced at the memory. The man before him was no magician, he knew now, but he'd still managed to sneak up on himself, the best hunter and tracker in the whole of the valley. And that was a special skill.
"You de Valois. Always as subtle as a boar running through a lady's chamber, aren't you?" The green-clad man chuckled drily. "And you…Gaston. I could have found you had I been blind and stone-deaf. Been tracking you most of the day, in fact."
The young man grunted. He was sore that he hadn't noticed the other man's pursuit, and even angrier that he had been caught, helpless as a young fawn, by the Ranger.
"What do you want?" he snapped, throwing caution to the wind. He was dimly aware that the older man could have killed him in an instant, but right now his youthful rage, along with his hunger and cold, had blinded him to it.
The other shrugged, deftly re-sheathing his dagger in one fluid motion. "If that's the attitude you're going to take, fine. Rot out here by yourself and die of exposure." He turned to leave the clearing, then stopped. "In fact, I came looking for you."
"You found me, didn't you?" spat Gaston with the same venomous tone his father had once used. "You damn Rangers and your trickery. You didn't answer my question, anyway."
The Ranger paused. He had to be careful how he phrased what he was going to say next, for he sensed that Gaston de Valois was poised to explode with anger.
"If you'll accept," he began, keeping his voice low and even, "I need to ask for your help."
Gaston roared with laughter so hard that his horse reared with fright. "My help? What would a Ranger need my help for?" He sarcastically emphasized the word. "That's good." He slapped his own knees as he continued to laugh.
"For starters," the Ranger said calmly, "it would mean a warm fire and a nice slab of meat for you tonight." He noticed how the youth's eyes widened as he spoke. He did know how to appeal to these de Valois and their baser instincts.
"Oh?" asked Gaston suspiciously. "So you'll do that for nothing, will you? Is this another one of your mind games?"
The brown-haired man shook his head, frustrated. Like most country folk, Gaston was raised inherently fearful of le Verts. He thought they were mages, shadow men who could turn themselves invisible and become one with the packs of wolves in the forests. It was ironic, thought the Ranger, considering how Gaston had once, long ago, practically begged his father to become one of them.
"I am in need of…" He again picked his words carefully. "A strong lad to help recover something that was taken from me. And you're the strongest and the best in this province, or so I'm told." In fact, he had been watching the younger de Valois ever since he'd turned him down as a young apprentice. He was immensely strong, a good fighter, even had a certain intuitive skill for woodcraft. But he lacked perhaps the foremost quality for a Green Man: subtlety. With his vivid red clothing, heavy footsteps, and booming voice, he was no more invisible than a cow dropping on a pastry. He'd never have survived the exacting standards of the Rangers.
Gaston beamed at the man's praise. Now he was speaking the proper language. "Well, I don't think I can just jaunt off on some quest with you…what was your name again?" It had been a long time, and his faint memory could not recall.
"Theophile," replied the other. "Theophile Chevrier."
"Theophile, then. Anyway," continued Gaston, ticking off on his gloved fingers, "I have to help provide for the villagers, add to my father's trophy collection, hit my servant over the head when he deserves it…very important, that…"
The Ranger shook his close-cropped head. "This is urgent. You can say no, but I must ride out in two days at the latest. I need to keep to the trail while it's still fresh. I only thought you would be up for it." He shrugged, and turned his back on the strapping youth.
Gaston stopped to consider. It was a lull in the hunting season, high summer, and the people of Ste.-Eulalie were well-fed, content, and happy in their secluded valley, without the threats of marauders or highwaymen that plagued many other villages. And it would give him a chance to, just maybe, steal a few of the Green Men's skills without actually becoming one of them.
And, it would give him a chance to create the stuff of legends. To have the villagers compose songs about him and tell stories about his heroic exploits.
His mind was resolute. He would go. Shouldering the hunting bow and his small bundle of effects, he called to Theophile.
"So what is it we're after, anyway? Some renegade bandit? A cache of treasure?" He grinned in anticipation.
The Ranger, huddled deep in his forest-green cloak, did not turn to look at him, but his voice was just barely audible over the rain and the wind.
"My niece."
To Be Continued