I lay in my bed, eyes open and staring at the loose, airy, and exposed roof slats. It’s been two years since my Father died and we still couldn’t afford to fix our roof. Mother and I don’t have the know-how to, either. And it’s not like some well-meaning villager would help teach us. I had tried using clay from the nearby bog, but all it did was stink up the house and stain our stone floors bright orange. You’re apparently supposed to add something to the clay to make it stick and hold its shape. I’m still working on that one. Maybe if I tried some of the dried long grass behind the old well.

I sigh and push myself up off of my mattress and swing my legs over to get up. I used to have a proper bed with posts and a headboard. But last winter was rough. We’d ended up using it and two of the wooden chairs to our table set as emergency firewood. I’m glad Father kept the legs thick instead of whittling them into something intricate and thin as I’d seen in the furniture makers’ store. But those weren’t practical pieces for living in a glorified hut. It’s technically a small cob house, perfect for a family of three- Mother, Father, and me. But as run down as it’s become in two years, it might as well be a hut.

The floor is icy as I wiggle my toes across the exposed river stone Mother had chosen as our floor when she and Father built the house. They liked to tell me the story of how they’d met at the forge, fell in love over sweet wine, made a life in the wilds, and built this house when they found out Mother was pregnant with me. Every corner, every stone, every wooden slat had a meaning to it. Father had said that it’s how you properly build a house- with purpose and love. Every board and stone should be imbued with the energies you want to impart your house with. He and my Mother wanted to grow old together, surrounded by love and happiness.

Fat good that did. He’s dead and gone now. And Mother is close to death now, too. Any day, the cough that she has had for months will take her- and there’s nothing I can do. Pleas and cries fall on deaf ears in the village. Nobody would help buy healing herbs or tell me about which plants would help my Mother. All because Father is dead. All because he was a charitable man who helped a criminal who ended up killing him. Granted, Father only saw an injured man under a tree on his way home from work. There was no way Father could have known that the man wasn’t an elf. There was no way Father could have known the thing was a wanted criminal who had recently killed the queen and young crowned prince on their way to their winter home in the mountains past the bogs. The news of their deaths had yet to make its way to our village when Father saw the man bleeding out, imperial arrows sticking out of his back. Father knew a small amount of healing magic, but that was it. It was hereditary magic that had never been properly honed.

He’d tried to stop the bleeding when the man- the thing lashed out and crushed my Father’s neck with monstrous hands. The scene was gruesome, from what I remember Father’s friends saying at the memorial service. We didn’t even get to see his body before they burned him. They had a million excuses for turning his body to ash before we could see him. But I know it’s because they don’t trust goblins with a human’s proper burial. We don’t pray to their gods, so we’re outcasts. Our skin is slightly green, so we must be demons. Our eyes are yellow, so we must be plagued. Whatever the excuse, they avoid us.

I stand up and stretch, working out my muscles from sleeping in the cold. It’s midway through autumn. The air is getting cooler and I’ve been spending most of my days preparing for winter. I refuse to let it be like last year. I even stole a whole basket of freshly dug potatoes two weeks ago. But nobody has come to reclaim them or to demand that we pay for them. Mother had been asleep most of the day and had weakly wished me a happy birthday before drifting back into sleep. I can't bring myself to remind her that it's not still spring the year Father died. I spent most of the day out picking berries and gathering kindling for fires. I’ve saved up quite the pile of fallen branches and even scored bits of a tree that had been struck by lightning last week. They’ll be perfect for the fire pit that sits in the middle of our home.

I walk over to the shallow basin of water that I brought from the nearby stream and wash my face with my cupped hands. The water is frigid, but I pride myself on at least not looking like I live next to a bog in a ramshackle bungalow and run around in the woods all day foraging for food- and stealing potatoes. I quickly remove my nightgown and replace it with the long-sleeved homespun tunic that I washed a few days ago. We don’t have soap for our clothes, and it’s been too wet to hang a lot of laundry up outside. The small clothesline that hangs next to our dwindling fire pit is currently drying our spare bedclothes. I scurry over to where my pants and socks lay folded up on the bench next to our cooking stone and snatch them up. I flick both of them out twice before sliding them on. I learned quickly that putting on warm clothes first thing in the morning helps keep you warm all day- and that it’s the perfect place where spiders and other undesirables like to sleep at night. And when most days you’re one bad bug bite away from dying, you need to check every time.

The leather strands that I use for shoe wraps are draped over the clothesline to help keep the sheets weighted and from slipping off and falling too close to the fire. No house fires for us, thank you. I stand on the tips of my toes and stretch up to grab the leather pieces. As I pull, the sheets slip off and fall, fluttering towards the floor. I drop my wraps and quickly reach out to grab as much of the fabric as I can. I do not want to rewash these just yet. I’m able to grab it all into a neat and clean bundle before placing it into the basket I normally reserve for laundry.

I hear a crackle and a gasp from behind the curtain where my bed is. A series of deep and raspy coughs soon follow. I walk back over to the bed and pull the curtain back. Mother’s green skin is pale as it has been for a while now, the rosy-tipped ears and cheeks that I remember from childhood replaced with a pallor complexion. Her eyes are now sunken and hold a fraction of the life she once beamed with. Her laughter, now a ghost, echoes in my mind as I take in her appearance. My heart clenches and I hold back the tears that threaten to spill every day, a cold blue cruelly forming around me. One of us has to be the strong one. One of us has to make sure we both live.

I lean down on the bed and place my cold hands on Mother’s forehead. She’s not feverish, which is good. But she could do well with a bit more heat. Hopefully, I can dry out the house a bit more today before it rains again. I think I’ll give my clay experiment another try today, too. I stand and grab the sealed jug I keep for our drinking water and uncork it. I pour a bit into a small bowl and lean back down next to Mother. I shush her as I sit her up and put the bowl to her mouth. She shakily takes a sip and begins coughing again. Her body is so frail and I wince as her coughs wrack her body wholly. I’m worried she’ll break a rib with the way her body tenses and convulses with every fit.

I gently lay her down on her pillow, the only real pillow we have left, and place the cup on the shelf outside of the curtain that separates our bed from the main room of the house. I walk over to the remaining embers of our nighttime fire and grab the fire poker off the hook next to the cooking stone. I give the fire a good jab, opening up the charred log in the middle and assessing the life of the fire. I twist and grab a few dried pieces of kindling and gently lay them on top of the glowing embers. I then grab a handful of dried leaves and set them on top before layering more twigs on top of those.

Building a proper fire is a skill within itself. You have to know the right wood and kindling to use. You have to know when to stoke your fire and when to let it rest a while. Your fire is alive and, in turn, it can keep you alive when properly cared for. The small embers catch on to one of the dried leaves and a wisp of a flame begins to burn. I grin to myself and lean closer, giving the flame a gentle piece of my breath. It burns a bit brighter and then grabs onto the twig next to it. And with that, the fire is properly awake. I place two large pieces of broken wood on either side of the small flame and stand up again.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

After sitting and carefully wrapping my woolen socks with my leather straps I walk back to my shared bed where Mother is sleeping. The slow rise and fall of her chest assures me and I draw the curtain closed a touch more. I grab my pack and place my waterskin and a potato that I roasted last night inside. I sling my pack over me, the body strap sitting comfortably across my chest. Grabbing my ragged cloak off of the rack next to the door, I tie it around my shoulders. I take one last look around and nod, satisfied. It’s not much, and I always wish we had it better, but it’s home.

I step outside into the morning air, the sun just beginning to color the sky over the tall, leafless trees a pale blue. A sharp breeze sends chills over my body and I hug my cloak tighter to my body. Once I get to working and moving around, I’ll warm up. The well behind our house has been dry for years. I remember Father saying that he’d dig us a new one before he died. A touch of the morning blue sky slides across my heart again as I think of Father. But I know I can’t dwell on it or else I’ll cry. And I really don’t want to cry.

The tall, dried grass around the well will be perfect for holding the clay together. I just know it. I’ll get it right today and I’ll have our roof patched up so snow doesn’t drip on us again this year. I start to work on pulling out long strands of grass from the ground. About an hour later I’ve cleared a large section of the area around the well. I wipe the sweat off of my brow and sigh.

“This should be enough for a large ball of clay,” I think out loud. I bundle it all up and use one of the strands to neatly tie the rest together. I start walking south towards the nearest bog. We live in a part of the largest, most unmapped forest on the continent. I’d overheard kids playing near the woods one day and listened to the stories they told each other while they ate sweet summer peaches under a tree. They all went to school together and had learned about The Black Road that intersects the village north of my home- the same Black Road that leads to the capitol which is two days away. I couldn’t help but feel jealous of the things they had been learning about. I, of course, wasn’t allowed to go to the school given that my ears were too big, my teeth too pointy, and my skin too green.

“She would cause too much of a disruption,” I remember the teacher telling my Father when he’d tried to enroll me in the schoolhouse when I was five. My stomach sours at the remembered heartbreak. I take a clearing breath and continue forward, doing my best to leave those blue-green feelings behind.

As I get closer to the bog, the ground gets a bit more unsteady. The soil grows progressively wetter the closer I get to the more concentrated areas of the wetlands. Patches of puddles start to pop up and I take care to only step on the exposed areas where grass grows out of tufts of dirt. It only takes me a few minutes hopping around, the bundle of grass strapped to my back, to find what I’m looking for.

The wetlands are mostly clear where we are. The water is hardly disturbed and, since it’s cooler year-round, there are hardly any insects or vermin that call the bog home. So when the patch of red-brown soil comes into view, I can’t help but grin. Perfect. The clay I need to fix our roof… Hopefully. I find a good spot to sit down, a shallow ledge hanging over a large swath of mud, and begin taking off the wraps on my feet and my wool socks. There’s nothing worse in the world than soggy wool socks. Placing them both down on the dry ground next to the bundle of tall grass, I ease myself into the water and muffle a yelp as the freezing water bites at my legs and feet. I can’t help but shiver as I slowly trudge through the knee-high water. I have a good resistance to the cold, given that I’ve lived here for all twelve years of my life. But the wet just makes everything worse. I love the bog, but the bog has always been indifferent to life. Sometimes, while out playing, I would find perfectly mummified bodies of foxes or field mice stuck to the silt. It’s like they had fallen asleep and been placed in undisturbed casings of glass.

The mud beneath my toes loosens and slides and I almost lose my footing, the water turning an ugly brown. I sigh as I refocus, making my way the last few steps to the patch of clay. I think I need a good couple of armfuls to make what I want. Still slung over my chest, I pull my pack to the front and open it, pulling out a short piece of wood shaped like a spade. I have a knack for whittling and can make just about any tool out of wood. I close my pack and swing it back around to my back. I spread my legs to shoulder width, lowering my center of gravity, and begin to dig. My sleeves touch the water and I curse- I had forgotten to roll them up before I had started. I pause and roll the cuffs to my elbows before continuing.

After an hour I've collected enough. I wipe the sweat that's accumulated on my forehead with a grim determination. I trudge back over to where my belongings and the newly shoveled pile of wet clay are. Hopping back up on the ledge, I stand, making sure not to drip on my dry socks and makeshift shoes. I gather up the bundle of long grass and carry it over to the clay. Spreading it around the outside, forming an almost nest, I stop and stare as I place the last strand. I just have to mix it now. Biting my lower lip and huffing out a breath from my nose, I let my head sag- weariness weighing on my shoulders. I straighten back up and take a deep breath before marching forward. My motivation is to stay warm and dry this winter. Period. Nobody else but me can- or will, do this.

“Nobody but me. Nobody but me.” I repeat my mantra under my breath as I carefully start to heave the mixture of hay and clay together. It's strenuous work, but in the end, I stare at a very familiar-looking paste. It looks exactly the way Father used to make it! I clasp my fingers and put my clay-covered hands on top of my head, breathing deeply. A deep grin slips across my lips and my heart lifts. Now for the easy part, getting it back home.

Something black catches the corner of my eye and I freeze. My mind immediately goes to the wolves that I've seen stalk around the bogs, but it's too small to be a wolf. I slowly turn my head and see a small, pale figure standing just outside the treeline. His tattered, threadbare clothes hang off of his thin frame. His barefoot feet are nearly black with caked-on dirt and grime. My heart begins to race and I look pointedly at his face, trying to discern his expression. Seeing if he's friendly towards me. I've been beaten by enough kids and adults to know most people despise half-breeds like me. But his long, brown hair is covering most of his face and I can't tell.

He stumbles forward and his barely visible mouth opens as if to say something. But he trips over his own feet and falls flat on his face. He doesn't even bring his hands up to catch himself. My stomach lurches into my throat, acid burning in the back of my mouth. Stories of shambling undead walking the wilds cross my mind and my breathing grows louder. I'm glued to where I stand, unable to muster enough courage to move. My clay-covered arms itch as it dries in the afternoon sun, but I dare not move. The actions of the undead are unpredictable.

I stand there for what seems like hours, although it's probably only been a few minutes. But the boy doesn't move. I swallow hard and shakily take a step towards him.

I'm so stupid! Run, you idiot! I scream at myself mentally. But I can't help but keep moving forward. I squeeze my eyes shut and reopen them, realizing that I'm only two steps away from the collapsed body. I watch him and only then realize that he's slowly breathing.

“He's not undead…” I whisper. “He's breathing. He's not an undead.” I say a bit louder. My stomach eases out of my throat and my breathing quiets to even breaths. Although, my heart is still beating like hummingbird wings in my chest. I chance a small step closer and lean, angling myself towards his back.

“H-hello?” I squeak out. I swallow again and clear my throat. “Hello? Are you… okay?” I squat and reach my hand out to touch his torn shirt clinging to his thin back. Even through the nearly sheer fabric, I can see tight skin and protruding bones. He's damn near skeletal and pale. He's probably malnourished. He doesn't move or make a sound at my words. I take a deep breath and almost instantly regret it. He smells awful. The grime stuck to his scalp, hands, and feet are thick. It's like he hasn't bathed his entire life. I bring my arm back to my face and cover my nose with the crook of my arm. I know that I don't smell good either, but I also know that I don't smell like I've rolled around in someone's outhouse pit.

My eyes water a bit, whether from the smell or the absolute pity for this poor boy, and I look away. I know I probably shouldn't bring him home, given he might have lice or diseases that Mother and I both can't afford to catch. But I can't just leave him here. I smile sourly at the irony of wanting to help a total stranger. Like Father, like daughter.