Chapter 8 Not My Concern
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I pick up the piece of sharpened stone and wrap the bottom part in a rag to protect my hand. There on the ground…there before me…this isn't Sara anymore. Her soul has gone to Him above. This is…no, this is not Sara anymore…but it once was apart of her. I…Sara wants me to stay alive. She gave me a reason to live, and for her sake, to not squander the most precious gift she has given me, I must do this.
"Wake up!" A bear-sized hand grabs my shoulder and shakes me violently. My eyes fly open, my stomach churning. There looming over me is the broad shoulders and massive shadow of the hunter, his arm outstretched towards my shoulder. My throat tightens up with the sudden urge to wretch. With his powerful grip still latched to my shoulder, I turn my head to the side and heave violently, my body contorting in unnatural and painful ways in an attempt to expel the nightmarish contents from my stomach. The hunter turns me over quickly onto my hands and knees, holding back my hair in one hand and squeezing my shoulder in his other hand.
"Get'it out," he says while I heave and heave and heave, but nothing comes out. I wish I could tell him that nothing will come out as nothing ever does when I get caught in one of these torturous heaving spells, but I can barely catch my breath between each contortion. All I can do is heave until my body gives up with exhaustion. So I heave and wretch and heave, bringing up nothing. I go through each heave, praying to the Lord above that he will let me find relief. Heave…heave…heave…a small heave…nausea slipping away….hollow hunger creeping back….there.
"Breathe, lass," he reminds me of my natural function. "Breathe."
"Hunter. Trees. Dark forest," I say after successfully regaining the smallest bit of my breath.
The hunter slowly releases my shoulder and hair. "Calms ye?"
My brows furrow and I look back at him. "What?"
"Ye didnae sleep well. Are ye plagued by nightmares of yer past?"
I frown at him and curl up into a tight ball, wanting to push him away. How does he know this? "My dreams do not concern you."
He nods. "Yer right. They dinnae." He rises to his full stature, looming over me like a bear on his hind legs. "Get up. I have some meat to share."
Revulsion instantly hits me. "Meat? God, no bread, no cheese?"
The hunter cocks his head, his confusion and suspicion as palpable as the frigid air between us. God, for him to learn that I—no, I won't think of it and he'll never know.
"What kind of meat?" I ask quickly.
"Deer."
"Oh!" I heave the biggest sigh of relief I have ever heaved. "Please feed me!"
He laughs once. "Get up first, then I'll feed ye." He turns and walks out of my line of sight, his footsteps silent. I sit back on my heels, wincing from the brief stabbing pain in my back, but it fades as quickly as it came. Should I take the lessened pain as a good sign? I give up on the thought and push myself to my unsteady feet, taking in this dark forest about me. It is as dark as it was yesterday, the only light being its ethereal grey glow against the black silhouettes of trees. Am I really here? Am I really free of my cell? Is any of this truly happening?
"Here," the hunter says, pulling my eyes to him. I look down at the shadow of his extended hand, something in it.
"Is that the deer meat you mentioned?" I ask, pointing to his hand.
"Aye. Take it."
"Thank you!" I snatch the food from his hand and shove every bit of it into my mouth, chew twice, and swallow it all in one gulp. The hunter reaches into his satchel and pulls out more food! I take the food from his hand more gently this time. "Thank you, hunter," I say, sincere in my heart for his help. "You didn't have to share your food with me, nor your coat."
He chuckles. "Thank ye for no' lettin' me freeze and starve to death," he says under his breath, a strange, bemused and amused edge to it. A small sting enters my heart. Is he mocking me? Or is that sarcasm? His chuckling ebbs and he nods once. "Yer welcome," he tells me, that strange tone of his gone. He eats a few pieces of dried deer meat himself. I frown at him and eat my dried deer meat, barely able to enjoy its salty taste. Why the sarcasm? Or was that mockery? Did I imagine him berating me last night for not thanking him!? God, I'm not sure if any of his help is motivated by self interest! Perhaps it could be. Perhaps he still has some sinister plan that I am not aware of. He reaches into his satchel and passes a few more pieces of dried deer meat to me. We eat in silence for a moment before he tosses the flap over his satchel.
He turns and walks past the dead oulinder, motioning for me to follow. "Try to keep quiet," he says.
I nod and follow him in silence, forcing myself to not look at the oulinder as I pass by it. My heart aches for the poor creature. Even though he tried to kill me, he was only trying to survive. Like me. I remember all those white marks I filled up half of my cell walls with. Those were two years worth of white marks. Ever since Sara came into my life, I wanted to count every day and never again miss the passage of time…but that winter—no, I won't remember it. No, it's the here and now that matters, and even if me standing out here breathing fresh air is just some grand illusion my mind conjured up to comfort me in my death, I should still keep track of this time and not let it sneak past me. So, today is day two of my life outside of my cell.
Day two. I let those two beautiful words sink into my mind. Never will I forget them nor bury them.
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This dark forest is silent except for the sound of my breathing and the twigs and rotting branches snapping beneath my feet. It feels like an eternity has passed since the hunter woke me. We trudge onward in silence, the shadow of his head turning left and right to scan the trees repeatedly. I, too, look intently at my surroundings, watching every shadow to see if it moves. I remember how that oulinder appeared only a moment after the hunter left. I never saw his shadow moving until he burst out of the trees into the clearing. Rather, I heard him before I saw him.
A loud sigh draws my eyes to the hunter. He reaches into his satchel and pulls out his skin, his ale sloshing about inside. He doesn't slow a step as he pulls the cork out of his skin and throws his head back, chugging down the drink. My nerves start to fray, but I keep silent. He only has so much ale in that skin of his, so perhaps he will be wise enough to spread out his drink over the next four or five days, thus he won't become drunk. If he gets drunk while leading me to Hammond's, that will hinder our progress. We may not even reach Hammond's fortress.
The hunter lowers his head, corks his skin, and stores it safely in his satchel, patting the flap of his satchel to ensure it covers the opening. A small ache enters my heart for him. Widower, Finn called him. Is that why he drinks? I've seen many good men turn to bad men because they drank too much ale. I remember the day I stumbled across a drunkard common man beating his wife. Wessel was with me at the time and was able to intervene and save the woman's life. A sharp pang pierces my heart—the sting of betrayal.
I remember that day when I told Wessel, "When I am Queen, you'll be my closet advisor. Perhaps I'll make you General of my army."
Wessel glanced at his beloved white weasel sleeping on his shoulder and said to me, "I would be honored, Princess." He took my small hand in his and told me, "I will never abandon you. I promise."
He promised me such a simple thing. Yet come to find out that after the Phantom War ended, papa set forth a lofty bounty for Wessel's capture because he deserted my Father's army. The sting intensifies in my heart. Really, Wessel deserted me! That must be why I often dream about the white weasel turning into the white rat and abandoning me in my cell. I sigh. Is Wessel alive now? Is he living a life of debauchery and lawlessness? Or has life been kinder to him and given him everything I would have had by now—a devoted spouse, beautiful children, a grand role to play in the lives of others?
If Ravenna had not imprisoned me that fateful night, I would have been married to William by now and we would have had God above knows how many children. I have twenty-two or twenty-three years now, so William and I could have had six, perhaps seven children by now. God, so much potential and so much life was lost that fateful night Ravenna imprisoned me. There…there is apart of me that still finds it difficult to believe that the woman who opened my eyes to the true beauties of this world, who was as a mother to me, who comforted me in my time of need, would betray me as she had. There is a larger part of me that still cannot accept that she let Finn touch me. In my mind, I understand how Maacthis' evil has consumed her and twisted her into someone unrecognizable, but in my heart…my eyes sting and my sight blurs with tears. In my heart, I still love her. She was there for me when no one else would be. She picked up the pieces of my broken heart and fused them back together to be stronger than ever. I live with the same evil that dwells inside Ravenna. It had slowly turned my heart over the years, but Sara stopped that and reversed the tide. Perhaps Maacthis' evil has not consumed Ravenna entirely. It has a strong hold of her, that much I know, but perhaps there is a shred of goodness still left in her just as there is a shred of compassion in the hunter.
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My mouth is dry. It hadn't crossed my mind before, but I have no water. I look up at the hunter and draw closer to him, opening my mouth—he pulls his skin out of his satchel again, stopping the words in my throat. Is this the third or the fourth time he has pulled out his skin? I doubt he is drinking water, but it cannot hurt to ask him…I pray.
"Hunter?" I ask just as he tilts his chin back to chug down his ale.
He stops in the middle of his swig and lowers his skin. "What?" he asks, a whiff of his foul-smelling breath reaching my nose. I almost choke and gag, but I cough a few times and compose myself. That's the stench of ale. I pull his coat over my nose and mouth to tolerate the stench, earning his quiet, mocking chuckle. That frays my nerves more, but I manage to keep ahold of my patience.
"Do you have any water? I'm thirsty."
"Nae, but I have this." He pushes his skin right under my nose.
"God no!" I turn my head away! God, the stench!
"Thirst to death then. I dinnae care." Chug, chug, chug! I look up at the hunter, watching him chug down his ale.
Panic fills me. "Wait!" I grab hold of his icy leather bracer and pull his skin down to me.
"Change yer mind?" he whispers, chuckling.
I grab hold of his hand and take a swig from his skin, though it feels that he is the one pouring the ale into my mouth. A strongly bitter, sour taste appears on my tongue. I push his hand away from me and almost spit out the ale, but I gulp down every last drop and groan in disgust.
He laughs. "Aye, yer first drink is ne'er pleasant, but ye get used to it fast. Ye will grow to love it, then hate it." He corks his skin and stores it safely in his satchel. "Try to stay alive, lass. I might just like havin' ye around." He chuckles with pure amusement, louder than his sober self prefers to be in this dark forest. He turns and trudges on, snapping some twigs and branches under his heavy feet. The bitter tang of his ale lingers on my tongue while I follow after him. He is drinking too much, becoming more raucous and reckless than the silent, cautious hunter that roused me this morning. Even though he said I will love it first and then hate it, perhaps for him he did, but not for me. I already hate it.
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It will be at least five days before Finn can return to his old hag sister if he's fortunate, said the hunter. At least five days, and I already know Finn will be fortunate enough. If Ravenna can restore Finn's sight to him, no doubt she can keep him alive in this forest. So, we have at least five days, which are now four days. We are making good ground, but that could be thwarted by the hunter binging on his ale! I wish the tension in my muscles would unravel and let relief in, but—The hunter stops suddenly. I stop and watch him, silently daring him to reach into his satchel and pull out his skin. He reaches into his satchel and pulls out his damn skin, his ale sloshing more than before. He pulls the cork out with a deep pop, tucks the cork between his fingers, and throws his head back, chug, chug, chugging. I grimace with disgust.
The last of my nerves fray and snap in my chest. "Damn it, hunter, we don't have time for you to binge on your cursed ale! We must keep moving!"
His shoulders stiffen as he downs his last chug. He lowers his chin to his chest while keeping his mouth sealed around the rim of his skin, saving his remaining ale as if it is liquid gold. He pulls the skin out of his mouth, corks it, and looks back at me, the darkness hiding his face, but I sense his anger. I recoil and almost stumble back, but I will myself to keep my feet rooted to the earth. For all I know, one wrong move and he might charge at me and snap my neck or lop off my head with his hatchet.
"I can drink whenever I damn well please," he sneers. He stuffs his skin back into his satchel. "Dinnae ever tell me what to do," he says lowly. He whips his head around and trudges onward, cracking branches beneath his heavy footsteps.
The hair at the back of my neck bristles with anger. "So, you take the coward's path by numbing and drowning your sorrows in ale?"
He halts, his head hanging low with his stiff, hunched shoulders. A low growl rumbles out of him, palpable, searing heat coming from him and reaching me. Rage. Hot, intense rage. Somehow, he manages to keep his back to me despite his boiling rage.
"My drinkin' is nae concern of yers," he says lowly. He throws his foot down on the floor of twigs – crack – and takes another harsh step – crack.
I cross my arms. "Your sorrows can be your own so long as they don't hinder our progress to Hammond's fortress."
The hunter stops dead in his tracks, his rage nearly setting the air about him ablaze. He turns suddenly and comes toward me fast, breaking such thick branches that it sounds as if he is walking on bones. A whimper escapes me as I stumble back into a tree, fear filling me. I pull my arms apart and grip the bark behind me as if I can somehow fold myself into the tree. The shadow of his head comes directly over mine, his hot, foul breath burning my nose and lungs.
"Dinnae speak of a man's sorrows," he says, his spit splattering onto my cheeks.
I shrink beneath him, my snarled hair catching on the bark and pulling painfully at my scalp. What a fool I was. I should have left him alone. He's going to snap my neck or lop of my head.
"Tsk," he scoffs with disgust. "Ye call others what ye are yerself. Ye dinnae know me and I dinnae know ye, so let's do each other a favor and stop talkin'."
Widower, Finn called him. The hunter was going to exchange my life for his wife's resurrection. Is that the sorrow he told me to not speak of? Then again, he said sorrows, not sorrow. My heart stings. There's far more to him than I first suspected, but what? I sigh and give up on the question that will never have an answer. My only reason for being so cruel with him is because I was angry with him and I wanted to convince him to move quicker. I was not trying to pour salt into his wound.
"I'm"—I swallow hard—"I'm sorry, I never meant—"
"What does a young lass like ye know about sorrow?" he asks, his voice rumbling in his chest. I open my mouth to respond, but fear lodges the words in my throat.
"Ye see? Ye know nothin'," he scoffs at me. "Ye think ye're all high and mighty. Dinnae flatter yerself." He turns sharply and lumbers out of my sight. "Keep close. We're about to enter the densest part of the forest."
I nod weakly and push myself off the tree. I follow him, but I do not heed his word of keeping close. I cannot be near him. Even though he didn't kill me when I was so certain he would, the fury seething from his colossal body could drive him to do it. I do not put it past him. I also cannot be near him because I spoke of matters I had no right to speak of. I spoke of his sorrow over his dead wife in such a condescending way. I called him a coward a few times now, but he's right. I don't know him and he doesn't know me. How can I rightly call him a coward when I don't know him? From here on out, I will try not to call him a coward again.
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We trudge onward in silence for sometime, the hunter not even stopping the two times he uncorks his skin and downs more ale. He continues trudging through this dark forest, his steps now unsteady. He teeters back and forth and trips over some upraised roots, but he manages to catch himself before he falls each time.
I scramble over the thousandth fallen tree after the hunter, the bark scratching across my belly and my breasts from his coat accidentally opening up. Ignoring the pain, I land on my feet and follow his swaying shadow. He draws his hatchet out of his shadow and hacks at another growth of tangled brambles. I stop a small distance behind him and wait as patiently as possible for him to push forward. Our talk, or argument, whatever it was, didn't hasten this hellish trek, and he's moving slower now that he's inebriated.
The hunter finishes clearing a path for us, stows his hatchet somewhere within his shadow, and reaches into his satchel. He pulls out his damn skin and pulls at the cork. Pop. More slowly than before, he cradles the skin to his chest and seals his lips about the rim. The heat of anger fills my chest and constricts it as I watch him throw his head back and chug down his ale. How I want to yell at him, but I bite my tongue.
He pulls the skin out of his mouth and lowers his chin. A growl rumbles in his chest while he turns his skin upside down and shakes it. My eyes start widening, my mind briefly thinking that he is dumping out the rest of his ale, but nothing comes out of his empty skin.
"Dammit," he slurs. I sigh, both worried and relieved. He cannot get drunk anymore, but it comes with the caveat of me thirsting to death!
"Do you have more ale?" I whisper, carefully approaching the irritated bear. As much as it begrudges me, I pray he has more ale.
"Aye," he grumbles, keeping his back to me. "Nae drunkard likes his skin runnin' dry."
I sigh again, still both worried and relieved. "As much as I hate saying this, please reserve your next skin of ale. We still have four, perhaps five days until we—"
"I know! I've got a better head than ye think!" he says. My nerves buzz and my stomach churns. I take a step back from him for safety.
"Dinnae worry yer pretty wee head." He shoves his empty skin back into his satchel, glancing back at me. "I'm always prepared."
I can only frown at him while he looks ahead and stumbles forward, hardly the lithe nightcat slinking through the trees anymore. He moves more like a humorous bear that one had too many drinks, though there is nothing humorous about my only chance of reaching Hammond's fortress staggering about in this darkness. For all I know, he somehow got us turned around and is taking us straight back to Finn!
"Hunter?" I question cautiously, slowing my steps to let a little more distance grow between us.
"What?" he grumbles, keeping his back to me while he continues staggering amongst the trees.
I swallow hard. "Perhaps…perhaps we should stop and rest for now. It will give you sometime to clear your mind—"
"I'm no' that drunk!" He stops and turns sharply to face me. "The sooner I get ye to Hammond's, the sooner I get my gold to buy more ale! Now com'on!" He wheels around and trudges onward, snapping twigs and cracking branches underfoot.
I reluctantly follow him, trying to ignore that uneasy pit in my stomach and the warning voice in the back of my mind. I'm not even sure what it's warning me about. "Are you sure we're heading the right way?"
"Aye!"
I bite the inside of my lip, my uneasiness growing. "I'm sorry, hunter, I meant no offense. I just—" He stops suddenly, forcing me to halt. Fear shoots down my spine. Oh God, this is what my body was warning me about! I take a step back—The hunter's hands shoot to his waist and move furiously. The sight of those men pleasuring themselves at my bars flashes across my eyes—their hideous faces twisted, their eyes rolling into the backs of their skulls.
The hunter lets out a long, loud sigh of relief when a harsh trickling strikes the earth, the drip, drip, drip audible as his urine drips through the twigs and brambles.
"Oh!" I cry out and turn my back on him, my insides squirming, my skin crawling. How disgusting! Has he no sense of decency whatsoever!?
His throaty, mocking chuckling sounds behind me, barely helping to drown out the harsh trickling. "I'm jus' takin' a piss, ye prudish lass."
"Better to be prudish than indecent, hunter!"
His chuckling grows into harsh, sardonic laughter. "So high and mighty!"
The harsh trickling finally ends and twigs crack beneath his feet as he moves. I force myself to keep my back to him. Despite the darkness, I don't want to turn to face him. I don't even want to envision what it looks like for him to—I squirm in disgust and heated embarrassment—no, I won't think of it!
His laughter dies. "Ye can turn around, I'm decent!" he says, a wide, mocking grin shaping his words. I draw in a deep breath and turn to face him. True to his word, the shadow of him stands there with his hands hanging at his sides.
"Let's go," he says. He turns around and trudges onward. I follow him deeper into this cold, dark forest.
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"We'll rest here. Help me start a fire," he says.
Like the previous night, I gather up the twigs and sticks while he hacks at the thick branches for logs. I rock back and forth on my feet, my stomach fluttering while he arranges the kindling and strikes his flint against the blade of one of his knives. STRIKE! STRIKE! STRIKE! One of the orange embers clings to the darkness. It bounces higher into the air and the hunter blows softly on it, quickly growing the ember to a small flame. The flame casts a brief light onto his face. Another strike of lightning rips through me.
I slowly sink to my knees while he lowers the flame to the kindling and pokes at the fire with a stick until it blazes between us. The longer I watch his focus upon the fire, the more I realize I haven't breathed, the more I realize how…mesmerized I am by him. His drunkenness is gone and his sober self has returned, but that is not what is so captivating about him. His face, his body—they all say the same thing—strong, rough...raw, yet there is some compassion, a shell of a man who once loved. He is imperfect, perhaps horribly so, but he has not harmed me yet. He gave me his coat. He helped my wound. He fed me—two of those three which he mocked this morn, but perhaps that is part of his flaws, or perhaps how stupid he sees me...or perhaps it is a reflection of how poorly he views himself. He shared a drink of his beloved ale with me. He saved me from that oulinder, though I still disagree with his method. I will probably always disagree with it, not in my mind but in my heart. I will always remember his retreating form as he disappeared into the trees and left me there alone…but the fact still remains that he returned and saved me.
My eyes drift of their own will to his bear-sized hands. His leather bracers shield the backs of his hands and knuckles, only leaving his fingers exposed. Even his hands, the largest hands I have ever seen, though fit for his colossal size, look rough yet gentle. I sigh, finally letting out my breath and easing the fire in my lungs. I can only imagine what a relief it must be to trust someone implicitly, but anyone who does so is a bigger fool than me. Even the kindest people will betray you in some way, no matter how small. The relief one feels for trusting someone implicitly is not worth the sting of betrayal that will always come. No matter how tempting it is to place my trust in the man across the flames, I cannot risk it.
"What?" the hunter asks, drawing my eyes up to his. Another bolt of lightning strikes me down to the earth.
I shake my head, confused. "What?"
He lifts his brows at me and smirks. "Yer starin' at me."
My face flushes with dizzying heat. "Nono, I'm not looking at you, but at your hands," I say. Half truth. Blatant lie.
His smirk grows as he lifts his hands, showing them to me. "They're empty and eager, lass."
My body heats up. I cannot help but shift, the mere thought of him touching me—He chuckles at me, calming my nerves a little. As his chuckling dies, he looks down at his satchel and rummages through it, pulling out another skin.
He looks at me from across the flames, a gleam in his eyes. "Catch!" he says and tosses his skin to me. I catch it easily, his ale sloshing about inside. He grins. "Good catch!"
I shrug casually and pull the cork out of the skin. "Thank you." I almost drink from his skin, but I stop and click my fingernails along the roughened hide. I'm not looking forward to drinking more of his bitter ale, so perhaps I can delay it for a moment more. "You seem more amiable," I tell him, clicking my fingernails along his skin.
He bobs his head. "Aye, I feel it." He rests his arms on his knees and gestures to me. "Ye know, in all this mess, I ne'er caught yer name."
My heart skips a beat, my stomach knotting up. "Greta," I answer quickly…perhaps a little too quickly. I watch him closely, silently praying for his ignorance.
"Greta," he repeats and nods. He gestures loosely to himself. "Eric."
My nerves calm a little and my stomach unravels. I force a smile and spit out the first thing that comes to mind. "It's a beautiful name. Strong name."
He smirks and chuckles softly. "Thank ye." He glances down at my hands and looks up at me, his smile growing. "Relax."
I look down at my hands, my fingernails clicking, clicking, clicking along the animal hide of his skin. "Sorry." I take a quick swig of his ale, grimacing from its bitter and sour taste on my tongue. He chuckles at me again while I force down the liquor.
"Better?" he asks with a grin.
I try to wipe the grimace from my face. "God no! It's worse than my first taste."
He chuckles. "It'll taste better. Give it time."
I slow the clicking of my fingernails, my suspicion of him rising. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"
His smile drops. "Ye can drink it or ye can let yerself thirst. I dinnae care."
A sharp pang enters my heart while he rummages through his rucksack and pulls out another skin. The fact that he doesn't care about me should not cut me so deeply, but it does. Why? Why do I even care that his lack of care hurts me?
I force myself to take another sip from his ale while I watch him get up, walk to the edge of the clearing, and stop, popping his cork out of his skin. He tilts his skin and pours out a glistening crimson liquid.
My eyes widen. "Is that blood!?"
"Oulinder blood," he says, treading slowly around the border of the clearing while he pours out a thin, steady stream of blood. "Remember, oulinders hate the smell of their own blood. They're far less likely to attack us like that one did last night."
My stomach churns as I follow him with my gaze, losing sight of him when he walks behind me. I take another nervous swig of his ale and force myself to stare at the fire, barely feeling its heat on my hands and cheeks. "You know this forest well," I say.
"Too well." He comes to the fire and sits down beside me. He rubs his hands together and holds them near the tall flames. I…I don't mind this closeness right now. Were it a warm night, I'd scramble to the other side of the fire, but I feel the heat from his body more than from the flames. I'm certain he also prefers to be as far from me as possible, but he must be seeking warmth as well, and the only two sources are me and the flames. Were it a touch colder, I might be tempted to push up against him, but thankfully his coat makes the cold bearable enough to keep the meager space we have between us.
He pulls his hands apart and reaches into his satchel again. He pulls something wrapped in grey linen and opens it up, revealing strips of dried meat! My hollow stomach suddenly grumbles.
"Here," the hunter says, offering me some of the meat. "Take some."
I glance up at him, the fire catching in the corners of his eyes. A strange tenderness fills my heart, but my gut stirs with unease. His...generosity—if it can be called that...it tugs at me, tempting me to trust him just a little bit. No, that would be foolish, but it also would be foolish to not take the food he is offering me now.
"Thank you," I say and take two strips of the meat, willing myself to ignore that tugging sensation in my heart.
"Yer welcome," he says. He turns his eyes to the fire and eats a strip of dried meat for himself.
I turn back to the fire and take another sip of his ale, this sip not as bitter nor sour. God, he might be right. I swallow his ale and put an end of the salty, tough meat between my teeth. I tear a bite from the meat and chew until the salty sting on my tongue becomes too much, and I swallow it. This silence between us is awful, nerve-wracking. Perhaps it should not be, but it is for me.
"What brought you into this dark forest before?" I ask, keeping my eyes on the dancing flames.
Tiktiktiktiktik, that low clicking growl sounds behind me. I stiffen.
"Shh." He holds his hand up in front of my face. "Dinnae move."
I nod once. I did not listen to him before and the oulinder attacked, so I better listen this time. My heart picks up and my stomach flutters. I focus on my breathing, trying to keep it slow and steady.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Tiktiktiktiktik. I see movement on both sides of me, the flash of glowing scarlet eyes to my left and the glinting of the hunter's hatchet to my right. I daringly shift my eyes to the hunter, watching him brandish his hatchet in one hand and his knife in the other while he slowly rises to his full stature.
SCREECH! The oulinder wheels around and smashes through the forest with his retreat. The smashing of branches fades to silence, leaving the hunter and me alone within the oulinder blood border. I look up at the hunter and open my mouth—he treads to the edge of the blood border and paces it for a few moments with his hatchet and knife at the ready. He stops on the other side of the fire and crouches low to the forest floor, his back to me.
As the night progresses, true to everything he said, no oulinder crosses the blood border and stays out of the firelight's reach despite their occasional clicking and the flash of their burning scarlet eyes in the dark. I cork his skin and toy absentmindedly with Sara's ring, watching the hunter closely. Perhaps he won't lop off my head or snap my neck. He has gone to great measures to keep me alive. If he does have some sinister plan to turn a profit at my expense, I'm still uncertain…but true to his word, he has not hurt me. God, reaching Hammond's fortress alive is just one step in the journey, and a rather perilous one. If I make it to Hammond's, I need to find some way to fulfill my promise to Greta and the favor Sara asked of me. Fulfilling my promise to Greta is more straightforward, but Sara? I don't know where to start looking for her husband. He could be anywhere. He could be dead.
I sigh and put all this from my mind. I need to sleep, but I don't want to lie down with all these oulinders stalking about. I shut my eyes and hug myself loosely, trying to let sleep find me while sitting up.