Chapter Text
The case was a cold winter in one small human village. Snow lay deep and crisp over the streets and roofs, and a sharp wind had made their tracks invisible. Snowflakes danced in the air, and more were falling with every minute that passed. Feyre shivering. It was barely the beginning of winter, but the cold cut straight to her bones. The girl drew the ragged cloak tighter around her thin frame, bracing herself against the chill air. A young huntress with golden hair and wide blue-gray eyes ran around, her breath coming in small gasps. She clutched a bow in one hand, walking across forest, her fingers stiff from the cold. Feyre had been hunting for hours in the snowy woods, but there was no trace at all of any animal. If the girl didn't snare or shoot something soon, they'd have nothing to eat again, and it was nearly night fall.
The forest was still and quiet as Feyre ventured deeper into the woods, her senses heightened and her ears straining for any hint of movement. The snow-covered ground crunched softly beneath her feet, the sound strangely loud in the silence. With each step, the young huntress's thoughts drifted towards the Wall that lay on the outskirts of the forest, the mysterious boundary that marked the boundary between the village and the unknown lands beyond. Suddenly, something rustled behind the bushes. She froze, and then she almost died of happiness. It was a deer! Feyre's heart leaped in her chest as she gripped her bow. With quick, practiced movements, she set an arrow to the string and raised the bow, her eyes never leaving the creature. The deer was a large one-a perfect shot. It was oblivious, still searching for food, unaware of the young huntress stalking it. Feyre held her breath, her eyes narrowing as she focused on the target. She had to make this shot. This was their only chance. Feyre's heart pounded in her chest as she spotted the deer grazing a few metres away. A thrill of anticipation coursed through her veins as a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Without wasting a moment, the young huntress quietly raised her bow and arrow, taking aim at the animal. But then someone else tried to take the girl's prey. On the other side, a wolf was approaching the deer. Feyre swore under her breath as she saw the wolf creeping towards the deer, its sleek black form slowly closing the distance. The young huntress's eyes narrowed, a fierce determination bubbling up inside her. The girl couldn't allow the wolf to snatch away her kill. With a steady hand, she drew back the bowstring, the arrow nocked and ready. She felt sorry for killing an animal that didn't need to be killed for food. But she had a choice: either she shot the deer, or the wolf would kill the deer and then eat her. For a moment, she thought (probably from hunger and cold) that the wolf's gaze was conscious, and it was waiting for her to shoot.
The deer let out a soft, panicked bleat, its ears pricked up in alarm as it noticed the predator. The creature froze in place, its eyes wide and panicked, as the wolf drew ever closer, its steps silent and measured. Feyre could feel the tension in the air, her body taut and coiled with anticipation. The young huntress had to act now; the window of opportunity was closing. But then, the unexpected happened. The wolf suddenly stopped, its gaze turning towards her, its stance becoming cautious. Its intelligent, watchful eyes seemed to meet her own, and something in their depths sent a shiver down her spine. Two skillful arrows and she now had food that would last her family a month, and pelts to sell. All that remained was to carry the prey to her home. Euphoria effectively blinds the mind: so for a few seconds the girl rejoiced in her worthless life, not giving importance even to the thought that she still had to drag the wolf skin and the deer carcass to her hut. She even jumped once from sudden merriment, rubbing not just chilled, but already almost completely insensitive red, like boiled crayfish, calloused not by age, palms against each other. When the unpleasant business with the wolf was done, the skin was easy to carry, but the deer carcass was not. The deer was young and small, but it was heavy. It took hours to drag their way of survival home through the snow. Feyre was not one of the strong men who frequented traveling circuses, and she had never been to a remote village. In another life, when her family was rich, Feyre attended several such shows (when her parents remembered to take her along). Her most vivid memory was of the so-called "Circus of Freaks," where people with severe physical deformities were showcased for the amusement of wealthy spectators and their children. Some of these images still haunt her in her nightmares. During a heated argument, Nesta once remarked that Feyre would make an excellent exhibit for such a circus. If she could draw her nightmares, maybe they wouldn't haunt her... Yeah, she should dream more...They didn't have any extra money for canvas or paints. And she could already imagine the expressions on Nesta and Elain's faces if she drew something like this on a tabletop, for example.... Where was her house already? It was hard to breathe, and the icy air seemed impossible to inhale enough of (as well as to drink warm water), and her snot was already filling her throat.
When Feyre got out of the forest, the sun had already set. Her knees were shaking from the weight and fatigue, and her hands had gone numb again, and for a long time. The sky had turned a deep blue, almost black. Thin strips of yellowish light filtered through the shutters of our dilapidated house. It felt like the girl was walking through a living painting, where the colors could change right before her eyes. As Feyre approached the house, the beautiful deep blue of the sky turned to a deep black.
She was dizzy with fatigue and hunger. The voices of her older sisters filtered through the shutters along with the streaks of light. She didn't listen, as she already knew the topics of their conversations—they were probably talking about a guy they liked or someone's ribbons they saw in the village. Them father made them chop wood, but Feyre's sisters soon grew tired of this task and went out to look at the world. Still, it was a comfort to hear human voices after the dangers she had faced. The girl walked to the threshold and kicked the stone doorpost a few times, shaking the snow off her boots. As she did, ice floes fell from the gray stone, revealing faded symbols carved around the threshold. These were wards against the fae. At one time, a traveling charlatan passed through our village, who claimed to possess the art of making amulets against evil forces, including the fae. Them father persuaded him to apply protective signs around our threshold, paying him with one of his carved items.
Feyre didn't believe in the human gods anymore, and she didn't know their names, but at that moment, she prayed for their father to have a little common sense. But she hadn't had the heart to tell him how useless and false those signs were. Mortals didn't possess magic. They didn't have the strength or speed that the fae were known for. Let alone the fae, the highest class of fairies. And this charlatan, who boldly claimed that his ancestors had Fae blood in their veins, merely covered them front door and windows with various swirls, squiggles, and supposedly ancient symbols. Then, after muttering some nonsense that them father mistook for a spell, he collected his payment and departed. Gods...
The iron doorknob bit like a snake. Feyre pushed open the door and found myself in a warm and bright place. The light was blindingly bright.
–Feyre!
Elain exclaimed. Squinting against the flames of the hearth, Feyre saw her middle sister. She was wrapped in a blanket, but her golden-brown hair–what little she had in common with her sisters–was immaculately arranged around her head. Eight years of poverty had not discouraged her from looking attractive.
– Where did you get this? What is it?
There was a hungry intonation in her voice. Elain didn't seem to notice the animal blood on her younger sister. The girl had long given up hope that they would ever understand what their younger sister was doing. She hadn't just been walking in the woods all day; she had been hunting. As long as there was food in the house, Feyre's sisters didn't care how it got there. No, they may have cared, but perhaps they didn't have the courage to acknowledge their situation and start doing something to improve their difficult lives. Perhaps they simply couldn't make a deal with their former pride and allow their neighbors to see them working on the farm. It was easier to die behind closed doors.
Feyre approached the table and dropped her prey on the ground.
Perhaps she wouldn't call Elain cruel. She's not like Nesta. That one was even born with a contemptuous sneer on her face.
– You smell like a pig that's rolled in manure.
Feyre ignored the jibe, used to such remarks. Without bothering to change her clothes, the young huntress began to process the meat, skinning and butchering the buck with the swiftness of someone who had done this often. Meanwhile, Elain watched her through narrowed eyes, a frown creasing her brow.
– You'll get sick from the cold.
Feyre didn't look up, her hands steady despite the numbness in her fingers. The girl shook her head so as not to be rude: her sister was sincere in her naivety and was really worried about her, so she didn't want to offend her. And the fact that, in addition to catching a cold, she could have been bitten by wolves, or mauled by a bear, or fallen asleep in the snow and frozen to death, or, worst of all, run into a fairy who was out for a good time beyond the Wall, she decided not to mention. The blade of her knife glinted in the firelight as she worked.
With practiced deftness, Feyre divided the haunches into pieces, setting aside cuts for stewing and others for drying. Then she began to process the head, removing the eyes and tongue and preparing the antlers for sale. Even the bones, which could be ground into powder for medicinal purposes, were saved. Nothing could be wasted, not a single gram of meat, for who knows what the next day might bring? As the girl worked, a heavy silence hung over the room. Elain shifted uncomfortably on her seat, fiddling with the ends of the blanket around her shoulders.
As Feyre worked, she realized that her fingers were shaking for reasons other than the cold. Her mind kept drifting back to her hunt and the wolf. Its gleaming eyes had been intelligent, its gaze eerily human. The girl had seen lots of wolves over the years, but none had ever looked at her with such a calculating look. She felt as if the animal had been assessing her, studying her every move and expression. But that was absurd. It must have just been the cold and fatigue making her delicious. The silence, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire and their father's sighs, was broken, as always, by the sharp, dagger-like voice of her eldest sister.
– You need to wash up. You look terrible.
Feyre wasn't white and fluffy herself, and she could have responded. But she didn't feel like it today. All her thoughts were occupied by the wolf she had killed, whose pelt lay drying for future sale near the fireplace, casting a eerie shadow on the bare wooden wall. In the light of the fire, the shadow seemed human to her. How foolish. It was just a wolf. Even if it belonged to the fairies or was one of them... Well, it had earned its fate. Fairies are cruel creatures, not humans. And their beasts are probably as terrible as their masters. Nesta's cold and rude remark interrupted her gloomy thoughts.
It happenes every day.