Tales after Dusk 03

A word from AD:

Despite the incredibly cheeky title, this is perhaps one of the saddest stories I have written. Sorry in advance.

AD

*****

WINTER WHITE AND THE SEVEN WHORES

The evening air is cold and sharp as the last warmth of fall gives way to its successor. The rough hand of the huntsman bites into Winter's wrist as he is half dragged among the fallen leaves, deeper into the forest than he has ever ventured before. He is frightened; tears roll down his porcelain child face while his muffled cries come out in a puff of smoke like a dragon. The large man shoves him down to the ground. He pauses, towering over Winter like a demon, cloaked in darkness. He pulls a knife from his belt.

"I'm sorry about this boy, but orders are orders. I need to take your heart," though the words seem regretful, the seasoned killer speaks them with little remorse.

"Please," Winter begs; he shivers uncontrollably against the cold night though his body feels nothing other than fear. His tiny voice whispers, "Please, I will run into the woods and never come back."

The huntsman hovers over him, knife suspended in the air. Looking down upon the young boy with skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood and hair as black as night, he knows that there is no way for him to survive this evil forest or the wretched, long winter. He knows that the boy he ripped out of the safety of his warm bed, amidst a sweet dream, who is only dressed in his sleeping gown will not last the night. The huntsman sheathes his knife, turning his back to the child, "Run and never come back."

...

Daphne leans back against the large black tree behind her. She looks up through its still green leaves which filter the sunlight from shining directly on her, capturing its warmth for themselves, leaving the grown below shaded from both light and snow. She stifles a yawn with one hand, drawing in a large breath of icy winter air, running the other over her long bow. Her fingers trace the intricately carved familiar designs as they have many times before. Passed down in her family over several generations, the bow is made from a branch fallen from the very tree she leans against; its value is beyond measure as the Spirit of the Forest never idly sheds a flower or a leaf and only on one other occasion has parted with a limb.

In her full size form, Daphne is taller than most sylvans though when compared to a human female she would be considered petite. Her features are similar to the rest of her race-she shares the same sun kissed golden skin, thick chunky brown, unruly hair with a pair of fuzzy moth-like antennae jutting out of the front and a jewel-like circle on her forehead but unlike everyone else, her eyes are an uncanny, vibrant new leaf green instead of an earthy brown. Though, like their human counterparts, Sylvans vary in size and shape, their main distinguishing feature are their wings as the rest of their appearance generally lacks much variety. Like her eyes, Daphne inherited her wing shape from her mother: a large, thick pair of swallowtails. But their color—that she got from her father and it is one unique solely to his family tree—starting with the deepest of black at the top, they fade into a bright blue by the bottom and are accented with tiny speckles of white.

With the exception of their antenna and wings, sylvans appear human. Some say that at one point they shared a common ancestor, others say that the destructive nature of the humans caused the evolution of the sylvans, or that the human race started from an outcaste sylvan who had his antenna and wings removed before being banished. Regardless of how any of them came into being, in the eyes of the humans, the sylvans are no more than a myth, a make believe story meant to frighten children of the dangers of the forest and warn the adults of wastefulness. And that is just how they prefer it.

After spending three quarters of her life in fairy form, just as all of her people do, she has found these past few months as a full size creature a little taxing. As the guardians of the forest, sylvans normally spend three seasons as a tiny fairy tending to the trees, while their one full sized season is spent protecting their home fortress. Though her normal off season is winter, at the beginning of fall she returned to the fortress with the rest of the eligible female sylvans for the Awakening of the Spirit.

When the summer comes to an end, the Spirit secretes a bright red liquid from which all women must drink. Once the last has had a sip, the Spirit chooses a new High Priestess. The color of her jeweled eye changes from gold to red, at which time the marking of the Priestess appears on her forehead. It is then her duty to remain full sized for a year, to protect the Spirit. She remains within eyesight of the tree at all times, even sleeping under it at night. When her time is up, her third eye returns to gold, but her markings remain for the rest of her life so that other sylvans know she has served her time.

At the end of summer Daphne returned from the forest for the first time as she had just reached eligibility at the age of sixty-seven sets of seasons; though to a human that would be a long life time, as a sylvan she has just finally reached adulthood. None were as surprised as she when it was her third eye that turned red soon followed by the thick black markings of the High Priestess on her forehead. Usually the Spirit picks an older, more mature woman, one who has already found a mate and perhaps had a few offspring. While Daphne was looking forward to the thought of being courted all winter, she now has put any notion of it out of her head for her duty is to protect the Spirit at all costs, even if that means her life is to be forfeit.

Daphne's antennae flicker, picking up the vibrations of quiet, even footsteps behind her as they draw closer. As stealthily as possible, she notches an arrow. Then with one fluid, swift movement she draws it back while whipping her body around.

"Nice try, Adras," she says casually, as she knew it was him, just as it always is him. He sees it as a challenge to catch her off guard.

With a slightly crooked smile, he bows after finally making his way to her, "Hello, High Priestess."

Daphne releases the tension on her bow before loosening the arrow and placing it back into her quiver. She looks at the large, handsome sylvan before her, surprised to find him fully dressed in golden armor, "I see congratulations are in order," she says as she offers a small smile, "You've been promoted?"

"Yes, thank you. I am now Fall and Winter Head of the Home Guard," though he does so unintentionally, his posture straightens and his chest puffs out just a little.

"Well done," she says with a genuine smile, her eyes wandering over him, "Do you think you'll miss it? One less season in the woods, I mean."

"Oh, a little, I suppose. I think it would be harder if I had a mate," he adds, eyeing her curiously.

Daphne appraises him for a moment; Adras, though several sets of seasons older than her, has made it a point to spend time with her every day that she has been serving as Priestess. Everyone knows he has had his eye on her for a while and while he had the full intention of courting her come winter since she has reached the age of eligibility, the fact that she is now the Priestess has complicated his plans. Regardless of the situation, he is still the only man brave enough to attempt a partial courting while she is on duty; though many want to, all of them lack the resolve to do so.

"Yes, I suppose it would be, though whoever she is will be lucky enough to call you her mate," Daphne says softly, as she motions to the large boulder in front of her. Adras would make anyone a great companion and Daphne should jump at the opportunity, yet something in her heart tells her that while she could be happy with Adras, there is more to her life than just that.

He returns her smile, sitting down on the boulder, "And how are you finding your duty today?"

She laughs, "About the same as yesterday, the day before that and the day before that. It kind of makes you wonder if we just do this out of tradition. Father paints a bleak picture of the maybes but what is the actual possibility that someone could raid this fortress and cause harm?"

Adras doesn't share in her joke, rather his expression causes Daphne to stop laughing immediately. He lowers his voice with his gaze, a slight frown on his handsome tan face, "I know I shouldn't feed into rumor, but...there is one circulating about a forest a several realms south from here."

Her brows furrow, "Oh?"

"Yes," he nods, "apparently they were invaded by—by an evil force. It came upon them so suddenly; no one had any time to prepare. It killed their Spirit just as winter started. Whatever attacked them also managed to wipe out almost all of the sylvans. Their land now remains in a perpetual winter; most of the animals and humans left because they couldn't adapt—only a brave few remained."

"That's horrible," Daphne frowns, "Surely, that can't be true?"

"I hope it isn't," Adras replies.

They sit in silence for a moment, Adras eyeing her carefully.

"Say, Daphne," he says softly, "I am sure that by now you know of my intentions." He shifts awkwardly in his armor, "I know that I am quite a bit older than you and that you will have many offers. With you becoming the High Priestess so young, it almost goes to show that you are wise beyond your years. I guess what I am trying to say is, that...I'd like you to be my mate." After the words finally come out, he takes a deep breath and looks back up at her.

Daphne is shocked yet intrigued by his forwardness. After a moment, a small smile grows on her lips. She opens her mouth to speak—but something catches her eye. Over Adras's shoulder, in the distance, she sees a dark wisp of smoke rolling in over the fresh coat of white snow. Her brow furrows curiously; Adras, sensing her distress, turns around.

Immediately he jumps to his feet and screams, "Weapons at the ready!" In a flash of brown wings, he is gone.

Daphne scrambles up, notching an arrow and drawing it back as she steps out a few feet from the Spirit's canopy. Body tense and ready for action, she remains still just as every other sylvan, as they watch the cloud of smoke puddle in the courtyard. It begins to drift up towards the sky, twisting and writhing almost as if in pain. Without warning, the cloud explodes, launching thousands of wicked, evil creatures outward but leaving behind a tall, pale man dressed in black.

Daphne doesn't hesitate as she lets loose the first arrow, quickly replacing it with another and another. No matter how many kill shots she lands, each creature breaks into a wisp of smoke only to solidify once the arrow has passed. There is utter chaos as sylvans go darting by, both in the air and on the ground. Full sized sylvans get engulfed in a black cloud, only to immerge as a crumpled pile in the snow.

As cloud beasts touch the ground they seem to solidify, so Daphne trains her arrows at them, killing dozens only to have them replaced by more twofold. When she runs out of arrows, Daphne draws her sword and begins slicing the wicked beasts, slicing of heads from bodies, mounding up the corpses around the base of the Spirit. Out of the corner of her eye she spots the man, rolling towards her on a cloud of black smoke.

With a great flap of her wings, Daphne leaps high into the air. Using all of the force she can muster, she comes crashing down to the ground, hard enough to send a shock wave outwards from the Spirit, throwing hundreds of beasts backwards but it has no effect on the man. She steadies herself, raising her sword as reaches her. She swings with all of her might but faster than she can strike him down he backhands her, his strength far more than his stature suggests. Daphne falls backwards, unable to flap her wings in time to prevent her head from hitting the boulder.

Everything grows black.

...

When her eyes open she feels nauseous. It takes a few moments for the sound to connect with the images she sees before her but once it hits she cries out in agony. Hundreds of sylvan bodies lie around her, some completely dead, some half dead, some missing body parts. As their usefulness dissipates, the black shadow creatures disappear into a puff of smoke. Daphne tries to get up too quickly and the earth tilts beneath her feet. She stumbles forward, crashing onto her knees only to see the most horrific sight of all; the Spirit of the Forest cut clean from its base. The grand tree lies on its side, lifeless branches broken off onto the ground leaving only a short stump in its place.

She lets out a wail, half in agony half in rage. Beyond the stump, down the path that leads into the open fortress doors she sees the evil wizard just beside the thrones. Below him lies the crumpled body of the Sylvan King, his wings—black at the top, fading into a bright blue and adorned with white specks—are bent at horrifying angles. Failing in his hand is the throat of the Queen, her thick swallowtails flapping furiously as she tries to get away.

Despite the tilting earth below her Daphne rises to her feet and stumbles down the walk as quickly as she can manage, grabbing an arrow out of a dead body as she makes her way to the fortress door. She loses her footing and though the world tips around her, she draws back her bow and lets it loose with all of the vengeance in her soul. As it leaves her fingertips she crashes to her knees, watching it pierce the heart of the wizard with true precision.

At first he looks shocked, staggering back a few steps with the force of the arrow but a wicked smile grows on his face. His hand slowly constricts around the Queen's throat; she reaches out desperately for Daphne. Through the tears in her eyes, Daphne watches as the life seeps from her mother's body before she too lies crumpled on the ground next to her father.

The wizard lets out a wicked laugh, pulling the arrow from his chest before snapping it into two, "That would have been a good shot, if I had a heart."

Daphne roars in agony, grabbing a sword from the ground before leaping into a run toward the man. He waits patiently for her to reach him. He draws back his arm as before and swings at the sylvan; she ducks, learning her lesson, before she swings the sword with all of her might at his arm. Slicing it clean off near the shoulder, the wizard cries out in pain. Instead of trying to fight her, he clenches his remaining hand into a fist, flicking his fingers outward. His black magic throws her down to the ground, where he plants his foot into the middle of her back.

She twists her head around in time to see another arm sprout from the stub that she left behind. The horrific, twisted limb reminds her of an infected tree, gnarled and ugly. He wiggles his new fingers, looking down at her wings. Slowly, a wicked smile crosses his dark face when he sees the Priestess markings on her forehead, "Oh, this is too perfect. Well, my dear, it is your lucky day. You will come home with me," he says almost gently as his strokes her wings. He suddenly grips one tight, sending pain shooting into her back, "I have the perfect task for you-but I can't have you flying away on me."

The smile remains on his lips as he rips the wing off of her back. Daphne screams in agony, the pain sending white streaks into her vision.

"One down, one to go," he says giddily. He grabs the other wing and tears it away from her body.

Daphne clenches her mouth shut, panting; the rage inside of her is the only thing that keeps her from blacking out. As soon as he removes his foot from her back, she tries to crawl to her sword. Thick wisps of black smoke take the shape of two men, each grabbing her arm and yanking her up. She bites down on her lip to keep from crying out in pain.

"Now now, I won't have any of that," the wizard says, shaking his finger at her. He drifts out of the fortress, the men dragging Daphne behind her. She tries to look around, but all she sees is death everywhere. She spots Adras, struggling to get out from underneath a collapsed hut. When his eyes land on her, he looks as if his heart is breaking.

The wizard stops in the middle of the courtyard; he puts his hands together before him, like in a prayer. They begin to glow a dark, dark purple. Slowly he spreads them apart, the quivering ball of light hovering in between them. With a loud yell, he clenches his hands into fists, sending the purple light bolting from his body, the shockwave hitting everything around them.

Daphne looks over to Adras; the expression is etched on his stone face. Frantically she looks around, only to see more stone bodies where there should be sylvans-yet she is alive. As her eyes fall on the Spirit of the Forest, she can't contain the sob in her chest, "No," she cries.

"As punishment for my arm, Priestess, I will let you live. Death cannot compare to the loneliness of knowing you are the last of your kind, it cannot compare to knowing that there will never be another spring, summer or fall."

As she looks up to the wizard, her anguish finally overcomes her and she blacks out.

...

Daphne presses the dull spoon in her hand against the wall, making a single scratch. Quickly adding up the marks, she sighs, trying not to let the depression drag her down today. It has been almost a year since she has seen another living creature, since her feet have touched soil or she has breathed fresh air-almost a year since she has felt the sun on her face, the wind in her hair or flown through the trees. In the bowels of whatever castle she is in, it is hard to keep track of time. The only way she is able to do so is by the magical appearance of food on the rough metal desk. By the looks of it, it must be morning; a metal bowl contains oatmeal, there is a glass of milk and a slice of bread.

When she first arrived, she was in a tower for a full week; it had a window. Though it was made from cold stone and splintery dead wood, it didn't take long before she managed to flag down a passing bird, who brought her an acorn. With what small amount of water she had she coaxed the tree out of the hard shell and used her sylvan charms to grow it beyond the size of the room and break down the door. She didn't make it very far though, and after that, she was thrown into this metal room. By the cool temperature, she knows she must be underground.

Begrudgingly, she eats the oatmeal to quiet her angry stomach. Every night as she lies down to rest she prays that she will not wake up again but each day she does. Every day she recounts her last conversation with Adras, relives each moment of her last day in the forest, wondering what would have happened if she did this or that differently. She quietly sings to herself, reciting every poem and story she can recall, to stave off dementia.

She finishes her oatmeal and milk, saving the slice of bread for later. Daphne stretches her arms above her head, fingers grabbing the metal covered ledge that hangs from the ceiling. Then, just as she has done every day since she arrived, she pulls herself up and lowers herself back down, repeating the motion until her arms quake and give in. She rests her back against the wall, sliding down it as if she were sitting in a chair and tightens her thigh muscles, trying to keep up her strength. The only thing that keeps her going is the fact that she knows someday though maybe not anytime soon, she will get out of here and when she does, she will do whatever she can to kill the wizard.

Daphne looks down at her hands clasped before her, in her lap. Around her wrists are dark shadows that almost look like bruises. As her brow furrows at the curious sight, a pair of iron shackles appears around them. Daphne staggers to her feet, shocked when she looks up to see the wizard standing in her cell.