An Arrow Flies
30 years later...
B ryson stood on the tips of her toes, balancing precariously—silently—on the branch of an old pine tree. The sharp needle-like leaves camouflaged her body from the light of day. Shrouded in cold shadows, she held her breath, ears perked up as she waited...
...and waited.
The noises of the forest stilled. It’d been alive only moments ago; alive with the breath of the wind flittering against plants like a caressing touch, branches crackling like dry, old bones. Birds sang, their wings fluttering like rapid heartbeats as they flew from one spot to another.
Bryson heard and smelled it all.
The soft footfalls of deer against the dewy grass, the soft chewing as they grazed. She smelled sap, animal droppings, dirt, and the sweet pollen of flowers.
And when it all stilled, when it felt like everything paused and held their breaths for what was coming down the dirt road, Bryson reached across her back and pulled out an arrow from her quiver, notching it onto her bow.
The rolling of wheels, the clomping hooves of horses, the lightning crack of a whip, cruel laughter that grated down her arms, and the sound of whimpers and cries that cleaved her heart in two.
A sudden rage swelled in her chest at the sounds, but she tamped it down, turning it into an eerie calm as she stepped just a little further on the branch, until she felt the sun kiss her bare arms and the skin around her eyes from beneath the carved, wooden mask she wore.
She was familiar with those whimpers. With the bitter smell of fear. She’d been in a similar situation once. The memory of that time invaded her thoughts as the wagon approached where she hid. A whistle tearing through the wind beckoned her towards the light of the sun. A hawk circling overhead screeched out a warning, causing Bryson to draw back the string. Her arm and hands tightened in a firm grip as she waited.
Magic swelled through her, and as she let out a slow breath, a gust of wind blew through the atmosphere. It swirled around the advancing wagon, roping in scents and whispering its secrets.
It was only when a second whistle sounded that Bryson let the arrow fly.
The wind guided it true as it soared and landed home, straight into the throat of an emperor’s soldier.
The body let out a strangled gurgle before it toppled off the side of the seat. The horses, surprised at the suddenness of a dropping body, whinnied, jerking to a stop as they jumped and pawed through the air.
The wheels shrieked to a halt, the wagon creaking as it wobbled from side to side. A door burst open, the sound like thunder cracking against the sky.
The second arrow was already in her fingers in the time it took another human to jump out and investigate. And before the human could cry out, it flew and struck through the socket of his eye.
His body fell against dry grass.
There were shouts and cries of anger and fear. She focused on the angry sounds and blurry forms. It was instinct at this point to recognize the enemy without seeing them clearly. It was in their tone, the lilt of their words, and the hint of cruelty beneath them. Her body reacted. And the wind guided arrow after arrow as they struck their targets.
It was only when every single body fell that Bryson let her shoulders relax. That she let out a breath. That her fingers met the mask placed strategically across her face.
The mask had been crafted by the talented hands of a friend, its twisted design made of bone, wood, paint, and feathers. She’d memorized the contours of the thing, amazed that it felt like a real face, complete with a gnarled, angry, monstrous expression. One that twisted even more grotesquely across her blurry vision. Now, it was just another facet she wore to protect her identity from those who would wish her harm.
Considering those villains were now gone, she pulled it off, tucking it into the sack she wore slung over her shoulder. With a flick of her wrists, she tossed the hood from her head, baring her bright orange hair to the sunlight.
Another whistle sounded, another cry of a hawk, and Bryson stepped off a branch onto open air. Using her magic, she made sure the wind guided her safely down to the ground. As soon as her feet touched, she rushed toward the cart. Her comrades were already there, pulling open the wagon to reveal the scared humans and Fae within.
Criminals under the emperor’s reign.
Scared allies who needed help.
The smell of fear clung to the air. They were a blur of shadows and colors, their bodies plastered to the wagon walls like it could protect them from the masked creatures that suddenly towered over them.
It brought her own past to the forefront of her mind; when she sat on a hard bench, wishing the darkness would just swallow her whole and not spit her back out. She knew their situation all too well. She’d lived something similar once upon a time, back when her eyes still bled and the blackness of the world was new. Back when the wounds of her dad and sister’s deaths were as raw and aching as the ones in her eyes.
She’d been a similar creature. Just a broken fragment of a Fae who had once known happiness. Of a Fae who had once known the love of a mother, a father, a sister.
Now she had nothing left except her magic, her pride, blurry vision, and a thirst for justice and revenge in equal measure.
But she’d been saved, and she believed it was her duty to save as well. Her mother would have wanted it. Because if she didn’t give everything she had for the Fae who needed it the most, then she may as well have spat on the memories of her family.
While the prisoners were taken from the wagon, she let herself reminisce in her own memories; of what it had been like to be helped down from a wagon much like that one, to touch her bare feet against the grass and feel a sliver of sunlight against her face like a promise of the good things that would come.
She shoved that away, though. This was not a time for remembrance. It was a time for freedom. And cleaning up scum from the ground.
Her feet carried her towards the spot where the bodies had fallen. They were nothing but mere lumps of cloudy, gray metal. The closer she got to them, the clearer they became. Details eluded her. Unless she was standing directly in front of someone, face mere inches away, she could scarcely make much out.
She supposed she didn’t need to see them at all to know they were dead.
Taking a life as quickly as she had was instinct. She never mourned them when her fingers released strings of arrows, or when the scent of copper filled her nostrils. Even when she could no longer hear the beating of their hearts, she did not weep.
She wondered if that made her a monster.
She bent, squinting and feeling around the still-warm corpse for her arrow. When her fingers met the smooth, wooden edge, she yanked it, the sick sound of wet flesh squelching as she did.
A low whistle sounded far from her side. Bryson didn’t need perfect sight to know who it was when she had the pace of footsteps and the outline of a dark silhouette memorized like the prints of a hand on parchment.
“Right in the eye.”
Bryson stood and turned to face the woman with a smile tilting her mouth. She probably should have felt ashamed for jesting about death, but if there was one thing she learned in life, it was that death was a cruel jokester and always got in the last laugh.
“ And in the forehead. Damn, Bryce, I’m impressed.” A hand clapped her back, but she’d braced for that bit of contact and didn’t falter.
Her friend was very affectionate and showed her love through touch. It was always heavy-handed and brought with it comfort that Bryson found she needed more often than not.
“Are you, really?” Bryson wiped the bloody arrow on the grass before shoving it into the quiver at her back. “Or are you flattering me because you want something from me, Malika?”
Malika laughed. Bryson could make out the rich brown tone of her skin, the curvature of her cheeks when she smiled, and the length of her curls. The details were swallowed by the fog of her own shitty vision, but she imagined that Malika’s whole face lit up with the action.
“Ladies, we could use some help over here!” Ev called out from beside the wagon. The rattling of the chains followed his words, reminding them that there were more important things to be done. Like saving captives from the chains of the emperor’s tyranny.
Her lips twitched at the poetic turn of her thoughts.
“Ev is so hopeless without us.”
“I heard that, Malika Wylde!”
“You were supposed to!” Malika called back. “You got this, Bryce?”
“Of course.” Bryson flashed a toothy smile in her friend’s general direction, though it disappeared the moment she walked away to help the others.
Do not weep for the wicked, a voice in her mind whispered. There was the screech of a hawk overhead, the stirring of the wind, and a moment later she felt the flap of wings just as claws descended and touched her shoulders. It is unbecoming.
Is it? she asked back in her mind.
Her familiar chirped on her shoulder and ruffled her wings. A predator does not mourn its prey.
Bryson sighed and reached up to run her fingers against her familiar’s sleek brown and black plumage. “You’re right,” she said aloud. “They’re monsters.”
Even monsters have feelings.
If that was true, then a part of Bryson hoped that they’d died afraid. Like so many Fae had lived and died with fear consuming their souls. She wanted to berate herself for those thoughts, but couldn’t. Would her mother be ashamed of her for thinking that? After all, she’d gone to fight for peace. She had preached the concept to Bryson and her sister for years before the war tore her away.
Even her father, Mana bless his soul, had tried to instill the concept into her as they’d trekked through the broken trail of Tir na Faie towards the human lands.
That had ended well, hadn’t it?
The bitter sarcasm of her own thoughts threatened to rock her back on her heels. It was startling, the rare occasion her mind took that turn, that she jolted when a strong arm wrapped around her shoulders. It pulled her out of her past, and she relaxed a fraction as the familiar scent of cedar and lemongrass filled her nostrils.
“You did good, Bryce.” Ev’s lips pressed against the corner of her mouth. His arms brought stability, grounding her back into the moment. “And we got a good number. I think tonight warrants celebration!”
Her familiar shifted on her shoulder, crooning in Bryson’s mind. Killing others is such a strange human mating ritual.
With a huff, Bryson shooed the hawk from her shoulder. She didn’t want to hear her sardonic input, particularly when the others couldn’t hear it to join in on the laugh. With a disgruntled shriek, her familiar took off to the skies.
“Do you really think Arlo will go for that?” Bryson asked, turning her face toward Ev’s. She felt his smile press against her lips. Saw him with a brief flash of clarity before he pulled away and became blurry once again. It was a rhetorical question, of course. She knew what the answer would be.
“Of course. We did a good thing here today and everyone needs to decompress.”
Footsteps gave away Malika’s arrival once again. “He’s right, Bryce. I could go for a relaxing night.”
“Yeah, live a little, Bryce.”
She sighed and smiled, though her mouth felt tight on the corners. Already, a headache was forming at her temples. The light of the sun was too bright and was beginning to hurt her eyes. “Fine,” she agreed. “Let’s celebrate.”
She’d drink to the dead humans, at least.
“Let’s go!” Ev tugged her into his arms, possessively guiding her away.
And then she’d spend the rest of the night wishing things were different than what they were and mulling over her familiar’s words until sleep claimed her.
A predator does not mourn its prey.
The only problem was, Bryson didn’t know where she fit on the scale that her familiar had so carefully balanced them upon.
Was Bryson a predator, waiting for the right moment to attack?
Or was she prey, hiding in the shadows, hoping not to be found?
Like always, the answer came to her with the flying, deadly precision of one of her arrows.
Bryson was both.