|| One ||
Alive, just like the inhabitants of the night, she is alive
The moon hangs low in the star splattered night sky. It blankets the tops of the trees in soft yellow and casts a mesmerizing silver glow throughout the rest of the woods.
It's times like these when the forest is the most alive.
The trees dance back and forth, swaying like the hypnotizing swing of a pendulum.
"Wake up," they rustle. "Feel the earth, rub your feet against the soil, and listen to the sounds of twilight."
The creatures of the night stretch their stiff limbs and rise from their burrowed holes breathing in the crisp seasoned air; an aroma of strewn leaves, cedar and freedom.
They gleefully call to one another in low rumbles. "Here I am," they say. And place their paws along the soil, relishing in the feel of the earth between their toes as they stretch the kinks from their muscles.
Hisses turn into chirps and howls and deep hearty purrs. The stars beam down at the woods from the black sheath of the sky, seeming to grow brighter the more the woods buzz with noise.
These are the kinds of nights that the huntress yearns for.
She fills her lungs with the invigorating aroma of the forest. The scent rushes to her head in a whoosh, like a drug it slithers through her veins.
Alive, just like the inhabitants of the night, she is alive.
She bounds through the trees, her bow and arrows slung across her back. She propels herself off of the branches with acrobatic finesse. She is as agile as a feline, so sure of every leap. Her feet find the grooves in the bark effortlessly, and she balances on branches thinner than herself like a woodland squirrel.
She maneuvers her way through the forest like a dance; prancing through the leaves and tumbling down to the ground, clawing at the earth like the animals she's surrounded by. Then she scampers up the thick trunks of the cedars and willows around her, swinging off the branches without so much as a rustle.
The way her body slithers across the surface of the wood and her low crouch when she hunts is so similar to the cats that dwell in the forest. Sometimes it's hard to see her as anything else. Her reflexes are so sharp that she's rarely ever surprised and her eyes seem to shine like bright silver in the night.
She likes to think of herself as a lynx; preferring solidarity to companionship, expertly able to climb and adapt, small, but undeniably cunning.
Oh, she may seem beautifully docile. But she's as lethal as a panther.
She fears very little, especially in the woods. This is why she finds herself perched on a branch of a tall beech tree peering down at a wolf.
Howls cut through the wind like a sharpened dagger and prick at her ears. She listens to the story of the lone ashen wolf beneath her.
It's one she's heard before.
A brazen young pup believed he was superior enough to challenge the alpha male of the pack. The battle ensued. Sharp teeth snapped at hind legs. Sleek furry bodies collided. Wolves yipped and paced, excited by the commotion. But the canine was no match for the elder and chased out of the pack with a snag on its hind leg as a reminder of its failure.
Wolves do not travel alone, but this one is an outcast, narrowly escaping the snap of the alpha's jaws around its neck. But it's unknowingly found another danger; one that rests in the tree above it, watching it with voracious eyes. The wolf's injury has turned the predator into the prey.
The huntress presses her body into the wood beneath her, teetering on the edge of the branch to look at the wolf. The languid leaves of the beech tree brush against her exposed skin and whisper sweet nothings into her long raven-coloured hair. She watches the injured wolf paw at the ground rigorously.
On any other night, she would have wasted no time shooting a dove tailed arrow into the downy chest of the runt. There are always things lurking within the woods, big things, waiting to sink their spiked teeth into anything that limps. At this time of night it isn't wise to dote on your kills, but her curiousity prevents her from reaching towards the buck skin quiver on her back.
The beast is searching for something.
It scratches at the soil, disturbing the roots and pebbles and dips its nose to the ground, ears twitching enthusiastically.
"What time is it Mister Wolf?" the wind hisses, as it dives through the branches and ruffles the fur on the back of the beast's neck.
The huntress watches as the wolf turns its head to the right and lifts its wet nose to the air releasing a throaty howl to answer the inquiry of the mischievous breeze. Then it bolts off, ignoring the inflamed soreness of its hind leg.
There's something out there.
She feels the antsy shift of the wind.
She hears the chatter of the night owls.
She smells the anticipation oozing from the soil.
It's something great; something so unbelievable that the trees begin to hum.
"Follow," they tell her in rustled shutters and the branches of the beech tree seem to bend to scoot her forward.
Her pulse quickens with excitement.
She feels the burst of adrenaline tingling from her toes and racing to her arms.
She gracefully leaps from tree to tree, keeping the blur of ashen fur on her right as she chases after it. The wolf's feet hit the ground in frenzied thumps. A thrilling whimper courses from its body and drifts to where the huntress follows in the trees. We're close.
The run slows to a trot. And the trot slows to a predatory skulk. Bending low, the wolf slips around a bundle of bushes and conceals itself within the shade.
The huntress halts on the branch of skinny cedar and slides her hands along the bark, she creeps down the trunk like a chipmunk and sniffs trying to catch a whiff of what the wolf is looking for. Her attempt is futile, to say the least. Though her senses are keen, she cannot compare with the heightened sense of the canine before her.
But as she scans the area, where the trees are less dense and the forest path is more visible, she is able to find what it is.
The light of the moon seems to shine brighter on it. The crickets refuse to chirp around it. The saplings lean intently towards it. And the wind, the wind gleefully licks up the smell of it.
"Look, look, look!" the ground vibrates.
Propped against a fallen trunk—a few feet away from the huntress and the wolf—is a young man with beautifully golden waved hair that tickles his neck. He sits with his back against the rotted wood and one leg extended in front of him, painting the wood floor with the hue of his blood.
There is no mistaking the wicked gleam in the wolf's eyes. This man is what it desires. When the huntress inhales deeply this time, the metallic scent of blood almost stifles her.
The wolf sneaks out of the shade and exposes itself completely to the light of the moon, lifting its mouth to showcase an impressive collection of sharpened points.
"Oh! What sharp teeth you have," the leaves shiver timorously. "Is that so you can rip his wounded leg from his body?"
Before now, the man's head had been down, feeling nauseous from the loss of blood. He hears the snarl of the predator before he sees it and when his eyes glance in the wolf's direction his limbs stiffen in panic. The huntress watches as lines of terror push away the lines of pain that marked his face.
The wolf intends to toy with him first. The haunting look in the beast's eyes is one of blood lust and its nose quivers in anticipation.
"Oh! What a big nose you have," the trees shake. "Is that how you could smell the blood and fresh bread that cloaks the young man's skin?"
The man in the tattered brown slacks and matted gold hair will suffer. A chase is what the wolf is looking for so it can prove its dominance to those who are looking on from the treetops. It wants to smell the fear leaking from the open pores of the man. It wants to lap up the blood that will leak from his wound. It wants to claw at the man's flesh in ravenous delight.
"Oh my! Oh my! What big paws you have," the wind whistles. "Is that so you can tear at his stomach and expose his organs to the rich night air?"
The woods come to a jarring hush as the wolf creeps closer to the man against the tree trunk.
Everything is frozen except for this one moment.
Whatever the wolf chooses to do, it will be a death that the huntress won't ever forget.
Author's Note
This is somewhat of an experimental story. It combines elements of folklore, fantasy and the Hunger Games. It's basically AU, and will follow the events that occur in the books by Suzanne Collins very loosely. I will try to keep the personalities of the characters that I include similar to those that appear in the original novels. My inspiration to write this story came from my adoration for Pocahontas mixed with listening to the Broadway Lion King soundtrack.