Her Wolf King
Chapter 8: The Forest

She tore through the forest, legs burning, the hollow ache in her chest reminiscent of the night that she had met him. Only now it was broad daylight, and she was a fool.

Lenore Abrahams was a fool to think that not all men were the same. She was a wretched idiot to believe that any man could feel love for her - could feel anything but the desire to possess her, to own her, to use her and discard her when they were through.

How could she have thought that because it had been her choice to marry him, she was free? No, she had only played into his hands. Marriage, at the moment, felt like yet another shackle, yet another fetter around her wrists, clasping at her ankles and weighing her down. Or perhaps it was only the heavy gown that she wore, the fur cloak still draped around her shoulders. She shucked it off in a fit of rage and paused to take in her surroundings.

After all, it would be even more reckless to get lost here. Who knew what sorts of beasts might be waiting to attack her - or worse yet, magical creatures? And Lenore had sworn a vow to him. She couldn’t leave the castle, could she? And to what protection would she return? She had placed herself completely at the mercy of a wolf, and even the wolf himself had warned her against such lunacy. Lenore snorted--a most unladylike sound, but she was all alone--and rested her hands on her knees.

Perhaps she had overreacted. Perhaps it had only been a turn of phrase from an era far gone, from a time when women had been the property of their fathers and husbands, little better than children or chattel. Perhaps she had wed a mongrel whose views were as barbaric as any animal’s, yet she hadn’t felt that way. Looking into his eyes, she had not felt anything but...

But what? Affection? Desire? Attraction? For a man who lived by himself in the woods, half-savage and half-civilized? Now she really did question her own soundness of mind.

Lenore shook her head, gazing at the trees around her. Their leaves were golden, falling slowly into a carpet of rust and ruby beneath her feet. She frowned. It had been winter when she’d left the village, the very heart of the coldest season. How could it appear like autumn here? Were the days enchanted, that one span of hours was like several months? Would she return to replace her family old and withered and grey?

Elsewhere, lights seemed to twinkle in the branches, and birdsong filled her ears. It felt like something out of a storybook. She spied rabbits darting around the tree roots, a squirrel scampering up the trunk with its bushy tail and twitchy nose. How long had it been since she had felt the warmth of anything but a hearth fire and her father’s embrace?

And now, the air was crisp, the sky blue, the sun shining. Her anger subsided somewhat, and she put away thoughts of the grouchy husband she’d left behind, venturing deeper into the autumn wood. A sound stiffened her spine, causing her to tense against the shelter of a white birch tree, carved and scarred with swirling lines.

She froze, afraid to move. Lenore had never much liked the country, always preferring to be in the bustle of town. At least then, the noises couldn’t lead to an animal that would eat one alive. Though perhaps the humans in town were the least humane of all.

Footsteps crunched the leaves and twigs underfoot. She reached for a weapon, trying to replace anything that she could use in her own defence. The birch, almost as if it heard her cry, gave a great and heavy snap. She let out a tiny yelp as a branch came soaring down past her head and landed at her feet, like a gift. She could use it as a club, or a lash. Lenore almost felt like saying thank you. Yet it had to be nothing more than coincidence.

Couldn’t it?

You could be in an enchanted forest, for all you know. Autumn in the wintertime!

Just as she wielded the branch like a sword, from between two great oaks came a pale figure. She blinked, and as it came thundering over, she realized what it was.

It was a white mare, a horse with bridle and saddle. It looked slightly scrawny, but otherwise well-groomed and maintained. It was far larger than the few horses she had ridden before, but something in its large, pale gray eyes, looked friendly and almost... intelligent. Knowing. As though it recognized her and wanted to be her friend.

She stretched out a cautious hand, and it whinnied, bending its head low for her to pet it. The horse’s mane was silky, a silvery-white colour that stood out against the golden fur that rippled against its body and flanks. Neighing, the horse nudged her hand with his nose, as though asking for food.

“I’m afraid I don’t have anything for you.” Still, the horse kept nudging her hand, as though a carrot or sugar cube would magically appear in her palm;.

In spite of everything that had happened, the weight of all that she’d been through... she laughed. This horse felt like a gift, sent by some higher power, as though someone had been watching over her. As though they’d known what she needed, and provided just that.

“You must have an owner,” she murmured, trailing her hand over the horse’s mane. “And a name, no doubt. Are you lost?”

Even as she said the words, she knew they were absurd. This was a horse, not a lost puppy. And weren’t they smart enough to replace their way back to their owners? Clearly, with the saddle, bridle, and other accoutrements that spoke of having a stablehand take care of it.

So what was it doing in the woods all alone? On the ride here, to this palace that was now her home, she hadn’t seen any other signs of civilization. But then again, she’d been too tired to keep her eyes open, let alone notice a plume of smoke from a chimney or hear the clopping of another set of hooves.

No, if someone did live here, they would be grateful to have their horse safely returned. Perhaps she could make a friend.

Coiling the horse’s reins between her fingers, she set off to look for the horse’s owner.

***

The horse, it seemed, had a mind of its own. Tossing its glossy mane in defiance when Lenore tried to lead it to go down a different path, they wound up walking a barely-trodden trail, leaving her knee-deep in tall, tawny grasses. The susurrations of the grasses felt eerie, and as she looked up, the trees had abandoned their autumn foliage and orange-red leaves for springtime flowers. The air itself seemed warmer, wrapping her in a warm cloak of floral-scented, sweet-smelling breezes. Pink and white blossoms dotted the green leaves of the surrounding bushes and a carpet of blush-coloured petals blanketed the forest floor.

“How many seasons are in this forest?” she muttered to herself as she stroked the horse’s mane. It led her down a slight hill and to...

A hut. A dilapidated, decrepit, rickety hut.

The roof was thatched in some places and open to the clear blue sky in others; both windows were shattered and the one remaining shutter was hanging off of its hinges. If there had been a door at some point, it was now smashed. When she neared it, she shuddered at the sight of it. The inside of the door was raked with claw marks, as were the walls within.

Who had lived here? She had an inkling suspicion, yet she was afraid to name it.

If she formed the thought, it would have to be real. And she would have to face the fact that she had married a dangerous man, one whom she knew absolutely nothing about. Other than his hatred of his former wife, and her determination to haunt him and ruin his life.

Despite all her prudence, she stepped into the hut, tying the horse to a post just outside it. Inside, the hut was dark, but when she pushed past the damaged door, a light illuminated itself, as though her clothing were suffused with some magical glow. What she saw wasn’t pretty. Overturned furniture. The remnants of a black, pot-bellied stove in the middle, the chimney above it. Through the broken window, she saw a laundry line, a few sun-bleached rags still hanging on it. Finally, she stumbled--quite literally--into something. A box sat on the floor, a cedar chest covered in thick layers of dust.

It opened with a creak.

Lenore held her breath, staring at the chest. It was filled with stacks of letters. Parchment that yellowed at the edges, other pieces crumbling into dust. They must have been centuries old, yet still in near-perfect condition. She took a deep breath, smelling that now-familiar scent on the air: magic. It was a scent she recognized from her dreams... that too-sweet, bitter-tinged aroma, the smell of too much pleasure turned to darkness, of too much power turned to ruin.

That scent had always disturbed her, yet it had beckoned to her all the same. A lure, a promise... a trap? She went to close the chest bending over it when she heard a howl. The noise startled her, and she clutched onto the lid of the chest for support, gripping the solid wood beneath the gritty layers of dust.

Was it Everett? Had he come to replace her?

She let her fingers trail down to the letters, tracing over the surface of the paper. She took an envelope, folded it, and tucked it into the bodice of her gown before slamming the chest down and clasping the latch shut.

It was time to face her husband.