Each arrow whistled by, their pointed heads making sharp sounds of protest as they sliced through bark, leaf, air. They hit everything but their bowmen's target. Even if their aim had been perfectly true, the forged iron and wood would have disintegrated before any lethal contact could be made, their fading fragments riding the resulting swell of wind to join the forest. Such was the way of magic born by nature; one always found it's way back to the other.
Were these men really the best in the land? In all the lands that were? For almost six full cycles of the moon, these 'trackers' or 'huntsmen' or whatever title they had bestowed upon themselves, had never been less than a league in tow of their prize. Even now, as the steady pursuit of hoof against earth could still be heard over that of the Rider's own mount, they grew no closer to accomplishing their goal.
What was that phrase? 'Never send a man to do a woman's job'? In this case, not even a posse of nine-strong could do the job. Granted, they had came close on more than one occasion, though it was debatable as to whether they should be given credit for that. Those instances could be largely blamed on the recklessness of their bounty and a tendency to relish in the spoils of the chase; plentiful one-night-encounters, bountiful feasts and ale, predominantly the ale.
Yes, it was through no fault nor skill of their own that they had ever came within spitting distance of the Rider, though today was the closest they'd managed yet. So close, that the hairs on the back of every neck stood on end, some out of fear, excitement, dread and hope, others out of exhilaration and a certain buzz that came with having pure power at your service.
It was about time the services of that power were humbly accepted.
The borderline desperate bellows of 'halt!' and 'stop at once!' were met with an echoing laughter that danced around the ears of the tracking hunters, whose steeds calmed at the sound and slowly stopped in their tracks, gently huffing as they ignored the bewildered urges of their riders, the incessant kicks to their flanks doing nothing to encourage them to move.
The Rider smirked from high in a tree who had aged so. Her branches hunched over like the back of an elder, almost meeting her neighbour opposite to form a friendly arch over the road. The Rider could perch in the peak of that arch and be sat exactly above the armoured imbeciles. The need to move was unnecessary however; the view was already as accommodating as it was amusing.
"Where did she go?" one of the men asked, the timbre of his gruff voice sounding as though he couldn't decide whether to exclaim loudly in confusion or whisper in fear. The mid-point sounded like an over the top stage-whisper so comical, that the Rider clung to the branch above to ward off the threatening shakes of laughter.
"She?" another spat, clinging and tugging on his reins to no avail. "That was no female! That was a Woodland Mage, Green Cloak! I've heard of them! We've been following the wrong per-"
"No! Are you colour blind?" one near the back cut in, shrunk in so closely to the white of his mount's mane that he almost ate it when he spoke. "That wasn't even a cloak, you fool!" the white stallion below him seemed to move of her own accord into the space the Rider had mystically vacated just moments ago.
The man craned out his neck to sniff the air around him, and though he didn't seem repulsed by the lingering scent of pine and lavender, he still sunk back into the horse's hair, the helmet rattling on his head with the sudden jerk of the movement.
"Exactly, it was a coat! We all saw it!" called another, not before he could be cut off by a stronger, more even voice. This one wasn't scared in the slightest. If he was, he was excellent at hiding it.
"And I saw the shock of blonde beneath that hood, I am sure of it."
This man dismounted his beautiful black mare, boots hitting the earth with a resounding thunk. The fact that he'd spoken alone had caused the scared mumblings of the others to cease abruptly. So this was the leader of the party? Interesting. Every eye was trained on him as he rested a hand on the hilt of his sword, looking down as he studied hoof tracks which seemed to just end.
"Oh yes," he continued, even kneeling down to press his fingers into the grooves left by his prey's mount. "It was Swan, alright."
Suddenly, he was on his feet, his eyes turning skyward to rake across the branches above his head, the trees which lined the road. Emma flinched, though whether it was from the surprise of hearing her name on unfamiliar lips or the tracker's sudden movements, she didn't know. Even knowing that should any of their eyes pass over her exact spot, they would only see greenery and branches, she still stiffened.
The time for laughter was over, she had to remind herself on a daily basis that this was life or death. More specifically it was her life or death. She wouldn't kill these men. What if they had partners and children to return to? The same could be said for her, so she knew what it meant. No, she'd toy with them all she wanted, maybe even send them on their way with a painful reminder of their failure, but nothing too serious.
"Emma Swan," the leader of the troop called out. He said it in a certain way, it almost sounded like a challenge. A smug one, at that. Like his knowledge of her name was power that he held over her. In many ways it was. She didn't introduce herself as Swan any more. To those who knew of her, she was 'Rider' now, by name and by nature. (Sometimes even with a 'The' in front). A name she hadn't chosen for herself, but one that had settled nonetheless.
Rolling her eyes, she let her weight fall backwards. She felt the smooth and curved bark of the branch roll across her back before she caught herself, falling to the ground with more grace than she ever thought she'd be able to muster.
She landed on the collective gasps of the guards almost like a cushion. Soft, painless and comforting. It was nice to hear that her mere presence still struck fear into the beings of men renowned for finding, hunting and killing without fail nor remorse. Whether or not that was morally a good thing, she wasn't sure.
"Hello, boys," she acknowledged with a raise of her hand, palm outstretched as though she were a warden. With a pulse of her fingers, the weapons that every man had reached for at once fell uselessly to the ground. Mechanisms in crossbows were mangled, tips of swords were bent, their blades flaking at the edges, each dagger, throwing knife and arrow followed suit, all organic materials returning from whence they came. Quite eco-friendly, she thought to herself with an appreciative glance, followed by the barest hint of a smile; some things just couldn't change.
She cleared her throat, trying her best to stay in character.
"It's a coat," she folded her arms, the leather adjusting accordingly as she speared the offending men with her gaze. Actually, it was more of a duster with a hood, than a coat. More country-western than medieval, but a stellar source had informed her that it was exactly her style, plus it wouldn't snag on a stray branch and choke her like a cloak would and had done in the past. She'd always dressed for functionality rather than fashion, not that it'd matter much in the end. She could beat these idiots in a corset, and those things were devices of torture if ever she'd experienced one.
"Perhaps when you scuttle back to mistress, you could request she give you lessons in how to identify the proper garment; perhaps it'd be more your speed?" she suggested, her accent lilting in the way it always did when she talked too much; she was still getting the hang of it, even after all this time. "Maybe a spot of needlework?"
Before the men could even begin to argue, their leader spoke up. They continued to shift agitatedly, their mounts still happily complying with Emma's silent request.
"Enough!" he bellowed, though he made no physical move. He seemed even more angered than he'd been to begin with; Emma hoped she'd disintegrated his favourite sword. That would be one of the many cherries atop the cake.
"Yes!" Emma agreed, matching his tone. "I've had quite enough indeed," her hands moved to her hips as she began to slowly pace across the breadth of the road, sauntering, almost. All eyes were on her, anxiously awaiting, and she had to admit that it felt good.
"Every man here knows exactly how long it has taken for you to reach this moment. And now?" She gestured theatrically to the air around her. "I practically served myself to you on a platter, yet you find yourselves rendered useless and incompetent. Once again. She will have your heads."
Emma spoke those last five words slowly, knowing that they'd need no time at all to sink in, but providing the time nonetheless. Theatrics had never been her style, nor her strong suit, but they'd worked the first time she'd needed to narrowly escape a sticky situation. Granted, this time she was just bored of running, but she'd also found that grandiose gestures seemed to have the desired effect.
"Are you suggesting we return to her? Empty handed?" this from the leader once again. He sounded almost amused, like what she'd suggested just wasn't the done thing; absurd, nonsensical. Emma could see the genuine panic behind his façade, though, and she couldn't help but feel sympathy.
She nodded. "You haven't a choice," she answered. "You cannot win."
As if to emphasize her point, Em' nodded her head just once, and the horses turned on the spot, beginning at a canter. The leader looked behind, his shoulders slumping ever-so-slightly in defeat as he watched reins tighten around the wriggling, retreating forms of his men.
"Very well." he conceded, beginning to take retreating steps after his horse. The rest of his crew had followed the bend in the road, taken out of sight. He stopped just as Emma felt a soft nudge to her back, a smile lighting her eyes as she reached up to run her fingers over a strong, smooth neck.
"Know this," his voice carried over the distance between them, eliciting a small huff of annoyance near her ear. "She will never quit, we weren't the first and we shan't be the last, you know that."
As the energy drained from Emma, retreating from her grasp, she watched as his mount paused to wait for him. After he'd settled in the saddle, he looked over his shoulder at her, calling out once again. "Come back to the Queen, Princess. It is the only way you shall truly be free, you cannot outrun her forever. Just as you cannot run from your destiny."
With that, he entered the bend at a walk, the sound of all their exits fading in seconds.
Emma Swan leaned against the stalwart animal beside her, letting his warmth and steady heartbeat ground her as it always did. She knew where she was headed, and she knew that part of what that misled man had said was correct. The two didn't go together, in fact they repelled like the same poles of two magnets.
She left anyway, continuing her journey. She would always leave, always ride.
Only two people seemed to be impervious, so perfectly content with their own lives that even Emma's dysfunctional presence couldn't make them waver. So she ran to them, full speed ahead and with that same old steely resolve. She'd conquered a curse, wielding something so powerful that she craved to have it again, and not even two of the most stubborn women on the world would stop her.