Some say that she was already cast out as a child. Others say she was cast out when she turned into a woman, a spark in her chest and embers on her fingertips. They said she swallowed coals and spit out flames to spite them in the name of the witches. In fact, she has never been anything else than a believer, like her mother used to be before they drowned her in the name of the Eternal Light. They did not touch Harlow afterwards, after the storm had torn down their church. They think she still carries the fury of the Old Ones with her. Sometimes Harlow thinks they are right to fear her. They have forsaken the Old Ones and she alone carries the belief in their village now. She holds power, sometimes at least. It shows in the way people look at her, wary, but careful.
Still they throw their matches at her, hoping she would catch fire, hoping they could cleanse her in their false belief of faith.
"Bitch." They scream.
"Witch." They snarl.
Harlow thinks she might be both. She has allowed them to use her, has spit at them with words that burn. She knows they have condemned her even before she left her mother's womb to stumble from one cage to another. Even as a child, when the Eternal Light first took hold, they asked things of her in sweet voices. Asked if she were to be like her mother. They turned their backs to the old gods and let her mother rot for clinging to her belief. She should hate them, all of them. Maybe she does, but even a woman dubbed a witch can only do such much when facing a village ready to burn her. They fear her. It is what keeps her alive as of now, if only barely. There is no magic to her blood. She is not one to bargain with the fair folk, she is no true child of nature. She knows the plants and the trees, but the forest has never been theirs. It belongs to the dead. The wolves in human skin.
Yet, she has heard tales that the forest can be kind. At least, if it is a quick death that you seek. The dead are hungry. They will tear you apart if given the chance. No man has ever returned from the forest, no man dares to stray from the roads through them. There are rules they keep. The rules of the dead are followed closely, as the rules of the living decay. Harlow finds no joy in living. Her father has joined the Eternal Light, her sisters will burn, he says. The brunette assumes, that if she is to die, she will do so on her own terms. With the Old Ones watching and passing their judgment.
Late at night, with the moon high above her, she leaves for the forest. The cold crawls up her skin, seeps into her bones. Maybe she will freeze to death before they find her. She hopes it. The people say the venom burns you from the inside out with how vile it is. She is not curious to find out how it might feel. Maybe they will snap her neck should they find her earlier. Maybe the forest will take her first. Harlow prays one last time, hoping the Old Ones will understand. She has not been strong enough, with no one left, she felt lonely. Within the void she might be able to at least join them for eternity.
Her limbs grow heavy. Her lips turn blue. Her breath rattles in her chest, cold and aching. Her skin stretches over her bones. She feels uncomfortable. She thinks dying must be. It is a curious thing, to feel your life force weaken like a flame struggling against a storm. She herself knows it is futile, but her spirit remains strong. Like it has not caught up yet. It does not know that she wants to leave this earthly shell behind to decay on the forest floor. She imagines it, the flowers growing from her ribcage, the moss and bark covering her face. More witch than she has ever been human, even if only in her departure.
She craves her ending, she realizes. Without meaning, what need is there for her to fight. Let the wolves have her. She will serve them well. A wolf in human skin does find her. Harlow’s lips twitch into a smile, cracking open from the cold. Her own blood feels scalding against her skin. It will end. It will all finally end.
Only that it does not end there. She wakes beneath a silk blanket, her hand tracing the spotless skin on her neck. She is sure that she should have died, but there is no wound on her neck. She does not feel cold anymore. It is strange and for a moment she feels angry that she has been denied release. Even in a life where she never asked for much she is refused her only request. Harlow assumes that is simply another twist of fate to keep her caged.
The woman finds herself staring back at herself from the mirror hanging on the other side of the room. She looks misplaced within such an expensive room. Her black hair is tangled, clothes hanging from her overly thin frame like rags. She does not belong here, yet she is here for some reason. The door slides open, quiet steps filling the room until she meets the eyes of a maid. The woman seems young, though old age shines in her eyes. Harlow asks herself if she too is a wolf hidden within human skin.
“Since you are awake, the mistress wishes to see you.” The maid sounds stern, not terrified of the one she calls mistress. Harlow swallows nervously, but still slips out of bed. She does not dare argue with the wolves. She realizes that she is scared of death, facing them so suddenly.
The pristine walls of this foreign place are filled with them, snapping and snarling. They must be hungry for fresh blood. She does not dare to look them in the eye. They must smell her fear. She refuses to give them the satisfaction of seeing it upon her face. Still, her body shivers as their gazes rake over her. Harlow asks herself if the one they call mistress will be different, if her gaze will remain hungry yet kind. At least she hopes so, prays for someone to see behind the human shell. It gets tiring after all these years, to have her own soul confined. She feels her skin stretched across her bones and so often does it feel wrong. It is not her, maybe not even this body belongs to her.
The mistress sits atop an iron throne. The room itself is cold. Heavy curtains keep the fading sunlight out, basking the entire room in a deep shade of red. She thinks it fitting, albeit a little cliché. The woman is stretched over the satin of her seat, swirling a glass of wine in her hand. Ashen hair spills over exposed shoulders, clinging to the skin. Harlow swallows nervously. She does not dare stare, not with the gaggle of women almost sprawled out before their mistress. They giggle and grin, eyes hidden behind curtains of long hair. The woman knows they must be speaking about her, craving to tear her throat out to have a feast. The cold of the room creeps up, up, up her spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
Pale silver eyes turn towards her, studying her. There is some sort of odd curiosity reflected within them. That gaze slowly turns towards the maid. The glass of wine is brought to her mouth, some of it spilling over ashen lips. The mistress lazily wipes at the droplets, leaving a smear of red behind.
“You did well to bring her to me, Delphine. You may leave now.” The words have a pleasant ring, as sweet as honey, though there is a rougher note to them as well.
The maid, Delphine, nods and leaves after a curt bow. Harlow is left with the mistress and the dozens of women mingling with her. The eyes are back on her as she nervously fiddles with the hem of her shirt. Languidly, the mistress slips off her throne, her long dress dragging across the floor as she steps closer on naked feet. Her wineglass is easily discarded as she goes, one of the women eagerly snatching it before it can fall. A pale hand reaches forward, icy fingers ghosting over Harlow’s cheek. They slip under her chin, tilt her face up, to the sides. The mistress keeps studying her, humming to herself once or twice.
Harlow feels her heart beat against its confines. Her breathing grows shallow. Her eyes are squeezed shut. She stands before a true wolf, someone who could tear her throat out if they so desired. Instead, the hand on her face remains gentle, yet firm. She is not dying today and the brunette does not know what to think.
“Look at me, lamb.” Again that voice with its pleasant ring.
Harlow dares to meet the mistress’ gaze. It is hypnotizing and she feels herself getting lost in the silvery pools. Fingernails trace her throat, leaving goosebumps in their path. The mistress swallows, eyes dilating. Her hands wander to the human’s shoulders, gripping her tightly as she lowers her face to the crook of her neck. Something sharp grazes Harlow’s skin and she startles. Though, she cannot escape now. She is still unsure if she even wants to. Maybe there is a meaning to her demise. A cool tongue swipes over the exposed spot, teeth breaking the skin shortly after. Harlow hisses at the pleasant sting it brings. Her short fingernails dig into the mistress’ forearm as she tries to keep herself from floating away. The notion of having someone drink her blood directly from its source is oddly satisfying.
She succumbs fully as that tongue laps at the wound. Her head lolls to the side, granting the other woman more access to what she desires so deeply.
Her thoughts spiral deeper and deeper with every second that passes until there is nothing, but the sensation. She goes slack in the other woman’s arms, a shaky breath freeing itself from her throat. She wants more, always more, but the mistress stops just shortly before this intoxicating feeling can rob her of all senses. The pressure on her throat vanishes, a finger tracing the punctures there. Harlow’s eyes immediately focus on the lips of the other woman. They are a lovely shade of red and for a moment she questions how it might feel to taste her own blood upon them. The brunette sways a little, her knees weak, her body relaxed.
“So obedient. You might become my new favorite taste.” The mistress licks her lips, pupils blown wide. She appears just as affected as Harlow herself, though it does not show as much. Still, the other woman draws back from her, distancing herself.
The brunette wants more, still does not want it to end. She can endure until her body gives out, only for the sensation to last a while longer. The woman staggers forward, her legs buckling underneath her own weight before she can even get close to the mistress. She is caught still, cold hands steadying her by the shoulder. Once more her face is twisted to the side as the other woman examines her throat.
“Take her to Delphine. Have her rest and properly bandaged. When she comes to herself again, dress her properly, then have her send to me.” That voice takes on a commanding tone.
Several pairs of hands steady her now, only some of them cold to the touch. Harlow feels herself being lead out of the room, through the winding halls of the mansion as the other women chatter on about how well the mistress will take care of her now. She barely notices when she is back in the room she awoke. The loose garment is slipped over her head, replaced by something a little more fitting. Her throat is bandaged by gentle hands. Though, no matter how gently and carefully she is put to rest, her mind remains restless even in her sleep. The sensations of that day have latched onto her, begging her to chase that high again.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
