Author's Note

*evil laughter*

Marjorie didn't dare to look back as she ran through the dark forest. She brought her arms toward her face, blocking any low hanging foliage or thistles, and tore through the miles of land. Behind her, the orange moon slowly crawled back down to the horizon.

Soon, morning would come.

Her steps never faltered, at least, until the worn soles of her boots hit the cobblestone path of the village. She pressed herself against the wooden gate that kept the settlement free of wild animals and breathed hard. Even now, with Mirkwood not even in her line of vision, there was not enough distance between her and the man she left behind.

"Damn it," she whispered. The young woman closed her eyes. Behind her lids, she revisited her last moments inside the forest.

Once Fenris revealed his true identity, he raised a single hand, one heavy with two, simple golden rings, and flicked his wrist up. Like magick, the thick undergrowth once blocking her way out lifted from the hidden trail.

He had been the one to lead her deep into Mirkwood—and trapped her inside of it.

"There is no harm here with me," the Wolf whispered. "And although you are brave, you reek of fear. The path will lead you safely home. Return to Core and say your goodbyes. The villagers leave at dawn."

"I am not scared of you," Marjorie muttered, careful not allow her words to hitch. She wanted him to know it. Whatever pheromone he claimed to smell was not her fear, instead it was an incredible amount of stupidity and curiosity stacked on top of each other. She had no desire to run. She ached to learn more about the stranger standing in front of her.

When she looked at Fenris, she did not see the fabled beast capable of rot and death. In its place, she saw something that resembled closer to a man, weighed down by the burdens of a life capsized by magick. "Will I see you again?"

What she meant to ask was "Will I be your victim tonight?"

"I will see you again," he spoke in a riddle.

His answer sent chilling waves racking through her body. His words were a dark promise of his return—when, she did not know.

Perhaps he watched her even now. The thought brought Marjorie out of her trance and sent her climbing over the low, wooden fence. Once she cleared the other side and landed in a patch of frozen grass, she pulled up the skirts of her gown and pushed through the empty fields of her neighboring villagers.

The breaking dawn was still too early to stir any of her fellowmen.

Marjorie ran alongside a freshly plowed grassland and then, followed the shoreline of Mother River to her home.

Her house was sandwiched between Petyr's family home and his father's butcher shop. All three estates were humble properties for this side of the river. Most villagers lacked the funds to build with brick and mortar, but Marjorie's late parents were lucky. Her father's side of the family—now long gone, like them, too— once owned a rock quarry. Some time ago, before Petyr and Marjorie were ever born, Petyr's family traded dried pig and lamb meat in exchange for a steep discount on brick.

The quarry was excavated generations ago. Now, the three estates were the only ties remaining to her ancestors. But Petyr's family—they still possessed herds of livestock and the fine tools needed for a butcher.

Warm, golden light spilled out of Petyr's bedroom window. Marjorie's chest tightened at the sight. It was odd for him to be awake at such a late hour.

She rushed up her wooden steps in an effort to stay hidden from Petyr's eyes and jammed her silver key into the lock of her door. She swung the wooden door open and then, slowed down her movement in a desperate effort to close it without being heard. The lock clicked into place.

"There you are," Petyr said from inside her den.

"Mother!" The blasphemy slipped from her lips like any other curse word.

He stood from one of three wooden stools she kept around her fireplace. Like always, his height seemed to cut the room in half. Nothing, not even Fenris, was bigger than the young Woodsman. Women in the Village thought of Petyr in two ways—the perfect husband or an intimidating, stone of a man.

"Where have you been?" he asked in shock. "The village is leaving at sunrise, Marjorie."

She attempted to walk past him, up to the staircase, where she could hide the basket of her harvest safely in her bedroom. She was scared to pull the Devilhair closer to her cloak, knowing that his eyes would follow the small movement.

Petyr took one, single sidestep. It was enough to block Marjorie from her escape.

"Please move," Marjorie said through gritted teeth to the wall of a man. She did not want to see the look of betrayal that would cross his face once he discovered the Devilhair.

Petyr was the closest thing she had to family. Each time she disappointed him, he resembled a heartbroken puppy—big, dark, glassy eyes, upturned brows and a quivering lip he tried to hide with a weak smile.

"What is that you are hiding behind your cape, Marjorie?" Petyr asked.

"It is not for your eyes," she hissed out in anger. Hopefully, her biting tone would scare him off.

He took a step forward and slipped his hands forward, so quick she had no time to react to his sudden movement. His long fingers wrapped around the wooden handle of her basket, ripped it from her grasp, and brought it into the flickering orange light of her fireplace. Even at first glance, the rich crimson of the medicinal herb was undeniable.

"Devilhair?" Petyr whispered, confused. His wide, bewildered gaze remained at her harvest. Slowly, his shock morphed into boiling anger. Rage on his handsome face was never pretty—thick brows pushed down, eyes watery, and a clicking, clenching jaw. "You went into the forest?"

She nodded. Her gaze remained at the worn wooden floorboards of the den. She wished she could melt into the wide, black cracks between each panel and sink into the dirt below—anything to escape the fire of his dark gaze.

"You could have died, Marjorie," he seethed.

When she entered the forest, death had been the last thing on her mind.

"Have you gone mad? People find their end in Mirkwood! They die doing what you just did. You took something that is not yours from that place," Petyr breathed hard. "Tell me, Marjorie, is it your wish to be chosen on the Day of the Wolf?"

This close— with the musky scent of a day's work and a night full of dancing evident on his linen shirt, his golden curls pushed behind his ears, and passion in his gaze— it was easy to understand why village girls followed him like lost little ducklings, one right after the other. And why they were so jealous of Marjorie.

They wanted him to care about them, just as desperately and ardently as he did for Marjorie.

"Of course not," she confessed in a watery voice. "I saw no Wolf, Petyr," she lied easily. "The beast does not know I even entered his forest."

"You are reckless," Petyr whispered, kinder this time. "And for what reason? In just a few hours, we will flee this place. Together, we will go to Beyond, just as you once wished."

She didn't respond.

How would he take her decision to stay?

For a moment, she imagined him hoisting her body over his shoulders and forcing her to come along with the Village. If he chose to use his strength against her, she could do little to stop him.

Her hands wrapped around her elbows, hugging herself tighter to shield herself from both the frigid cold and the scolding words of her friend. She understood where his anger came from—going inside of Mirkwood was a death wish.

"Are you cold?" he asked in a softer tone, oblivious to the secret she kept. His palm moved to rest around her slender neck. She welcomed the warm touch.

"Yes," she said, grateful to change the subject.

He turned to tend to the fire—but froze at the distant cawing of her raven.

"You haven't killed the damned thing yet?" Petyr did nothing to hide his frustration.

"And I have no plans to," Marjorie said through gritted teeth.

"Then I will do it." Petyr turned away from the fireplace and revealed a long iron used for stirring embers in his right hand.

Fear shot through her body at the sight of her friend wielding the tool like a weapon. Her hands flew to his chest in attempt to keep him at bay, but her efforts were worthless. Even with all of her strength pushing back against him, Petyr was unaffected.

"No, you cannot!" She screamed.

In her upstairs bedroom, the raven cawed as if it cried out for help.

"Wolf or not— Mother always requires a sacrifice, Marjorie," Petyr whispered in an obedient voice, like he feared the goddess watched them from between the cracks in the ceiling. His face was emotionless. There was no familiar lopsided smile or matching dimples. Instead, only a terrifying blank mask.

"Petyr, please," she begged against the wall of his chest.

She pushed all of her weight into him. Nothing helped.

"Petyr, do not." Tears rolled down her hot cheeks. "Please, is there not enough death already?"

"Move out of my way, Marjorie," Petyr spoke with little remorse. And why would he regret the death of another tiny beast? Just this morning, he slaughtered half a herd of sheep in the name of his family.

"I am begging you!" her shout beat against the walls and no doubt traveled out into the empty streets of the Village. "Petyr, please, stop it!"

He paused, caught by the panic in her voice. The man bent down to her height and offered her a comforting smile. She stared into the wide brown eyes of her best friend, and saw for the first time that night, a familiar kindness there.

"Marjorie," he whispered. His left hand gingerly wrapped behind her head and pointed her gaze toward him. "I will be quick. It will be painless."

There was not enough time for Marjorie to react.

Petyr pushed past her like she weighed nothing. His long legs cleared her stairs with four strides, leaving her utterly alone at the bottom of the staircase. He swung the door open to her bedroom and the desperate caws of her bird only grew.

She wanted to give up and simply clasp her palms over her ears, but she refused to surrender.

Instead, she opened her mouth and screamed the only fear Petyr ever had.

"I am not going with you to Beyond, Petyr," she shouted. "I am staying here."

I am leaving you.

The iron he held in his hand clattered to the ground at her words, but the cawing of her raven continued. 

Author's Note

I really hope you guys liked this chapter! I know I did! I loved writing it. I like the growth of Petyr's character and how it intermingles with Marjorie. 

As always, thank you so much for your comments-- I look forward to each of them. Expect another update by tomorrow afternoon! Much love.