The Fall Of Snow: Guard Your Heart

4. Four

Four

Under No Illusion

I wake to the sound of low groans and curse myself for sleeping longer than anticipated. There goes my plan for escaping the cabin before they wake. I must have grossly underestimated how tired I actually was. My shoulder aches from digging into the closet shelf all night, but I manage to sit up and unhinge my knees in the tight, dark space. My ankle feels immensely better this morning, but I know that will change when I start using it again. I'm too scared to look at the wound so I leave it wrapped, not wanting to see the gnarly damage underneath.

Light banter litters the air as I hear shuffling feet and more groans. I listen intently as the warriors go through their morning routine as a unit, praying none of them need the closet right now. Which is exactly why I had planned to be out of here before they woke, in case any of them felt compelled to open the closet door for one reason or another and found a stowaway in their midst.

I am in no shape to defend myself today.

But as I listen, my worry subsides when I hear that they're behind schedule and in a hurry to get to morning minutes ( whatever that means ) which must be further into the camp, closer to the coast. It’s safe to assume this cabin is the furthest from the coast, nearly touching the forest I came from. I'm curious as to how the camp is set up along the coast. I know they have watchtowers and such, but are there boats? Something I can take to get to a shipping dock? If I could somehow sneak through this camp, I may be able to sail the surf until I hit the nearest shipping dock.

The angry leader with the constant scowl on his face bustles everyone along with a cruel demeanor as if their lagging is putting a damper on his day. It makes me want to punch his perfectly straight nose. But personality has always outweighed physical looks in my opinion. This is why, despite her flawless grace, I believe my mother is the ugliest human to ever live. And this man's personality puts him at a close second, which is saying a lot.

"Ya know, Huck, if we didn't need you to heat our showers, I'd clock you one for barking orders so loudly this early in the morning." The tall one yawns as he grabs his things from a drawer beneath the bed.

The name snags in my mind as she says it. Huck . The name that belongs to the angry bastard. But I catch more than a name. That wasn't my imagination when I thought I saw steam coming from him the first time I saw him sit on the couch. He must have an ability, and it must be . . . heat. Or fire? Something of the like.

"Not all of us can be so lucky to be born with fire ability," the warrior who is entirely too cheerful this early in the morning comments. So, the leader of the group has magic. Interesting. I wonder if he gets special treatment for being blessed by the Mother.

As a whole, Roselaria strives to treat Mother-touched civilians the same as those without because the king, himself, holds no magic. But I don’t know how much that transcends into the camps where power and ability are held to quite a high standard.

Shockingly, the happy warrior seems to hold no malice in his words, only gratitude for the one with fire ability. Weird. If I knew the grumpy one of the group held his ability over my head, I wouldn't be so kind.

"Heat is great, sure. But if I had my choice, I'd want Archer's ability. That way I could spot beautiful ladies from incredible distances, maybe even from this damned camp." The one with the hulking figure and shorn hair slaps who I assume is Archer on the back staring out into the distance as if imagining himself with the power to see far distances, and apparently use it for spotting women.

Of course that's how he would use such a rare ability. Not protecting our borders or searching for potential threats but finding someone to warm his bed. Typical male.

"I can assure you; the ability comes with its own set of problems. Particularly seeing things you wish you could erase from your memory." The silver-haired one with a more weathered face shakes his head, remembering. "You'd be amazed at the things people do when they think no one can see them." The woman with the allergies curls her face in disgust, no doubt thinking of the possibilities. "Gross."

"Not to mention, you're always on watchtower duty, staring out across the borders for endless hours." Archer drives his point home as the others continue to gather their things.

"Alright, alright I get it. It's not all roses and butterflies to be gifted with abilities. But it still would be nice to have something ."

Huck clears his throat near the front door, summoning the others to hurry along. His arms are folded tightly across his chest as he leans against the door frame, a stray lock of dark hair falling over his eye. This man is entirely too attractive to be this angry, but even the most handsome physical features can’t mask the ugly that lives within.

I peer through the wooden slats as the warriors file out the front door one by one, whistling a tune in unison. Strange. Each carries a tin bucket, a bar of soap, and a towel slung over a shoulder. They must have communal showers somewhere in the camp. I’d imagine it would take all morning for seven people to take turns using one tub each day.

I wonder if they will stop back at the cabin before going about their day of . . . training or whatever these warriors do in this camp. If they do decide to come back in for clothes or armor or breakfast, I will only have about ten minutes to disappear into the forest. At the manor, I fancied the claw-footed bath with warm water heated from the fire, but I've had my fair share of cold showers, and more recently brisk baths in the springs. When it comes down to it, water is water and I'll take what I can get. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss the luxury of the warm baths at the manor.

As soon as the door thuds shut, I wait a handful of seconds before exiting the closet, in case anyone forgot something and had to run back in. I attempt to tiptoe through the kitchen as best I can, snatching a handful of nuts from the counter before exiting through the back door next to the toilet. The throbbing has returned in full force.

Before leaving, I make sure to rig the latch so it doesn't close completely in the event I need to sneak back in once the group is asleep. I don't plan to be gone that long, but I've learned the hard way to plan for the unexpected.

A few months back, I found myself squatting on a ranch in the heat of summer. My hair stuck to my clammy skin and I was near delirious with heat stroke when I found my way onto a stacked pile of hay in a barn loft. I woke to the old farmer poking me with a rusted pitchfork and asking the last time I ate a proper meal. Despite my better judgment, I stayed with him for two weeks. We bonded like old pals and I couldn't help but think of him as a father figure of sorts, feeding me and looking after me.

When I found the contract with my mother's slanted signature scrawled at the bottom of the parchment in a drawer of his kitchen, an ache rose in my throat. I was more upset with myself for falling into that false sense of security. I knew better. I should have never come into his home, should have never sat down for that first meal.

I can still feel his eyes on me as I turned around to find him staring from the door frame, can still feel the crinkle of the parchment as my hand balled into a fist at my side with betrayal. And I will never forget the words he spoke when I asked him how long he knew who I was. Instead of giving me an answer that didn't even really matter, he gave me a sorry excuse for an explanation. "I need the money."

I ran from that farm so fast, that his head nearly spun as I passed him. I didn't kill him, even though that's exactly what he planned to do with me. I just ran, hoping a bit of his conscience was louder than his greed.

I won't risk hiding out in another cabin at this point. This one is closest to the forest edge and my safest bet. Better to stick with the devil you know than venture into a different cabin. One with possibly a different layout, different warriors. This one I can handle—at least that's what I'm telling myself.

When the coast is clear, I sneak out of the cabin and into the woods like a shadow in the night, even with my injury slowing me down. The fresh air hits me like a welcome breeze, that signature scent of warm, damp earth after a storm surrounding me. I don't exactly know when it happened, but somewhere along the way, I've started to associate the fresh scent of the forest with home instead of that of the manor’s scents: cinnamon and lilacs, leather, and burning wood. A part of me aches for my home, for the place I grew up in. Another part of me, the smarter part, knows that home can never be a place you don't feel safe in, familiar or not.

Stretching my legs as I walk through the trees is a painful pleasure. After being cramped in a small space for so long, the long strides over roots and stones feel necessary, but I'm careful about putting too much stress on the injury as I go. Still feeling weak from the blood loss, I take my time walking to the freshwater stream trailing through the woods. When I hit the spring, I splash my face before settling to examine the wound. As I unravel the soiled linen, I wince when it pulls at the tender skin, having fused together while drying. When fresh blood begins to trickle down, I plunge my entire leg into the spring and let the water do most of the work. My teeth grit and grind as I clean the wound, the fear of infection outweighing the burning sensation.

While soaking my swollen leg in the cool stream, I scrub my teeth with a bushel of pine needles, and finger comb my hair into some semblance of presentable. I've forgone the luxury of my life at the manor long ago, but a few things are a necessity to me when it comes to feeling put together. I wrap my cleaned leg with a fresh bandage I snatched from the closet before leaving this morning and hope most of the debris is gone.

And now, to hunt. The small piece of bread from last night is long gone and the handful of nuts will only hold me over for so long. Living from one moment to the next means never knowing where your next meal will come from. It means always searching, and always planning as far ahead as you can.

I set up a few different traps and scavenge for any fruit or greens to eat while I wait. Fortunately, I spent a lot of time in the garden as a child learning about various plants and their benefits, and what to steer clear of. With no siblings to fill my time, I made quick friends with almost all of the staff at the manor, much to my mother's dismay. But along with Violetta, the staff at the manor are truly the ones who raised me after my father died.

My mother could never be bothered with such frivolous things. She had a reputation to maintain and a business to run. Owning the largest apple orchard was no small feat, and with the Fuzion Shoppe always bustling with greedy customers, there was little time for mothering. Diapers and bedtime stories and teaching a child to lace their shoes would have tarnished my mother's reputation.

The only time she had to give was our lessons together, which came to a halt too soon. I can still remember the smell of the sweet fruit as my mother taught me the most basic rule of fuzion and how to transfer my magic into an object, how to will it into something tangible.

My first successful fuzion was to stop hiccups. I had gotten them one morning unexpectedly, and my mother said it was the perfect opportunity to practice my magic. It meant even more to me knowing that I would be the one affected if I messed it up.

The gleam in my mother's eyes was something I will never forget, for it was gone too soon along with our lessons.

So instead, I would spend my days with our staff, learning what they could teach me. My father taught me to hunt when I was much too young to care, but it was something that was just ours.

Those early mornings in the quiet forest, he would take me to his favorite spots in the woods, talking about anything and everything. We rarely caught anything and sometimes I think he knew we would come home empty-handed on the days that I would join him. But he didn't care much. We had plenty of food at the manor and I like to think he enjoyed my company more than the thrill of a fresh kill.

Regardless, I owe it to them that I've made it this far. I think of the staff every time I find a medicinal herb and of my father every time I skin my catch. Sometimes I can even roast it over a small fire if I'm lucky. Oh, if my mother could only see me now.

When I was much younger, she used to take more care with me. She would make sure I was well-fed, bathed, and dressed properly. She wanted me educated. Intelligent.

As I grew older, I understood that it wasn't for my benefit, but for hers. She needed me presentable in a way that would complement her. She needed me as a prop to dazzle in front of others at court, to help her climb the social ladder. But as I got older, I got stronger, and that's when she changed tactics. That's when the tough love became brutal. Hateful. That's when I learned how to avoid her.

The second attempted murder came a few years after the first when I was fourteen, on the anniversary of my father’s death. My mother was in rare shape that day, as she always is on the anniversary. She was even more menacing than usual, screaming at me outright that I took him from her in her drunken slur. My parents never struck me as romantic, but more like forever friends. Life partners. They cared for each other deeply but never showed one another much affection aside from acting the part at gatherings and events.

That night, my mother was combing my hair before bed as Ruby purred in my lap, apologizing for her outburst earlier that day, telling me about how I would someday run the manor and the orchard business on my own when I began to feel woozy. My mouth dried out and my breaths came in short bursts.

It was then that I realized why she insisted on combing my hair with her fine-toothed heirloom. Never having taken care of me in such a nurturing way, I should have suspected. But I yearned for her love so desperately that I didn't think twice when she came to my room. She combed the poison into my scalp so calmly, slowly letting it seep into my pores as she fed me lies of a future I'd never have.

Again, Violetta found me tucked into my bed, Ruby at my side, when she came in to blow out a candle, finding my pale skin blue and cold as ice. She washed my hair with a charcoal salve that pulled the poison out before it could do any permanent damage. But it was a close call, to say the least. Too close.

I pondered leaving after that, having a couple of years to plan out what it would look like if I were to run, but again I couldn't fathom abandoning Violetta. I couldn't leave her to the wrath of my mother. Somehow being near her made me feel stronger, like I could save us both if it came to it. Not to mention leaving the place that housed so many memories of my father. How could I leave the place where my father and I painted a mural along my bedroom wall, each stroke of the brush further deepening our connection and understanding of one another?

As dusk approaches I head back to the cabin, belly full of rabbit, legs thoroughly spent. I still haven't figured out a plan to get passage on a ship but at least for the time being I have a place to hide out. Winter will be here before I know it and I need to be long gone by then. Once my wound heals enough for me to move, I will be on my way across the sea. But for now, I'm as safe as I can be. My mother's claws can't reach me here, in a warrior camp, nor would they even try. Her mirror must be faltering or I'd already be dead. She can't find me.

The flickering lanterns of the other cabins wink like fire sprites throughout the camp. I can't see how far the camp stretches but I'm sure it reaches the shore.

I slip in through the cabin’s back door and into the closet with enough time to reorganize the far corner so it’s a more comfortable place to rest. I've found a few linens to prop on the bottom shelf for my ankle. It's the best I can do. One glance at the cabin tells me they don't use this closet very often.

It's not dirty per se, but cleaning certainly isn't one of their top priorities when they get any downtime. I've heard some warrior camps work and train from dawn until dusk leaving little time for anything else. The soldiers are so beaten down and exhausted that they can barely eat a meal before falling into their bunks until the next day.

But I've also heard varying other stories too, about Arion traditions of large bonfires and celebrations honoring battles won. It sounds to me like the life of the camp depends on the leaders who control it. I'm not quite sure what kind of camp this one is yet, but I'm sure I'll learn quickly enough. Maybe tomorrow I'll take a look around.

I wake to the front door bursting open followed by the seven warriors piling in and realize I must have dozed off while waiting for their return. My pulse quickens as my body switches gears and again I'm on high alert as the group moves about the cabin.

"Today was brutal," the tall one with the dark features groans as he falls face-first into his bunk before rolling to his side, eyes still hollowed like he hasn't slept in days.

"I can't believe the storm did all that damage to the northern cabins." I can't quite tell where the comment came from through the slats of the closet door but I listen intently to their conversation nonetheless.

"Maybe if the brutes in the watchtower weren't sleeping on the job, the damage could have been cut by half." The angry one comments from the kitchen. "Then we wouldn't have lost an entire day to clearing debris and rebuilding for that sorry lot." He mumbles the last part almost to himself.

"Oh, come on Huck. You know how tough those nights are when you're on watchtower duty after a full day of training. And would you calm down? You're heating up this cabin like a boiler." The allergy-ridden woman replies with a nasally voice that tells me her nose is still stuffed up.

Being in the closet, it hasn't hit me yet, but if emotions affect his power just as they do mine, I'm shocked this entire cabin hasn't turned into a sauna.

"Huck's just bitter because he didn't get to use the new crossbows today," the short one says, patting Huck on the shoulder. His eyes have a youthful quality to them that you typically only see in infants. It takes the severity out of him and gives him a soft, approachable look.

"Don't make excuses for him, Coy," The big one says, "Huck's a sour grape on the best of days."

Coy . Another name to add to the list. Coy and Huck.

“Not that you idiots would know, but those crossbows could be the difference between life and death for us all. They shoot faster, hit harder, and can be used from a further distance to enemy lines. The further you are from the enemy, the safer.” As he rants, Huck’s demeanor is hard and unforgiving, but his words are actually sincere. It’s clear the captain wants his warriors safe.

“Aw, sweet Huck is worried about us getting impaled by the enemy,” the largest one teases. One icy look from Huck is all it takes for the warrior to turn and busy himself with something.

The group runs through the same routine of working together for dinner before hitting the sheets. Well, most of them do. Huck and another one wait for the fire to die down before retreating to their bunks. I withdraw from the wooden slats at the door and settle into the back of the closet without a sound. Listening to the low murmurs of Huck and the other man near the dying embers of the fire, I find myself dozing all too easily.

I curse myself for feeling too comfortable here already. For letting my guard down enough to doze off while two warriors are still awake in the cabin. Foolish. These foolish mistakes could be my demise. One misstep and everything I've endured, everything I pushed through, will be for naught.

So, I force my eyes open until all of the warriors in the cabin are unconscious. Until I only hear sounds of rhythmic breathing and deep snores.

This time I wake before the group does, giving myself enough time to slip out the back door before any of them wake or there's another chance for them to open that closet and discover my presence.

Before slipping out the door into the unusually warm morning air for early fall, I look around the cabin at the seven warriors in their bunks, chests rising and falling in tandem. A few yellow sun rays bathe their faces with a warm glow. The light hitting Huck's jawline makes his stubble glitter. I tear my eyes away and slip through the back door, slowly pulling it closed behind me, careful not to make a sound as I run to the forest's edge. I eye the other cabins to make sure no doors open as I make my escape. My ankle is still swollen and sore but I'm light on my feet as I shadow myself in the trees again.

When I find the one I want, I climb the mighty oak feeling the rough bark bite at my palms when I jump to reach the first low-hanging branch. It's a challenge with only three good limbs but I've always loved tree climbing as a child, the act more frequent as of late. Once I deem myself high enough to be hidden by the patterned leaves, I settle in the crook of a thick limb and wait.

The sun rises higher through the canopy of the trees, and I wonder what my mother is doing today—if she's given up on the search for me yet. If she looks at herself in that creepy mirror every morning and finds regret in her eyes or a morsel of remorse. But I know she doesn't. I fear she never will. I don't know exactly what kind of witchcraft went into making it, but that mirror is one of the only things she truly cherishes. One of the only things she values, even above people.

As a child, I would tip-toe into her room in the mornings to catch a glimpse of the hulking, beautiful piece of art. The intricate carvings in the thick golden frame are adorned with red rubies. Its oval center glistens like a still pond. Something about it always had a way of luring me closer, like an echo calling out.

But I was forbidden to go near it, as was the rest of the manor, which made it all the more intriguing. Even Ruby didn't venture into that part of the manor. No one, save for my mother, was allowed to even enter her chambers when the mirror was in view. She kept it safe behind the closed doors of her armoire.

I am positive that sorcery surrounds that mirror of hers, that it holds power within its reflection. When I asked Violetta about it, she said I was mistaken. Or that the things I remember as a child can become warped with time and a child's imagination. But I believe Violetta was protecting me from further investigation. She was shielding me from the evils that exuded from my mother .

I like to think there were only three attempts at murdering me over my nineteen years of life because the people surrounding us kept my mother in check, especially Violetta. But truly, I believe it may just be due to the amount of time it took her to think of another clever idea to kill me off discreetly. Violetta protected me the best she could.

A door bursts open in the distance, jarring my thoughts, and my eyes snap up to see fully armed warriors march out of the cabin across the open field in a single file line, that same tune whistling from their lips in the quiet early morning. They vary in height and build, but all wear the same uniforms branded with the same symbol, that marks them as one in the same—a unit. I watch as they dovetail in line with another cabin nearby and continue their march further away from the forest.

I can't be sure if this is standard and the storm the other night disrupted routine, or if today is a special day. Either way, I file it away in my mind, trying to piece together a routine of theirs so I can better my chances of survival here. So I can see how long I might live within this camp and form a schedule that closely complements theirs. In the distance, I can see the watchtowers patterned near the coast, the stones jutting up from the ground like trees in a forest.

I lean closer with my arm hooked around a branch to get a clearer view, but nearly stumble out of the tree when Huck turns his head back, those amber eyes staring directly at me.

But that cannot be. There is no way he can see me up here from that far away, no way he can find me through the trees. There is no way he can even know to look for anyone here. But somehow, his golden eyes pierce straight through the distance.

I shake the paranoia from my head. It’s just a wild thought that holds no merit. But as his head turns back and the warriors begin to disappear from view, I can still feel the weight of his gaze on me, lingering.