The Crowned Captive

Despite all of her prayers and begging, she would go hungry again. Morana stared at the fox cub laying on the ground before her, its coat stark white against the dark leaf litter. It eyed her from the snare, obviously having given up completely. The only reason she knew it still lived was the shallow rise and fall of its chest.

“I should sell you for your coat,” she grumbled as she pulled her knife from her pocket. It was true - she could get at least enough money for food for the week from it. Yet she could not bring herself to kill the little thing. Even with winter coming, the white foxes were so rare in the forest. It was not food, and nobody deserved the little thing’s coat just for a status symbol.

So she tucked the knife under the snare around its neck, slicing upwards to free it. Its fur was feather-soft on her fingers as she lifted the little bundle onto its chest. A minute or two of watching her later, it skittered off into the woods. She only hoped it found the safety of its mother or burrow and not another hungry creature. Hopefully, it would be smarter next time and not fall fool to a simple snare.

Morana did not bother trying to quieten the sound of her footsteps as she trudged through the forest. It was rare that any villager made their way this deep into the woodland, and if she was to flush out any game she had no way to kill it. Alas, between the trees, she walked with more confidence than she had in any town; plants could not speak her identity to people who wanted her dead. She was safe here.

Focussing more on food and less on her horrid morning, Morana turned her attention to the leaf litter and tree trunks. Ahead of her stood a familiar friend, the ancient oak that sported the most fungi in the area. This late in autumn, they were abundant.Whilst she would have far preferred a fat juicy rabbit, the hen-of-the-woods that grew along the roots would make an adequate substitute.

She relaxed somewhat as she finally found herself underneath the reaching boughs. Running along the fallen and rotting branches and oldest roots, there was indeed a plethora of mushrooms growing. If she was gentle with her pickings, there would be plenty left for another few days at least. Her mind became lost in sorting the edible and inedible mushrooms from each other, placing those suitable in her basket. Her hands only stilled when the branches of the trees behind her began to shake.

Standing and turning in one movement, she studied the trees around her intently. She could see the offending branch, still wobbling as if something large had pushed it. The rest of the forest was still and yet… There, she could smell the change in the air. Something sharp drifted on the wind towards her, something that conveyed danger. Her every hair stood on end. Her mind screamed at her to run as she tried to work out the origin.

Dread filled her suddenly, and her hands flew to her ears. Indeed, the pointed peaks were exposed through her unbound hair, a clear tell of her origin. Hurriedly, she smoothed the tresses back into their usual braid to hide her mark of otherness once more. Her eyes flicked between the trunks, trying to pick out the change but still finding nothing. She refused to spend a second more here. Hurriedly, she picked up her things and left. If someone had truly been watching her, the villagers’ response would be…ugly. She had only just managed to find a roof over her head, and winter was so near. She could not afford to flee again. She swore under her breath at the thought, sending a silent prayer that it was just an oversized bird in that tree.

As the village appeared through the tree line, she began to relax. The winding dirt path was clear, with no signs of any loitering men or angry mobs. She must have just been paranoid again. If anybody had seen her, they would have just killed her in the forest rather than find an angry mob to do so. Killing a faerie, even a half-blooded one, was more than enough of a bragging right that nobody would have let her get away. If it was somebody agile enough to climb a tree that tall, they would not have hesitated to attack.

She pushed the thought from her head as the village proper came into sight. In the rising dawn light, the dilapidated state of much of the town was obvious. Most of the houses had their paint peeling and roofs moulding, likely to be forgotten about until after the snow melted in spring. The stores between the houses fared little better, with even the small apothecary having windows that didn’t quite close any longer. With the whispers of the unrest north of the scar, business had been poor in little Sundown Waters.

Despite the villagers being far from well-off, they still loved to look down upon her. To the children, she was some strange witch to taunt and trouble. To the women, she was a pariah to gossip about on whim. To the men, she was lesser than the wives they controlled, merely an object they struggled to keep their hands off. As they emerged from their dwellings, the whispers begun, following her through the streets. She listened, intent on picking up anything that might suggest her anything but ordinary. Thankfully, they only whispered with their regular cruelty.

Eager to be out of sight in case the murmurs turned awry, she ducked down a narrow alleyway between buildings. As soon as she did so, she knew it had been a mistake. The stench of alcohol and sweat accosted her nose before her head even entered the darkened alley. Her stomach coiled tightly as damp hands fastened over her wrists, squeezing until her basket fell to the ground. The small knife she used to gather plants and skin rabbits, her only form of self-defence, fell with it. It glinted mockingly from the dirt ahead.

Morana looked up from it and was greeted with cracked lips pulled back from yellowing teeth in a frightening grimace. The man, a regular at the local inn, groped at her. She tried to turn, to back out into the street once more, but those clammy claws fastened around her waist and dragged her further into the darkness. There was no point in yelling; nobody would help her.

“What ’ave we ’ere boys? A pretty little maiden to make our morning?” The drunkard drawled, the ale on his breath wafting over Morana. Some stupid part of her brain was thankful his first words were not of the forest, whilst the sane part struggled to make a plan to escape. She could escape perverts and drunkards - she frequently turned away their advances as she worked. Men hunting faeries were harder to steer away.

“Whilst I am flattered, I am already rather late for work with Mrs Midday,” she started, trying to appear the perfect combination of demure and confident that would get the oaf off of her. She wished she could remember his name, but she could not. She could remember none of their names.

“Oh, come on gorgeous. I am sure whatever we can pay you will outdo whatever old Moody can.”

Her eyes watered as the stench of his breath washed over her stronger with every word, alcohol and tooth rot thick. Her heart thundered as another one man guffawed at the comment and grabbed her arm, hauling her further away from safety. Morana knew if she could not get out soon, she would not get out at all. Her brain struggled to come up with what she needed to say to secure her freedom.

“I doubt even you could match Mrs Midday’s wrath. Besides, how are you going to get your drinks without enough workers?” She began, forcing a smile despite her terror. “If you catch me again when she isn’t waiting for me, I may have a different answer. I might even sneak you a free tankard for your troubles.”

“Why wait, when we can have what we want now? Eh, boys? I am sure the old hag will find someone else smart enough to mop the floors.”

Morana had no other tricks to attempt as the men closed in around her. She cast her eyes past the three of them to where her knife sat, too far from reach. Panic constricted her throat. When one man yelled suddenly, the one holding her loosened his grip. She saw the flap of a cloak beyond them but did not feel like working out who her saviour was. Wasting no time, she shook his unwanted embrace and fled the alley, leaving her basket and belongings behind. Tears threatened to break past her eyelids once more as she hurried to the inn. She did not bother to cry for help or alert anybody to what the commotion was. She simply straightened her frayed dress, cursed the sun for rising even higher without her wanting, and set off. Mrs Midday was likely to threaten to make her take extra shifts, all because she was starved and stupid.