Writing Phoenix

Whumper immediately cast their eyes down on the floor. They didn't say anything for a long moment, and Whumpee felt their spirit heal a little, being able to stand tall and stand their ground while Whumper was trying to make themself as small and nonthreatening as possible. How the tables had turned.

"I see," Whumper said timidly. "That's okay, of course. Well, um—"

"Why did you even come here? Just to let me know you knew where I lived now?"

Whumper's eyes snapped back up to them. "No! No, that's not— That wasn't my intention at all! I just wanted you to know I was sorry, and that I would never do something like that again. But if you don't accept my apology, that's more than fine. I'm sorry for bothering you."

"You are bothering me," they said, still cold as ice. Honestly, a small part of them, a vindictive part, was enjoying making Whumper squirm. But that wasn't healthy. They took a deep breath, trying to remember the lessons they'd learned in therapy. Hurt people hurt people. But they didn't have to continue to cycle of abuse. "What made you realise the error of your ways?" they relented, giving Whumper a chance to actually talk.

But Whumper didn't. They looked down at the ground again, seemingly ashamed. "I got hurt," they mumbled eventually. They didn't elaborate.

"Hurt?"

"Yeah."

"By whom?"

"Doesn't matter. I just got hurt. And it was bad, it was so bad that I— I just— I realised what I did was messed up. Like, severely messed up. And so I came to apologise."

"Okay?" Whumpee said tentatively. Whumper got hurt? Again, there was a part of them that whispered they deserved it, but the bigger part of them was horrified. Who could've hurt Whumper badly enough to recognise the harm they'd done? "Are you okay now?"

"Yeah. But you shouldn't care about that."

"Not everyone's a monster like you. Of course I care."

At the word 'monster', Whumper flinched a little. "Well… Thank you. Anyway, I won't bother you again. Goodbye."

"Wait—"

Whumper stopped, mid-turning around.

"Your apology, it… It means something to me. I can't forgive you, I just, I can't. But it does mean something."

Whumper nodded. "I'm glad. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Whumper."

The trip back to shore was long and agonising. They kept thrashing in their restraints, while also making sure not to suffocate. And then they were hauled off the boat and into some kind of shipping container full of water, and they could finally stretch a little and assess their situation.

They had been captured. Rule number one of the ocean was, avoid humans. They'd failed that.

They were swimming back and forth in the moving container, trying to figure out a way to escape. But they had no doubt the people were bringing them further and further from the ocean, which was bad. Very bad. Even if they escaped the container, they'd die as a fish on shore, suffocating slowly on the asphalt roads they'd heard of from previously captured mer.

The container came to a stop. The water was drained. Whumpee was lifted out by ropes and other devices they didn't recognise. Their tail was still giving them a lot of trouble, and it was bleeding everywhere, and the humans seemed annoyed by that, shouting to each other and moving Whumpee to another tank of water.

The seconds, or minutes, they spent out of the water were terrifying. They couldn't breathe. For the first time in their life, they were out of the water, and they couldn't breathe. Thankfully, the humans seemed to want to keep them alive.

Once Whumpee was plopped into the tank, now with transparent walls, the humans stepped back, conversing amongst each other. Whumpee wanted so badly to hear what was going on, to understand what was waiting for them, but there just wasn't anything to do about it.

Eventually, the humans left. Whumpee was alone. They sunk to the bottom of the tank, their stomach growling — that was right, they had been kidnapped right before they could've hunted down dinner — and they waited. And waited. And waited.

A human came back, carrying a bucket. Whumpee watched them warily. Then, the human reached into the bucket and threw something in the tank.

A dead fish.

They were feeding Whumpee.

Whumpee immediately grabbed and devoured it, then put both hands on the wall of the tank, watching the human, hoping it would throw another. They did. Whumpee ate that as well. About five or six fish later the human left, and Whumpee was left to wonder what the humans wanted from them if they were willing to feed them and keep them alive. They'd heard from other mer that there were these things called zoos, where they displayed exotic animals... Maybe Whumpee would be taken to one of those? They had no idea. Being in a tank all the time, poked and prodded, shown off, but fed and relatively safe... Maybe they could get used to that life.

They went to sleep wondering.

They woke up to being dragged out of the water. They gasped for air, but there was no water around to suck oxygen out of. They were suffocating, they thrashed in the hold of the humans, but no one paid them any mind. They just kept dragging it someplace, someplace unknown, someplace dangerous. Finally, mercifully, their head was pushed into a bucket of ice cold water. Not ideal, but they could breathe.

They felt the hands of many humans holding them down. Which was strange, they thought — their hands were still bound, they wouldn't be able to move from the bucket under threat of killing themself, what was the big deal now having to restrain them like that?

They soon found out.

Pain similar but even worse to that of the harpoon sent shockwaves through their body. They instinctively tried to thrash again, but the humans holding them down were stronger. They couldn't feel their fins anymore. They couldn't feel their fins.

Pain. More pain. They couldn't turn around to see what was being done to their tail, but it ached, it ached tremendously, and the pain wouldn't stop, and the people holding them down were rough and they would bruise later, and they felt faint, and why couldn't they feel their tail.

At some point, they lifted their head up and out of the bucket to see their tail, and all they saw was blood. A lot of blood. Pieces of their tail were strewn about, and they couldn't breathe, so they ducked, head back into the bucket.

That had been their tail. Separated from their body. That had been their blood. Out of their body. The humans were cutting them up. Into pieces.

They must've passed out at some point, because the next thing they remembered was coming to in the tank. For a brief, blissful moment, they thought they were just waking up in the ocean — then the pain hit. The memories flooded their mind. They looked to see what had remained of their tail, and they found that a good chunk had been removed and the wound had been stapled shut to avoid bleeding.

They couldn't swim like this. Even if they got back to the ocean, they wouldn't be able to swim. They would be good as dead. They were good as dead.

Whumpee tried not to panic completely. They tried to chase away despair that loomed over them, threatening to consume them whole. But then, the humans came. Well, a human. Whumpee wished it was the same one who had fed them earlier, but it wasn't. It was a different human. A grinning human, hiding something behind their back. Whumpee didn't move, only following the human with their eyes.

The human pulled their hands out from behind their back. It was... food they were holding, Whumpee could recognise that much. But it wasn't food for Whumpee. It must've been food for the human. But why were they showing them that?

The human pointed to Whumpee, then down at the plate of food. Then they picked up a piece and popped it into their mouth. Whumpee watched, uncomprehending. The human wasn't satisfied with the reaction, so they became more insistent, pointing to Whumpee, then pointing to the food. They were so insistent on getting their point across, they mimed cutting off their feet, then pointed to the plate of food again.

And that was when it clicked.

The human was eating Whumpee's tail.

Whumpee's eyes went wide. They dragged themself to the furthest away corner of the tank and curled up, not wanting to look at the human and what had become of their tail. They heard the human laugh, a garbled sound from outside the tank. The human left. Was that all? Did they just want to show Whumpee that they were being eaten? Would they... take more of their tail eventually?

Would they not stop until Whumpee...

Even with her eyes closed, her mind wouldn't calm, a constant whirlwind of information keeping her wide awake. The histories she'd read that day mixed with the theories she'd drawn and the conversation she had with her brother, all a jumble with the undercurrent of forbidden knowledge that she had learned early on never to speak of.

Never to acknowledge its presence.

Until that day in the storm.

Now it was louder than ever, the smallest of items begging for her attention.

The heirlooms were the worst. Many of them had been involved in one gruesome death or another, either worn by the victim or deeply cherished to leave a indelible mark. As a child, the princess had refused to wear many of the jewelry given to her, even before she had the words to properly express why she was so repulsed by them.

Even after she could speak of what they said to her, no one believed her.

No one except her mother.

The queen remembered the stories passed down within her family line and recognized the gift within her daughter. She always said to the little princess to never tell a soul, for fear of execution for sorcery.

But after reading all the histories, the princess knew this wasn't sorcery. Sorcery was magic obtained unnaturally, purchased by blood, body or soul.

Her gift... her gift was something else.

But as before, the princess could not explain it.

Hissing through her teeth, the princess opened her eyes and threw back the covers of her bed, climbing out and leaving her bedroom in a heartbeat. No point in trying to sleep if she wasn't tired.

And something... something else was bothering her.

Finding a small lantern, she lit the wick from the dying embers in the fire in the chamber beyond her room, donned a shawl and slippers, and wandered into the palace hallways.

The princess didn't know where she was going. She just went.

This happened, sometimes. Never so late at night. And the restlessness had never been so strong.

But she had her suspicions.

When her aimless walking took her to the dungeon cells, her thoughts were confirmed. She didn't need to guess for the last part.

The cell door was open.

The knight was gone.

The princess couldn't muster the energy to be surprised. It had only been a matter of time before he might try something rash. Within a day of regaining consciousness, though... that was impressive.

Exhaling slowly, the princess knelt and retrieved the rope that bound the knight's wrists together. She rubbed the fibers between her fingers, staring blankly at the wall, her eyes darting back and forth in place.

It was more like a series of images, thoughts, and emotions than actual words. The ropes had nowhere near the same connection to the knight as his sword, but they had been with him long enough to leave an imprint.

Terror.

An image of frost spreading across the stones, forming familiar symbols.

Despair.

A mocking voice in her ear.

Resolve.

The armory.

The princess stood and left the cell, moving quickly. She did not panic. She was not panicking. But her breath came in shallow gasps, fear curling in her gut that she might be too late.

The armory door was open.

Weapons had been scattered about the floor: a knife near the wall, a sword, bent at an impossible angle, and an arrow, broken clean in two.

But no knight.

The princess pursed her lips. A mystery, but when magic was involved, the improbable suddenly became commonplace.

She chose the knife. That, out of all the weapons, seemed the most likely to leave an imprint.

And she was right.

She hated being right sometimes.

The knife clattered to the floor, and the princess fled from the armory.

She needed to get to her brother.

She told me to, he wanted to cry, but he kept silent. He knew better than to talk back.

"Who gives their pet a knife?" The orc sounded almost amused.

"He stole it, little thief. I was planning on loaning him to one of the whip-weavers for a while, teach him some manners. But honestly, I'm bored of him."

She clearly expected a response, but the orc stayed silent. The silence dragged out for a few very uncomfortable moments.

"…So if you want to take him, as recompense, he's all yours. Keep him, eat him, sell him to the weavers—" she dug her boot further into his ribs and he cried out, "— I couldn't care less."

He knew she meant it. No question about it. She'd grown bored of him and no longer cared what happened to him. And now she was giving him away to an orc that she'd told him to attack. He allowed his mind to drift back to the forests of his home— the soft ferns, the smell of moss, the sounds of rustling leaves. He'd hoped that one day he'd see it again, but that tiny sliver of hope was ground into the dust beneath him.

Then the boot in his ribs was gone. He didn't dare look up as she walked away. Just listened as her footsteps disappeared into the crowd. And he was being lifted from the dirt. The orc was picking him up. Dusted him off— he could crush the faun so easily if he wanted. He hadn't yet. Toying with him, then, but why?

He shuddered at the feeling of a leash clipping onto his collar. The hand lingered at his neck. He took a deep breath— his collar loosened.

He didn't know it could do that.

"Stay close. Don't make me carry you."

He nodded quickly and followed at heel. As it turned out, he wasn't nearly as clumsy without someone yanking on his neck the whole time. It was almost possible to imagine that they were simply going for a walk.

A walk into the woods.

The feeling of moss under his hooves, of ferns brushing against his legs— he wanted to drop to his knees, to soak it all in. But he kept his gaze trained on his new master. It was a test, to see if he would try to run. He wouldn't— couldn't— leashed as he was.

They walked deep into the forest together. Here, in his natural habitat, he almost began to relax. His ears, long weighed down with heavy rings, began to twitch in response to sounds.

Then they stopped at a camp-site that was clearly well used. The orc sat on a log, so the faun knelt next to him in the soft dirt.

The orc broke the silence, of course. "Name's Atlas. What's yours?"

"Teddy, sir."

"Teddy," he repeated, without a hint of mockery in his voice. "Why'd you try to stab me, Teddy?"

"I was instructed to, sir." He braced for a reaction, a punishment, but one didn't come. Instead, the orc, Atlas, sighed.

"Figured."

"…Sir?"

"Folks there like to try to upset me— everybody's always looking for a show."

Teddy didn't understand, so he stayed quiet and watched as Atlas started a fire.

"I'm gonna unclip this tether. Trying to escape in these woods would be foolish— they're crawling with hunters. We'll camp here tonight and head home tomorrow."

"Home, sir?"

"Unless your home's nearby? But I'm guessing it isn't, and even if it was, I know you wouldn't lead a stranger in, and you wouldn't be safe without an escort."

He shook his head. He wouldn't reveal his clan's location— he figured he was dead anyway.

But a question still remained. "You're not gonna… you know…"

Atlas shook his head. "No, kid. Not gonna eat you." Then he unclipped the leash and turned his full attention to the fire he was building.

It was one thing to know that orcs were fire resistant. It was another to watch one stick his hands into the flames to adjust the coals. Teddy decided to watch as he worked, taking the opportunity to observe his new master.

His face seemed so much softer, here in the fading light. The firelight reflected strangely off the green of his skin and the gold of his earrings— he had so many earrings, but they didn't seem to weigh him down like Teddy's did. His dark hair was cut into a shaggy mohawk, though it seemed to be growing out a bit. The orc shed his chains, his jacket, his armor, until he was down to an undershirt and long pants.

It was disarming.

And then he was holding out a bowl of… stew? "Sir?"

"Eat. Rest. We have a long journey tomorrow."

Perhaps he was a fool. He knew he was— trusting someone he'd attacked just a few hours ago. Atlas could be taking him anywhere, perhaps he just didn't like his meat bruised, or he was just extending his freshness, or fattening him up.

But the stew was warm and his stomach empty, so he took it gratefully. And when the orc offered him a bedroll, he took that as well and curled up to sleep.

He could figure out the rest tomorrow.

Taglist: @wolfeyedwitch @phoenixpromptsandstuff @littlebookworm69

She looked back down and saw that the enemy had dropped something. Something that looked important. Marla furrowed her brows. She really shouldn't… But what if this woman would get in trouble for losing the thing? Marla sighed and jumped off the branch she had been sitting on.

The sound of her boots hitting the ground made the enemy whip around, dagger in hand. Marla threw her hands in the air. "Whoa, there. I just wanted to let you know that you dropped this." She leaned down and picked up whatever the thing was. With one hand still in the air, she extended the object to the enemy. This was probably stupid. She could get killed here. But the woman didn't look all that trained, nor did she seem super convicted of her side's cause. How did Marla know all that? A gut feeling, you could call it. She was good at reading people. Was it a good idea to base a life-altering decision on a gut feeling? Probably not. She did it anyway.

The woman stared at her holding the thing. She probably had no idea Marla didn't even know what it was, by the way her eyes went wide. "Give that back!" she snapped, snatching it from Marla's hand. She quickly stuffed it back into her backpack. "Were you spying on me? Watching me until I accidentally dropped it?"

"If that was the case, I would've just picked it up and ran," Marla pointed out. "I was just hanging out on the tree," she said, pointing up towards the canopy. "And I heard you drop it. I didn't want to meddle, but it looked important—"

"It is important," she hissed.

"—so I gave it back."

The woman stared at her for a few more moments, silent. Then she slowly lowered her dagger. "You're with them," she spat. "Why would you do that?"

"I harbour no ill-will towards you," Marla said earnestly. "What's your name?"

"Oh, now you want identifying information about me. For what? And no ill-will? Don't make me laugh. Your people have slaughtered entire villages of mine."

"Actually, that's a myth perpetuated by 'your people'. There's not really us versus them. If anything, it's us little people against your tyrannical higher-ups."

"Explain the mass graves, then."

"You just see freshly dug soil. You have no idea whether there's any bones in there."

The woman opened her mouth. Then closed it. Marla knew she got her there. "I'm not wasting any more of my time on you. I'm on a mission."

"This part of the forest is a little tricky to get through. Do you want me to help?"

"I don't want anything to do with you!" she snapped. "Thanks for giving this back to me, I guess, but you can get lost now."

"It's you who's about to get lost," Marla insisted. "Let me help."

"I know my way around here!"

"You're awfully unaware of your surroundings. You didn't even hear yourself drop that… thing. Whatever it is."

The woman raised her dagger again. She was seconds away from attacking Marla, she could see it in her eyes. So Marla attacked first. She was quicker than the woman, and she quickly wrenched the dagger from her hand and put it to her neck to keep her from moving around too much. Marla was a pacifist — the only reason she was so good at disarming enemies was the fact that the enemy had been terrorising her village since she was a little child.

Still, she harboured no ill-will. It was a misunderstanding. And misunderstandings could be resolved.

The woman was deadly still in her hold, scared to nick her neck on the blade. "Okay," she said quietly. "You got me. What now? You gonna kill me? Take my backpack and my cut off head and bring it back to your people as a trophy?"

Marla sighed again. "Look, woman. I offered my help. I offered your thing back to you. All I asked was your name. You pulled a dagger on me, how am I the bad guy?"

"If you're not a bad guy, then let me go."

Marla shoved her away, keeping the dagger. "There you go," she said. "Now, may I know your precious name?"

The woman looked embarrassed and angry, judging by the way her cheeks flushed and she pursed her lips. She clearly wasn't keen on the idea of associating with Marla. But she had enough of a self-preservation instinct to know this was a losing battle.

She sighed. "My name is Cleo."

"Cleo, that's a nice name. My name is Marla. What's the big quest?"

"You can't seriously expect me to disclose that."

"You have that… thing. You need to get through the forest and bring it somewhere, I assume. Back to your people? Do you have a village on the other side of the forest?"

"Quit guessing! I'm not telling you anything more!"

"But I'm on the right track," Marla said with what was probably an entirely insufferable grin.

"Will you help me get through this forest or not?" Cleo demanded, and Marla lit up.

"Sure! Just follow my lead."

"And give me back my dagger."

"For what? So you can attack me in my sleep? I'll give it back once we reach the edge of the forest."

Cleo pouted, but didn't press further. "And I still hate you," she added, like a child throwing a fit.

"Of course. Well, as I said, I don't care where you're from. But I'm tired of seeing people die in these woods. The corpses ruin the landscape."

"That many people die here?" she asked, alarmed. Ha. Marla got her again.

"Between clueless travellers and soldiers on missions, my estimate would be at least three people per month. They get lost, they get dehydrated, they die. It's the same song and dance over and over again. And I'm just expected to watch it happen. Over. And over. And over again. I'm not letting you die on me," she explained, gesturing with the dagger.

"Put that thing away," Cleo said.

"No, it's pretty. I like looking at it. And it has a nice handle, comfortable to hold. I might keep it."

"Don't you dare—"

"I'm just joking." Marla stuck the dagger in her belt. "Let's go. Sun's about to set, and while I can navigate these woods with my eyes closed, I'm not so sure about you."

Cleo huffed. "You harbour no ill-will, but apparently you harbour a lot of condescension."

Marla shrugged. "You people don't respect the forest. It shows."

"Oh, but you are the forest guardians," she said sarcastically.

"We just know we can't beat it. Once you make peace with that fact, you start to revere these woods. Once you revere them, they become gentler."

Cleo caught up to her, still eyeing her suspiciously. "Well, let's go, then."

"Let's go."

They walked in silence for a while. Marla was enjoying the evening breeze and the way the canopy swayed back and forth, and Cleo was clutching the straps of her backpack and her eyes were darting back and forth between Marla and the road.

"I'll lead you out of the forest, but I have no intention of being seen with you in front of your people," Marla said eventually.

"Well, good. I have no intention of being seen with you."

Marla sighed yet again. "Yes, well, my reasoning is that they'd stone me to death. Your reasoning is 'it'd be a little embarrassing and awkward'. So I don't get why you're so up in arms about this whole thing."

"You keep acting like my people are barbaric murderers!"

"They are!"

"So are yours!"

"We defend ourselves, yeah! As we should! We try to avoid shedding blood as much as we can!"

Cleo gave an indignant 'hmph' and turned her attention to the path. Marla wasn't done.

"If you took one critical look at your leadership and who holds high-up positions, you would see that you're brainwashed!"

"Right," Cleo grumbled. "Because you're not. You just see everything so clearly."

"I'm not perfect, but at least my people allow me to think critically. Wake up, Cleo. You're a cog in a machine you might not want to be a part of."

"Just lead the way and shut up."

"Doesn't this mean something to you? That I'm helping?"

"As far as I know, you could be leading me into a trap. You have my dagger. You threatened me with a slow, agonising death in the forest. I'm following because you're forcing my hand."

Marla pinched the bridge of her nose. "Right. I'm forcing your hand. Whatever you wanna go with."

Night descended upon them quicker than Marla expected. The moon was covered by clouds, and she was afraid Cleo would get lost, so she stopped.

"What?" Cleo asked.

"We're camping here for the night."

"I have places to be."

"And you'll get there. But not today."

Cleo hesitantly removed her backpack and took out a bottle of water. It was only halfway full.

"There's a fresh water spring up ahead, you can't miss it," she said before climbing up the nearest tree. She hated sleeping on the forest floor.

"What, that's it? Now we'll just sleep?"

"Why, what did you expect?"

"I— I don't know. But how can you expect me to go to sleep when you're— I mean, you have my dagger—"

"Don't sleep, then. I'm sleeping." Marla got situated on a branch high enough for her liking and closed her eyes.

"Weirdo," she heard Cleo say down there, and she snorted. Yeah, right. Marla was the weird one.

At the first crack of dawn, Marla was up and jumped out of the tree. As her feet hit the ground, Cleo jolted awake. So she did go to sleep.

"What are you doing?" Cleo snapped. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Rise and shine, I guess. I thought you wanted to get wherever you wanted to get as soon as possible. I'm only acting accordingly."

Cleo got up and checked her backpack. Marla assumed she was checking for the special thing, whether it was still there or Marla had somehow stolen it, even though Cleo had used her backpack as a pillow the entire night. "Yeah. Let's go," she said when her search ended.

Marla navigated the woods easily. She'd grown up here, playing pretend with her friends and siblings. These woods were the only place they could really play, specifically because they were so difficult to navigate. The enemy didn't like to come here. It was a weird thing, for them to send an inexperienced woman on a mission through here.

"So what's your story?" Marla asked.

"My story?"

"Yeah. Are you trying to prove something by doing this mission? Or are you just blindly devoted to whoever sent you on it? Or are you carrying a precious family heirloom? What's up with you?"

Cleo scoffed. "As if I'd tell you."

"Okay, I'll start," Marla said. "I grew up in a small village on the other side of these woods. You probably passed by it on your way here. We've never known peace. Your people tormented us relentlessly, baiting us into battles and confrontations we never wanted to have. I grew up thinking I was evil for just existing. The woods were my only safe place. I liked climbing trees, and it proved life-saving many times when your people came looking for easy prey. The children who weren't good at climbing trees…" She trailed off. "My mother was taken when I was five. She was a healer. They needed her expertise, and she promised to go with them without a fight if she could return once her job was done. They agreed. She never returned."

"She must've broken the agreement."

"My mother would never go back on her word," Marla said sharply.

"Oh, so we're evil and bloodthirsty, but you are all noble and above it all and harbour no ill-will."

"Personally, I've made my peace with it. I never said the others have."

"So you admit. You are just as bloodthirsty."

"Cleo… We fight defensive wars. We've never once instigated."

"Oh, yeah? Well, if you want to hear my story so bad, my father was killed in an uprising. He was just doing his job when one of you attacked him and beat him to death with his own weapon. Several others died that day."

"An uprising. Because you foolishly subjugated an entire people and thought it wouldn't backfire."

Cleo pursed her lips. "My father was a good man."

"Your father was an oppressor. Not the main one — but working for the same cause as your whole oppressive regime."

"Quit trying to paint my people as bad!"

"Well, quit being bad!"

"Why are you even helping me if you hate us so much?"

"Because I don't! I don't hate you! I want you to see us as people, deserving of freedom and dignity! And in my foolish little heart, I thought maybe I could plant a seed in your head if I helped you. But clearly, you're too stubborn to understand the truth."

Cleo said nothing. They continued on in silence for a while.

"I don't know anything else," Cleo said suddenly, and Marla glanced at her. She looked deep in contemplation. "I grew up hearing stories of your people's cruelty. When you took my dagger, I thought you'd flay me alive. That's what your people do. That's what I thought."

"I've never hurt another person of my own volition. I've only ever defended myself."

"See, you say that, but that's not what my parents told me."

"Your parents are brainwashed. By extension—"

"They're not brainwashed."

"It's not their fault. You don't have to get defensive."

"Shut up. Every time I think 'maybe I'll just talk to her, she doesn't seem so insufferable when we're walking in silence', you just have to open your mouth and ruin it."

"So you just want to talk at me."

"I want to get out of these woods and get home."

"Ah, so that's where you're going."

Cleo once again blushed in embarrassment. She'd blurted out her oh-so-secret mission. "I don't like you. I don't like anything about you. I hate this entire situation. I just want my dagger back."

Marla grabbed the stolen dagger in her belt and took it out, offering it with its hilt towards Cleo. She never intended on keeping it hostage. If Cleo wanted to take a shot at navigating the woods alone, she was more than welcome to — though Marla would've been sad to see someone so young perish.

Cleo stared at the weapon. She slowly reached out and took it, sliding it into her own belt. She looked taken aback.

"So?" Marla asked. "Now that you have it back, to you want me to buzz off and let you get out of the woods alone?"

She was silent. Marla might've only known her for about twelve hours, eight of those spent sleeping, but she knew that look on her face. She got her. Again.

"Let's just go," Cleo grumbled, then walked off. Marla ran to catch up with her.

"So what's that thing?" she asked. "I even held it for a few moments, but honestly, I didn't get a good look."

"None of your business."

"Come on, we're friends."

"We're not friends."

Marla pouted. "If your people saw us, they'd stone me for existing and stone you for associating with me. Just saying. So we're friends. Sisters in arms."

"My people would understand that I'm doing this to complete my mission."

"Oh, that's bull. They'd be furious you couldn't kill me when you still had your dagger. Furious you aren't trying to now that you have it again. You dropped your special thing and let it get in my hands."

"You don't know the first thing about my people!" Cleo snapped. "So quit yapping like you do!"

"I'm trying to get to know you!"

"No, you're trying to 'plant seeds' and whatever, but it's not working, I don't like you, I never will, I will never like your people, I will never turn on my leaders or my parents — parent, thanks to your people — and I will never be your friend!"

Marla huffed. "Okay. Let's just go, then."

An hour passed in silence. The sun was high above them now, the blazing intensity only quelled by the canopy. They were mostly shaded. Marla stopped on a clearing and kicked a tree. A few walnuts fell on the ground.

"What are you doing?" Cleo asked.

"I'm hungry," Marla said simply. She leaned down and gathered up the walnuts, then sat down to eat. "It's lunch time."

Cleo watched her for a few seconds, then sat down. She pulled out an apple from her backpack and started eating as well.

"How much longer until we reach the edge of the woods?" Cleo asked.

"We'll probably be out by tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow— Just how vast is this forest?"

"I'm telling you. If you know the forest, you revere it."

They ate in silence for a while.

"I don't have enough food for that long a journey."

Marla gave her a funny look. "They didn't prepare you well for this journey, did they?"

"I… I don't even know why they sent me."

Marla sensed that this was a rare moment; Cleo was being quite vulnerable. She stayed silent, waiting for her to continue.

"My brother would've been better equipped. But the leader bypassed him and sent me. My mother begged them not to, but I thought it my sacred duty, so I comforted her and told her I'd be fine."

"And your brother?"

"He was seething, but he didn't want to be accused of having a spirit of rebellion. He didn't even say goodbye when I left."

"I'm sorry," Marla said sincerely. "He sounds like a piece of work."

"I would've been upset in his place too."

"Nonsense. You would've said goodbye."

"You don't know me."

Marla leaned back against the trunk of the oak and stared up at the sky through the leaves. "I don't, I guess. Not by your standards. Did you know in our culture, the exchange of names already counts as a friendship?"

"What, so you're friends with everyone in your village?"

"Yeah."

"That's… weird."

"I think it's cool."

When Marla looked back at Cleo, she once again saw her in contemplation. She seemed like she wanted to admit it was cool. Or maybe she was thinking about how nonchalantly she had given out her name, unaware of this cultural difference. Marla wasn't a mind-reader.

"Well, my people are not so easy to please," she said eventually.

"What is a friend to you, then?"

"Someone I would die for."

"Do you have many friends?"

"I had one."

Marla sensed it again. That vulnerability. She kept her mouth shut.

"And I had every intention of dying for her. In the end, she died for me."

"I'm sorry," she said gently.

"Let's go," Cleo said, standing up and putting her backpack back on.

"Yeah. Let's."

They chatted on and off throughout the rest of the afternoon. Marla showed her how to climb smaller trees to get fruits, so she wouldn't starve on the way back. Cleo filled her backpack with them.

Towards the evening, Marla managed to say something that made Cleo laugh. She stopped, astonished at the sound. It was pleasant. Contagious even, and she grinned.

Cleo seemed to realise she'd gotten closer than she wanted to, and she tried to stifle her laughter. "When are we stopping for sleep?" she asked quickly, to avoid the awkwardness of being human.

"Whenever you want. There's a spring near here, though. If you want to fill your bottle."

"Sure."

Cleo navigated the woods better than even a day ago, Marla could tell. She was more confident as well. When it came time to sleep, Cleo climbed a tree just like Marla, settling on a huge branch that could support her weight.

"Good night, Cleo," Marla said.

"Yeah. Sure," Cleo said. Marla smiled. That was good enough.

The next morning, they freshened up at the spring and walked out of the woods. In the distance, Marla could see a small conglomeration of houses. It must've been Cleo's village.

"I assume you can take it from here," Marla said. Cleo didn't respond right away.

"Yeah," she said slowly.

"But?"

"I didn't say but."

"But I heard it."

Cleo was chewing on her bottom lip. "Look, I… Thanks for bringing me through the woods. I definitely would've gotten lost."

"No problem."

"I was wondering… I thought a lot about what you said about our leadership. And my father. And the uprising. The war."

Marla listened. She didn't want to interrupt. Cleo seemed like she'd rehearsed this a few times.

"You could come with me. You could talk to my family. To others in the village. Plant more seeds."

"They'd kill me on sight."

"I'd vouch for you."

Marla hesitated. Convincing one young woman out in the woods where she was comfortable that her people weren't bloodthirsty savages seemed feasible. Walking into the lion's den? Less fun.

"Don't you want this conflict to end?" Cleo pressed.

"You said you weren't even my friend less than a day ago."

"We know each other's names, don't we?"

"And would you die for me?"

Cleo bit her bottom lip. "I'm proposing I bring you to my people as a friend, aren't I? That's something punishable by death."

Marla rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly. How did they go from enemies to friends in two days?

"So?" Cleo asked. "Will you come with me?"

Marla thought of her father and siblings. Her village. Everyone she would leave behind if this fell through. If this was a trap. But Cleo had trusted her back in the woods that she wouldn't lead her into a trap — surely she could extend the same trust to her.

"Yeah," she said. "I will."

Cleo smiled. "Okay."

It happened so quickly. One moment, Cleo was standing there, smiling at her; the next, she was tackled to the ground by a man twice her size.

Bandits.

Marla acted quick. She pulled out the knife she kept in her boot and got to cutting them all down, one after the other. They were big, but they were quite dumb and inexperienced. To someone like Marla, dealing with them was no issue.

The issue arose when it came to Cleo.

"Cleo!" she cried, rushing over to her. She was bleeding. "Oh, no, no, no no no…" She tore off a piece of her shirt and tied it around Cleo's wound, then picked her up in a bridal carry. "It's okay. It's gonna be okay."

Leaving behind the corpses of the several man, covered in blood, carrying her new friend, Marla set out to reach the village.

It was around noon that she came into sighting distance. The guards up in their high tower shouted at her to stop, and she did.

"I have Cleo!" she shouted back. "She's injured! We got into an altercation with bandits!"

"Cleo? Cleo Padilla?"

"Yes!" she yelled, though she had no idea.

"Open the gates," the guard shouted, and soon, Marla was within the village walls. She was so concerned with Cleo's injury and her well-being that she barely considered the fact that she was deep inside enemy territory — without anyone to vouch for her. Cleo was out. She barely stirred the whole way to the village. And when the healers came and took her, Marla was… alone. Utterly, painfully alone.

"And who are you?" a big man she identified as one of the elders asked her. He was at least twice her size; she could take him in a fight, though. But not in the middle of a village. Not when a small crowd was gathering around her. Keep calm. Keep calm.

"My name is Marla, I'm a friend of Cleo's," she said.

"Cleo had never mentioned you," a woman said. "Cleo had only ever had one friend: Christy."

"Maybe she was a bit more secretive than you realised," she said a bit more coldly than she intended.

"No, I know you," another woman said, stepping forward. "You're the kin of those Rosarios from across the woods."

"Yeah, now that you mention it," the man said, leaning in, and Marla could smell the alcohol on his breath. "She does look like a Rosario."

The crowd was encircling her. Marla was beginning to panic.

Keep calm. Keep calm.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, but her voice wavered. She couldn't hurt these people. If only for Cleo's sake.

"Marla Rosario, the youngest of the bunch," another man said. "Runt of the litter."

"Leave me alone!" she snapped, trying to push past the women. "I just brought Cleo here to be treated, because I'm her friend! Leave me alone!"

Hands grabbed at her. Before she knew it, her knife was in her hand, and she was cutting whoever was trying to touch her.

"Yeah, right! Bandits, huh? I bet you were the one to injure her!" someone sneered.

"Hang her! Hang the Rosario!"

"She cut me! Whip her!"

In the end, Marla was pushed to the ground, with someone much heavier kneeling on her back to keep her down. Her arms were wrenched behind her back and tied tightly, with a rope coarse enough to cause burns even if she didn't struggle. And struggle she did.

"Let me go!" she screamed. "I was helping her!"

"You are covered in her blood!"

"I'm covered in the blood of the stupid bandits that attacked us! If there's any blood of Cleo's on me, it's because I cared for her and carried her here! She would've bled out without me there!"

"Right. And we're supposed to believe that."

The weight from her back disappeared, and a man hauled her to her feet, marching her to a podium in the middle of the village. To the gallows.

"Don't!" someone yelled from the crowd. Marla looked — it was a young woman, about her age, maybe a little older. She was just about to feel relieved when she went on. "Whip her first!"

"Whip her!" the crowd echoed.

"Whip her!"

The man pushing her around gave an exasperated sigh, as if this was just an annoying chore to him. "I just tied her up," he grumbled as he took out a knife and cut her restraints. In that instant, Marla turned around and punched him square in the jaw. The man barely reacted. He grabbed her arm, squeezing so tight that Marla gave a little whimper. "Guys, we have to tie her to the tree."

Other people stepped forward, and no matter how hard Marla fought, they eventually dragged her to the pole and made her wrap her arms around it. Then they tied her at the wrists. Her shirt was cut off of her body, and she stood there, humiliated, naked from the waist up, awaiting punishment for the crime of helping the enemy.

They're not all evil, the words of her mother rang in her ear. They're misunderstood, just like we are.

In this moment, Marla was inclined to believe they were all evil.

"Count!" the big man shouted, and the next second, Marla was struck with a whip. She cried out. The crowd cheered.

"One!"

"Two!"

"Three!"

Marla squeezed her eyes shut and tried to tune out the pain. She didn't know how far these people would go. She knew when the whip broke skin, because she felt viscous blood trickling down her bare back.

"Twenty!"

"Twenty-one!"

No good deed goes unpunished.

But even at her most miserable, she couldn't find it in herself to be mad at Cleo. She thought and thought and thought, as much as the pain allowed, but she found that deep in her heart, she would've done everything just the same, even if she knew the outcome. She wouldn't have been able to leave Cleo there to bleed out. She wouldn't have been able to flee from the bandits, leaving Cleo alone with them. Cleo wasn't responsible for this.

"Fifty!"

Marla's legs were shaking. She had collapsed several times, but she stood back up each time, determined to represent her people well. She was a Rosario. And Marla Rosario wasn't just going to collapse and faint.

"That's enough," the man said to the crowd. "To the gallows with her."

"Hang her!" the crowd cheered.

"Hang her!"

"Hang her!"

Marla's restraints were cut yet again, and she was dragged to the execution site. Her wrists were bound again, and a noose was slipped over her head. She looked at the crowd of misguided people, people who saw her as a monster, and she tried to forgive. She tried to live up to her mother's teachings. They just didn't know any better. They didn't know.

"I'm sorry, mother," she whispered. "I can't forgive them."

"What are you mumbling?" the man asked roughly, and Marla looked at him, really looked. There was no understanding behind those eyes. No compassion. No emotion but bloodlust.

"Nothing," she said, turning back to the crowd.

"Hang her!"

"Hang her!"

"Whatever was in Cleo's backpack," she shouted, and the yelling died down a little, "whatever she was entrusted with, it's here today because of me. Whatever quest you entrusted her with, it came to fruition because of me. Marla Rosario. Remember that."

The next moment, something hit her in the head. It bounced off, and when Marla looked, she saw that it was a stone. Someone had picked up a stone and thrown it at her.

Others followed.

This was turning into a public stoning instead of hanging.

She didn't know whether to feel grateful or terrified.

The stones rained down at her, and one of them must've hit her too hard in the head, because she lost consciousness, sagging with the noose around her neck.

Everything went black.

"Marla?"

Marla stirred.

"Marla… Please, I promised… I promised I'd keep you safe…"

She recognised that voice.

"Please, wake up. I'm so sorry. I was useless. That's why you got hurt. I never meant for this to happen. Please, Marla, wake up."

"Cleo?" she rasped. Her throat felt awfully dry.

"Marla!"

She opened her eyes, and she saw a very worried Cleo, with some women she didn't recognise. No, she did. They were the healers that took Cleo away. Why were they here with her?

Oh, right. The whipping. The stoning. The hanging. How was she alive?

"You'd better stay lying down," one of the women said. "You're badly concussed."

She did feel a splitting headache and nausea. It made sense, given she was hit in the head with multiple stones.

"But they won't hurt you anymore," Cleo said, grabbing her hand and kissing the back of it. "I promise. They will never hurt you again."

There was a bruise on Cleo's face. It wasn't there after the bandits.

"What happened to your face?" Marla asked quietly. Cleo averted her eyes. "Cleo, what happened? Did someone hit you?"

"What does it matter? They stoned you."

"It matters to me. We're friends, remember?"

"We are. That means I'd be willing to take fifty more punches if it meant you were safe."

"Who did this?"

"It doesn't matter. What matters is that you're safe."

Marla closed her eyes for a moment. Someone had hurt Cleo for defending her. She was sure that was the reason. She was such a useless friend. "What now?" she asked softly, opening her eyes again and looking at Cleo.

"When you're feeling better, you can come talk to my family. Explain to them how your people were wronged. You can talk to others as well. You can explain. I'll be there — I'll make sure they listen."

"I don't know if I want to talk to these people," she mumbled.

"I'll be there. I promise. They can listen, they just… They need time to process. They're brainwashed, remember? Like… Like I was. They just need a little time."

"They hate my guts."

"I hated your guts."

"Cleo, I—"

"Please. I don't want this war to go on between us. I don't want to keep having to hate others. I want peace as much as you and your people. I don't want more deaths. My father, Christy, they didn't have to die. Nobody else has to die."

"Even if I convince the ordinary folk, there's no way the elders—"

"Screw the elders! If they have no one to order into battle, there won't be a battle."

Cleo looked so determined. Marla bit the inside of her cheek. Her back hurt. Her neck hurt. Her whole body hurt. She had almost been killed.

But Cleo wanted peace.

And in the end, wasn't that what she wanted as well?

"Okay," she said. "I'll talk to them. Only if you're by my side."

"I'll never leave your side ever again," Cleo swore, squeezing her hand a little. "You saved me. Not just from the bandits — from my hate. I'll never, ever leave your side again."

Marla closed her eyes. "Okay. We'll… We'll do what we can."

~

Most in the palace would be asleep. The rest would either be guards on patrol outside, or night workers elsewhere.

The knight slowly got to his feet.

Now or never.

His footsteps were silent on the stone floor---leather boots, not his trusty steel, another thing the sorcerer stole away from him---as he crossed the cell to the door.

Putting his hand on the lock, the knight exhaled slowly, focusing his thoughts. He'd spent hours considering this plan, how his curse seemed to operate. How it had unraveled the knots on the ropes until they fell away from his wrists. How it had left patterns where his hands touched.

How it was favored towards the motives of a thief.

"I am not a thief," he whispered.

But he pushed sharply against the door, forcing his anger into the lock.

Frost spread across the wooden surface, swirling into runes and symbols before his eyes.

The prince had once told him that every snowflake was unique. When the droplets of water froze into ice, each formation was different, no two crystals the same.

The curse was not like that. The symbols served a purpose, and some hidden formula guided them into across pre-determined paths. Was it the knight's will that caused them to form in such a script? Or was it the sorcerer's?

The lock clicked.

His breath hitched, heart beginning to race again.

It worked!

...it worked.

The knight shook his head to clear his mind and eased the door open, listening carefully. The corridor greeted him with silence.

So he left.

His step was confident, his destination determined long ago, though he did not recall when he made the decision, exactly. Perhaps it was when he awoke yesterday morning and recognized the room. Perhaps it was after the prince left.

It was certainly made after the sorcerer spoke to him.

At the thought of the sorcerer, his step slowed. Were they watching him at this very moment, hidden in the shadows? Were they residing in his head, peering through his eyes?

If the sorcerer had an opinion on these thoughts, on this decision, they made no comment.

Perhaps they were simply a hallucination, after all.

All the more reason to continue.

The knight quickened his pace. The corridors of the lower palace were familiar, yet foreign. The same worn stones, the same metal sconces, the same wooden beams.

It was the knight who had changed.

All too soon---and not soon enough---the knight reached his destination.

Not the throne room. Not the vaults, or the library. Not his own bunk in the garrison, however much a warm bed appealed to him. It wasn't even a door leading out into the night, where he could disappear forever.

No, the knight slipped into the armory.

The far-off starlight glinted through the tempered glass windows, reflecting off racks and rows of battle-axes and swords, crossbows and knives, morning stars and metal-tipped arrows.

The knight selected a simple dagger from its mount on the wall. He didn't require anything fancy. Like him, it just needed to do its job.

Beneath one of the windows seemed as good a spot as any.

The knight settled against the wall, the stars making a square of light on the ground before him.

He admired the way the light glinted on the hammered steel of the knife in his hand before pressing it against his chest, right about his heart, the point angled between two of his ribs for a swift delivery.

"I am not a thief," he murmured again. "And I am not your puppet!"

Before he could talk himself out of the decision, the knight thrust the knife into his heart.

It sliced through his shirt.

Pierced his skin.

And---

A flash of white.

A burst of freezing cold light erupted from his chest, blinding him.

Something---or someone---tore the knife from his grasp, and it clattered across the stones.

The knight blinked the stars out of his vision, instinctively pressing a hand to his heart.

His skin was intact.

"Well, that was unexpected," the sorcerer said in his ear.

The knight stared down at the hole in his shirt in mute horror.

"Not the attempted suicide part, mind you," the sorcerer clarified. "But rather, the flashiness of your magic defending you."

"It's not my magic!" The knight snapped. Scrambling to his feet, he seized a sword from the nearest rack and moved to fall upon it. Surely gravity would---

A flash of white light.

The sword bent in half.

"Fascinating," the sorcerer mused.

The knight ignored him, this time snatching up an arrow from its quiver and pressing it against hiss throat, above where the markings ended and left bare, vulnerable skin.

The arrowhead snapped off from the force of his hand against the impossibly unyielding flesh.

Unleashing a string of curses, the knight hurled the useless shaft across the room and collapsed back against the window, held upright by the windowsill.

"Oh? Giving up?"

"Please," the knight whispered, voice shaking. "Please let me go. You have to let me go."

The sorcerer hummed softly, but did not reply.

"I will rot in that cell until I die of thirst, if I must."

"If you think that would work, be my guest," the sorcerer said. "But if there was any mortal way out of that curse, believe me, I would have found it."

The knight frowned, the sorcerer's words from during the ritual returning to him.

I was not nearly so coherent when I experienced the same.

You know well the binding power of oaths.

"'Mortal'?" He repeated.

"I have reason to believe your king possesses a relic, hidden away in the royal vaults, that may be the key to reversing the spell."

The knight exhaled slowly, thinking. "How do you know this?"

The sorcerer's voice grew melancholic. "I have tracked the relic across hundreds of years, thousands of miles, for centuries. The histories, both written and oral, say it is so."

"It could have been stolen long ago," the knight said softly. "Or destroyed."

"Perhaps. But we will not know until you look."

The knight folded his arms. Every instinct screamed at him to fight. To try another weapon. To find another way out. Anything but trusting the vile human---if they could even be called that---who had stolen away his mortality.

Finally, he spoke, words forced through gritted teeth.