There is a forest on Atlasâs border where no light filters through the canopy, where fairies dance through the night and will oâ wisps lead the unwary astray. When visiting the kingdomâs outlying villages, Prince Shiro is drawn beneath the woodsâ shadows and into a world forgotten by time and myth alike. But there are no guests in this forest, only prey, and he has until sunrise to escape the twisting labyrinth of trees, lest he be trapped there forever.
Notes: Written for @sheithbigbangâ 2018. My partner was Marissa, whose art you can check out here.
Meager harvests had crippled the northern border towns, and hunger loomed like a specter clinging to the villagersâ ever thinning shoulders. Ashen skin pulled taut over sharp bones and faded into the gray, dusty roads and motley wattle homes so that the town looked near absent of people.
Shiroâs nails dug small crescents into his saddle bags. These were his people too, but they and their tight-lipped frowns and worried eyes were a far cry from those who lived nearer to the city, whose smiling faces were all heâd ever known. As he pulled small sacks of grain from his bags, handing them out to the thinnest villagers first, Shiro asked them why they did not hunt for game or forage for roots and berries from the forest that lay just beyond the river. With such dense greenery so close by, surely they could have found something filling to supplement the grain he had brought, something that could help tide them through until spring.
The oldest men bowed their heads and turned away from him, as if each of his questions were a sword stroke. The youngest burst into wailing sobs. None answered him, no matter how many times he asked, or how many supplies he handed out. Fear and shame clung to the shadows in their eyes, stealing away any favor he tried to buy.
Long hours later, the mystery remained, even as Shiroâs retainers shuffled him away to retire for the evening with the setting sun. But thoughts of the villagers plagued the princeâs sleep, and there would be no rest for him that night. Instead of wasting his time tossing and turning in his bedroll, Shiro strapped on what he could of his armor and went to patrol the town. He didnât expect to find much trouble in such a rural area, but perhaps he might scare away a mangy wolf or scrawny fox that had wandered too close.
He completed his circuit of the village proper before the cold could even seep through his heavy cloak. The route was far too short to leech the restless energy twitching in his limbs, so he made his way down to the river, hoping that its gentle burble might lull his anxious mind. Along the bank, moonlight trickled through a thick fog, illuminating it in cobwebs of resplendence. Shiro paced along the sandy shores, the low crush of gritty sand beneath his booted feet and the soft rush of the river the sole sounds in the quiescent night.
A womanâs voice, high and shrill as a sparrowâs cry. A frigid splash of water soaking through Shiroâs trousersâmovement before thought. A second shriek. Then silence.
