||Two||
His eyelashes are plenty, shielding his irises like curtains made of fine yellow silk
As the wolf approaches in a threateningly low creep, the huntress tensely looks on from the cedar tree. Her eyes dart from the deep crimson pool of blood by the man's leg to the tufts of fur on the back of the wolf's neck that stand straighter the closer it gets to its prey.
"A Cowry..." she whispers and the trees nod.
That is the term her people use to refer to the folk from the town not too far off. Cowries are the pretty shelled snails that walk the seabed. Interesting creatures; they creep along the sand with beautifully swirled porcelain-like homes that they carry on their backs. The cowries live sheltered lives, waiting out the days until an eager human hand comes to harvest their pretty shells for keepsakes. This is the same way the townsfolk live their lives-waiting for someone to collect them.
"Collect him," the wind chimes.
The huntress begins to weigh her options.
She could save him. She could descend from the tree, pull back on her bow and send an arrow hurling towards the wolf before it could pounce on the man. She wouldn't have to show herself, she could scamper right back up the branches of the cedar and escape. But then the body of the wolf would be left for the scavengers of the woods and the man would die from his wound.
She looks more intently at the man, allowing her eyes to travel the length of his body. Would it be worth revealing herself to him? She ponders.
Just by looking at his clothing, the way his hands disturb the soil and the panicky glint in his eyes, she can tell that the woods are unfamiliar to him. There are some townsfolk who are brave enough to walk along the border of the woods to search for flowers and herbs. They always keep the meadow at their back and dash back to their brick homes once their hands are full. But his body language confirms that he hasn't even done that.
What use could he be to her?
The wolf steps a little closer to the man and its tongue rolls out of its mouth, salivating at the smell of him. The huntress turns her head, directing her attention back to the cedar tree and preparing to leave. And then she hears the whispers emanating from the timbers around her. They murmur things she never would have thought to hear them say.
"Don't leave him," the trees rustle.
She halts midway up the strong cedar and her brow furrows in frustration. She hates to return home empty-handed after a hunt; especially one as thrilling as this one. Why should the wolf be the only one with a full stomach? It was her decision to allow the beast to come this far. If she hadn't been so curious, she would already be sitting by the fire pit, skinning the fur off of the animal.
She cannot leave without the wolf.
But what should she do about the man?
The wounded man, whose life is seeping into the dark forest soil, more and more, every passing second. To save him would mean to heal him. And to heal him would mean to take him back to the leaf laden sanctuary she refers to as home.
How long would it take for him to hobble to the deep depths of the forest with her?
Her journey would already be lengthened by the weight of the wolf slung across her back. She would have to stick to the trees with the thicker branches and couldn't leap as thunderously as she desired. But with him trailing behind her, she would have to abandon the trees entirely. They'd have to walk along the ground, in the middle of the night.
How many predators would be able to smell his blood or hear their footsteps crunching the fallen leaves?
They would be too vulnerable.
The huntress begins to climb, pushing the thought of the man to the back of her mind. She will keep her back to him and wait, concealed by the leaves of the cedar, until the wolf finishes. Then she will avenge his death by claiming the life of the beast. This is the way it would have been if she hadn't followed the wolf.
The trees begin to tremble. Their voices stir from deep within their trunks and shake out of their branches. Even the cedar joins in the chorus of begging.
"Think it over," they swish.
But she has thought about it. It would make no sense putting both of their lives in danger. She came here to discover what the wolf was searching for, not to rescue it.
"You must interfere," they shake.
She cannot help him. He shouldn't have wandered into the woods. This is his battle; she cannot fight off death for him.
"Save him! Save him!" they stir and their sinews begin to creak from their restless shuffling.
The woods grow relentless; they are brimming with loud whispers. The spirited voices rise from the soil, they rustle from the trees even the stars twinkle with urgency. Everything around her begins to berate her, urging her to rescue the man from the claws of the wolf. And as the wolf smacks its lips, passing its lingering eyes over the wounded leg of the man and crouches down, the spirits of the woods begin to yell.
Never has the huntress felt this power of the woods. Her nails anxiously dig into the bark that she clings to. The woods expect too much from her.
The huntress knows that to save the man with his back against the fallen tree would mean risking her people's safety. Rescuing him from the wolf is a decision far too great for her to make on her own. It is not only her life she has to think about, but her entire tribe.
She scurries back up the cedar to flee into the solace of her woods. To get as far away from this murderous area as possible, but the wind stops her.
It swirls across her back like the gentle hands of her mother, soothing away her trepidation. It plays with her hair, gliding it along her shoulders and coiling it behind her ears. "Don't leave," it whispers. And the rustling of the trees stop so they will not distract from the wind. The huntress hesitantly chews on her bottom lip.
"Stay...please stay," the wind seems to coo. "Look at his light."
Her large grey eyes drift towards the helpless mound on the forest bed. His hands nimbly search the ground for something to ward off the wolf. His chest rises and falls in brave progressions. He intends to fight until the strength eases from his body and the wolf overtakes him. There is a quiet resolve that looms over his face. He doesn't expect to win. When his hands only seem to rest upon twigs, he becomes undoubtedly sure that he will not survive. But there is a certain will that illuminates his eyes. He wishes to parish with pride.
That's when she sees it, faintly at first and then she gasps when it becomes more clear. He seems to glow like an ember under the watchful eye of the moon.
There's goodness in him, a significant amount of it. Not many people are able to shine as brightly as he does in the moonlight. She is sure her own light can't even compare to his.
Mustering her courage the huntress hops down from the tree.
The ground vibrates with the force of her and it disturbs the wolf that is now only inches from the object of its desire. It whips its head in her direction, letting a low, hostile growl protrude from its throat.
She doesn't stir. Her blood courses vigorously through her veins and her hands itch for the bow slung across her right shoulder, but any sudden movements will cause the wolf to pounce on the weaker of the two humans before it. So she waits, snarling at the beast in an equally menacing manner. The wolf's lips begin to quiver as it assesses the situation.
This is another alpha.
One that it's never met before and doesn't know how to defeat.
It pauses, processing the new information.
Without its pack, there is no use trying to strategize.
So it acts on impulse.
The wolf lets out a yelp in the huntress' direction intending to frighten her, and whips its head back towards its prey, too invested to discard the kill that sits before it. But it is that loss of its guard that defeats the wolf.
In a flash, the huntress' arrow is resting against the strong string of her cherry wood bow. She pulls back and the flint tip pierces the warm fur of the wolf's neck as it dives to chomp down on the leg of the wounded man. The wolf tumbles over in a cry of anguished defeat.
The huntress softly treads towards the body of wolf and places her hand by its neck to guarantee that it is dead. Only once she has confirmed that the life has left the body of the predator, does she allow herself to glance over at the young man against the fallen tree.
His eyes devour her in amazement. His mouth hangs agape. His hands tightly clench the soil.
He's young, no more than nineteen, around the same age that she is. Aside from his crippled leg, he is strong. His muscles strain against the light blue shirt he wears and his shoulders are broad. The outline of his chest is visible as puffs of air rush to his lungs in frantic breaths.
Handsome. The word appears in her mind unintentionally and a scowl appears on her face before she directs her attention back to the fallen wolf, blood seeping from the tip of the wild rose arrow shaft and coloring its fur.
But he is handsome, she can't deny that.
Though his face isn't chiseled, his jaw is strong and reassuring. His eyes are the color of sapphire and are beautifully ablaze in the moonlight. His eyelashes are plenty, shielding his irises like curtains made of fine yellow silk. The smell of sweet cinnamon is permanently fused to his skin and where his smooth tanned arms haven't been marked with light scratches from the bushes, there are faint burn marks suggesting he's used to the licks from a flame.
Strong, but not large, he's a golden-haired Adonis.
All these things she would notice if she allowed herself a second glance at him, but to her a man is a man is a man.
At least that is what she tells herself.
Once you've seen one you've seen them all. He is no different from the others who make up the remnants of her people.
She's not one to string a man along, especially since she doesn't have the patience to get emotionally attached to one. All the men within her tribe know that she'd rather feel the sinews of the trees wrap around her than the muscled arms of a male. So they stare at her from a distance and their affections wash off of her like the rain.
She places her bow back in place on her back and unravels the cord wrapped around the waistband of her deer hide leggings. She retrieves the arrow with brown turkey feathers from the wolf's neck and places it back in the leather quiver then begins to bind the legs of the wolf with the thick cord.
Beside her the man shifts, examining her with curiosity, trying to place where she is from. His eyes widen in fright when the moon illuminates the markings on her right shoulder where the fabric of her angular suede top doesn't cover. Etched into her olive skin are symbols that resemble the scrawl of an ancient Aztec culture. They swirl and loop and spiral across her shoulder-blade. The man intakes a sharp breath and the stories of his childhood race back to him.
Beware the Woodens.
They will appear in the most enticing forms; a handsome lad with the body of an ancient warrior; a maiden with luxurious flowing hair and affectionate eyes.
They mean to tempt you.
Disarm your sensibility.
Wipe the fear from your brow and replace it with a fanciful sense of salvation.
It's not your body they want. It's your heart.
You will become just another mark on their skin.
He braces his hands against the log and tries to hoist himself up, desperate to put as much distance as he can between himself and the Wooden before him. He winces audibly once he places pressure on his injured leg.
She stops fiddling with the wolf and looks at him queerly. He wouldn't make it five feet before tumbling to the ground and yet he tries to run from her.
His attempt to lift himself off of the ground has made the inside of his forearms face in her direction and something catches her eye. Her gaze rests on an inflamed red mark on the inside of the man's right arm, a little above his wrist. A circle with a strange combination of lines is freshly seared into his flesh. Her eyes bulge in fear as the yellow light from the moon reveals what the mark is to her.
Without thinking she grabs hold of the man's arm with a frenzied briskness. He has no time to jerk his hand out of reach before he finds it locked within her slim, calloused fingers. Her eyes penetrate his flesh as if she wishes to see beneath the beige of his skin to the white of his bone.
The angry flesh she stares at is a mess of blisters, but she is still able to distinguish what decorates the inside of the man's arm. She's seen it before. The circles, the thick lines, the curved lettering followed by a daunting 'C' near the bottom. Someone has branded him.
A chill that creeps up her back makes her realize where she is.
This is the part of the woods she's been warned to stay far from since she was a child. This forested area just beyond the far plain of tall wispy green grass. The place where the trees seem to space themselves far away from one another as if they need privacy; where the small delicate birds tweet bluesy melodies and wildflowers decorate the base of the trunks like a burial ground. This is where the soil is occasionally stained with the sickening color of deep red.
How could she not have realized?
The man becomes bemused when the huntress flings his arm and scampers away from him like a frightened feline.
She watches him with eyes that narrow almost to slits. If she hadn't been so enthralled by the wolf's zeal, she would have realized when she crossed into the dark lands.
The trees know all too well of the darkness that infests this area of the woods. Horrible, unspeakable things happen here. She should have known when she first laid eyes on the Cowry with his bleeding wound, what he was.
What he is.
His is one of them—one of the damned—a Cowry who four ghastly men will want to collect.
A/N - I apologize for the delay with this chapter. Writing this story is actually more difficult than I thought because I am still trying to distinguish exactly where I want it to go. This chapter is a bit longer than I wanted, but oh well. Enjoy and please feel free to critique or review, I'd love to hear what you think.