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My boots crunched under the loose pebbles and twigs that littered the muddy road.  I am walking home from the Gather, a small marketing village where I make most, if not all, of my income.  My bag lightly slapped my back as I maneuvered down the trail.  The day is crisp; every intake of breath filled with winter air and earthy scents.  The only noise echoing around me being my shoes crunching and my pockets slightly clinking with the few coins I received from selling the wild cat pelt I had skinned just a few hours before.  I had been hunting, hoping and praying for a beefy buck to walk in front of my arrow.  Unfortunately, the only creature I'd seen after hours of sitting was a wild cat, so I shot it without much hesitation.  Meat is meat right?  Plus the cat's fur was soft, but still very scraggly from the harsh winter.  I took the pelt to the Gather and I received five shellings, a mighty big generosity from the merchant who bought the low-grade pelt.  I would have only paid two for it if I were him, due to the fact that my skinning skills were not up to par with the Gather's best and the pelt was quite rough, but I wasn't about to question his kind action.  He may have just spared another few months for my family and I.  Not that he knew about those little details of his generosity.

The Merchant probably thought I would be visiting a bar later in the evening, order me a brown loaf and sit around, chatting about the Days Before the Rebellion.  He thought I would waste my money, spending it on my ow pleasure before ever thinking about using it in anything else.  Part of me, a not very wise part, yearned to be young and irresponsible like many my age.  However, I am not the only mouth I have to feed.  My mud-caked, battered old boots fave people the slightest inkling I was putting my family's needs before my own; a mother at a young age, but not to my own children.  Few Gather Folk knew about my situation, and they often provide help when they can spare the resources.  Everything I do is to provide for my little sisters. 

When the Gather Folk couldn't fill the void, I had to find the means to make ends meet.  Not that the Elite gave us much expenses for our needs.  That's the way life has always been here.

Life sounds as terrible as it is:  this was how I had to keep what was left of my family alive.  Hunting, skinning, and some growing when the windowsill and clouds provided the right amount of sunlight to leak through.  That is all my seventeen years of life has consisted of.  No amount of shooting a bow or growing crops could ever subdue the worry and hate that I felt every moment, every second, of my life.  The gods have doomed me for this hell; but I guess the battlefield is a much worse fate.

All in all, I should be grateful for what the gods have granted me.

I have felt the weight and worry of starvation for seven years now.  My mother and father met their unfortunate end when I was ten, leaving their eldest daughter to fend for three younger ones.  If my parents hadn't been so irrational and outright idiotic, maybe they could have spared me a few more years of being soft and clueless.  But, just like every other Gather Folk, they put all of their wretched faith into the Rebellion, and perished in the Battle of Freedom. I guess they aren't all to blame though:  nobody knew back then that Their Kind are unbeatable.  Nobody comprehended how much power they contain in their blood until half of the Gather community and other surrounding villages were on the Elite's doorstep, shooting and baring their teeth like savages.

It is said that with one clean swipe of His hand the whole army was burnt, slowly being crisped until nothing but the charred remains of flesh and bone stuck to the beautiful sidewalks of Galderaé.

Either way, Bitterness still overpowered my grief.  I hated my parents for leaving me with their mess to clean.  I hated my parents for leaving me, period.

The world during my parent's lifetime was only just beginning to tangle into the chaotic mess it is today.  The war of Us against the bastards had only just started unfolding, and was bound to become more complicated and torturous than before.  Galderaé marked the first bloody battle with many more to come.  The marking if the Dark Days stained every history book.  The Elite made sure to punish us for our spontaneous act of rebellion, making everyone and their son work until hands bled and hearts stopped.  They stopped giving us what little money they granted, and cut our food rations in half.  Poverty and harshness of my family's lives here at the Gather along with the worry of war quickly molded me into the hard, cold woman I am today.  I mean, who wouldn't turn into a complete bitch?  The Elite find it amusing the way we are tortured.  I wish that the rebellion lived on in secret and would wipe the bastards out for good.  Then maybe I can ease up a little.

My mood didn't lighten in the slightest these days, due to the everyday grind.  Not to mention there are rumors of more Gather Folk being recruited.

As of right now the Elite only took the men to the battlefield.  The number of men they recruited were constantly increasing at a rapid pace every day.  It would be only a matter of time before the high-status pigs ran out of the men, and went to the women, the only gender the Gather can rely on.  I hope that I never see that travesty in my lifetime.

Before long I stood at the end of the old and decaying steps leading to the door of my family's small cottage.  Muddy slosh deemed as snow by my sisters coated them, making them slicker than ice undoubtedly.  Mud thrived on everything, even through all of the snow belts us folks endure in the Gather, somehow staying prominent in our day to day lives.  Their Kind were to blame for weather too; they made the snow fall heavily and the winds destroy already damaged beyond repair cottages. The Elite class hated us with every breath they took, and they were not about to let us forget it. Their life mission is to make our lives hell.  Considering some Elite beings can live up to thousands of years old, I would say they have the upper hand.

The human race is nothing to them. Vermin, scum of the earth that walk and try to eat their fruits of life. In their eyes we steal, and are greedy. We only hinder their elite society. We deserve nothing more but disease and death. The only purpose humans serve is providing food from our farms, water from our clearest streams to beasts who waste it on silly things such as bath water and food for their exotic animals.  We are expected to provide, and give our last breath at the expense of their comfortable living.

I've never known the luxury of comfort thanks to the Elite's greedy, horrible, selfish ways. 

I shook my head, forcing the hateful, horrid thoughts away. Being a hateful woman would only make things worse. Enduring every day, one step at a time is a challenge in itself, adding the blinding hatred I felt for the Elite class made life much less bearable. I have to be strong, like the sturdy oak trees sheltering my cottage; strong, flexible, and ready for anything the wind has to blow at me. I can't change how things are, I can only accept and make do with the elements.

I must keep going, and keep my family alive and together. My family is all I have left.

With that last thought I clambered up the stairs, hitting my boots on the side of the cottage to knock the snow off the soles. Nothing drove me crazy more than my thick wool socks becoming slightly damp after walking through a puddle on the old, rotting wood floors of the cottage because of people having the inability to knock snow off of boots before entering the house. The way the socks clung to my skin with even the slightest drop of water made me grit my teeth in annoyance.  No other feeling in the world could compare to that dreadful one.

Opening the door I nearly toppled over; the pile of slush and ice from this morning has yet to melt.  The absence of heat chilled me, snaking through the crevices in my jacket. Nesta must not have chopped much wood today. 

Meaning, she hadn't even considered touching the hatchet. I mentally added chopping more bundles to my list of chores needing to be done tomorrow since I seem to be the only person capable of doing it in this house.

I slung my brown leather jacket on the back of a chair that I've claimed as mine and only mine, before plopping down on it.  The old rickety thing groaned under my weight and threatened to collapse at any minute.  For an instant I became terrified that Ole Reliable might actually crumple under me- adding yet another household appliance I would need to fix.  After I settled, the chair's groaning seized.  One day, maybe it might break, but today I appeared to be in the clear. 

The aroma of onions hung in the air, making my mouth water instantly. 

"Sora!  You're home!" my sister Mare greeted, running into the room.  "Did you receive anything good from the pelt?"  Leave it to my sister to make me rehash the adventures from earlier today. I tried to block out the memories from the Gather as much as possible, but my naive little sister made forgetting difficult.

Glistening eyes shinning from tears were the only things visible from alleys. Dirty faces of starving children haunted every step through the Gather Village. The image of a mother cutting the back haunches off of a dead, rotting dog flashed past my eyes. I tried my best to act like none of it affected me even though it seemed to add an extra ten years to my already old and weary soul.

"Five shellings," I reply, taking my knife out of my worn belt.  I observed the antique, carefully looking over the chipped, dull blade. Surely, the knife wouldn't do much harm to any living creature, but it could at least poke an eye out.  The pitiful excuse for a knife came in handy sometimes, like for skinning and shelling out nuts from their hard shell, even if the blade wobbled slightly from the loose pin in the wood handle.

I started sharpening it, hoping that the blade would become decently sharp after a few hours of elbow grease. "What do I smell cooking?"

"Oh, Nesta is making venison stew for dinner!" she said, smiling from ear to ear. Nesta is a notoriously good cook, when she bothered to pitch in to the work.  "Gael had enough grace to share some of his onion rations!  He brought them over this afternoon when you were gone." 

I huffed slightly. Mare and Gael, a local Gather boy whom Mare attended prayer sessions with, have been getting close over the last few weeks, even a blind good could see that. He is built strong, with tanned skin and brown eyes that remind me of shit- or excuse my potty mouth- crap.  I don't approve of their reckless, young behavior, but Mare didn't seem to pay any attention to me. Classic teenager. 

Lately he's been bringing gifts to us, mainly exotic foods like cherries, strawberries, and milk.  I always accepted the gifts with hesitation, but was always grateful.  Any little bit of food helped, but I couldn't afford to be in debt to anyone.  Plus I felt as if he is only doing it because he is trying to butter me up before asking for Mare's hand in marriage.

Mare swore that their relationship was strictly friends, but only a fool could miss how much her face lit up when she sees him.  I caught them hugging once near the road.  The startled expression they both shared nearly made me pee my pants with laughter, yet at the same time, I nearly vomited when I witnessed their expressions of young love.  Mare needed to look at the facts.  Plain and simple.

Gael came from a family of great wealth; they supplied the Elite class with our food, and in return Their Kind gave them money. Lots of it. Mare came from the dirt and grime of Gather life.  I think the most expensive thing I own is my mother's gold wedding ring; we know nothing of Gael's extravagant life.  Mare would never fit into his life the way she dreams to, this I am certain of. 

The truth is harsh, yet all too realistic and true.

To make Mare's current love situation that much better, Gael's father is one of the worst men the Gather has to offer.  Gael may be nothing like his father, but at the same time he might be all too much like Tanneras.  Tanneras is a bucket full of slime and guts if I ever saw one.  His slicked back hair glistened with grease, that I doubt was slathered in in efforts to suffocate the lice that infected his scalp. His appearance reminded me of how close to the devil he is.  I'm sure the gods have a special spot in hell reserved just for his ass.  His best smile closely resembled a snarl, and his body is rather pudgy, closely resembling a wounded animal when he walked. He is almost as cruel and heartless as the Elites.

Never in my lifetime will I allow Mare go sneaking around in hay lofts with the kin of a snake. 

"Don't let him give us any more gifts Mare.  He's given us too much.  We don't have the money or food to repay his family." 

Her grin faltered, but didn't leave.  "I know Sora.  He is only trying to help us."  She hated admitting we were struggling to survive almost as much as I did.  Hell, every Gather Folk is struggling to survive!  So why did it still feel like such a scandalous situation to be poor?

"We don't need their help," I reply.  My knife seemed to gleam a little with each sharpening stroke.  Maybe the lack of elbow grease during sharpening sessions was the cause for such a dull blade.  My father would approve of me still carrying his knife around.  "And we don't need them to think marriage is in the air."  I glanced back up at her, carefully studying her reaction.  She better not think there is even a chance she is going to marry that boy.

"Sora!"

"I'm not a damn idiot Mare.  I have eyes, and they happen to work just fine.  I see the way you two are around one another."  And it makes me sick, I silently added.

"We are friends!"

I smiled a little.  I didn't believe a single word she seethed at me, but I didn't push it, for what reason, I didn't know.  Possibly because I wanted to live in denial that they had any romance between them, even if my eyes did show me differently. 

For now I wanted to believe Mare is still a child.  An innocent, not in a relationship if any kind, child. 

"Alright."

Nesta walked into the room, breaking whatever conversation Mare and I were having.  Nesta stumbled, clearly struggling with the cast iron pot.  Maybe if she cut a load of wood every once in a while she wouldn't be such a weakling.  Mare rushed over to help before I had a chance to put my knife back into the sheath.  Mare has always been the helpful one in the family.  I always thought struggling improves and betters ones self.

I've always been the black sheep of this family.

Watching my sisters work, I noticed how they both had the same striking qualities as my mother; pale blonde hair that cascaded down their backs and stopped in the small of their backs, blue eyes that reminded me of cloudless days in summer, and full pink lips that every boy dreams about kissing.  Their cheeks always had the permanent rose blush tint, granting them elegance and girly features.  Both of their bodies are petite, each short and not a strong muscle to be seen.  They couldn't hurt a fly, even if they tried to hit it with a cast iron pot.  Hell, it takes two of them to even lift the pot!

My other sister, Denae and I, however, took on my father's traits.  Red hair that resembled fire when it caught in the wind and reached only the middle of our backs.  Our eyes are cold and dull, not the pretty blue of my mother's.  Both of us were tall, having more muscle mass than Mare or Nesta combined, but any observer could still see the signs of malnutrition and starvation eating at our ribs. 

I have come to the conclusion that there is no such thing as a healthy weight in our world.  Even Gael's body shown signs of malnutrition.  Even with his milk, cheese, and warm bread served on silver dinner platters every night.  Maybe I am hateful, but at least I had good reason.

"Sora do you mind getting the bowls?" Nesta asked, snapping me from my thoughts.

"Glass or wood tonight?" I asked.  We had glass china that used to belong to my mother.  On special occasions we use it, but most of the time the precious china stays wrapped in cloth, seated on a cabinet shelf.  If the decision were up to me the delicate bowls and plates would be sold at the Gather and I would have some shellings to purchase more food and maybe even another bow, but Nesta insisted we keep them. 

Apparently staying alive is much too sensible for her.

"Wood will do for tonight," she answered. 

"Where is Denae?" I asked while rummaging through the cupboard.  I felt guilty for just realizing her absence, considering I'd been home for the better half of thirty minutes.

I heard Mare gulp.  Nests blew out a long breath.  The world seemed to freeze at the question.  I instantly knew what that meant.

Anger flickered inside of me like flames licking a charred log.  When is Denae ever going to learn?

"About that....." Mare drawled, attempting to smooth over the situation for Denae's sake.

"She better not be out in the woods again."  Their Kind sometimes wondered from the castle, prowling the woods looking for unfortunate souls to torture and kill for fun.  I had warned Denae what seemed to be a thousand times, but she refused to heed my warnings. 

It wasn't like she is the one who will have to burry a flayed corpse.

"She didn't want to make you mad Sora-" Nesta began.  I slammed my hands down on the counter, rattling the silverware.  Mare jumped, blue eyes wide. 

"It's nearly dark," I hiss.  "She is going to get herself killed!" After years of taking care of her and the girls, this is how she repays me? Disobedience over the simplest rules, yet again! As if I didn't already have enough to worry about, now I have to worry if she will come home, or if I will have to go in search of her bloody corpse!

"She loves painting Sora.  She can't help it."  Mare murmured with a shrug.  As if that's an excuse for her actions.

"She can paint in the yard Mare. She can paint in the Gather for the God's sake! Anywhere but in the damn woods! She's going to get herself killed! I can't imagine the horrors of what the Elite are capable of if they get their hands on a human!" The thought alone made my stomach churn with the most unpleasant feeling of worry. Why does these terrible things keep happening to me?

Nesta nor Mare had a response.  I gathered the bowls and spoons, walking them over to Nesta, thrusting them into her hands. 

"When she comes back tonight I am going to have a talk to her." 

"Alright," Mare said quietly. 

Remorse flooded through me.  Mare, poor Mare.  I know I frightened her with my sudden outburst of range.  She reminded me of a mouse; quiet and scared of her own shadow at times.  Even though she is only fourteen she is still too loving.  Too fragile.  Hopefully one day she would learn to be strong and cold; if you care too much you will die in this world. 

Thank the gods that Nesta will never have to worry about that; she can be as cold as ice when she wishes.  She is good at being a hateful hag.

My distaste for Nesta didn't lower my temper in the slightest.

"Let's start eating," Nesta softly said.  Nobody protested at that suggestion. 

Nesta, Mare, and I ate the watery stew by the fire. Mare read from the only book we had in between spoonfuls.  The stew consisted of what was remaining of the leathery deer jerky I had made last month, along with the damned onions from Gael.  The flavorful taste of the savory onions almost made the bland water and soggy jerky edible.  Almost.  I still managed to choke the soup down and keep it in my stomach.

After dinner we all went our separate ways as usual. I gathered my leather bound book, ink, and quill, sitting in the chair next to the fire once again.  Mare and Nesta retired to their rooms for the night.  While waiting for Denae's return I scrawled chicken scratch onto the yellowing, crinkling pages of the book.  Writing seemed like the only escape, and the only way I stayed sane. 

I don't know how long I waited for Denae to return before sleep took over.  When I woke early the next morning I found the ink bottle upset on the floor, all of its contents seeped into the wood floor, and my book laying haphazardly in my lap.  Only then did worry and realization finally clench in to a tight ball, finding a permanent home in my stomach.

Denae hadn't returned home. 

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Created on November 25, 2016

Edited on February 5, 2017.

3815 words.