The cool night air settled over Marjorie's fleeing figure as she raced the setting sun alongside Mother River. With each passing moment, the temperature continued to decrease, but she kept the cold away by her continuous movement.

Her crimson cloak trailed behind her in a billowing curtain, catching on twigs and low-hanging foliage. Although she was plunged in darkness and armed only with a single torch, Marjorie knew the way to Grandmother's house by heart. After spending most of her childhood wandering aimlessly through Woodsman's Landing and along the banks of the river, the surrounding landscape was as familiar as the back of her hand. 

She passed sporadic piles of fallen timber, proof that the Woodsmen were steadily etching their way through the land. Each day, every man strong enough to hold an ax spent hours chopping down new sections. They cut down trees to create safe passages through Mirkwood forest, meant to ensure a safe journey past the Wolf and into Beyond.

It was foolish, thankless work. Grandmother Sicily claimed the trees of the forest held a stubborn magick in their roots. An ancient incantation protected it from a Woodsman's steel blade, but still, the men cut. One tree took an entire team of men a month to bring down. Once one fell, thousands more still waited.

"It's easy to be a Woodsman," Petyr told her when they were both young teenagers. It had been his first week on the job, and his hands were welted from the labor. She spent months nursing his blisters. Back then, his brown eyes were still big and wide, hungry for adventure. "You just imagine you're cutting the Wolf's head off."

All Woodsmen carried that same vision. Each "Timber!" was a promise to the Wolf. One day, the beast would be killed by one of them. If not today, then tomorrow, and if not by them, then by their sons.

Every villager dreamed of the day a brave Woodsmen would bring the head of the Wolf mounted on a spike. Marjorie pushed the thought away. She couldn't deny that she shared the same fears of her village, but she didn't like imagining the Wolf dead.

Now, no villager ever had to face the terror of living through another Wolf's Eve and Wolf's Night. No more sacrifice. No more Last Banquet. No more death. Not with the Wardeness of Beyond shepherding their journey through the dark forest.

Marjorie quickened her pace. She needed to reach her Grandmother before they were left behind by the soldiers. Together, they would return to the village and set on the path toward a new, better life, one that wasn't haunted by the Wolf or set in stone by life in Core.

Sicily lived on the edge of Mirkwood. Most Fewfolk did. Some, like her Grandmother, built houses or set up nomadic camps. Others lived off the land and survived by taking shelter in caves. A few, like Blanchette, were traveling merchants and used their familiarity with the forest to profit on the market. And the little that were left simply survived beneath the stars.

Her Grandmother's home appeared after Marjorie rushed up a rolling hill covered in thick vegetation. The two-story tree-house was built in a tall scrub oak. Five decades after its creation, gray branches curled around the building like a tightening fist.

The only way up was an uneven staircase. It led to her Grandmother's front door, an artisanal piece of cherrywood hand-carved with a scene of fae women surrounded by delicate flora.

Like always, the weight of Marjorie's steps caused the stairwell to moan. The home needed countless repairs, but her Grandmother stubbornly refused any kind of help. Every mistake in her fortress reminded her of someone long gone—from Marjorie's own mother to Sicily's late husband.

When the couple was young, they built the home together. He cut the wood and she painted the exterior with a careful, precise hand. Her intricate designs adorned the stair railing and told a story of how the family of three once lived together in the safety of their treehouse.

Marjorie reached the porch and knocked loud enough to raise her Grandmother from sleep. When she failed to answer, Marjorie turned the brass knob. It was warm underneath her grasp, which meant the fireplace was roaring with flames.

She pushed the door open. It was always unlocked. No one but Fewfolk would dare to come this close to Mirkwood forest, and even fewer would dare to enter the home of Sicily. Even at the ripe age of 83, she was still well-practiced with a long bow.

"Grandmother Sicily, it is me," Marjorie said. At her entrance, she was instantly wrapped with warmth. She shrugged off her red cloak and draped it across the leather couch covered in the furs of wild game.

The home was divided into three rooms separated by heavy wooden doors. The first room, the den, held a dining table, the same three rickety chairs Sicily's husband brought from Beyond, a brick-plaited fireplace and slanted shelves full of curiosities covered in dust. Sicily spent most afternoons in the den, creating tiny tools to help ease the tiring life of a Fewfolk. Sometimes though, her Grandmother's tinkering seemed more like a distraction than a necessity.

Tonight, it smelled of fresh bread and garlic. Her Grandmother must have gathered the wild herbs that grew beneath her home for dinner. Whatever Sicily ate as a Fewfolk came from her own resourcefulness and knowledge of the surrounding land.

"Grandmother?" Marjorie repeated. "I bring good news." She peeked into the black pot hanging over the fire—inside, a boiling vegetable soup. Her mouth watered at the sight. Eating must wait. She didn't come all this way for a warm dinner, and the meal she consumed at the Last Banquet still weighed heavily in her stomach.

"In here, dearie," Sicily said from the direction of her bedroom. Her voice sounded weaker than usual, most likely a side-effect of the late hour.

Marjorie took a glance at the pot over the fire, and realized it was moments from boiling over the rim. She grabbed the iron handle with the bottom of her dress and set it on a crocheted pot-holder. It sizzled angry at the jostling movement.

"Grandmother, your dinner could've burned your home down—" she rushed into Sicily's bedroom. Marjorie grew quiet at the sight of the old woman.

Her lithe frame was tucked underneath piles of fur blankets and quilts. Her long, silver hair framed her thin face in unbrushed, knotted ropes. Strands stuck to the sweaty surface of her pale, hollow cheeks. No color brightened her skin, aside for the tinge of a sallow green. She lay like a wilted flower, slowly decaying in the soil below.

Marjorie rushed to her Grandmother's side. She ran a hand over her sticky forehead and flew back, surprised by the high temperature.

"What is this?" Marjorie whispered. "How did this happen? Grandmother, how long have you been ill?"

"It is Brushpaw, child," the old woman whispered in a voice full of shame.

"Certainly not," Marjorie refused to believe it. "You showed no signs of it on my last visit—it hasn't even been four days yet—"

She froze.

"How long have you known?" Marjorie dared herself to utter the question.

Sicily stayed quiet for a long moment and filled that time by staring at the ceiling, where a painting of their family tree decorated the wooden boards.

"I have suspected it for weeks," she confessed.

The floor beneath Marjorie's feet seemed to weaken, and then disappear completely. She collapsed beside her Grandmother's bed and tried to make a sound—any sound. But the sudden grief only allowed her to choke out a few gurgles before she was swallowed by silence.

Brushpaw was a death sentence to all it infected. The disease was indiscriminate to those it chose to infect, and when it contaminated a victim, it was a long, slow demise. Ugly purple-red bruises slowly appeared on the body, like bloody footprints in snow, until it inevitably coated every inch of skin.

Sometimes, in particularly bad winters, entire families would be unceremoniously wiped out within weeks. It didn't matter the age or health of the person. All stricken eventually met a sudden demise.

"How could you possibly keep this from me?" Marjorie's words were fainter than she expected. "Why would you keep this to yourself—I would've helped—"

"This forest is no place for you," Sicily whispered. "What did you suppose I do?" The old woman reached out her frail hands and wrapped them around her granddaughter's. Her blue eyes, the identical shade to Marjorie's, were fogged over with a yellow, sickly gloss. "You know what the villagers say, dearie. They search for excuses to condemn you here. Too pretty for that village, too strange to be an obedient wife, and too much of a woman to be a Woodsmen. If you cared for me, they would've made a witch out of you."

"Have I ever been one to care for their opinions?" Marjorie asked. "Have I ever sought for their approval? As you lie decaying here in your bed, I danced tonight. I drank, and I laughed, and I ate. All while you withered."

"You are like your father," Sicily laughed weakly. "Weighed down by responsibility. That is why my daughter loved him so deeply. No one could take care of her better, not even her own mother."

"Better to be responsible than to live with a guilty conscience," Marjorie whispered. She led Sicily's hand to her cheek and rested it there. "Grandmother, I came tonight to give you good news."

"Then what are you waiting for?" The old woman raised her white eyebrows.

"The Village—" she paused, unsure of how to say it. She couldn't bring herself to look into her Grandmother's eyes. Instead, she turned to stare at the ends of her long, silver hair. "A young Wardeness came to save us. She offers us a safe passage through Mirkwood to Beyond. I am here to take you back with me. We are leaving at sunrise."

"You must know I cannot go with you," Sicily whispered. "I can hardly stand. I plan to stay here, to die where Cedar died," it was rare for her Grandmother to say her husband's name. "He is here, I can feel him—and I see him, sometimes, too. The closer you are to death, the thinner the veil becomes. It is no longer the dead and us. It is the dead and me, Marjorie."

"When you are dead, who will bury you?" she whispered. "It may feel as though Grandfather is here, but a spirit cannot tend to your pains. It would be cruel of me to leave you alone to die like this. I will stay with you."

"You are to leave with them," Sicily commanded. Although the woman was frail, she could still look terrifying with her cold, angry glare. "I have lived a life in Beyond. It is your turn now."

"There are medicines there," Marjorie continued, unable to allow herself to imagine the unthinkable. "If we make it pass the forest, I will take you to healers—"

"Even in Beyond, they know of no cure for this, child," she whispered. "You must leave me."

Marjorie's vision blurred with tears, unable to keep the sadness inside of her hidden behind blank eyes. She leaned back and covered her hot face in shame. In this moment, Marjorie wished she could be strong like her Grandmother was, or at least, appeared to be.

"Do not hide that sadness, dearie," Sicily comforted in a hushed tone. "Look at me. I am not as alone as you believe," she promised.

Marjorie only nodded. She wanted to believe the woman was right—that the veil was thin and that they were not alone in this room together. Perhaps Cedar sat at her bedside, too, comforting his wife with his silent presence.

"It is okay to be sad," Sicily soothed. "There is a path before you that you must take. Moments like this, I find they are never easy. There is more for you than this forest and your Village. You have the chance to live the life you have always wanted—" a violent cough forced the old woman to pause, "—the life a girl like you has always needed."

"I will pray to Mother for your healing," Marjorie whispered. "She has performed miracles before."

For most of her life, she refused to even acknowledge the deity. Now, after years of abandoning Mother's church, Marjorie was unsure if she could still pray properly. Knees bent, eyes closed, hands folded, and voice pleading.

"I am afraid that will do no good for a stubborn woman like me," Sicily confessed. "You forget I am a Fewfolk. No blessings Mother can give me will save what my body is becoming."

"You wish for me to allow you to die, don't you?" Marjorie asked. There was a stickiness in her throat, like her sadness was tangible and it slowly climbed up her body.

"I wish life for you far beyond this place," the old woman said in a soft, hushed voice. "We all must die one day, Marjorie. What is coming is coming. And when it arrives, I will go freely with it." 

Author's Note

Alright, so this was the chapter I was most nervous about. The plot is about to start moving at a rapid speed-- I'm needing some feedback. Is this making any sense? Is this storytelling any good? Is Marjorie a good character? Please! I need some advice!