The true panic, wariness settles in come next morning. The thin sheets pool around her sweat covered body. The light floods her room, warm against her already flaming skin. The remnants of her dream cling to her, yet its contents remain lost to her. She only remembers moss, the smell of wet dirt. It clings to her like a phantom, weights her down with something. Her throat closes up even more as she realizes that she is trapped here, in a mansion full of wolves. She is caged with people that feed from the living. Here, the Old Ones surely cannot protect her and she thinks of bolting from the room. She wants to run as far and as long as her legs can carry her. The thought dies the moment Delphine enters the room. The maid watches Harlow with that kind of focus that makes her squirm with uneasiness.
“You may leave, after the mistress has made the arrangements, but running from the mansion now is strictly forbidden. Some of the maidens underestimate their wounds and faint upon leaving the mansion.”, the handmaiden’s eyes wander to the bandages still wrapped around Harlow’s neck.
She thinks the Delphine must have often witnessed humans trying to escape the wolves. Harlow cannot fathom why the woman stays, why any of the other women not claimed by the night would stay. They are human, not festering like corpses from the inside out. Their hearts beat, yet none of them are terrified and it irks her. She is scared, her pulse a feeble little thing fluttering in her veins. She is scared of what punishment running from them might bring, though the notion of staying terrifies her more. Noticing that Delphine is waiting for her reaction, Harlow merely nods dumbly.
Wordlessly, the maid begins to lead her through the mansion. The pair walks past the throne room, deeper into the belly of the house until they reach a heavy oak door. The woman knocks once. The door opens. Mistress and servant speak in hushed tones before Delphine bows and takes her leave. Cool fingers wrap around Harlow’s thin wrist. She is pulled into the room before she can protest.
Relics and bookshelves fill three of the walls. Somewhere in between she thinks she might spot a desk, but it it is difficult to tell with all the notes strewn around. The only place free of anything appears to be the row of enormous windows with dark, stained glass opposite of the door. Sunlight is leaking in, but it is painted by dark reds and violets. The queen sized bed is surrounded by books and manuscripts. The red satin sheets are barely visible underneath it all. Then again, Harlow assumes that the mistress never sleeps all too much. Do the wolves sleep at all?
The other woman is still wearing the same garments as she did yesterday. The mistress’ free hand slips upwards to graze the bandage. Harlow shivers, from fear or leftover pleasure, she does not know.
“The wound marks you. It would be foolish to leave. You would be met with nothing but unkindness.” The word sounds cold to a degree. A certain possessiveness swings within them as well, as if Harlow is not her own person anymore.
It makes her stomach churn with repressed anger. Still, she does not manage to speak. Instead she finds herself overwhelmed, always overwhelmed by standing in front of such a pristine creature. Warning bells flare to life within her mind. They have been wrong, all of them. There are no wolves, only those living and the dead who feed from them, like they are kettle. She presses her back against the door. The handle painfully digs into her side. Harlow does not care. If she did not die in the forest, the Old Ones must have plans for her, a greater meaning to her existence. She knows that if she stays, she will surely die.
The silence stretches between them, uncomfortable and thick. The mistress merely watches her. It is unsettling to be under such scrutiny. An answer is expected of her, but there is none that she can give. The fear she experiences is old, developed through stories upon stories in her childhood. The dead will feast on you. They will turn you into a child of the night as well. They will steal you away and never let you return. She was terrified as a child and she is terrified now when the stories push back to the surface.
The mistress does not stop her when Harlow stumbles out of the room on shaky legs. Her breathing is shallow. She feels trapped. She will only be allowed to leave if the mistress sees it fit. By all means she is a prisoner and the only reprieve she finds is the light of the rising sun fighting its way into the mansion through thick curtains. Where a new day breathes life into her, it seems to steal the life away from the mansion itself.
She quickens her pace. If she were to escape now, they would not be able to follow her. They cannot step into the light, for it will surely burn them.
Harlow finds her way through the winding hallways, hiding behind corners now and then when the unfamiliar noises startle her. She does make it to the outside eventually. The forest stretches out before her. It is vast, towering over her as she possibly stumbles from one cage to yet another.
The sun guides her. She follows it through the forest, knowing the light will protect her from the creatures that lurk in the dark. Hours upon hours she walks, only spotting another sign of life when the sun has begun its descent once more. The village in the clearing sticks out like a sore thumb. It does not belong here, with its fence made of wooden spikes. Harlow knows, the forest might belong to the dead, but it is not one to attack the living. Her stomach clenches and she realizes that she has not eaten anything since she ran from home. She will have to be dependent on the goodwill of these villagers. She will have to hope and pray that they will not see her as a threat to their believes.
Harlow stumbles through the small gate at the front, shoulders heaving with each breath she takes. Those spit out by the forest are never to be trusted, she knows from the way the villagers eye her. They are suspicious of her intentions, almost expecting her to go on a rampage if they even dare to do so much as blink. They surround her, sneering. They have not thrown matches at her yet. Harlow thinks it an improvement from home. The mayor steps in front of her. He is a young man, the sigil of the Eternal Light pinned to his heavy coat. He looks like a boy in his father's clothes. Still, the people will follow his judgment. She will have to convince him, if she ever is to find safety within this part of the forest.
“What has lead to you straying into our part of the forest, with such strange bandages nonetheless?”, the mayor’s voice is gruff, his gaze sharp.
Harlow swallows, thinks about how far honesty has brought her home and then she lies. “Raiders have attacked my village. They almost tore through my throat. It is a rather gruesome sight and I would prefer to spare the children.”
She holds her breath as the mayor regards her. “You may stay for now.”, he mutters, turning towards the villagers. “Anja, you are to watch her. Make certain this stranger does not stray.”
A thin woman steps forward, her clothes slightly too big for her small frame. She bows, dirty blond hair covering hazel eyes.
“Yes, of course.”, even her voice is meek, submissive. Harlow sees herself in the woman. It makes her sick.
Still, she allows the other woman to pull her aside. The villagers still stare at them, at Harlow. She hopes that with time they might begin to tolerate her. It is all she asks for as of now. She cannot go home and the forest is for the dead. She does not belong here, a soul trapped within the skin stretched over ancient bones. It all feels so wrong, but it is still her and she might grow to tolerate it among those people.
Anja leads her to a house a little off from the rest. It is smaller, a little shabbier. The door opens and dust greets them. Harlow tries her best not to cough. Though, the irony of the situation is not lost on her. An old, forgotten home is given to her. They must hope they can forget her just like that.
“Old Edith used to live here. Before the Eternal Light took over.” The blonde's eyes are cast to the ground. She seems fearful to speak about it.
Harlow thinks Edith might have been like her mother, a woman speaking to the old ones, a woman who knows the forest. They call them witches now. They kill them for their disbelief in the light.
“I will take the bedroom down here, there should be another just up the stairs.” With that Anja disappears.
Harlow thinks she must scare her. She is a stranger after all. She rubs the back of her neck, sighs and makes her way upstairs. The bedroom is no different than the room she found herself in upon entering this house. The drapes on the windows are old, riddled with holes. She fears the dust on the bed might choke her if she is not careful. This house is empty, devoid of life. Restoring it will give her something to focus on besides the throbbing wound on her neck. She might even be able to find herself along the way. She might find the reason why the Old Ones did not let her die within the forest.
First she begins to clean. Harlow is thankful for the nearby stream. She can escape the villager’s judgment just a little longer this way. The drapes and blankets are washed and despite being in a poor state, they will do until Harlow can find ways to mend them. Anja seems to stay away from her. On occasion she can feel the other woman’s eyes on her, observing. She does not comment on it. There is no reason for it. Anja will watch her and if Harlow ignores her long enough, she might forget she is even there. She will always have to keep in mind to never reveal her neck, but with how much distance the blonde keeps from her, it will not be all too hard.
Dreams still haunt her sleep. She finds herself within the forest, unable to move. Something presses against her ribcage until she bows over in heaving coughs. Bloodied petals spill from her lips. They litter the ground and it looks hauntingly beautiful. She realizes too late that it is wolfs-bane that she is choking on. Her limbs feel heavy, her heart stutters and suddenly she jolts awake in her bed. Harlow feels cold all over. She does not know if her mind is messing with her or if this is supposed to be some sort of warning. Her dreams have never allowed her to dies before. She glances towards the window, notes the blackness of the night. She is too awake to go back to sleep. Harlow does not even know if she would go back to it, to the dream, if she could. Lately everything leaves her anxious or scared of what is to come her way.
To forget it, she tries to bring routine into her life at the village. As long as she keeps her mind occupied long enough, Harlow will not have to think about the dreams, the wolves or the people so ready to burn her alive. Inserting herself into the life of others is easy. She merely has to keep her head low and nod along. The villagers easily accept this version of her. Each day the entire village holds a shared meal. They pray, pay respects to a deity that presumably protects them. It can be grating sometimes, how devoted they are to something they do not seem to fully understand. Still, this routine is something she might get used to with enough time. Sometimes she joins the prayers, even though the words make bile rise in the back of her throat. They burned her mother and sisters to those prayers as their father watched. Sometimes Harlow thinks she should have been the first to burn. She never knew things, like her sisters, like her mother. The world would have been able to carry such a loss. A soul that does not know its purpose has no meaning to it. There would have been meaning to her own death maybe, where the deaths of her kin had been meaningless.
The dreams only get worse after she seems to settle in. She chokes on wolfs-bane more often now, until she is used to awaking with the pressure in her ribcage. She thinks that might be the end to them. The lilac petals stop spilling from her lips and she feels relief wash over her as nothing happens in the dreams that follow. It is a short reverie.
Red campions grow from her veins, root her to the ground until all she smells is the wet earth. Aspen trees begin to grow from her bones each night. Harlow does not wake with a certain pressure in her ribcage anymore, instead if feels like her being is too big for her body. Her skin is uncomfortably stretched across her bones. It feels restricting, suffocating.
She feels dead. Her thoughts often wander to the mark on her neck whenever the prayers of the villagers turn towards the wolves. They cling to the belief that it will protect them. They forget that the hunger of the dead is endless, all consuming. One day they will be overrun like everyone else. They should learn to fear the dark once more, maybe beg the moon to protect them instead. Still, the days pass and the wound on her neck never stops itching.
Anja has stopped hiding from her, but the silent staring is no better. Harlow is watched at any given moment now. It is after she speaks of the Old Ones once. The villagers have turned, not hateful, but more wary after that. She hears the word witch uttered a few times, though their eyes never stray to her. Instead they seem to watch Anja. The woman always shrinks back into herself when they do. Harlow thinks she might have been one of the few people left to speak with the Old Ones. The blonde certainly seems more at peace this close to the forest, than any of them ever could. The villagers must despise Anja, where Harlow envies her. To have a place for your soul to feel at ease, if only for a little. It must be divine. Though Anja is paying the price for it as well, half an outcast now. Sometimes she wishes to ask the woman if she has the dreams as well, if it runs in their bloodlines. The blonde always averts her eyes. She never replies and Harlow stops trying after a week. The new religion has made way for violence and fear. She sees it in the fire always burning within the village, sees it in the broken eyes of the woman watching her. However, most of all she sees it in the wariness of the young major. He is a boy, truly, with his soul running ragged as he repeats the words of passing priests. He does not know what all of it means and therefore his people will never know. It is a cycle, one she cannot break. None of them can.
The marks on her neck keep itching. They ache until she wants to tear off her skin.
One day, when she cannot bear the sensation anymore, Harlow rips off the bandages. She touches the sensitive skin, feels it pulse beneath her fingertips. It has healed and scared over. She assumes that it must still look visible, the bright pink scar tissue against her freckled skin. She swallows nervously, replays the night in her head. Why had she liked it back then, despite the prominent danger? Was the possibility of death making her delirious? Is something wrong with her? She might never know, for lack of answers or the fear of finding them in the first place.
When Harlow tries to hastily bandage her neck once more it is already too late. The front door is pushed open. Anja gasps, terrified and for a moment they both look lost on what to do. For a moment she thinks not all will be lost within this very moment, hopes that the other woman will hide this from the villagers like she hides her connection to the forest.
And then Anja screams.
Harlow now understands what the mistress meant when she let her go. She is marked. She belongs to the dead now rather than the living, even when there is still a heart beating in her chest.
ns 15.158.61.20da2
