The Fabled

Eight

"'Hansel, we are saved. The old witch is dead'" -Brothers Grimm, 1812.

    I pull my cloak's hood tightly over my head; an unfamiliar sensation creeps into my heart.

My hair, my beautiful, midnight hair is so short that it barely grazes my shoulders. I told Estelle to cut a few inches, help me blend in a bit, but I didn't think she would help me blend in this much. Never have I felt so unattractive and uncomfortable in my own skin.

I hate it.

I can't help but glare at her as we creep through shadows of the alleyway. The late afternoon streets are in a distracting clamor, tangling my vexed thoughts, and Red has only been adding to it. She is humming an unfamiliar- but annoying -tune, resting against the dumpster with patience I don't have. I catch the melody every once in a while when the shuffling of townspeople dies down, which gets on my nerves even more.

I've been wondering for some time now as to why these "rebels" put their trust in her so quickly, but I finally grasp the reason for their unguarded behavior: they don't trust her, but they can take care of themselves and I can't. Estelle doesn't need the criminal chained and gagged to feel safe, but I do. There's a void of uncertainty that used to be filled with my magic; it is an emptiness that cannot be resolved without what it used to have. And maybe it's what I deserve?

We've been anticipating Estelle's "okay" so that we can make a run for it, but she has been shaking her head for the last ten minutes. Apparently, the less benign group of rebels really like loitering, and the boys have failed to distract them. The Revision is what this enemy union calls themselves. How entitled. And it sounds like an English assignment.

"My wolves will be here any minute now," Red announces casually, breaking the solemn silence we have remained in. She stands and stretches, basking in our collective terror.

"You called your wolves?" Estelle is bursting at the seams, contrary to her younger sister who hides an excited smile. "Tell them to go back to the thickets! They'll kill everyone in this town-"

"I told them to scare the Revisionists off, not eat them," Red says, rolling her eyes. "Your brother hasn't made any progress with that genius plan of his, so I decided to take matters into my own hands. You're welcome."

His ploy is indeed a weak one: get The Revision into Ander's bakery so we can sneak through the crowd while they're away, but the problem is that half went to investigate the building while the other half has stayed put at the fountain. Two nights ago, I would've loved to know that those wolves could be tamed in our favor, but the thought of seeing blood run in the streets of such a vulnerable town doesn't sound very fair. I suppose I should voice my concerns as well. "Tell them to go back to the mountains, Red."

The criminal gives me a deadly glare. "You rebels wanted to use my wolves in the first place! Now I get them to help us escape and it's like I'm a bad guy-"

Red's eyes widen for a moment before her limbs stiffen. The breathe she sucks in is sharp and a bit concerning, and out of instinct, I am the first to back up. Can a sharded snap despite proving themselves to be lucid? Can they lose control? Perhaps I've angered her to the point of complete madness, and she is readying herself to pounce. I can feel Estelle next to me tensing up as well.

Yet my absurd suspicions are proven false when the criminal crumbles to the ground like a lifeless doll, much to our surprise. We almost miss the cloaked Revisionist just a couple yards away; he waits patiently for our attention as the street's ocean of people avoid him like a stream to a rock. A throwing knife is ready in his hands, and I look down to see another one already lodged in Red's back. It has sunken so deep I would've assumed it to be close combat if not for the circumstances. I hold my breath.