Page 5 of These Eternal Bones

Lilac it’s a shame she’s infected and riddled with filth.

I could almost imagine a great deal of beauty underneath it all.

Her last moments are no doubt terrified, being nothing more than a toy to the bored fae, my touch pushing what strength she had left from her tired blood.

With the shifting of the wind, everything changes.

My feet pulling me forward at a blinding speed until I’m there, inches from her sweat soaked face, dragging her through my lungs like an addict.

If my heart could beat, no doubt it would still in my chest. All illusions of indifference wiped away with a familiar brutality, a newfound…

hope. The dangerous kind that has never done me any favors.

An aching want that flares to life in my bones.

My dominion had answered a call my soul had not yet heard.

It had reached for her. It knew . The desperation, terror, and rot nearly enough to hide the scent of lilac.

Her tanned skin is mottled with dirt, but I see it clearly, every hue in reddened strips of flesh scraped and raw from her journey here.

She’s light, so very delicate as I gather her in my arms, listening to the frenzied cadence of her heart.

Her fevered flesh pressing against me sets off like a bomb, exhilarating and horrifying, beautiful.

Mine.

Molly

Pain.

The smell of mildew and dust.

Then something heavy and endlessly dark .

I can feel the sick in my throat, but my body won’t listen to my command to sit as I vomit.

Hands.

Gentle and kind, adoring as they rove over every inch of me.

They help until they don’t. I immediately feel their loss deeper than my flesh.

It makes what touches me next far more jarring, that invasion hitting me again, glimpses of the dark, pervasive woods assaulting my brain, but I am far too comfortable for that.

Here, there are no rocks to sink into as I go down.

My blood boils in my veins, my wailing sounding far more feral than the fox.

Am I dead?

I can’t imagine that would feel so terrible. Perhaps I’m in hell then. Perhaps I was wrong to leave home. Wrong to deny him his right.

I ask my sisters for him.

Beg.

Crying for him .

I won’t run this time, if only this will end.

And eventually it does.

My sobs take the place of screams as I force my burning eyes open.

A deep, melodic voice soothes my nerves, humming a familiar song, but I can’t see where it's coming from in the pitch darkness.

I can’t tell who .

Only that it’s hauntingly beautiful, and I never want it to end. That if I am to burn, this is certainly the devil, and his voice is lovely.

My bones feel like they're locked, set in deep stone as I curl on my side, a breathy groan narrating the effort. Burying my face in my pillow, determined to stay in bed until the pounding in my head subsides. Every inch of my body seems to ache and hum in tune with my pulse, my skirts twisting and tangling between my legs, preventing me from stretching like I need to, but none of it is pressing enough to get me to move. It’s the thirst that acts as a catalyst, a reminder that I am nowhere near home.

The fox, the woods, the sounds, and that terrible invasive tugging of my blood. The wrongness of it all hits me like a slap across my sensitive flesh.

The room around me spins as I jolt upward, pink early morning light streaming through a small dirty window above an even dirtier rusting wood stove.

I hiss in pain as I kick at the covers. Just moments ago, they were a comfortable haven, and now they feel like restraints.

My chest tightens, and my head goes light as I stumble into the middle of the wide cottage.

The sound of a chair scraping the floor nearly makes me jump out of my skin until I realize I’d kicked it.

Its position by the bed only further sours my gut. I was alone.

I’ve been alone the whole time.

Right?

The fox…

Giving the small space another quick glance, I jerk up my skirts with trembling hands, staring down at the angry but…

clean and healing cut on my thigh. My bottom hits the bed roughly, making it give a warning creak that has me holding my breath.

The entire place looks dusty and untouched, aged but sturdy.

Cared for but only by reluctant hands. The hole in the roof leaving a wet spot in the wood flooring, and old rugs are piled and scattered around the remnants of what used to be a home .

I’d gotten sick because the cut was infected. I remember how badly it hurt with every step, the nipping of the fox–

No.

The woods…that heavy, oppressive weight. I remember the darkness, how it seemed to writhe and overpower my body.

I had a fever.

I was exhausted and terrified.

Years ago, when brother Artem was little, he’d gotten sick. Scarlet fever our mothers had called it. They’d sobbed and prayed while he thrashed and spoke of things we couldn’t see, his tiny body drenched in sweat.

My eyes slide to the chair now knocked off kilter. “I was sick.”

The hands…

I can feel them still brushing the hair from my face, such a soft touch; my heart gives a little pang at the fact that it wasn’t real.

My body gives me little to work with as I shove to stand, my booted feet dragging as I stumble to the back of the cottage to what must be a bathroom.

The mirror is mottled with filth. Once I reach it, I wrap my hand with my sleeve to clear a spot to see my… clean face.

“I’d cleaned it in the creek,” I assure myself.

Even now, I can hear it bubbling nearby.

I was alone.

I’d always been alone.

Delirious and alone .

Ripping my eyes from my gaunt reflection, I wince, adjusting the bodice of my dress, trying to ease the uncomfortable stabbing between my breasts before I remember my rock.

My fingers are weak and clumsy as I undo the back, digging the sweaty treasure from between my breasts, my smell making bile rise in my throat.

Nothing would come within throwing distance of me right now.

Surely, my stretch alone is an apt repellent, even to me.

It takes a fair bit of snooping, pacing, and deep breaths before I muster up the courage to step outside; the wide clearing in the woods is lightly touched by the most sunlight I think I’ve seen since we docked here.

Tall trees surrounding the clearing on all sides as if they were standing guard.

Hopelessness slams into me so roughly that I bring my arms to my middle, hugging myself as if to keep the pieces together. A thousand thoughts swarm my mind, and yet, I can’t decipher one from the other.

Perhaps the bright side will seem brighter when I don’t smell of decay and excrement.

I scan the dark woods, wary as I make my way to the creek; my body moving with a will of its own.

Desperate to release myself from the disgusting garment, I jerk and pull at my dress like it's on fire, kicking myself for not doing this sooner.

I set my rock carefully on the pile of soiled clothing, shoving the fish incident to the back of my mind as I timidly walk myself into the water, careful not to go too deep.

This is more of a swimming hole than I’ve seen so far, the water deep and inviting.

No wonder someone built a home here; although in the middle of the woods is an odd choice, I can certainly understand the appeal–under the right circumstances, which are not currently mine.

Perhaps they were hiding from someone, too.

Running from something that makes the eerily quiet woods and dreadful weather look like the lesser of two evils.

A gasp leaves my throat as I dunk myself, forcing the water up to my chin.

It’s frigid, my worn body trembling as I scrub furiously at my flesh.

Keeping my thighs tightly together until it’s the last place I’ve got left to clean.

Doing anything about my hair seems like an impossible task, the weight of the matting no doubt adding to my headache.

Oh, the things I would do for a pair of scissors or even a rusty blade right now.

The copper-colored strands look closer to dark brown as I tenuously unknot them from their haphazard braid from days ago.

My pulse jumps, my heart shuddering to a stop as I jerk my head over my shoulder, staring back at the cottage, unable to determine what pulled my attention there.

It’s the same pervasive feeling of otherness…

of being watched that seems synonymous with these woods.

I scream as a fish jumps from the water beside me, making me veer back toward the bank, my foot finding a slick rock that plunges my head underwater.

When I come up, it's with a gasp and a few very unladylike words, resigning to freeze in the shallows until my hair is untangled enough to wash.

Wash being a very loose term, considering I have no soap.