A/N: Hey guys! I'm so happy and excited to be sharing this story with all of you right now. I truly believe in the healing power of storytelling, especially fantasy stories, and I can't think of a community more deserving of healing right now. I understand some people might need to detach from fandom to lick the wounds that are so fresh and real and smarting. But I hope some of you will give me a chance to offer up this gift of hope. That's all I want my stories to be: hopeful.

Chapter 1: Damnumflos

Bounty, n. (boun′tē): 1. Liberality in giving; something given liberally. 2. A reward or payment for acts such as capturing infidels, killing predators, growing certain crops, or enlisting for military service.

Before I start, let me tell you: this story has a happy ending.

There, I've spoiled it for you. You don't have to read on as I recount everything I've been through with her. You could read any of the hundreds of books she keeps in her library instead, books I'd never heard of until she cracked their spines and read their strange and wonderful words out loud as I lay with my head in her lap, slipping toward sleep, anchored only in wakefulness by her voice and her hand in my hair. She's read me so many stories now, stories of adventure and courage and hope. I often return to them later, reading favorite passages in the window seat overlooking the garden, feeling the stories anew as I wait for her to return from the market.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. You can't appreciate the way the sun shines in that window or how the garden changes over seasons or how the books we read grew worn to tatters without knowing how we got there. You can't know the peacefulness of the steam curling up from her teacup as I stare at it from my place beside her, nestled into the crook of her neck as she tells me about the wildflowers she saw on her way back from the village. In order to appreciate all that, you need to know our beginning.

So here it is.

Every muscle and bone in my body ached, screaming for help. My head throbbed, and when I tried to open my eyes, the light was blinding. My face felt fuzzy and hot as though I'd fainted. My brow was stinging, and as I lifted a heavy hand to it, I felt wetness in my hairline as the sting sharpened. I was bleeding, and from the feel of it, my wound was a result of falling. I was curled on something hard and musty and had no idea how I'd gotten a breath with exhausted lungs, I tried to open my eyes again.

I found myself soothed by a gauzy canopy above me. As my vision adjusted, I saw I was lying beneath a flowering cherry tree which was letting down tiny petals. Through the pillowy branches above me, the sun streamed down, making me prickle with sweat. I stared up at it, blinking for a minute as the fuzziness faded from my head and my eyes adjusted.

Confused as to how I'd gotten here, I tried to sit up. As I attempted to do so, I found my legs were tangled in a great mess of fabric secured to my waist and shoulders. Propping myself up on one elbow, trying not to wince, I looked down to see I was clad head-to-toe in a dark brown cape and a dress as dull as potatoes. It wasn't anything I was accustomed to wearing; it was heavy and muddied and unflattering. On my feet were a pair of sturdy work boots, just as heavy as the rest of my outfit. At least those were practical. My skin was riddled with cuts and scrapes, and I could feel the swells of bruises forming beneath the surface of my arms and legs.

It was terrifying, really, to find myself in an unfamiliar place with strange clothes on covered in bruises and scrapes.

I sat up, looking around to find myself in a clearing. The sky above me was a striking blue where it peeked through the branches of the cherry tree. The clearing was surrounded by sycamore trees, light streaming through their branches to the piles of crunchy, brown leaves beneath them. Everything was perfectly still and motionless. I would have thought I was looking at a painting had I not felt the sun on my skin or felt the softness of the petals sticking to my hands in the grass around me.

I grunted as I sat up and gathered my skirts, examining my legs for bruises or deep cuts.

From the left side of the clearing I heard a commotion and saw her stride into the clearing, panting as though she had run a great distance. Her boots were sturdy on the ground, crunching leaves and twigs. A hooded cape covered her from her head to her feet and a sword was strapped across her back.

Before I could think too hard about it, I called out to her. "Who's there!"

She stopped abruptly, hand reaching for something attached to her belt. I felt my heart start to pound at the threat. Perhaps I should have waited and observed. She could have been responsible for the sorry state I was in.

When she spotted me, she froze like a deer.

"Who are you?"

Squinting, she kept her hand on her knife as she took a few cautious steps toward me. The hood of her cape was wide and covered most of her hair. If I hadn't been so disoriented and scared, I would have noticed right away how beautiful she was.

I choked on my dry throat. "My name is Clarke."

"What are you doing here?"

Her voice was accusatory, as though I was trespassing.

"I-"

My mind took a great tumble as I realized I didn't remember anything before waking up in the clearing: where I lived, what work I did, who my friends were. Looking into my mind was like looking down into a dark chasm; there was absolutely nothing there. It was completely void of any information at all.

I froze, disturbed.

Who was I? How had I gotten here? Why was I injured and wearing such a strange outfit? Who was this person standing before me?

Starting to panic, I put one hand to my bloodied face and the other to my stomach. Despite the heat, my face grew cold, and my stomach churned with nerves. I wanted to crawl out of my skin. My panic mounted until I was so dizzy, I thought I would faint. I was spinning through space, my surroundings as blank and useless as my memory.

She crossed the clearing, cape trailing behind her, her strides strong and determined. She stopped in front of me, hand still on her knife, looking down at me with an odd combination of detachment and concern.

"What are you doing here?"

I stared up at her, her unsmiling mouth, her stern eyes. I opened my mouth to speak when something pulled in my leg and I winced.

"Are you okay?"

Her voice was cool and low, as though challenging me to admit I wasn't okay. I stared at her for moment before I fell back, unable to support my own body. I lay staring up at the light streaming through the cherry blossoms as they blurred into a gauzy, suffocating canopy above me as I gasped for air, feeling my lungs ache and burn as I panted and heaved.

And then she appeared hovering over me, looking concerned. Her eyes widened, hand creeping back toward her knife.

I shut my eyes, hoping she wouldn't kill me.

But instead of taking out her knife, she reached out for my shoulders and gripped, saying, "It's okay."

Something in her voice was so steady and soothing, I was able to slow my breathing. Once I felt my body start to unwind, I looked up at her.

"It's okay. I won't kill you."

I let out a panicked snort. "That's reassuring."

"Some might say foolish."

Finally, I felt everything come to a standstill. I was no longer hurling through space.

"You are from Swynhollow, yes?" she asked.

I sat up again, brow furrowed. Swynhollow… The word sounded familiar. But I couldn't picture the place in my mind.

"I don't know," I mumbled.

"You don't know?"

I shook my head. I didn't know anything.

I closed my eyes and felt the way my feet rested in my shoes. My feet felt normal. They were my feet, and I knew them well. From there, I let my mind wander up my legs to my knees, feeling the way they held some of the weight of my skirt. I knew that if I decided to stand, they would hold me. I let my mind follow up to my hips and my stomach, which was still churning with anxiety, but there was something familiar to it. My body was familiar to me. I knew how to move it and how it would respond to things.

Not entirely sure why, I lifted my arm and saw a small scar on my finger. It was of no particular consequence, but it was the most reassuring thing in sight. Even though I didn't know where I was from, I knew that scar. That scar was my beacon of hope.

That, and the fact that she hadn't killed me yet.

"You have no memory?"

I shook my head as a certain hopeless resignation flowed through me. I was at the mercy of this girl, my injuries, and the elements. I was as good as dead out here alone in the wilderness with no memory.

She was still, save for a slight dip in her chest that indicated she had let out a discouraged breath. "Damnumflos," she murmured.

"What?"

"A poison that destroys memory."

I frowned deeper. It didn't sound possible.

"But I remember my name," I argued.

"Some people believe our names come with us from beyond."

She had such a strange way of speaking, such crisp yet gentle consonants, and such formal syntax, it made me feel more lost. I set my hands down and the earth solid beneath me, my torso muscles holding me up.

I supposed I ought to introduce myself and move past the embarrassing panic attack I'd just had. Perhaps if I pretended like everything was okay I would start to feel normal.

"I'm Clarke."

"So you said," she said, still unsmiling.

I looked up at her, waiting her to introduce herself.

"And you are…?"

She pursed her lips. "You can call me Lexa."

There was silence and I didn't know what to say. I decided to start with the obvious thing. "Where are we?"

She tilted her head. "We are in Summeridge."

I blinked, feeling foolish for asking, since locations meant nothing to me.

I was exhausted from my panic and the uncertainty of everything around me. I moved my legs, which were still heavy as rocks beneath the weighted drapery of my ugly skirt. I grunted and reached down to untangle my shoe from the hem of my dress.

"Your head is bleeding."

"Yeah…" I said, reaching up to touch the cut. I felt the sting sharpen again and regretted it, as it only exacerbated the pounding behind my eyes.

Lexa frowned, looking around the clearing, unmoved. "I have heard of this happening in these parts. Hijackers use damnumflos to render their victims unconscious. Then they take their horses and valuables and leave them."

For some reason that didn't surprise me. With no memory, her explanation was as good as any.

She considered me for a moment, then reached for her knife, unsheathing it as she crouched down. I shrank back, anticipating the pierce of the blade. Instead, she flipped up the bottom of my skirt, ripping off a strip with her knife. Eying it to make sure it wasn't too dirty, she held it toward me. When I made no motion to take it, she stepped forward and pressed the cloth to the wound.

I winced. It hurt like hell, but once the initial sting faded, I took the scrap from her and wiped up the blood. I held the cloth in place for a moment as she ripped out a longer piece of skirt and held it toward me. I wrapped it around my head to hold the bandage in place. It made my hair cling to the back of my neck in a prickly kind of way.

I muttered a quiet, "Thank you."

"You're a healer?" she said, giving me a nod of consideration.

I let out a shaky, discouraged breath. "I don't know."

She considered me for a long moment that seemed to only increase the throbbing in my head. My aching body couldn't bear the scrutiny.

Then she stood, towering over me, as though she'd made a decision.

"Shall we go?"

"Go where?" I frowned.

"We should find food and shelter for the night."

I frowned. I was in pain and felt as though I'd been traveling for days with no food or water or sleep. Moving was the last thing I wanted to do.

"I should wait here," I said.

"For what?" she asked, looking bewildered.

I realized I didn't know. Some part of me wanted to believe someone was out looking for me, someone who would rescue me from whatever misfortune had befallen me. But I didn't know anything except the clearing and the strange girl hovering over me. I stayed rooted where I was, willing my legs to stop aching.

"I just think I should stay here."

"Very well," she said with a finalizing bob of her head. With that, she made her way across the clearing, cape swirling as her boots crunched.

As I watched her go, I felt uneasy. Without her there, I would be truly alone. It only took a moment for me to realize I'd made a mistake.

Looking back, to think that I might have let her walk away so easily terrifies me. I had only a small door through which to slip into her life. The odds seem impossible in hindsight. How did it come to be that she entered the clearing where I had awoken at that exact time? What compelled me to follow her despite her callous behavior and the pain throbbing through my body?

It's a miracle any of us ever fall in love at all.

"Wait!"

She turned around, eyebrows raised in cool expectation.

"I'll come," I muttered.

Her lips pulled in the direction of a smile, but didn't quite bend toward gladness.

I began to walk toward her.

"You're forgetting something."

I knew I had forgotten everything about my life, but as I turned toward where I had just been lying, I realized she meant an object.

Where I'd just been sitting, I saw a brown satchel emblazoned with gold lettering.

I stooped to pick up the satchel and found it was engraved with my name. Inside was a curious array of things. A feather quill, a pot of ink, a hunting knife, three pieces of gold, a book, and a flint.

The quill was sharp and hadn't been dipped in the ink yet. How odd, I thought to myself. Wherever I'd been going, why had I thought to bring a quill along? The flint and the knife and the gold I could understand, but the book?

I pulled it out. It was a beautiful leather book whose pages were yellowed and dusty. It looked almost like a sacred text. But when I opened it, there were only four words written inside. Scrawled on the first page in the most elaborate cursive was the phrase Once Upon a Time...

Sighing in frustration that I had no food or means of survival besides the knife and a flint, I slid the satchel over my shoulder and set off into the woods behind her, hoping to find somewhere to rest and recover my memory.

Her gait was long and sturdy as she plodded through the woods with squared shoulders and her head held high. She had a confidence to her that intimidated me.

"Do you know this area?"

"No," she said. It sounded final, as though closing the door on any conversation I might try to initiate.

It was quiet, only the crunching of the leaves beneath our boots and the distant call of birds. The heat that had scorched me in the clearing had disappeared, and I found myself grateful for the ugly cloak I was wearing.

Finally, after at least ten minutes of stoic silence, during which she barely looked at me, she opened her mouth. "Do you remember anything new?"

I shook my head. The only thing I knew was my name.

"That is unfortunate." She looked sad in a way that perplexed me. "I have heard that damnumflos sometimes wears off within a few hours. If not… the effects may be permanent."

Panic seized me. "There's no antidote? No cure?"

"There is. But I'm not a healer. I don't know where to find it." She took a few strides. "We will look."

I tried to keep up with her long strides. Not wanting to settle back into the heavy silence she seemed to prefer, I asked, "What are you?"

She threw me a sidelong glance, then directed her gaze forward. "I'm a teacher."

I almost stumbled over a protruding root.

"Of what?"

"Of scholars, Clarke." The consonants of my name were crisp in her mouth. "My people do not attempt to educate sheep or cattle." Her tone was mocking, and I resented it.

"I've never heard of a teacher wandering through the woods by herself with a sword."

"You have not heard of anything, thanks to the damnumflos."

"Why are you out walking in the woods alone?" I asked. "Not that I don't appreciate the companionship."

"That is not your concern," she said cooly.

"Okay. Sorry," I said, annoyed at her standoffishness.

When I think back on that first exchange we had, I almost want to laugh. She was so stubbornly closed off, and I so determined to crack her. I know how to coax her open now, though her grumpiness is far rarer and less severe.

We had been walking for at least an hour. I was grateful that at least I had sturdy shoes to go with my ugly dress and heavy cape. But there wasn't much else to be happy about. It felt an awful lot like we were lost in the woods. I hoped she had a clue where we were going.

Suddenly, she lifted her hand to point. I squinted in the direction she was pointing, but didn't see anything.

"Smoke," she said. "Someone must have a fire nearby."

I looked up through the trees and saw she was right. There was a tendril of smoke curling into the sky not far away. I gave a nod and trudged through the forest brush.

We found the source of the smoke shortly. Hidden in the deep shade of the trees was a small cottage. Despite its humble size, it was clean and sturdy, and the smoke coming out the chimney was a sign that someone was home that might be able to help us or at least tell us how to get to the nearest town.

"Thank god," I muttered. "My legs are killing me."

I approached and was about to knock on the door when she caught my wrist, almost snarling. Her hand went to her knife, unsheathing it. Realizing we might be in danger, I slid my hand into my satchel and wrapped my fingers around the handle of my own knife.

She examined the door frame, noting the strange symbol above the door. It looked like a horizontal crescent moon with a primitive crown sitting in its bowl. I didn't recognize it, and from the look she gave, I didn't think she recognized it either.

She glanced around, then decided it was safe to knock. When she did, there was no response. Not even a scuffle sounded inside the small cabin. The woods were so quiet and still, we would have been able to hear the faintest creaking of a floorboard or chair. But nothing moved or sounded.

She knocked again. And again. After she had rapped her knuckles against the wood of the door some ten odd times, calling out for the owner that we meant no harm, nothing had happened.

Feeling as though I couldn't go another step, I pushed on the handle of the door and found it was unlocked. It swung open to reveal a hearth with a table set next to it.

The cottage was dark, as the only light came from the fire, a small window that let in the fading light from outside, and two candles on the table. In the glow of the candles, I saw two loaves of bread and large block of cheese. Relieved and grateful at the mere thought of sitting by a fire and eating, I stepped into the house, hand still wrapped around my knife. She followed me in, taking down the hood of her cape, and we stood turning circles as we examined the inside of the cottage.

Much like the outside of the cottage, the inside was clean, but humble. It still held hints of the fresh-cut wood scent that had permeated it when it was built, but the smudges around the fireplace and marks where the chairs had worn into the floor as meals scraped by told the story of several years in the forest. The cottage had no real bed, only a cot made of straw and flour sacks in the corner, with two pillows filled with sheep's wool. There were no blankets or sheets.

"I'm so hungry," I whined, turning back to the table.

"Then eat."

She took off her sword and hung its strap over the back of a chair. She sat, and without ceremony, lifted her knife and sank it into the cheese, cutting a large slice and putting it on a piece of torn-off bread.

I wondered what made her so confident that she felt entitled to eat a stranger's food. She was such a strange girl and we were in such a strange situation. At the time, I honestly thought it was the strangest day of my life. Except I couldn't remember the rest of my life, so I didn't know if that day was the strangest. Perhaps every day before had been was as strange as that one. There was no way to be certain. I only know that since then, I've had some of the strangest and most miraculous days a girl could imagine.

Even though I was uneasy about how I'd come to be in this cottage with such a strange companion, my stomach was too empty to worry about where the food had come from or if it was okay to eat.

I pulled a chair out and plopped into it, relieved to be off my feet. I used my knife to slice the loaf of bread open and cut a chunk of cheese to place on top. I shoved the food into my mouth.

She didn't make eye contact as we devoured one of the loaves and most of the cheese. I stole a few glances at her, noticing her braids and the smoothness of her cheek under smudges of dirt. I think that was the first time I noticed she was beautiful. But beauty is so rarely a conscious thought; it is simply a knowing of the eye. We do not need to decide if a flower is beautiful. It is because we perceive it as such. Even though I knew she was pretty then, she's grown more and more beautiful to me every day since.

Though the sun still had a long journey across the sky outside, I felt like I could sleep for a week. She rose from the table and slipped off her shoes, placing them beside the door before removing the rest of her weapons. She unfastened her cape and draped it over her chair before sliding to her knees, laying her head on the pillow, eyes already closed as placed her sword and knife against the wall beside her for safekeeping. I could see tiredness drawing her down into the floor and felt the heaviness in my own limbs double.

Was I supposed to share the bed with her? Make do with a spot in front of the hearth?

As though reading my mind, she mumbled, "Are you going to sleep too?"

I supposed that was as good an invitation as any. I was so drained, so weary to my bones, I slunk toward the cot, prying off my heavy work boots, and lay down next to her, eager to welcome sleep.

How strange that first nap was, how conscious I was not to press too close to her, not to invade her space. Little did I know how starved for affection she was, how I had been the first person to speak more than five words to her in weeks. How my presence was already softening her armor, and how the coming weeks would thrust us together in the most fantastical and alarming ways.

As I settled into the bed, I tried once more to peer into the blackness of my memory. There had to be something there, some glimmer of where I'd come from. I squeezed my eyes tight, hoping my concentration would render anything of recognition.

Something soft glowed in my mind, a shadow cast by candlelight. I saw movement, but nothing more than the passing of shadows. I squeezed my eyes shut harder, straining my mind's vision to see closer.

But the light extinguished quickly and I was left with nothing but fatigue. Drained, I fell into a deep sleep beside her.

Like I told you earlier, I've read a lot of stories. But this one - this one is my favorite.