Forsaken by the one person who was supposed to love her unconditionally, Red must brave the magic and monsters of the Wylds to find her true place in the world.
*****
Plague...
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I shuddered awake as the screaming wind shook the tree overhead, worrying at the branches like the Wraith had worried at the Bone Snatcher's wing. I rolled over into a crouch, ready to flee my makeshift den at a moment's notice. But the groaning wood never gave way to the splintering crack that now haunted my dreams, and my piss-poor shelter held. Even though rain streamed in through the gaps of the hastily constructed lean-to, pooling under my shoulder to form a marshy bed.
It was hard to remember that I'd been grateful when the skies first opened up. I hadn't dared to venture back into the Rotten Sea for the supplies torn from my pack, travel rations, blankets and a fire-starting kit among them. So after hours of wandering aimlessly through the woods, looking for the bare necessities I needed to survive, it had seemed a blessing when the clouds had announced with a bone-rattling boom that they were simply going to hand me water.
I'd filled and drained my canteen once, twice, before finally seeking shelter in the roots of this tree. It was here, tucked away from the lurking terrors of the Wylds, that I'd finally reached into my cloak pocket for the packets of herbs, sealed dry with bee wax from the Blood Moon hives.
My attempts at rubbing sticks together hadn't amounted to so much as a spark. But I'd realised shortly after rubbing my hands even rawer that there was little point in starting a fire; it would only alert predators to my presence, and I had no container to boil the concoction in, anyhow. So I'd resigned myself to crumbling up the medicinal herbs and stuffing what I hoped were the right amounts of each through the narrow neck of my canteen, where they had since been steeping while I slept, apparently through the rest of the day and long into the night.
I eyed that canteen now with no small amount of trepidation, all too aware of my heartbeat in my chest. It was unusually sluggish, like it was labouring to keep blood pumping through my veins. My mouth pinched tight, but I steeled my resolve and reached out for the canteen, twisting the cap off. "To life," I muttered, raising it in silent toast - to no one. It was just another excuse to delay the inevitable.
Shaking my head at my own foolishness, I screwed my eyes shut and took a swig. Going cold-turkey would help nothing, even if I needed to wean off these herbs eventually. After all, they were in limited supply, and I hadn't the slightest idea of where to find more.
To my surprise, the tonic was more fragrant than bitter; perhaps it hadn't had time to properly steep. Shrugging, I took another, longer draught, holding the open canteen out into the curtain of rain to refill. I listened to the plunk of fat raindrops on metal, idly admiring the orange sheen on the side of the canteen.
I froze, scenting the smoke at the same time I realised what I was looking at. Not a sheen, but a reflection. I scrambled from my place in the roots, knocking aside my crude shelter of twigs and leaves, emerging muddy and panting into the night.
