A woman willfully misinterprets a deal with an eldritch being.
tags: flash fiction
inspired by deluxeloy and hayleyolivia
The woman cocked her head in thought, if only for appearance’s sake. “Deal.”
“Very well.” The thing of shadow spoke with the rustle of forest leaves, its voice like smoke. “When you return home tonight, your mother will be restored to pristine health. It will be like she never fell ill at all. Even the memory of her suffering will fade, in time.”
The woman smiled, releasing a breath she had held all winter and into the spring. “Thank you. Thank you. She means everything to me.”
It raised a hand of bone and ash, an uncanny simulacra of understanding. “Let us hope the price is not too much for you, after all. Only time will tell.”
She nodded once, twice, and then turned to her benefactor, face set in stone. “So, when do we start?”
It shifted imperceptibly. “If… I may ask you to elaborate?”
“You said you wanted my firstborn,” she clarified.
The wind whispered, confused. “Yes? And you agreed?”
Her voice held steady and her eyes burned bright, but she clenched her fists now, to better hide their shaking. “So, when do we start?”
A dead silence fell across the glade.
“Ah,” it finally said, then lapsed back into silence.
“That is not how this works,” it finally volunteered. “Why else do you think I need to barter for a firstborn?”
The woman stared hard at its unreadable face, processing the rejection.
Then she erupted in cursing. “Gods dammit.” She flung herself around the clearing, suddenly beside herself. She finally collapsed atop a rotting log, ignoring the moss staining her skirt. “Gods dammit gods dammit gods dammit.”
“Amelia,” it said, and the woman jerked as she felt her True Name on the forest’s dry lips, felt its power resonate through her core. “What is the matter?”
She did not reply, cradling her head in her hands as she moaned.
“I…” It was a thing of beautiful desolation, animal bones and forest vines arranged under strange hides of blackest, shifting night. It held the ominous shape of an almost-man, but its fingers were like glass, and light never fell on its face; its eyes were always obscured by shadow. It was life, and death, and many things conceivable and inconceivable. But it could not conceive a child, and in this absence, it struggled to understand the emotions that so fired Amelia. So it talked about what it did understand: words, and compacts, and futures denied and yet to come. “You are a brilliant woman, Amelia. I trust you will yet find a way to fulfill our arrangement.”
When she didn’t reply, it continued. “For instance. A book.”
A twitch of her downcast head signaled she was listening, if only just. “The book you are writing. You read excerpts aloud to your mother, late at night, in the light of her room’s single candle. Perhaps you will dedicate that first book of yours to the woods.”
Amelia looked up now, her expression bewildered, as if the words it spoke were unintelligible, alien and divorced from her understanding of the world.
It continued, casting words into the glade by the mouthful, as if enough of them would fill the space between them and finally reach her. “Or your home, the one you have dreamed of since you were young. You may yet built it, and on its cornerstone you could etch my name, a ward that also fulfills an oath.”
Tears were pooling in the corner of eyes, and her lips pulled back into a vicious snarl. “I will never have those things, Shade of the Nine-Fingered Wood.” She returned a True Name for a True Name, and twigs snapped under the vitriol with which she said it. She had spoken it aloud only once before—years ago, when they had made their first compact and exchanged names—and now, like then, her tongue bled with the effort. But it had been worth it, to prove a point.
“I will never have those things. Do you think me like you? No. While my mother has lain ill, the suitors have circled like carrion. If she dies, then they will wait their two weeks to descend. If she is restored, as you say, then they will be here tomorrow.”
“There are many—” it started.
“And if it were many, then I would have no problems. But the butcher will emerge triumphant, and I cannot marry him.”
The butcher had no business with the forest, but it knew of him, him and his cruel blue eyes.
“I had thought… that we…” Only now did her anger falter. “None would want me, if they learn who I laid with. I would be despised in the village, even pitied. But I would be free.”
She lifted her head to find she was alone, the shade of the trees again just empty shadow.
That night, she stayed up late talking to her mother. It was the first time her mother had spoken in over a season, and Amelia was happy, truly. But melancholy had curled around her heart, and she was distracted, listening for something she did not know.
And then there was a shout down the way—a sudden violent commotion, near the butcher’s. And without understanding, Amelia was out the door, bare feet thundering across the cobblestones. Hope gripped at her; perhaps, perhaps it had come—
—but no, there was the butcher, laughing in the torchlight, looking at a broken fence with the town watch. She slunk back into the darkness, lest her interest be interpreted as concern for him, and he follow her home.
But follow her he did, in time. The next day, he was in their meager parlor, talking to her mother, the sound of his laughter coming through the thin walls. Last night had been the first time she had ever heard the man laugh; he was gregarious, flush with victory. He would rectify that once they were married, of this she was certain.
Her mother then stepped out and ushered her in, not meeting her eye.
Alone, the butcher reached out and took her hand in his; compelled by violent instinct, Amelia tore her it back away. But his fingers had been warm like glass left in the sun, and though the butcher had never missed a swing in his life, there were now only nine of them. Then Amelia noticed that in the twilight of the parlor, the light did not fall on his face, and his eyes were obscured by shadow.
“I have found a solution to our problem,” it said.
“What…” The hope from the previous night flared back to life in her chest. “What did you do to him?”
“Perhaps I used words to steal from him his face. But you have come to trust what I say, so perhaps instead he learned that the forest is crueler than him, and stronger, too. Which version would bring you the most peace of mind?”
“Did it hurt?”
“Probably,” it answered, noncommittally.
“No,” she said, stepping closer. “I meant for you.”
“Not enough to stop me.” It hesitated, for once struggling to find the right words. “The price was not too much, to ensure that I… that you…” Its form grew darker, its voice certain. “You will have your book, and your house, and your child—if you so wish.”
Amelia smiled. Her voice held steady and her eyes burned bright, but she clenched her fists now, to better hide their shaking. “So, when do we start?”
A long-time patron anonymously requested a flash fic inspired by this tumblr post/comic. I did my best to make the story my own, while also staying true to the concept and spirit of the original idea.