by Erin Hayes
But as abruptly as he’d started it, it ended, all too soon, when the sounded of a woman clearing her throat resounded around them.
He’d registered it all, and later, he would analyze it; his woman’s fear, the Queen’s hatred, and the way he’d probably made things worse when he’d stepped closed to his little dryad and put a possessive hand on her forearm, trying to display his support.
“Blanche, darling. I believe we’ve spoken about propriety,” the Queen said, her poisonous tongue attempting to make him question his dryad’s promiscuity, no doubt – but he could read through her, and he saw nothing but jealousy.
The only thing that speech registered was the name. Blanche; how old fashion. It did suit her, somehow.
“We have, Gramhilda,” she replied, and perhaps he should have noted how familiar she was with her Queen – as he’d believed she was nothing but a servant.
He’d blame himself later. He’d tell himself he should never have let the Queen take her away under the pretense of speaking of work ethic.
If he had, he might have spared himself months of despair.
The Queen was quick; the minute she’d closed the door, she was on her, hand up, trying to get her to fall for her trick again, but Blanche wasn’t stupid – she learnt from her mistake.
She stomped her foot just when the Queen pushed her spell, and while she wasn’t as powerful as her father had been before her, the floor did tremble a little, surprising Ilda for long enough: without hesitation, and no regret save for the feeling that her subjects might suffer more in her absence, the ran towards the window and jumped.
There was a sycamore three planted right in front of the Queen’s window; to her mother’s anguish, Blanche had often gotten out of the palace using it in her youth – now she was heavier and not quite so practiced in the art of tree climbing, but it was easier than expected, because when she missed her footing, a branch moved to ensure she stayed up.
The branch freaking moved.
“Okay,” she said out loud, “let’s process that later.”
And on that note, she ran as fast as she could, until she’d reached the woods.
Only then did she turn to look up towards the Queen’s window.
Ilda stood there, open mouthed, and quite powerless, as it just wouldn’t do to call a hunt on the heir to the throne without justification.
Blanche smirked and saluted, before turning her heels and stepping back into her domain.
A Game
One month later, Alenia.
Sandro had taken long enough; he knew he had to get back home, return to his responsibilities; there was nothing left for him in the Woodlands. What he could have had, he’d thrown away thanks to his carelessness; so one day, he just hopped on his bike and rode back home.
He found the palace silent and rather gloomy, not unlike Noordeen Castle, and soon enough, his men told him why.
“He barely makes it out of his room,” Jonas said. “I mean, he does his job, but that’s about it.”
Great, Daniel de Luz, his baby brother, who was supposed to be the fucking King of their kingdom, was throwing a temper tantrum.
He didn’t even bother removing his jacket, getting up the stairs two steps at a time until he’d reached the King’s room, where he knocked as loud as he could, incessantly.
“Go away!”
Enough of that. He took a few steps back and kicked the door wide open.
“What the hell are you… Is that smell coming from you?” he asked, disgusted.
Dane childishly brought the covers over his head with a groan, but Sandro couldn’t deal with that; not now. He just grabbed the damn comforter and pulled it away.
“Up, Dane. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“Nag, nag, nag,” the King muttered, using his pillow as a shield against the light.
“Get the fuck up, go get a shower, shave, and come downstairs.”
Because he could see that it was all going in one ear, out of the other, he added, “Your life might be a mess but I need your help getting mine in order, brother.”
The King was a lot of things, many of them rather uncomplimentary, but there was no doubt that he’d listen to that.
“Five minutes.”
On that note, he headed down towards the only place where Dane would know to find him:
their secret hideout between meeting rooms.
“What news of the Woodlands, brother?”
It was his Kingly brother who asked; he was back to his former self, or almost at least; the Dane he recalled had never worn a beard, but it suited him – made him look a bit less of a pretty boy.
“The Queen has announced her allegiance to us, you don’t have to worry on that account,” he reassured him, but the words were laced with venom.
“Then what?” Dane asked.
He knew him too well.
“I’ve met a girl there.”
Although a girl didn’t even begin to cover it, as he’d discovered. “I’ve met the woman I was meant to marry,” would have sounded too dramatic, though.
“A servant,” he added, although he now knew that do be a lie – but he intended to give Dane an idea of what had occurred. “She wasn’t the slightest bit interested in me, but of course I had to go and court her, didn’t I?”
He knew he was severe upon himself; but he had pursued her, perhaps mainly because she hadn’t seemed to fawn over him.
“She told me to stop, repeatedly. I carried on because I thought I was getting to her, and when…”
He was pacing up and down through the small room, but finally, he sank in a chair and hid his face between his hands.
“I kissed her, Daniel, and the Queen saw it. Blanche was terrified and I thought nothing of it. The next day, she was gone.”
He couldn’t even attempt to reminisce the day following the kiss.
He’d been ecstatic, when he’d walked around the castle, trying to find Blanche. The Queen’s disapproval had seemed like a good omen; if her boss annoyed her, it meant that Blanche might be more tempted to leave with him, right?
Then, there had been disbelief, followed by the despair he’d yet to chase away.
“The Queen fancied you, then?”
“Yes, and I was playing it to my advantage to ensure she’d aligned herself with us. I had to smile and fair her well on my way out, Dane. I stayed in town two days to see what her people have to say. That’s when I heard…”
It took a minute for him to recollect himself.
“I heard it all. The tales of the King falling into her spell after the death of his wife, of his swift departure, and above all, they talked of Blanche who was still at the palace and used as a servant. I went to the library and looked for a portrait; it was her, Dane. The fucking heir to the throne, the last of the Woods. She’s survived fifteen years under her stepmother’s rule and because of me, she’s gone now.”
If there was anything else to add, he really, really couldn’t think it up.
Finally, Dane concluded: “So, we’re at war.”
“Of course not.”
“No, Alessandro, I can assure you: we are. We may not act yet, but when the time comes, we will get retribution.”
He nodded, but didn’t cheer up at the thought. Retribution wouldn’t bring Blanche back.
Sometime later, Somewhere Else.
Time was a strange notion she didn’t quite understand; not anymore.
She knew the sun rose each morning, but she couldn’t tell how many had passed since the day she’d left everything behind, only to find a new world in front of her feet.
A dangerous world.
“Here lassie. Don’t forget your knife.”
That came from Grumpy. She’d always called him Grumpy in her mind and as she couldn’t pronounce his actual name, they’d settled on it. It suited: he always muttered, rather than speaking clearly, showing just how pained he was to have to open his mouth and waste perfectly good air.
He was also a soft
ie – hence why he reminded her of the knife, saving her life for another day.
Growing up, Blanche had believed that the voices she heard in her mind came from trees and no one had seen necessary to contradict her, for some reason. She still hadn’t forgiven them for it.
When they’d appeared out of nowhere, she screamed harder than that time she’d woken up with a spider on her face.
Well, she couldn’t exactly blame them, given the fact that they’d turned up to save her skin, after Ilda sent a flock of foreign mercenaries after her. Back then – in those days that may have been one or five weeks ago – she wouldn’t have stood a chance without them.
Coming across seven weird-ass, green, tree-like miniature trolls still hadn’t failed to cause a minor heart attack, but the fact that they’d proceeded to throw daggers in her pursuer’s directions did make up for it.
They were gnomes, they’d said – repetitively pointing out that in under no circumstances should she ever mistake them for dwarves.
Blanche bit her tongue, rather than point out that she wasn’t likely to mistake them for anything she’d ever encountered. That they came from the old kingdom was obvious; these creatures were old. And weird. And they also were the reason the heir to the Woodlandian throne was still breathing.
She might, as they assured her, always have had the power she now used, but before they guided her through talking to branches, earth and animals just the right way to coax them into helping her out, she never would have thought to use it.
“You’re a daughter of the earth,” Prof would often say. Prof’s name was Yonjerkanfrein – the only one amongst the lot that she could actually say out loud, but his patient, slow, and kind voice had earned her the nicknames. “That means that anything remotely natural on Gaia wants you well. They may grumble, but ask nicely and you shall receive.”
He was right, that much had become quite obvious early on.
The seven gnomes had a very small cottage somewhere in the wood, through a portal she didn’t think anyone else might find; as it seemed of another world, and never allowed anyone dangerous to enter. There, Blanche had found most of what she needed in terms of basic necessity, save for food: the one issue with her mini hosts was that they didn’t eat.
When she first arrived, Blanche was too exhausted to do anything but collapse on the hard plank nestled in their treehouse, but the next morning, when she’d awakened, the first thing she noticed was her hunger – she’d never felt it quite so acutely before; it hurt, burnt and made her feel sick.
The gnomes were gone but a quick scan of the house made it clear that they had no pantry, no kitchen. Dammit. She went to the garden, hoping to find something, anything even remotely consumable; snails would have done – they were quite a delicacy in Alenia, from what she’d heard.
Okay, so maybe they lathered it with garlic and cremated it, first, but she wasn’t picky right then.
Forgetting Prof’s lesson, Blanche didn’t ask nature for help, but her thundering stomach might have done the job for her; minutes later, there was a light brown, almost orange, and dreadfully fluffy creature appearing at her feet.
Blanche was overcome with such a need to run her hand through its luscious fur, it took her a while to notice that the fox had brought a small rabbit in its mouth.
Her stomach grumbled louder, and she wished for skills at least half as good as the little animal – otherwise, nevermind the stupid evil Queen’s plans, she’d die all by herself.
The fox approached close enough for her to scratch it – and stranger, still, seemed to enjoy it.
Then, when it became obvious that it had enough – probably recalling that it was supposed to be a wild animal and all – it left, not without spitting the rabbit on the floor next to her.
Yeah, that had confused for all of two seconds, until she wised up; she shrugged, built a fire, skinned the meat and ate it. Best. Thing. Ever.
The fox was a regular visitor at the cottage, demanding his daily rubs in exchange for sustenance, and thus, Blanche lived through her first months in the land she called Somewhere Else, as no one was there to stop her.
The gnomes, surprisingly, had a job.
“Who’s supposed to guard the forest if we don’t?” they asked, obviously offended.
She wondered what they guarded it against, but had the sense to hold her tongue.
They asked that she remained in Somewhere Else during the day and at first, she obeyed, but the land was tiny, which meant that she knew every stone, every tree within the first couple of weeks. Leaving was a matter of avoiding madness.
“And,” she added, “I need to know what’s happening in Nordeen.”
She had no intention of spending the rest of her life in Somewhere Else; her plan was to find the first opportunity to speak to some of her subjects – ideally, Laurie.
If the bulk of the Huntsmen knew that the Queen had actually tried to harm her, if they knew that Blanche lived, they’d come to her aid, she was sure of it.
“It’s risky, little dryad.”
“Yes, which is why I’ll stay away, and observe until an opportunity presents itself.”
That meant that every day, she dodged mercenaries.
Frankly? Blanche was having a blast, never had she had as much freedom. It may have been a different matter if she’d actually been in danger at any point, but she wasn’t – every day, she grew stronger, as an athlete, and as a dryad, as the gnomes liked to call it.
It was all a game.
Until the day it wasn’t.
Trousers
Four months later,
At the borders between Alenia and the Woodlands.
Alessandro Primerious had never though himself stupid before that year; but he’d just been proven a fool for the second time.
He’d had a grudge against his baby sister for years – most of their lives, really – and he’d been ready to condemn her, to call her a freak. The Sea Witch.
Well, she was that. She also was kind, strong, and so damn generous; there was no way he could ever repay what she’d silently done for him all her life, without expecting anything in return.
She’d been a happy pill, sucking off negative energy from anyone around her, at her own expense, and without a complaint crossing her lips.
Strangely, despite all his offenses against her, he had been invited to stay for her wedding. Hell, he’d even had a place on the principal table.
Sandro knew he didn’t deserve it.
The last weeks had taught him a lot; humility, for one.
He’d been wrong about so many important things in his life, stupidly jumping to conclusions.
His sister – his incredibly beautiful, powerful, talented baby sister – had forgiven him; they might even build some sort of a relationship, eventually, but the other errors weren’t as easily mended.
He’d decided to ride back home by himself; family was good, and all, but he’d taken about as much as he could of all the mushy stuff. There was so much love around them, he was constantly reminded that he didn’t have that – never had.
Never would.
“Stop being dramatic,” he told himself. He would meet someone, eventually. There were other pretty, nice, intelligent women in the world.
However, he’d also learnt that he was entirely, utterly, completely wrong about something else.
There was such a thing as the one.
The merfolk of Atlantis swore to it, and a quick text to Rumpelstiltskin had confirmed he believed as much, too.
Had Blanche been his? Was that why he’d felt so immediately drawn in? Why her lips had felt like nothing else he’d ever experienced before or since?
He decided to ride on the road cutting through the fay lands; it was always humbling to travel through a land so full of things that were infinitely bigger than his little problems.
To the left, there was Alenia, and right, the Woodlands. Technically, the road belonged to the Woodlands now, but he didn’t think he’d
encounter many issues as the two countries were allies, at the moment; and regardless, that evil Queen of theirs was rather keen on him.
He was deep inside the woods when he heard the familiar noises; horns, horses, shouting and dogs, too. A hunt.
What the hell? It came from both sides, although it had been outlawed years ago in Alenia. While he had always been indifferent to that particular law, it was Silvia’s pet peeve. She hated pointless hunts. Right now, respecting her was first and foremost in his mind. He owed it to her.
He parked on the side of the road, removed his helmet and walked into the wood, determined to discover who was so carelessly breaking Alenian laws.
“Not here,” a gruff voice bellowed. “Up in the trees.”
Sandro’s head jumped up to the long slim oak trees and he freaked out.
They were moving. Not in a way that was in any way normal, gently swaying with the wind. The branches were actually fucking crawling, twirling, aligning to meet and form bridges, traps.
What the hell!
He was stunned.
And stunned, in the middle of a manhunt, also meant dead, the arrow flying straight at him when his foot snapped a twig was a testament to that.
“No!”
Alerted by the scream, he turned and saw the weapon aiming for his heart, too quickly for him to do anything about it, but over a dozen branches had suddenly appeared between him and the arrow, blocking its path.
“Here, she’s on your nine! Follow me.”
Sandro’s head snapped left and he completely froze in shock.
She was some distance away, but there was no possible confusion.
Hair black as night. Lips red as blood. Running, jumping from one tree to the next, controlling the enchanted fay lands as only a Wood could.
Fuck.
Blanche was alive.