You are the daughter of the forest with flowers in your hair.
You dance in the evenings, copper of your skin turning gold in the firelight, laugh on your lips and stars in your eyes. You pray to Artemis, Hestia, Gaia. You live with mud between your toes and the wind whispering to your ear, wild and free and happy - oh so happy.
You are immortal, when you close your eyes and opens your arms, when the sun kisses your face and the birds sing for you. You are immortal.
You are everything, and so much more.
He stumbles into your life when you least expect it.
He steals your horse and steals your heart.
Your father thinks it is the end. It is but the beginning of your story.
You are the daughter of the forest with roots in your ribcage.
You already have a family, a mother who loves you and a father who protects you. But this, this is different, this is new and exciting and maybe a little too much at times. You like it nonetheless, love the Merry Men and their camp, their wilderness, rough around the edges like grumpy bears and skittish wolves. They love you too, that feminine touch they so obviously lacked.
You feed villages and you feed kingdoms, a kind word on your tongue, an even kind smile at the corner of your lips. You're good at this — the stealing and the giving, the rush of ecstasy when your horse gallops away from a castle. Your cheeks are flushed and your hair untamed, avenging dryad, selfless goddess.
It matters. You matter.
But it's not enough, it's never enough, when darkness overcomes even the purest of snows.
You are the daughter of the forest with a wildfire in your veins.
Slow and devastating, it burns through your body and into your lungs, until your stare darkens charcoal. Your skin is steel and your heart gold, when you delicately wraps a cloak around the princess' shoulders, leave a bow and quiver by her side. You flee the scene before she wakes up, a selfless ghost, the whisper of a wind — she'll be alright, you don't doubt it. She is strong, like ice beneath snow, like silver beneath white. She is strong and brave, and you plays the benevolent angel for a little while longer.
Dark times call for dark measures, spirit made reckless a little more each day. You grow bolder, dangerous like the river between the trees, unforgivable outlaw. You grow bolder, the need to save everyone, to sooth and heal and repair. It is your calling, after all.
It is your calling, and your undoing.
You die until you don't, and your world is lost to you with a flash of magic.
You are the daughter of the forest with ice in your heart.
Men are shallow little things, fawning the the sight of a crown, losing themselves in a sparkle of gold. You want to laugh, you want to cry, but mostly you want to protect your heart from the ineluctable. Men are shallow little things, falling in and out of love for sharp fangs and a sweet smile.
You wished you were surprised, but you're only disappointed. Disappointed in him for being like any other man, disappointed in his love for being weak, for bending so easily at the sight of a new prize.
You're disappointed but you square you shoulders and rise your head, willing not to let it affect you. You don't let it touch you, you are better than that — true of heart and true of mind, and he doesn't deserve you. He doesn't deserve you.
No one does.
So you'll make your own destiny, alone if you must. You'll write yourself a new story, one of freedom and motherhood, you'll make sure your child — your sweet child who looks so much like you, bless the gods — has a good life, has a better life than you ever had. You'll let your husband sleep in sating sheets, because the forest is home, the forest welcomes you back into its warm embrace.
You pity him, almost. This isn't the life he wanted, and you pity him for bending so easily to the dark queen's every wish.
You pity him, until the fates start laughing at you, cruel in their intentions, cruel in their irony — they write another ending for your story, one you didn't want, one you never wanted.
They say it's a new beginning, but it's the end of you.
You are the daughter of the forest in a jungle of concrete.
Peasants don't get happy endings.