WIP

Chapter One
(first draft)

Mal awoke screaming. Or at least she thought she had. What was supposed to be a voice came out as wasted air and burned like fire in her throat. She gripped pleading, desperate hands around her neck, as if to rip away some invisible force that prevented her breath, before forcing the inhale so hard it made her cough and gag. She flung her legs over the side of her cot and stared down the old clothes balled up on the ground as she took sharp breaths, bracing herself. She'd just washed those clothes in the stream yesterday. Nausea swelled and crept up her throat as the dread of having to make the trek back later in the morning to do it all over again goaded the vomit to come.

Looking down only proved to make it worse, so she forced herself to lift her head. She closed her eyes, followed by her tacky, dry mouth and breathed roughly through her nose. Every inch of her shivered uncontrollably. She gripped the thin, scratchy blanket beneath her with not even enough force to crease it, and then released--repeating that motion a few times until she felt some of her strength return.

When she opened her eyes, her room was no longer pitch black. Her sight had mostly adjusted, revealing nothing in her surroundings that piqued any kind of interest, save for the few items she had bought at the local market when she managed to save the money.

Truthfully, it was a silly reminder of a time when destitution was just a word people used when they had a house but couldn't afford it, than a new lifestyle. A time when she honestly thought she'd make back all the money she spent on the little things that kept her sane, working odd jobs or helping out with the local seamstress from time-to-time. She'd sold off most of them now, anything for a little extra something to put food on her table--or rather, the blanket her sister and her shared beneath a winding willow in the hours just before the sun set and they found themselves slumbering safely under the protection of its soft shade, the stars as their company through long nights. They had very little in the way of money and housing, but that tree was their home and they treated it as such. Trinkets, decoration, beds of leaves and flowers and all. But even as her life shifted that fateful, painful day--the day that led her to the conclusion that if life would take her for everything she's worth, it may as well have everything--she could never bring herself to get rid of the rest. Among them were little amateur wood carvings made from the old widdler-man down the road. He didn't ask too much for them, not even coin. Just some meat, if she could hunt it--small game would do. He was too old, too close to his end to be hunting. The nicks and splinters of the wood told her enough about the state of his hands, too. And his little garden patch--or rather, his late wife's that he tended to, began failing to yield enough for even one person with each winter harsher than the last.

Of course it had cost her a full month's worth of time learning from her sister how to wield a bow, and that seemed payment enough. Even by the end of it, she couldn't believe she'd actually caught anything. And when she did, she expected triumph. She expected to approach the mighty beast she had befallen and place a foot upon its throat and glow with prowess and glory. But that moment when she'd rushed up to the squirrel's little fragile body, wriggling and fighting and twitching, trying to impose its own small will against the might of Death Himself, she knew she wouldn't be able to kill it. She wouldn't claim glory, let alone his life. She couldn't even be within eyesight of it without breaking into a full sob, actually. That wasn't part of Talia's training. But just before she could think of a way to make it better, fix and release him from Death's clutches, her sister had broken his neck.

The crack of the bone set her back straight and kept her eyes wide, the only movement being the tears that involuntarily fled from her eyes, as if they, too, were trying to escape the horridness of the situation. She didn't dare take her eyes off of it. She'd seen death before. Smelt it. Tasted it. It was a part of her, like one's lover or mortal enemy. And yet, she couldn't look it in the eye, nor look away when it stared her down. The life that left his eyes fixated on her, like it had made a home inside of her very essence, and she knew she'd carry him with her, as she carried everyone else whose death imprinted on her soul.

She didn't speak the whole way home. Even as Talia grunted about "putting it out of its misery" and "the kindness of a swift kill". Talia, who had seen more death than she had. Who had known more loss than anyone she knew. Who didn't let her keep the little squirrel and exchange him for the wood carvings, though that was far from her mind then. You need to earn those carvings, Mal, she'd said. Earn your life. Because no one else will do it for you.

Mal tried eleven more times before she managed to get a clean kill--no neck-snapping involved. That part she refused to do. The fear, while palpable and paralyzing in every way that mattered, reminded her that there was still some part of herself that didn't give into Death. His command over her life did not dictate the way she lived it. In turn, she learned how to aim with near-perfect precision. No messy, long deaths. It wasn't long before she surpassed even Talia. It turned out that hunger, need, and fear were the perfect concoction for skill development.

After a year, she'd managed to trade 6 carvings from that little old man before his heart gave out. The garden had finally given its last leg just the week before, not that his hands were any kind of usable anymore. A broken heart, just as lethal as any weapon, Talia said after Mal had placed his widdling knife atop the small grave they'd dug for him, shortly after finding him head down on his dining table. The knife sat content right next to an old, weather-worn spade, engraved with his wife's initials in the wood handle.

Not too long after his passing, a letter found her via small messenger-boy while she strode about town to trade hides for food, indicating that one 'Walter F. Kathorn' (whom she'd just learned was the name of the old man, not that she'd ever bothered to ask, she'd realized), had left his estate and all of his belongings to her and her sister. Along with a note inside of an envelope that simply read, "May our departure last long, little one. Thank you." She didn't know why, but in that moment she thought of the little squirrel and his eyes, how they didn't fight for life--but begged for death. A sweet relief, she'd come to understand. Tears stung and threatened to run the ink on the page as she wondered if Walter had found his relief. His wife.

Before the messenger boy left, he'd cleared his throat in as deep a tone as he could (no-doubt a habit learned from his father), and dropped a leather pouch into her hand. It clanked with a satisfying, heart-stopping thud into her palm, and she just stared at it, as if it might explain itself. The boy, a little dirty but polite, simply said "lucky miss," and stared a little abashedly at her. Mal looked back at him, feeling some renewed sense of humanity and pulled out the shiniest gold coin she'd ever seen--not that she'd seen many--and dropped it in his hand. He beamed, pocketing the change and took off running in the opposite direction, his bag bumping lightly into his side as he dodged random people. A quick look inside the leather pouch shown a folded scrap of paper, wedged between pieces of metal. She carefully removed it and re-tied the bag, shoving it in her own larger bag, and unfolded the paper.

About 8 months worth of game is in here. My time is ending soon, I've felt it for a while. I have no need of meat to build my bones, as they'll fail me within the year. But you are in need, little one. Don't forget your strength. Keep your kindness, it is the only thing we have of ourselves left.

That day, she didn't even make it fully into the market before she ducked and weaved between townspeople to find her sister. Tell her the news.

As she sit on the edge of her little cot, she can't help but stare at the door. That little candlelight shining dimly through the cracks, dying out on the windowsill in the front of the little old house, once occupied by a little old man. Hoping her sister would come stumbling in, shame and guilt and happiness wrought on her face the way Mal had imagined it for years. Wondering if she knew about the house at all. If she should've stayed in the branches of that oak tree, waiting for her sister to come back just a few more days. Thinking maybe she'd just missed her. If she was alone, scared or afraid. No, Talia had been many things, but she was never afraid. The same way, Mal supposed, she was--all the time.

She gathered she hadn't been careful enough that day. Let one too many people see her with the money. Or maybe the little boy had told someone--the wrong someone. Whatever the cause, she wouldn't hold onto that leather pouch for more than an hour before it was gone. Stolen, by someone--or someone's--way stronger than her. But the cowards blindsided her. Hit her head so hard she blacked out on the ground long enough for them to search her bag. When she came to, she went to reach for the ankle that stood before her, unsure of what she would have even done had she managed to get it. Had another boot not come out of nowhere and stepped onto her hand with the weight of a boulder. Had they not leaned so hard into it, twisting with such force she once again heard that familiar crack as white-hot pain shot through her, leaving her without breath for long moments before the screaming came. She lost consciousness again, waking up in a room with a strange man

A gentle breeze came through the window and brushed the back of her sweat-beaded neck with the tenderness of a mother's touch, reminding her to take a deep breath. It quelled the strain of her stomach muscles and allowed the exhaustion to settle back in, deep into her bones. An exhaustion only attained through months--years of sleepless nights. She pulled bony knees up to her chest, hoping to do something to fight the cold that took root in her core, and shuddered when it didn't. And as she lay back down onto the little cot, she let sleep take her. But she felt no warmth from the impression her body had left as it writhed and fought throughout the night. Not even an ounce of heat, as if she had never been capable of retaining it at all.

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