AN:

Happy Sunday! What have you done today! I've binge-watched all of ATLA and made mushrooms for breakfast. 

ALSO- We are on ACT II! What! 

Hold onto your butts. Things are about to get crazy! 

Together, Marjorie and Petyr climbed to the top of Oak Point to witness the villagers' exodus from Core. Once the morning sun reached the top of the clear, cobalt sky, the villagers lined themselves up like soldiers—obediently.

"I do not like this," Marjorie whispered to her friend.

He didn't look away from the villagers and their compact formation. From this distance, with their backs to them and packed tightly together, it would be impossible for him to accurately spot his family. But that didn't stop him from watching, waiting for any clue that may pinpoint his father's broad shoulders or his mother's golden curls.

She wondered what it must feel like to be Petyr in this moment. She possessed no family to mourn other than Sicily. But her Grandmother was not disappearing with the morning sun, instead she withered away in her own home, too stubborn to leave her ghosts.

"What will we do here?" Petyr whispered in a dejected voice.

Marjorie leaned from where she sat against the scrub oak and set her chin on Petyr's shoulder. He shuddered at the intimacy of the touch, that was something she needed to get used to—his want.

"We have nothing to do but wait for the Wolf," she replied.

She closed her eyes and imagined Fenris—tall and lean and dangerous. She wondered how much a threat he was to her, if he actually meant what he promised. There is no harm here with me.

"And go to your Grandmother's house," Petyr said, yanking her out of her thoughts. "Do you have the Devilhair?"

She lifted a finger to the basket next to them. The lid was closed shut, hiding its valuable content. Inside, the Devilhair was packaged in two glass jars. After mashing the dried leaves into a thick paste, she spent the morning boiling it down into a vibrantly red concentrate, it turned to a dry, chalky powder. It would be perfect in Sicily's afternoon tea.

"They are leaving," Marjorie whispered.

The villagers started their trek to Beyond. The wooden gates of Core opened slowly, like the mouth of a yawning giant. At the front of the crowd, Vivian led the way on a bone white steed. From where Marjorie watched, it appeared as though she rode on the back of a ghost. She rose her sword towards the east. It glimmered underneath the sunlight. She lowered the blade past Woodsman Landing, towards the heart of Mirkwood. Her soldiers jabbed their spears into the air in answer to whatever she must have cried out. Marjorie imagined it to be something along the lines of "Onward!" or "To Beyond!"

"We have no reason to wait here anymore," Petyr said as the last handful of villagers disappeared from their sight. "It will be sunset in a few hours, and I have no hope to run in with the Wolf."

Marjorie rose to her feet and reached her hand down to Petyr. Although he could lift himself up from the ground, he slid his palm between her welcoming fingers.

"To Grandmother's house we go," she said.

* * *

The cobblestone path to Sicily's home eventually turned to a trodden-down trail. Over the years, the green grass was flattened by the footsteps of many travelers and finally, gave way to the dry soil beneath. Around the edges, strings of yellow grass clung to life.

Without the people of Core, the path would regrow in the coming seasons. Soon, life would find a way back to the dirt. It would be like none of them, not Marjorie or Petyr or any villager, ever existed here.

She wondered how many years it would take for the Village to be found. What would happen to it in the meantime? Would ivy grow over the walls of each home and its thick, brown roots block the entryways of doors and windows? Or would the Fewfolk take to the village and claim whatever was left, strip Core of all its wood, metal and tools? Perhaps, they would finally find a home in the abandoned village, and their families would grow and pass on like a cycle. How long would it take for the Fewfolk to forget their magick? Would the wooden walls and sturdy rooves block the memory of what life was like underneath the stars?

Petyr paused in front of her. Before she could stop, she collided into his strong back and fell to the ground below. Her basket smacked down beside her, and the glass jars inside clattered together on impact.

"Petyr!" Marjorie shouted in frustration. "Watch where you walk, boy!" She reached her hands into the basket and frantically searched for any new cracks or weaknesses in the glass. After a few seconds, she breathed out a low sigh of relief. The Devilhair, still intact and nestled in a bed of spare fabric, was unaffected by the collision.

"Stay behind me," Petyr warned. His hand shot out to Marjorie and laid flat against her waist. He pushed hard, forcing her to take a few footsteps back.

Frustration grew at his touch. Like always, in Petyr's eyes, Marjorie was as fragile as the jars in her basket.

She tore his hand away and rushed forward on the path, ignoring the worry in his voice. "You know, Petyr, I am not made of glass—" her words abruptly ceased.

At her feet lay the bleeding body of an old woman. Her boney hands curled up toward her face in a feeble attempt to protect her from her attacker. Pieces of gray hair stuck to her slender cheeks, and wide, hazy blue eyes stared up at the sky with pure fear. Four long slashes, like claws, dragged through the paper-thin skin beneath her protruding collarbone. Her thin mouth was wide, frozen in a scream she could never complete.

The wounds were deliberate and meant to kill. Whatever attacked the woman hadn't given her a chance to fight back.

"Blanchette," Marjorie screamed the name out.

She fell to the ground beside the mangled woman and pressed three fingers to her neck, unwilling to believe that the old merchant was truly dead. Blood pooled just beneath her jawline, but Marjorie paid little mind to the warm, sticky liquid. She checked for a pulse—and although she knew the woman was dead, she still desperately held onto hope for any sign of life.

She yanked her hand back in growing dread. Her fears were confirmed.

"Petyr," she whispered. She could feel the burning of bile climbing up her throat. So much blood and horror for such a harmless woman. "She isn't breathing."

"She is dead," Petyr replied in a feather-soft voice. He slid down beside her and slid his fingers over Blanchette's graying eyes. They shut with his touch—a forever sleep. "The Wolf." His accusation was low. Raising alarms of disbelief echoed through Marjorie.

"No," she rushed out, too quick. Petyr raised an eyebrow up in question, confused at her denial. "The moon has yet to rise," she explained.

But as she spoke, her trust in Fenris slowly faded. Just because he allowed her to live didn't mean anything. Each year, he still claimed another victim.

But never like this. Never so... wild in his hunt. And never a Fewfolk.

She brought a finger down to push a white strand of hair from Blanchette's slightly parted lips. To Marjorie's horror, she discovered in that moment, Blanchette was still warm. It happened only minutes ago. Marjorie pushed back the guilt at that thought—if they had taken this path instead of watching the Village leave, would they have been able to save Blanchette from this violent end?

The young woman hung her head. She didn't want to know the answer. Perhaps, they would have met the same fate. As shame festered inside of Marjorie, she studied the old merchant. Her olive skin muted by the bright contrast of fresh blood. Blanchette did not look peaceful in death.

She looked murdered.

"Why?" Marjorie whispered. "Why would Mother allow this?" How could she be so cruel to someone so harmless?

At her words, the echoing snap of a branch pulled her attention from Blanchette's ruined body to the open mouth of the forest. There, beside a tall gray sycamore, was a pair of two familiar gray eyes hiding in the harsh shadows of a dim morning.

The Wolf.

"Fenris," Marjorie whispered. She stood from the cobblestone pathway on shaking legs and rushed forward. With each step, the world tilted and trembled as she neared the beast.

In all his stillness, Fenris's entrancing gaze beckoned her closer. She should be scared. She should be running the opposite way. But something stubborn and curious and stupid pulled her closer.

"Marjorie," the rising crescendo of Petyr's voice attempted to ground her back into reality. But she ignored his growing worry. "Marjorie—the Wolf—"

His hand wrapped around her wrist.

She should have stopped the moment Petyr's skin made contact with hers. His fingers were warm and inviting, a familiar sweetness she should curl into. But she denied the thought. It was as though something propelled her onward—like the tangled paths of Mirkwood— with each step forward, the ground behind her seemed to dissolve.

There was no going back.

She ripped her hand away from Petyr's tightening grasp and rushed toward the Wolf. In the dimness of the forest, the details of the beast's face was muted. Was there blood on his long snout? If the sun came out from hiding behind growing storm clouds, would she see the evidence of Blanchette's killer on his dark fur?

"Fenris," Marjorie whispered, softer than she should've, as if she were welcoming a friend home. She was close now, close enough to feel his warm breath fan over her cheeks.

He pushed forward to knock his wet nose against her collarbone in greeting. The dim sunlight rushed over his face—dry, black fur and white teeth clean of any red stain.

He was no monster, but simply Fenris.

"Get back, Marjorie!" Fenris shouted from behind her.

She turned to ease her friend's fears, to explain the innocence of her new friend. But instead, all she saw was the reflection of a hatchet's blade rush forward.

There was no time to stop his blow.

He drove the sharp, silver edge into the flesh of Fenris's shoulder with a numbing squelch. 

AN:

Tell me what you liked, tell me what you didn't! I love your thoughts, as always. 

And what the heck is going to happen next? Your guesses have impressed me and make me feel proud of my little dear readers.