/|\ Paradise /|\
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The Huntsman wakes to the sound of his brother barking frantically.
He immediately bolts upright, sleep still clawing at his brain, demanding him to just close his eyes and drift off to sleep again, to the land of oblivion. It would be all too easy to just curl back up on the forest floor, to just rest his head on top of the crook of his elbow. He rubs his eyes with a leather gloved hand, wiping away the sands that gather there in the corners when he is asleep.
Smoke.
The acrid taste is heavy on his tongue as he scrambles to his feet, ignoring the rush of blood to his head as he stands. The smoke is much more noticeable now that he is standing. His vision spots with white as he sways precariously on his feet; his hand reaches out to hold himself upright against the trunk of a nearby tree.
The white and gray vapor swirls around the forest, slowly raising higher and higher. The beams of the soft sunlight emphasize the smoke trails and dapple off of the leaves, casting patterns onto the leafy ground. The Huntsman pauses, holding his breath as he takes in the silence around him. No flaps of feathered birds wings, no quiet squeaks of foraging mice, not even the whistling of the wind as it flows through the trees, gently rattling the leaves as it flows.
His brother continues barking and whimpering, digging his paws into the dirt randomly.
"Forest fire," The Huntsman says aloud slowly, his hand unconsciously reaching into his pocket. His fingers ghost across a piece of soft fabric. He clutches it and pulls the mysterious cloth out of his pocket, only to freeze when he recognizes what it really is.
Emma's handkerchief, he thinks to himself. How could he have forgotten that she had given it to him?
He thumbs the wrinkled blue fabric, and eventually brings it up to his face to cover his nose from the harsh smoke that wafts around him. He breathes in the light and flowery scent he stores and classifies as just purely Emma.
In the distance, he hears crackling of wood burning. It's a deeply unsettling noise, and the Huntsman finds himself taking a step backwards. The smoke residue and the floating ashes fall slowly, dusting the ground, the leaves, and his clothes with a light gray color.
The nearest village is several miles away, he guesses. He had been walking without stopping for several days now; the weather grows cooler as he moves northward. His brother lets out an anxious whine. The Huntsman reaches out and pats his head, trying to calm him. The wolf shakes his head, his two different colored eyes looking up at him with his intent clear: run. Run now. Pack move, then Pack safe.
"Soon," the Huntsman says as he observes a tree next to him. The branches seem low enough, as well as having some good grips. Over all, it looks easy to climb. He cracks his knuckles and rolls his shoulders back to prepare himself. And then he pushes off against the ground, his arms reaching out in front of him to grab onto a low hanging tree branch.
He maneuvers up the tree quickly, his movements fluid as he puts one hand in front of the other. It doesn't take long for the Huntsman to reach the top of the tree. It takes him several seconds to push away the heavy leaves and small sticks obscuring his vision, but when his view is clear, he almost slips and falls off the branch he had perched on.
The castle is on fire. The thick smoke spreads up into the sky, the blackness contrasting with the orange and pink colors of the sunset.
He stares for a second, disbelief plastering across his face, and his vision flashes a deep red color, almost like the color of blood. He feels his body fail under him, like his legs are unable to support his own weight, and he desperately clings to the branch for some sort of balance.
Emma.
It is like a mantra of her name in his head, over and over and over again as he struggles to push himself down the trunk of the tree, ignoring the sharp edges of sticks that scrape against his face and get stuck in his hair and clothes as he moves. Emma, Emma, Emma.
He hits the ground with a grunt, his legs bending down as he lands. His hands brace against the ground for a moment, and he sits there in a silly crouched position. His brother looks at him, his two different colored eyes blinking at him with a strange sense of understanding, and the Huntsman just whispers to him, "Emma."
The wolf nods, his ears twitching nervously. He seems spooked by the fire.
The Huntsman looks back at him, his eyes wide, reflecting his brothers own panicked ones.
"Emma," he repeats her name. He doesn't know why he says it again.
There is no silence in the woods anymore, the Huntsman notices. The forest he calls his home, his never ending home that spreads across so many kingdoms, is burning. The crackling of the fire is all he can hear now as it spreads across the forests, consuming everything in its path.
He had heard rumors circulating around the towns and trading districts, rumors of raids and storming the castle, but he hadn't taken them seriously, no one had ever taken them seriously. The idea of taking over the impregnable castle is ridiculous. And yet the thought digs into the Huntsman's brain relentlessly: what if they did storm the castle?
And what of the royal family, did they lock them in the dungeons? Are they captured?
Is Emma dead?
A strangled noise escapes his throat, an exclamation that cuts through the tense atmosphere like a knife. A similar noise comes from his wolf brother as well. He would have feel it if she had died.
Wouldn't he?
He isn't sure what to do for several long moments. His eyes are wide and unblinking, his shoulders tense as he stares blankly ahead of him, the now heavy smoke stinging his eyes. His wolf brother grumbles, his paws digging into the fallen leaves below him anxiously. The Huntsman jumps slightly from the unwelcome noise, and suddenly he knows what he must do.
He turns around and breaks into a sprint in the way he came, to the closest village near him.
He has to find Emma.
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Emma isn't even halfway to the first village when the castle bells begins to toll. At first, she feels nothing past the adrenaline running through her veins, her heartbeat thumping loudly in her ears, a constant steady thrum. The bells haven't rung in centuries, not since the first ogre war, not since the castle had been taken over.
The king and queen are no longer in power.
She slumps over in the saddle, her eyes prickling with tears as she clings to the horse desperately, afraid she might fall over. Sobs strain to escape from her throat, and she swallows them back, fingernails digging around the reins in her hand into the flesh of her palms.
The kingdom has fallen.
And she knows she has to continue; she hears Pinocchio's last words to her running in a loop over and over in her head. She doesn't have the time to stop and mope, to disappear in a shell and never come back out again. And she knows she can't, and perhaps that is why it hurts even more. Her hands that grip the reins so tightly begin to tremble violently.
No no no, she thinks. Her entire body begins to also tremble along with her hands, the blood roaring in her ears. No no no no no nonononono.
Pup barks up at Emma as she lopes next to the cantering horse, her gait strong and easy. Emma turns her head from where it lays, pushed into the horses hay smelling neck, to meet the wolf's gaze. Her wolf sister blinks up at her, eyes never straying as she continues to move fluidly.
Then an arrow streaks right next to her ear.
She gasps aloud, ducking her head as another flies past her, the noise hissing in her ear. She urges Beetle faster, her heels digging into the horses sides. Several moments pass where no arrows are shot at her, and she cranes her head back to look behind her, her blonde hair whipping along with her as she moves. She can't see anyone pursuing her. Perhaps she had lost them.
Regardless, she squeezes her legs together again, imploring Beetle to go into a faster canter. The horse complies as best as she is able to. She grips the reins and yanks them to the right; Beetle careens off her current path and veers off deeper into the woods.
Emma loses count of how long she is riding. The sun had gone down hours ago, leaving the forest drenched in the inky darkness of night time. Her thighs and legs ache as she slumps over on top of the horse, who is now at a slow trot. Pup pants loudly behind her, her paws dragging against the fallen leaves as she continues to follow slowly.
The draft horse is panting loudly too, so Emma pulls back the reins gently, the horse slowing to a stop. She groans as she swings her leg around and pushes herself off of the saddle. Pup flops to the ground behind her with a weary whine. Emma fists her hands through the horses hair, gently stroking the smooth side of her cheek.
Water, she decides. Her entire pack needs water. Then they move onto the next village. She studies the foam gathering up in the corners of the horses mouth, watching her nostrils flare almost frantically to take in the cool air.
"Excuse me, miss?"
Emma whirls around, her arms automatically reaching behind her back, instinctively looking for her quiver full of arrows to string one in her bow. She curses in her head when she realizes she does not have her trusty weapon. Pup staggers to her paws, a fearsome snarl on her face.
It is a girl, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, with wide hazel eyes and a frightened expression across her innocent face. Emma is struck with such an acute sense of déjà vu she almost stumbles.
"Do I know you from somewhere?" She blurts out.
The girl smiles, but her eyes flick back and forth between her and the growling wolf. "'Wolves always find you, no matter what'... don't you remember?"
Emma lowers her hands, which she had held in front of her in a subconscious form of self defense. "You are... you're... Jefferson's daughter? Grace?"
Grace nods, an empty wooden bucket swinging in her hands. She had gotten older. "Are you okay, miss?"
Emma nods vacantly, looking down at herself. She is covered in dirt, her simple dress thin and ragged, scratches ripping up and down the sides. Blood smears from her palms coat her arms, and her usually bright hair hangs in dingy ringlets down the side of her face. Pup ceases her aggressive snarls and growls, and walks over to Grace, tail wagging. Grace hesitantly reaches her hand forward and pats her.
There is an awkward pause, before Emma asks, "Where is your father?"
Grace looks back up at her, a conflicted expression crossing her face. "Mama and Papa left rather quickly when they heard the bells toll."
Emma winces, bile rising in the back of her throat.
The girl continues, "I was just getting water from the well. Would you, er... like to come in and wait for my Papa?"
The horse looks like she is about to pass out, Pup staggers on her own paws, and Emma feels like she is about to collapse as well. "Yes," she says, relief apparent in her voice. "Yes please."
Grace nods, shifting the weight from the bucket to her other hand and offering hero the one to Emma. Emma pulls on the reins, Beetle dutifully following after her. She grasps the soft hand; if Grace was distraught from the scrapes and cuts laced across her skin, she didn't show any reaction towards it. Pup follows along after the two silently.
The walk wasn't too long. It was quiet, the only sounds being the sloshing of the fresh well water in the bucket and the crunch of leaves under toe. A small and cozy cottage appears in the darkness, soft green moss hanging over the roof.
"We're here," Grace says suddenly. "I can tie up your horse by the front door, if that is okay with you."
Emma gives her an exhausted but grateful smile. "Yes, that would be lovely."
The girl places the bucket on the ground, her hand sticking out to the side, silently asking for the reins. Emma hands them over gently, ignoring the way her flesh burns and stings from the movement and stretching of her skin.
Grace gently ties the horse to the lantern light post outside of the front door. Beetle pants lightly, head easing toward the bucket. The girl smiles as she pets the horses soft neck, gently holding the bridle and leading it toward the liquid. Beetle catches on to the idea remarkably quick, and eagerly begins to lap up the water.
The girl moves away from the lamp post and opens the large wooden door, holding it open for Pup and Emma behind her. Emma smiles gratefully and catches the door, ignoring the way the helpful girl disappears into the dark. The door closes behind her with a silent click.
Suddenly, the cabin is illuminated from the fire place, a pleasant orange and yellow light flickering around the rooms. It smells homey, Emma decides. Straw and hay cover the ground, insulating it from the cold weather outside, while heavy hand sewn curtains cover up the glass windows. Well worn furniture covered in soft-looking fabrics is spread across the cabin. Over all, it gives off a comforting vibe.
It also smells like fresh bread. Emma's mouth waters, and her stomach grumbles even louder.
"Here," Grace says, appearing from one of the shadowy corners, a towel and large flannel nightgown in her hands. She offers them to her, arms outstretched. "These are my mother's, but they look like they'll fit you."
Emma looks at them, a line appearing in between her eyebrows. "Are you sure?"
Grace smiles, her hazel eyes kind. "Of course! I'll go get some leftovers for you. And Pup, too." She turns away, presumably to go root around in the kitchen. Emma takes the time to peel off her blood crusted gown. She winces as the cuts on her arms sting even more, her scrapes snagging against the fabric. Absently, she hopes it doesn't stain.
Emma slides over to the couch, careful to not disrupt the placement of any objects. She can hear Grace rummaging around the food storage under the floorboards. She feels like she is intruding in someone else's life. Suck it up, she thinks to herself. Accept the hospitality. Then you leave. You have to find this Graham person. The fire feels warm as it caresses her face.
"Puppy!"
The loud, childish voice makes Emma jump in her seat. Out of the shadows appears an unsteady toddler, with a mop of brown hair that sticks straight up in every direction and laughing blue eyes.
Pup sits up from her position on the floor, her panting mouth opening in a canine grin, her tongue lolling out. The boy cackles happily as he practically falls on top of the wolf, his tiny hands fisting into the fur.
Emma smiles as the boy buries his head into Pup's neck.
Grace appears with two wooden bowls in her hands, a broad smile stretched upon her face. "Salted pork and some extra bread loaves! They're a little burned on the edges...sorry, Papa and I make them ourselves."
Emma's stomach growls even louder as she accepts the food. "This is perfect, thank you so much."
Pup whimpers, her paws shuffling on the ground as she gazes up at the second bowl, ignoring the giggling toddler attached to her.
"Charlesssssss," Grace draws out the name, placing the second bowl of food on the ground for her wolf sister. The boy looks up at her, mouth wide open in an innocent smile. "Sorry, that's my younger brother. He really loves all animals."
The boy in question pushes himself away from her wolf sister and leans back against the couch, content to fiddle with Emma's improvised sleeping shift.
"Why wearing Mama's dress?" Charles asks, his words garbled as he looks up at his sister for an answer.
Emma answers for her with an amused smile, "I'm just borrowing it for now."
Charles nods, his forehead crinkling as he processes these words, and Emma thinks he is the spitting image of his father, Jefferson. The toddler must have accepted it, she thinks, as he wraps one of his chubby arms around her leg, burying his head in the soft fabric.
"Well," Grace says, indicating to the larger bowl on the floor. "we had some raw deer flank left over, I hope that is okay for your wolf."
Emma forcefully swallows down the mouthful of salty bread. "You are too kind," she says, already chewing on the next piece of her salted pork eagerly.
Grace sits down across from her, silently watching her with her hands folded in her lap. Emma tries not to feel too self conscious as she loudly swallows her food, the greasy remnants of her meal sticky around her lips.
The warmth of the small cabin makes her feel drowsy. Her limbs are heavy, she notices as she struggles to wipe her mouth with the cloth napkin. Pup already finished her meal, and is laying down across the floor, her limbs sprawled out as she took in deep and even breaths. Emma feels envious of her for a moment; she wishes she was also asleep now, too.
It is silent in the cabin, the only sound being the scraping of her fork on the bottom of the wooden bowl. It isn't an awkward silence – in fact, it is almost soothing. After the hours of the constant clopping of the horses hooves, after the unimaginable time she spent sobbing as she was carried away from her burning world, she welcomes the quiet.
"We haven't officially introduced ourselves yet, I suppose," Grace suddenly says, a shy smile on her face. "I'm Grace."
Emma looks up from her practically empty bowl. "Well met," she says, and swallows again, offering her right hand forward for a handshake. "Emma," she offers.
Grace reaches for her hand almost eagerly, but she freezes right before she has the chance to grip it firmly. She sees a light in her eyes that suddenly seems to burns bright, a sense of understanding that almost washes over her as the blood rushes away from her face. At first, Emma is confused at the reaction, but as Grace's deep hazel eyes lock with her own, she comprehends. Ah, she thinks, so now she gets the picture.
"I... the –" Grace sputters, her eyes wide. "The Wolf Princess?"
Emma grimaces. "Is that what they truly call me?"
"I mean, I don't – but I know some who do... and I just... the princess of the kingdom is in my home, and she was just drooled on by my little brother and is wearing some of my mother's old clothes..." She trails off once she notices that Emma is watching her, an amused smile spread over her features. The girl backtracks slightly, and stammers out, "Forgive me, er, Your Highness, I –"
"Please," Emma says quickly, cutting off Grace's tirade. "I believe Emma will be fine. You've already offered me the comfort of your home. Such a level of kindness is unprecedented from a stranger. You are Grace, and I am Emma, and that is all that is important right now."
Emma fears she may have been to harsh, but luckily Grace nods, giving her a smile. "Right."
Suddenly, the urge to yawn creeps up on Emma, and her mouth opens wide, her tongue curling almost like an animal in the sudden intake of breath, her next words disappearing, interrupted by the yawn. "Would you mind if I just..." she trails off, another yawn threatening to break through again. Emma places her hands over her open mouth to block it. Luckily, her yawn speaks more than her actual words can.
Grace catches the hint and begins to sit up, smoothing down the skirt of her dress with her hands. "Yes, yes, of course!" She reaches for Charles, who flops gently in her arms, eyes closed and his mouth agape; the toddler is already asleep.
Emma smiles up at the siblings, her eyes sliding closed as she rests her head against a flat pillow, her body curling in on itself, relishing the warmth from the fire as it seems to seep through into her bones. The pillow, while smelling foreign, smells like smoke and laughter and home – an indistinguishable smell that reminds her of her parents. She swallows back another soft sob, and her mind drifts to the thought of her family, to the blood covered Delly, to the sad blue eyes of the Huntsman, to the burning castle, the ashes of her home.
She sees a face, a cruel face of a woman with eyes black as coal, her equally dark hair curled up into an elaborate up-do. The harsh line of a scar on her upper lip becomes even more prominent when the woman smirks down at her, her red lips pulling back to expose her bright white teeth. The smile becomes feral as her hand seems to just reach into her chest, between her ribs and gripping Emma's heart.
"Oh, you foolish girl," the woman drawls, her voice almost like glass and velvet, her eyes narrowing cruelly. "Give me your heart." Her voice echoes strangely. She lifts Emma into the air by the grip on her heart, her legs flailing for purchase. The dark woman squeezes tighter, her head tilting to the left. A drop of blood falls from Emma's mouth and drips onto the woman's pale face.
And all Emma can do is scream.
/|\
Hello all! Happy Holidays! Sorry if this chapter is a little late. Also, for some reason, ff won't let me respond to any of your LOVELY reviews... and speaking of reviews I HAVE OVER 200 OF THEM FOR THIS STORY OF AND MINE I'M SCREAMING I LOVE ALL OF YOU SO MUCH!
This is where the story gets interesting. You'll see some familiar faces (and a couple of new ones) very soon. A little fact about Charles' namesake, I named him this because the author of Alice in Wonderland's real name was Charles, and NOT Lewis Carrol, and I thought that Jefferson would find that particular inside joke funny... and it is perfectly reasonable of him to have more children once he has his family back, is it not?
Here's a peek at the next chapter. It's the Huntsman's POV again, seeing as all of you really enjoyed his interlude:
" It takes him a moment to realize that the bright red fabric disguises the blood. He quakes at his new found and gruesome discovery.
The speech that holds the mob captive fades into the background for the hunter, a drone in the background that he pays no attention to as he stands next to the three bodies. He sways on his feet for several moments, as if the breeze carries him, and his knees give out from underneath him. He crumbles to the ground, the wind being knocked out of him as he chokes out indistinguishable sounds he cannot fathom into actual words.
The Huntsman reaches forward to the closest bundle, his hand violently trembling as his fingers grip the edges of the red fabric. Slowly, he peels back the fabric to reveal a bloody but feminine hand. Young and delicate, an unwanted voice says in the back of his mind. Emma's. Dried blood congeals underneath the long fingernails, the red flaking off of her bare arm as the Huntsman ever so gently trails his own fingers up it. Everything about this feels wrong. "
Have a Happy New Year!
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