Sunday, October 27

The sun rose on a somber morning in the hamlet of New Gorlan. By all looks, New Gorlan was a cozy, special town. It was a sprawling collection of quaint homes and shops, built in the crook between a mighty forest and the ocean. The crystal blue waters lapped against a seashell shore. Fisherfolk were already pushed off from the dock and filling their boats with the morning's catch. A towering, spired castle perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean. The fiery sunrise sparkled on stained glass windows depicting a valiant warrior, dressed all in black, slaying beasts and villains. Black pennants, each with a single gold lightning bolt, flapped in the west wind. Each morning, citizens of the town looked to the castle and said a prayer of thanks for Morgarath, the Fairest and Most Just King of the Land.

But this morning, New Gorlan was bolting awake with the pain of death. The church bells were ringing, but few were in the pews.

"I demand justice!" Lord Deparnieux Tremaine shouted to no one in particular. A crowd was forming outside the high gates of his manor home, and they all looked to him with pity in their eyes. Lord Tremaine wanted to erase that damnable emotion and replace it with righteous anger. "I demand nothing less than the death of the beast that did this!" His voice broke on the last word. His anger couldn't push back all of his anguish. "My son." He dropped to one knee, where his two living sons held their dead brother.

The crowd quieted as they gave Lord Tremaine the privacy of a last goodbye.

Jerome Tremaine hadn't breathed in minutes, not since his brothers had carried him back to the manor house. The blood that had bubbled at his torn neck now slowly seeped out. His shoulder, shredded to tattered flesh and muscle, looked like that of a flayed animal. It was gruesome and wholly unearned. His brothers, Alda and Bryn, held him upright in a failed illusion that Jerome was only sleeping; his blood stained their clothes and skin. Lord Tremaine touched Jerome's cooling cheek and closed his son's frightened eyes.

"A monster did this," Lord Tremaine whispered. The crowd bristled with the words, as those in front carried them to those in back. Slowly, he stood and stared at his son's blood now on his fingertips. "A monster. It's a danger to everyone in New Gorlan. Not one of us is safe."

Inside the manor house, Lord Tremaine's stepson watched everything through a pane of glass. Jerome's death was a tragedy. Lord Tremaine's stepson didn't feel as bad about it as he knew he ought. His step-brother was dead, but all he saw was one fewer tormentor. Jerome had been the first to call him "Cinders." Cinders didn't remember his real name, given to him by his late mother.

Cinders returned to sweeping the foyer before anyone noticed him. Lord Tremaine kept a tidy, fashionable home, and that meant Cinders was not to be seen or heard. Cinders might have been handsome, with his tall, athletic frame and bright blue eyes. But his brown hair hadn't been cut in years and was worked into unbreakable knots. His light skin and ragged clothes were smeared with soot and cinders, dust and grime. Those people that did catch a glimpse of him assumed he was indentured help.

Pity to the creature who'd killed Jerome. Whatever retribution Lord Tremaine had planned, Cinders knew how brutal it could be.

"You cannot go out there, Red!" Baker Chub slammed a hunk of dough onto his counter. "Haven't you heard what happened to the Tremaine boy?" He paused in kneading the dough to point one meaty hand at Jenny. Chub didn't have his ladle close at hand, but his fist could rap over a head just as easily. "Use your brain for once, instead of thinking only about food."

Jenny hopped away from the bakery counter. Her blond hair bounced with her, and her signature red cloak swung around her ankles. "It's not about the food. Well, a little of it is. I promised my Granny I'd visit her today and bring your famous pastries. How about this: If I die to a horrible beast," she said dramatically, "it will have been worth it, to deliver your masterpieces—"

"Shut up, girl, and stay in town! I'm not selling you anything. Your granny can take care of herself, else she wouldn't live alone in the woods."

Despite more needling, Chub would not relent, and Jenny left empty-handed. She had heard about Jerome's untimely death and, while it was a sad affair, sometimes people died. There were dangerous animals all over the forest, but that didn't mean no one should ever enter it. Although, if even Chub was worried, Jenny wondered if she ought to be more concerned.

She hadn't grown up in the woods, but she had traveled through them often since her early childhood, each time to visit her Granny. She'd seen wolves and mountain cats and even a bear; never had she been hurt by any of them. What had happened to Jerome was tragic, but it was unlikely anything like it would happen to her.

The morning market street bustled with energy. Smells of fresh bread and meat pies mingled with those of farm animals and unwashed bodies. Jenny loved the excitement of it all. There was a haze of fear and anger settled over each interaction, but she didn't let that dampen her enjoyment of the city. She hurried toward the butcher's shop. If Chubb wouldn't sell sweets, she would bring something savory to her Granny.

Horse shoes clopped on the cobblestone, sounding like a whole host of horses approaching. The crowd parted ahead of them, and Jenny found herself pushed against the front of the cobbler's shop. She climbed onto a barrel for a better view of the approaching party.

"The Sheriff!" she said. Those around her who couldn't see the street started with surprise.

"What's he doing out here?" a woman asked.

The Sheriff normally kept to his manor. Something really important must have urged him to come into town. Jerome's death, perhaps?

Sheriff Ferris of New Gorlan was a small, well-fed man, with slick, dark hair and dark eyes that flicked to and fro in a constant state of nervousness. His sporting clothes were in excellent condition, contrary to those of his subordinates, who rode behind him. In the crowd, women bobbed and men bowed as he passed. Sheriff Ferris nodded here and there at people. The few that Jenny recognized were influential members of New Gorlan. Once the Sheriff and his guardsman were through, a disgusted mutter ran through the crowd, directed at the final member of the party.

Riding at the rear of the assembly, several horse-lengths behind the others, was Halt of Gisborne, the Sheriff's hired mercenary. He was an uncouth little man, with unkempt black and silver hair and an overgrown beard. His black eyes were pitiless and swept through the crowd like a wolf sizing up a fawn. Across his knees lay a massive longbow. Jenny had heard, but not seen for herself, that Halt could shoot with unmatched accuracy. His green and brown clothes were rough and patched. Jenny had never seen a smile cross his grim face.

"Filthy tax collector," said the cobbler. "Taking our money, and then paying himself with it."

"Imagine he's thinking how much he can charge to take care of whatever beast killed Jerome Tremaine," said the candle maker.

Jenny stepped off the barrel and left them all to their musing. She didn't pay any taxes, so what did she care what happened with the money? What she needed to do was get to the butcher then visit her Granny.

Lord Tremaine paced the cobblestone road outside his grand manor house while the Sheriff of New Gorlan gathered information from Alda and Bryn about the attack. Jerome's body had been removed from the site, taken by Friar Tennyson to the abbey for cleaning and burial preparation. The blood on the road had dried and now looked brown.

"It was a wolf, you say?" Sheriff Ferris said.

"Not exactly," Alda said, his voice trembling despite his clear efforts to gain control over himself. Alda and his brother deserved time to mourn, not be pestered with questions, but it was these questions that would bring justice for Jerome. "It was bigger, almost bear-like, but fast. So fast."

"It's teeth were yellow, and its eyes red," said Bryn. "When it looked at us" — he shuddered — "I couldn't make my feet move. I was stuck. Any one of us could have … but it was Jerome that …"

Lord Tremaine squeezed his son's shoulder. Bryn blinked back his unshed tears. Mourning was a private act, not a public one. Certainly not one to be done in front of a weak man like the Sheriff. Ferris only had his meager power because of his deference to King Morgarath; he had no real inner strength to back up his title. The mercenary, however …

Halt of Gisborne hadn't spoken since arriving with the Sheriff's retinue. He hadn't even left his place beside his shaggy, little horse. He stood leaning on his longbow, while his dark eyes took in the details of the area. The other guardmen kept their distance and didn't include him in their conversations.

Ferris said, "Where were you, exactly, when—"

"What do you think, mercenary?" Lord Tremaine asked in a loud voice. Ferris looked quickly between them both. "I'm sure you've seen situations like this in your time."

Halt remained in his casual position. "You don't want to know what I think," he said in a quiet, deep voice with a rolling lilt of an accent.

"You deign to know what I want?"

"Apologies, Lord," Ferris said. "Halt can be coarse—"

Lord Tremaine cut him off with a raised hand. "I asked you a question, mercenary."

Halt shrugged one shoulder and said, "I think your boys got themselves into trouble. Just last week, your boys cut of a cat's tail and tossed it out a window. I can only imagine what they'd try on an animal their size. All this … display you have going on is an effort to disguise what we all suspect."

"Oh?" Lord Tremaine's finger buried into Bryn's shoulder until his son whined. "That's what you think, do you?"

"I wouldn't say it, if I didn't think it." Halt straightened. "Your plan will work, of course. People tend to think better of the deceased. No one likes talking poorly about a dead man."

"Except you."

Halt shrugged again. "You asked for my thoughts, so I'm giving them. It's in your favor that people like to be scared, and they like a story, and they defer to wealth and power. Since you have all of that in abundance, I'd say you'll get everything you want out of this situation."

"Everything I want? One of my sons is dead, and you accuse him and his grieving brothers for his death?" Lord Tremaine poured disdain over every word. "Ferris!"

The sheriff jumped and stood to attention. "Yes, sir. Lord. Yes, Lord?"

"This … accuser is what my taxes fund? He's blames my son — my dead child — for his own demise."

Ferris turned between Halt and Lord Tremaine, his breathing something close to hyperventilating. "Halt, I think it's best you leave. We will discuss your task later."

Halt mounted his horse in an easy movement while holding his bow in one hand. Lord Tremaine recognized a fighting man when he saw one. Without so much as a salute or By your leave, Halt galloped away.

"We all know what needs to happen here," Deparnieux said. "That beast must be hunted down and destroyed." He pointed after Halt, who disappeared around a bend in the road. "And I want him — and him alone — to do the destroying."

"No one person can take that beast on alone," Bryn said. Alda elbowed him in the ribs, and Bryn slowly understood. "Oh! Oh."

Lord Tremaine smiled tensely at Ferris. He would see Halt dead for such insult against his family. "You might want to refrain from paying the mercenary's wage, until after this matter is settled. You might find no payment need be rendered after all."

In a shady glen near the edge of the forest, a young man woke naked on a bed of detritus. Leaves were caught in his blond hair, and a twig was stuck between the two silver hoops in his earlobe. The autumn air raised gooseflesh on his pale skin.

What was he doing here? Where were his clothes? What was his name? There was little in his mind to fill that gaps of his memory. He let the sounds of the forest — chirping birds, rustling bare branches, a slow drip, drip, drip of dew from the remaining leave — lull him to full consciousness.

He pushed himself to his elbows and gasped in pain. His body ached, like he'd been trampled by an army. A small militia of bruises were turning purple on his arms. A scabbed over knife slice stung across his collarbone. His mouth tasted like metal and meat, and when he spat, his saliva was bloody.

"What am I doing here?" Words were difficult to form, as if he hadn't spoken in years. He tried his voice a few more times, until the raspy quality had faded. He had no answer to his question.

When he legs could hold him, the young man explored the glen. He wrapped his arms around himself, which did little for the cold. He found a wooden chest hidden in the roots of a tree. Inside were clothes and boots his size. An odd coincidence. He accepted his luck for what it was and dressed. Brushing the worst of the debris from his hair, he tied it back.

He followed a game trail east until he smelled the smoke of civilization. As he plied his mind for memories, he faintly recalled eating roast pork a few days back. Anything between then and now was gone. Had he drunk himself stupid? Why the bruises? Why the taste of blood?

Soon, he knew where he was and came upon the Fitzwater manor house. It was a small estate, with a few grazing animals, an orchard, and a modest garden. The young man had worked there — or did he still work there? — and knew the mistress of the house well.

"Maid Pauline!" he waved at the tall woman in the kitchen window who was tending to the ledge herb garden. "How goes the morning?"

She looked up, surprised, then admonishing. "Gilan? How many times will I have to tell you: I'm far too old to be Maid anything."

Gilan. That was his name. It felt right on him, and more of his memories returned. His last, clear thought was from two days ago. He had looked up at the quarter moon and felt ravenously hungry. He smiled at Pauline and ambled up the front path. "That's nonsense. You can't be a day over sixty."

Dizziness washed over him. He grabbed at the window ledge, staggering to keep upright. Pauline caught his arm through the window. Gilan regained his feet and hissed in pain; Pauline's thumb pushed into one of his new bruises.

"Gilan? What's wrong?"

"Long … long night, I guess."

"You were at the tavern?"

"Maybe? I somehow ended up in the forest." Pauline gasped. Gilan rarely saw her as anything but composed. "Is that bad?"

"You're lucky to be alive. Come in; you need to know what happened last night."

Thanks for reading!

AreiaCannaid - Thanks for the review! As I'm writing this, I'm finding some of the roles (like Malcolm's) end up serving as multiple fairy tale/OUaT characters. It's fun finding where the archetypes merge and diverge.

Cassi18 - Thanks so much! I hope you enjoy this chapter.