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Waking up dazed and completely disoriented in the darkness, the Fugitive had thought himself dead. So dark and cool was the room that it must have been a mausoleum or a grave - although he was not nearly well off enough to warrant the former. His back was damp where it had been against the linens, and his head felt as if a fire had burned away behind his eyes and smoldered still. He knew it to be the remainder of a fever he had been only vaguely aware of the night before.
Wherever he was, it was completely dark. It was almost difficult to know if he had opened his eyes, if it were not for the ache every time he blinked. Therefore, when the large door opened with a sudden creak and grind of its hinges, the light blinded him almost wholly - and he had to throw his arm over his face to shield it.
As the brightness withdrew, a candle's soft, flickering light appeared instead. He squinted, lowering his arm. It had still taken him a minute to blink away the darkness, but when he had, he saw that someone stood in the room with him.
He drew his breath. It was the Witch. She stood half the room away, the light from the candle dancing across her face. He could not tell how old she was, only that her face had been stern and mouth tight, and silver hairs caught the light throughout her cascading… mess of hair.
She looked as wild as the woods. As if she was merely split off from the forest in all its shadows, nooks and brooks, and earthy smells. Even in the faintest glow, he could see the lightness of her eyes that allowed the candle’s flame to pass right through them.
Although, in all the stories, the Deep Wood Hag had been described fairly… differently… the Fugitive thought. Perhaps it had been a trick, an illusion to lull him into calmness in the presence of a pretty maiden. But she… she was horrifying in her stillness. What she lacked in the fairytale hunches and warts, she made up for in the aura of evil and vileness around her. Faintly, he recognized the iron smell of blood and death coming off of her.
She stepped forward, the candle raised toward him in her hands, and he flinched.
“Merciful All-Father, keep me from the darkness of the night,” he began praying quietly to himself, “do not allow the hands of the void to take me away from your embrace…”
She stopped, the words seeming to change her expression.
Could it be that he could drive her away with the All-Father’s name?
Names had great power, and even in this darkness around him he felt its calming presence as the words left his mouth.
But, this feeling did not last as the witch took another step toward him, the candle flickering, and with her other hand she brought to his eye level a foul smelling elixir. This was his death, he knew it, as the Deep Wood Hag had many tricks, and no man left her swamps alive lest he offer up his mortal soul.
The candle flickered, and suddenly the flame had gone out, filling the room with a thick darkness and the smell of death.
His breath caught and through the darkness he heard her call out.
“Fuck!”
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Val’s arms trembled a bit. The hard work with the shovel that morning had tired her out.
The heat did not help; every unpleasant smell of the guts, their contents, and fresh earth had stuck to her clothes, skin and hair. What she would not give to go and bathe in the mire.
She could only imagine the cool water on her skin - and finally being able to wash and brush her hair properly. She daydreamed of the lavender oils she would brush through it now that she remembered what such things were even like.
She pushed the door, and the hinges creaked unpleasantly. Inside was dark, and Val’s eyes adjusted only fast enough to see the candle on the table by the door. She lit it before shutting it, not allowing any more hot summer air inside where it was nice and cool.
Standing still momentarily and glancing around the room, sight returned to her. The man had remained on the cot, although she thought she saw him move. She stepped closer, unable to make out his face or if he was awake. She heard him mutter something and stopped, afraid to scare him if he awoke suddenly and saw her there. When she heard nothing further, she took another step - just to have the candle drip hot wax on her fingers. She jerked her hand back instinctively, and the wax had put out the wick.
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“Fuck!” She swore.
The day had already been so tedious and long. She did not put a notch on the wooden wall the night before as she had been so occupied with keeping her visitor from dying. Now, Sirin acting out, the smell of gore, and this unbathed man in her home - it was all too much, and she was simply done.
“Pigshit!” She threw the candle down, and the door open again. At least it would air out.
Just then, the man yelped, and looking back at the cot in the corner, she saw him cowering.
“Gods…” Two men had lost their lives for him. Sirin may have been her constant companion, but Val was not blind to her being a creature of the Nothing. It was a miss on Val’s part; she knew that there would be consequences to her involvement. Had his life been worth two others? No, but she could not have watched him get torn apart and devoured on her front lawn.
Could she have killed Sirin? Possibly, over the years there could have been opportunities. How many men would that have saved?
But Val had been selfish. The bird-woman taught her much. And, the way she saw it - an evil you know is better than one you do not. And, if Sirin were to die, another parasite would crawl out of the Deep Wood Wound to take her place.
There was always balance, a life for a life.
She sat down on the hut's threshold, facing inside, and rested her head on an arm against the door. The man must have been through a lot. The malaria alone would take a couple of weeks to recover from fully.
She did not know where he could have come from; his clothes were simple but foreign. His swords were a soldier’s swords. How had he even found the Glade?
“Hello?” She offered carefully. There was no response. “Do you speak Common?”
She had been lucky that Common was spoken in her village and had also been primarily used in the East and Midtrade City. She would not have gotten far without it. But him?
“All-Father, protect me…” his voice was deep. The words were not pleading as much as they simply recited a regularly spoken prayer. “...in the clutches of devils…”
“Oh,” Val said, and it dawned on her that the Glade was probably a strange and frightening place coming from the outside. Once, she, too, had felt the unease of ascending the bouldered hill. She truly had been there too long to forget such things.
“It isn’t so bad, you know,” She offered again, but remembering the blood-soaked porch and the earth beneath it quickly added, “Sirin just left a mess.”
What a stupid thing to say, she scolded herself. The bird-woman just attacked him, and the very last thing he needed was to be reminded of the leftovers that were almost his own fate.
Leftovers. When had she become so accustomed to this?
His presence, even for the day, reminded her of what it had been like out there in the world. Where blood was to be kept inside yourself and not spilled onto the earth.
So many times, Sirin would come to eat with her, and her lips and claws would be dark red and turn brown as she sat next to Val. How often had Sirin picked her teeth for something stuck there long before her arrival and dropped sinew on the ground below?
“All-Father–” He started over, and that sent Val’s annoyance right over the edge; she did not want to sit here listening to his prayers. It had already been a very long day.
“Enough, please!” She begged, throwing up her hands. “Can you just tell me your name or where you are from? I know the All-Father, but I do not know you.”
This made his words trail off, and they sat in somewhat puzzled silence.
“I will not give you my name, Hag.”
“Are you kidding me!” It seemed her temper had gotten very short in her long years in the Deep Wood. The pure conviction in his words pushing back at her was so infuriating… what did he call her… “What?”
“You will not have my name!” He raised his voice, and his tone was that of a brave fairytale knight who looked to cast out the world's evils.
“Then make one up!” She shouted.
Again, silence.
The confusion seeped out of the darkness, where he still occupied the cot.
“Make one up?” Complete bafflement.
“What am I supposed to refer to you as? For example, I’m Val.”
Shuffling.
Then she saw that he had gotten up and moved hesitantly forward where she could see him slightly better and away from the room's shadows.
“You’re not a Hag…”
“You’re not making a good first impression.” She snapped back, hearing Sirin’s tone in her words. She had spent too much time with the bird.
He stopped mere feet away where she could see him, and he could see her. She was taken aback at his blue eyes, even if they were horribly bloodshot. He had a young and kind face - or, at least, a couple of years younger than her, which was no longer saying much. His hair stuck out in several uncoordinated directions. Awkwardly, he even half smiled to where she could see his teeth - white - like that of a nobleman.
They stared at each other skeptically.
“Erm,” He cleared his throat, buying time to think on it before he seemed to come to a decision. “Alright, my name is Ivan.”
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