This is the tale that can never be spoken aloud nor written down. Yet in the safety of a cruel forest, I thought it would be okay if I recited it to myself. After all, this tale was mine and mine alone.
So I sat down, finally giving my battered feet some rest. Then I placed my makeshift lock picks in the compartment Leyla had sewn in, exchanging them for my oud. Only after the case was once more zipped did I adjust into a cross-legged position and half-sang/half-narrated the tale forbidden to all.
After all, if death should find me, it shall be when I am living as myself.
----------------------------------------
Once there was a girl who died twice. Ranna was her name and Faris the name of the boy who led her by the hand to her rebirth. Her first death baptized her in unholy blood. Thus she was born anew.
For from that fateful day, the old Ranna and Faris died. In its place were a new Ranna and Faris. They became two halves of the same rotten apple.
Because he liked chess, she learned to play. Because she liked poetry, he learned their mysteries. The only thing the pair could not overcome was the difference in our physical capabilities. In every other regard, they had become the same person, never one without the other.
They had believed their half life would continue until the end of time. For how else could atonement for their crimes ever be achieved? Alas, time is a cruel mistress and even the wickedest of seeds must one day blossom into an evil flower. Such was the case for the two children.
Days turned into months which turned into years. When childhood came to an end, the two were separated, only meeting when school had ended. Thus began the letter game. It began with a small paper hidden in a loose brick. Upon it was one simple question:
"How was your day?"
It was Faris who wrote the first question, but whether it out of curiosity or boredom, none but him and God alone know the answer. Still, even if it was he who wrote the first letter, it was she who began the game. For Ranna's response was:
"As clear as a bay."
Yes, she answered his question not with prose, but with a rhyme. Its meaning apparent only to the one it was meant for. So it was that even if the time spent together was short, it was as if they were by each other's side. Always together, never one without the other.
Thus began the game of letters. All throughout secondary school, the pair would hide them in whatever nook and cranny they could find. All throughout their teens, they composed thousands upon millions of words. Each letter only for each other's eyes. For after they would find a letter, they would open it, read it and burn it, watching as the ashes scattered with the wind.
And when their schooling had come to an end, they began to meet in earnest. In the forest which belonged to the boy—now a young man—they would meet in secret. In the dead of night when all were asleep and the wolves were away hunting under the light of the full moon, they met under shadows. So similar in temperament and attitude had the two become that none suspected the illicit nature of their true relationship.
As mortals yet to be sent to the Selection, it was a relationship without an ending. In their heart of hearts they knew separation was an inevitability. Yet still, they met. At first exchanging words and eventually soft kisses, always careful never to go further lest they both be executed.
There's was not the grand love and madness of the poets. Nor was it the all consuming love between werewolves and humans. No, there's was a quiet love which merely desired the presence of the other.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Always together, never one without the other.
As long as they could hold each other's hand, the pair could pass hours in eternal silence, never bored or needing to say more. Such was the nature of their impure love. As their twenty-fifth year encroached upon them, they met and shared in all their sorrows and joys, praying to both the God of man and the Goddess of the werewolves for just one more hour, minute and second in each other's presence.
Was it love? Neither could say. All they knew was that their selfish desires were true and for them, that was enough. Then on a night in their twenty-third year, everything came to an end.
He came as he always did in their secret spot and said, "My mother told me I shall be leaving for District 27 in a week's time."
In disbelief, she could only say, "I don't understand."
And he said, "A werewolf has taken me for mate."
Out of curiosity more than anything else, she asked, "Is the wolf male or female?"
"She is a she-wolf." He paused. "I will one day be as my father with children of my own."
"But we haven't been tested yet." She tried to understand why she was robbed of these two final years.
He explained to her of how the mortal children of wolves did not need to consume hormones. The wolf blood in their veins, diluted as it was meant that they could regulate their emotions more than any child born of two human parents ever could. He explained how this meant it was also easier for a wolf to imprint on their mate prior to the dreaded Selection day.
To Ranna's credit, she neither wailed nor screamed at this information. No, she merely smiled and said, "Then if this is to be our final night, let us make it one to remember forevermore."
On that night, they talked and danced and sung as they never had before. It was as if they were trying to be create a lifetime of memories in one single night. Yet the dawn always breaks through, even in the darkest of nights. When it came and they parted, Ranna died her second death as Faris prepared for the most coveted of loves, leaving behind the memory of the girl who once held half his soul.
The loss of Faris was not instantaneous. She would sit alone thinking of a joke, but when she turned to say it, he was no longer there to hear it. Yet, life continued on. No one, not even the sister she was closest with knew of the grief in her heart so she mourned in secret and in time buried the memories which she had once cherished the most.
Thus began Ranna's third life. It was not a life which held the innocence of her first life. Nor was it the selfish kind which depended and relied on another to share her burdens. In this life, she devoted her entire being to her trade. She played and she sung as never before. The grief of loss causing her to put everything into her tales.
And in time she healed. As long as she had her family and stories, she would be fine. Human love was fickle and the love of a werewolf was too heavy for her to bear. As her twenty-fifth year came, she was convinced herself that after living through so much, her God would at least grant her this peace.
Yet here she sits, Ranna of Ward Fifteen, District Eleven, awaiting her third and final death.
----------------------------------------
As the final words left me and my hands began to grow limp, I set my oud on top of my case. Night had long since fallen. I had neither food nor water and my throat was sore from singing. Not to mention the state of my feet. It had been arrogant of me to think that I could find someone in a clearly isolated place.
Still, this wasn't a bad way to go, all things considered. It was painful, sure. Yet no more painful than everything that happened with Faris. Besides, perhaps dying like this would be atonement for allowing that girl to take the blame for my crimes all those years ago. Yes, my wickedness had come out on that day and dying like this was merely a sort of poetic justice.
To be completely honest, in that moment I was truly ready to allow the darkness and cold to overcome me. Yet, I of all people should know that fate is never so kind. For just as I was going to drift off, a sliver of moonlight illuminated the figure of a man. So delirious was I that I did not even hear him approach.
When I looked up, I saw clothes of purple and black, long black hair in disarray and golden eyes. Oh, so not a man after all. With a mental sigh, I righted myself and prepared to perform as if I wasn't starving with bleeding feet and numb fingers.