The Forest takes prisoners.
Riku knew this as he ventured through the curling wood, as the voices lulled his heart with songs of misled lives and life-ruining mistakes. He knew it when the leaves cut through his clothes, when the thorns clung to his boots and ripped through his cloak. He knew it as he felt his heart pounding in his chest, every heartbeat a stolen, foreign thing: somehow, his heart knew that there was only one way he was escaping this place, and that he was a fool for even trying it.
He ventured forward regardless.
So far, he hadn't seen another soul, but he knew that there was more to existing than being seen. He knew very well how to blend into nothingness: he was the darkest edge of twilight, the scabbarded knife, the shine of the poisoned drink. He could do this.
And so, he moved through the night, empty hands at his side. His weapon could be summoned at will, and it would only slow him down. No, he needed to be swift: Slay and get paid, slay and get paid, slay—
He stopped. The setting had changed. Like a glass of water now tinged with oil, the forest became distorted and twisted. Thankfully, his senses picked up on the tilt. He felt it in his bones, the wrongness that had entered his proximity, and continued to tread forward. Forward, towards him.
The woods had become silent. The air was thick with tension—self-inflicted hallucination, he cursed—and his heart shot into a frenzy, trying to leap out of his ribcage. Immediately, he hid behind a tree, hand to his chest. No sound, he chanted, you are dead. The dead make no sounds. No dead one has ever spoken, nothing dead ever does.
Except that here, in the Forest of Memory, they did.
They spoke in a language Riku didn't understand, softly, like the pitter-patter of rain on grass. He didn't dare look. Being spotted was not part of his plan—If they found out he was there, she would know. And that would be the end of him.
So he held his breath, and let the whispers fade into the forest, even going as far as waiting a couple of minutes to subdue his heart. When he unclenched his hand, he realized that he had summoned his weapon by accident—Soul Eater now pulsing energy into his palm with reckless abandon. He bit back a swear. His weapon was unreliable, and when it came to him unsolicited, it meant two things: either that he was losing control of his emotions, or that he was in life-threatening danger. He knew why Soul Eater was there, and it wasn't there to rescue him.
Why did he take on this goddamn job anyway?
The money, of course. With that much money—enough gold to buy three towns down to the last blade of grass—he'd be free. Not just worry-free, but free to do as he wished: to travel, to wander, to just go and be free of the ghosts and spirits that taunt him to no end. He'd clear his debts, pay off his rent, and disappear.
It was all he wanted.
So he moved through the shadows like a swallow: swift through the grass, or jumping from tree to tree like a lizard on the hunt. His prey was inside these woods, and at this point, it was either kill or be killed. No one left the Forest of Memory unless she willed it—and she never did.
So when he stopped in front of the deteriorated mansion, as dark and primal as the woods around him, the mercenary filled himself with resolve. He was going to do it.
He was going to kill the Witch.
He was insane for even thinking it. But when a random employer had sent him the letter—a carefully-worded thing, printed to seduce and enamor, and that it did—offering the scales of a gold dragon (32,000 scales, each as fine as a sheet of paper and worth a small fortune), he almost passed out. He would've been skeptical, but when the employer sent an advance, a deer-skin pouch with ten scales, all glimmering and frail and real, he knew he wouldn't refuse. This was his test: would he remain where he was, living off working as a spy and bland gruel? Or would he go beyond the dish he was given, the cards he had been dealt?
He knew what his answer was going to be.
And the employer knew it too, because there was no other persuasion; no, the last thing on the page was a single sentence, written in glossy, black ink. Curious how he spoke of payment first and then the job, or maybe it wasn't curious at all, because the words were as choking as a noose, and they needed no explanation.
Kill the Witch Of The Wilds.
His hand recoiled from the letter, as if he had been branded with molten iron. It dropped to the floor without a sound. No—the word had come as easily as breathing. Not the Witch Of The Wilds, never her, anything but her. She was a monster, a necromancer, something that tiptoed the edge between mortal and the beyond, and no mortal had ever even made it out of her domain alive. Hell, no mortal bothered to mention her: what was the point of giving the monster under the bed a name? Thinking of taking her on, it was as good as suicide.
But they hadn't seen someone as desperate as him yet.
The Forest of Memory was the size of a coin on the map, at the center of his continent. Easy enough to get to, harder to get out of. Time and distance worked differently inside its greenery, but from the outside, it was no bigger than the smallest town. He hadn't been sure of how accurate the stories could have been, but they all said the same thing: The Witch's mansion was the Forest's center, if you even lasted long enough to reach it.
Riku had. And he intended to last longer than any twilight-born, without a worry in the world. Perhaps he'd even reach old age. Not many of his kind can say that.
Twilight-borns are skilled in combat: the darkness had blessed them with enhanced skill and prowess on the battlefield. He was a warrior of dusk, and he was going to be damned if he didn't use it to his advantage. The rarity of his skills made him not only difficult to be mentored, but difficult to be around, too. Day-borns aren't too fond of dark things.
That was in the only manner that he and his prey might be the same.
Because nobody was fond of the Witch. She was a vile thing: a rotting face and bloodshot eyes and nails as long as branches. Again, he wasn't sure how true that could be. Nobody made it out alive.
But, if he succeeded, he could be the one to tell the tale. The twilight-born lowlife who slew the strongest witch in the land. Not that he cared. He just wanted his payment, that was all.
That was all.
The mansion was—looked—abandoned, and Riku's ocean-green eyes narrowed in acknowledgement. To greet the enemy before battle was a sign of respect, of honor. He didn't have much, but he liked to think he had that.
So without another word, he jumped the fence and sneaked into the mansion, Soul Eater buzzing with menacing glee. There was no sound as he climbed up the side, his black cloak lost in the shadows. Only a patch of white hair shone through, and it was barely visible as he was enveloped into the dark night. He was another shadow, and for once, he was glad for it.
Like a tender breeze, he slid in through the highest window, and with a light touch to the pendant that hung around his neck, his mouth mouthing a prayer enshrined in his memory, he began his descent into the Witch's lair.
She felt him enter instantly. A swift man, a bird of prey, cunning and ruthless. She could not see him, but she felt him: felt his challenge and drive, not a drop of bloodlust in him, and was intrigued. He was here to kill her, wasn't he? What drove him, if not hate or glory?
No matter, she thought. With a snap of her fingers, the mansion came to life, and she felt, for a second, his surprise.
It surprised her more than it should have. His reaction was, albeit coolly-contained, a bit casual. As if the house made him feel comfortable. He felt welcomed.
The idea curdled her stomach.
The Witch rose from her chair, paints and brushes spilling over but not touching the ground. Blue eyes flashed in the dark, a centenary rage filling her body.
No one belonged in her house.
No one but her.
She threw the door open and hurried into the dark, her robes the color of a steel sword, hungry for blood.
Let the hunt begin, tiny hawk. I am waiting for you.
AN: So, this fic, along with a second one I'll be uploading soon (tomorrow, hopefully) are part of self-imposed project to keep me invested and committed to my writing. My intention is to update every two weeks between the two stories (so if you follow both stories, it'll be one chapter of this fic one week, and another chapter of the other fic the next).
ABOUT THE TITLE: Wildheart, other than a reference to the feelings that the characters will go through (heheehe), it's a play on a nickname from a character from a series I'm currently reading (and crying about): Throne of Glass by SJM. (Her nickname is Fireheart.)
Even though I preferred the other fic to this one, my beta readers adored this one a lot more. So I hope that you guys do too!
-AGBALUX