Inked seemingly from head to toe, the man in front of her had a wickedly intense gaze from which she could not tear away.

"What does that one mean?"

She tilted her head toward his forearm, painted with the intricacies of a tarot card. She knew nothing about those.

"The Wheel. Opportunity for fortune and... the like."

"Do you have any of its companions on you?"

He nodded almost imperceptibly but said no more.

Vivienne floated her glance around the room, eyeing the sheaths of fabric draped around its walls. The carnival tent, she found, was much larger on the inside than it had appeared when she approached. The flaps of the tent had been open. Inviting, coaxing. Nameless was the tent, so she had been quite unsure what lie inside for her to find, but now here she sat.

The man in front of her was unfortunately bald, yet not one lick of skin was uncovered by swirling ink, depicting rattler snakes and constellations and the mysteries of tarot. Vivienne knew not what any of them meant to him, only that he implored her to let him mar her just the same.

"Your skin is not unmarked."

"What an astute observation," Vivienne deadpanned. Though how he was sure she was hiding a tattoo of her own underneath her relatively modest attire, she didn't want to know.

She kept her eyes trained to the table between them, uncompanionable silence filling the tent. She desperately wanted to go home.

Risking a glance behind her, Vivienne saw that the flaps of the tent had closed themselves, sealing her inside. The man gave her a small, knowing smile. She was not to leave, then.

"Are you opposed to tempting fate this night?"

Vivienne was unsure of how to answer.

"I'm not quite sure what you mean."

"This tent, you see, was designed to invite only those who are troubled by the unknown. Haunted by the possibilities of fortune or misfortune. Destiny."

"I don't believe in that."

"Sure, sure."

Vivienne found herself suddenly very uncomfortable. Her back went rigid of its own accord, her knuckles turning white as she clenched her folded hands together. The tattooed man only looked at her, waiting for a response she didn't know how to give.

"What do they mean?" she ventured.

"What's that?"

"Your tattoos, I mean," she said. "You have many. Surely some of them mean something to you."

She used her head to gesture toward his exposed chest and the rattler snake inked in its center. The tattoo was heavily detailed, like much of the rest, and depicted the rattler's vicious eyes and deathly teeth bared directly at its viewer.

"Like that one. What is it for?"

Vivienne disregarded the quiver in her voice as she spoke. She tried in vain to ignore her discomfort, but the man's unwavering gaze was difficult to dismiss.

"Oh, like all the rest. Fate, fortune. That is what I do, as I'm confident you've gathered."

She had gathered no such thing.

"So your tattoos... they're all about fate?"

"Quite."

Vivienne considered this for a moment.

"You do them yourself."

"I appreciate the lack of question," he replied. A brief moment's pause allowed her just enough time to become confused before he continued, "I do them myself and I do them for others."

Vivienne nodded, yet again at a loss for a reply and increasingly aware of how awkward the situation was becoming.

"Ink would suit you, were you to indulge in it," the man said to break the silence.

"Is it your belief that I harbor some secret desire to be covered in ink like yourself? Because that's not what I'm here for."

"And what is it that you are here for, then?"

The man's question rendered her speechless. Why was she here?

He nodded at her loss and picked up the tattoo gun that was perched on the table.

"Do you want to uncover your fate? Or leave it open for change?"

His query was far from simple. Vivienne had never given fate any consideration because she just hadn't believed in it. And yet, when she had approached this tent from the circle of many present at the carnival, she'd felt that her feet had led her here unwillingly. She scarcely even remembered entering or sitting down or introducing herself to this stranger. Is fate a temptress that leads you blindly into the dark? Is that what that was supposed to feel like?

Vivienne did have one tattoo. One that she did herself with a stick-and-poke, newly and dumbly seventeen. It was almost entirely faded now as she approached her thirties, but some semblance of it remained, tucked into its place above her knee. She glanced down at it now, lacking any of the distaste she usually felt when she looked at it. It was barely visible under her tights, but the sight of it jarred her all the same as the little carnival tent inked into her skin stared back at her.

Maybe that was fate.

She considered the man before her, his face permanently marred by the symbols and lettering he'd embedded in the skin, his torso and arms swathed in whorls and swirls of ink. She admired the handiwork, truly, but she was getting the impression that they were more than just ink.

This tent was designed to invite only those who are troubled by the unknown, he'd said. And what was Vivienne if not troubled?

"I'll uncover my fate, then, what the hell?" She layed her arm down on the table between them, feeling and thinking nothing as the man pressed needle after needle into her flesh, marking it and supposedly uncovering her fate at long last.

In the golden night, the forest creatures lie in wait. They tuck their tails and fold in their wings, patient.

In the golden night, the trees cease their rustling. They quiet their leaves and seal up their trunks, patient.

In the golden night, the moon softens her glow. She illuminates the dark and keeps life at bay, patient.

In the golden night, the sun waits for his chance to rise again. He titters with excitement and is flushed with energy, impatient.

In the golden night, the creatures and the trees and the ancient couple anticipate your arrival. The golden night becomes early morning. You come to visit and you stay and you keep the forest company until the early morning is the golden night once again.

In the golden night, all life stops and waits for you.

"We haven't done anything, I swear!"

Her pleading was becoming incessant. And annoying.

I nudged my sister in the rib with my elbow, silently imploring her to for-the-love-of-hell-shut-up.

Smiling sweetly at the guard, I ignored the spear poking into my side and crooned, "It's true, sir. My sister and I were simply passing through. That's not a crime, is it?" I blinked at him.

I could almost sense my sister's blush creeping up her cheeks as I spoke, her body rigid at my side. It was vital that we play this cool, and she was about to ruin everything.

Daring a glance at her as the guard pondered my question with amusing sincerity, I choked back a gasp as a tear escaped my sister's eye. I narrowed my eyes at her in a subtle warning to cut it out. I had this.

The guard offered me a scrutinizing glare, sparing my sister of the same fate. I thanked the gods silently that he did not see her slip.

"It hardly matters what you were 'simply' doing," he jeers. "The queen demands an audience with you regardless for trespassing on her territory."

That statement officially broke my sister. She choked back ragged gasps, sobs contorting her face and tightening her throat.

"Please sir, please! We didn't mean to do anything! We swear!"

I made no effort to hide my eye roll. There was no reason to continue playing this off if she was going to cry about it right in front of him.

I unsheathed my dagger from its home on my belt and delivered a swift slash across the guard's throat. He bled out on the ground as I watched, his hands desperately and uselessly clawing at his new injury. Likely pleading to the gods for some semblance of mercy. After some time, his pathetic attempts at saving his own life failed, and his eyes drifted lifelessly to the dirt.

My sister weeped.

"We could have escaped that, you know. I didn't have to kill him."

"Why would- why would you- you just- you-" she sputtered helplessly.

I grabbed my sister by her collar and twisted the soft cotton in my fist.

"You are a coward. If you had not broken down and cried like a child, we could have gotten out of that. I could have gotten us out of it. And now look what you did."

She followed my eyes to the man on the ground, his blood seeping into the dirt and staining his clothes. Her face was screwed into something of grief and sorrow.

"I'm sorry."

The thud of an arrow nailing a hare to the great oak behind it reverberated through the forest.

I slung my bow over my shoulder and stalked toward my fallen prey. Its beady eyes stared senselessly into the distance as it took its final breaths.

"Perfect. Breakfast is served."

Plucking the hare from its perch, I walked toward the campfire some way in the distance. Florence sat in front of it, delicate hands held out in front of her in a somewhat pathetic attempt to warm them.

I whistled and held up the hare by the arrow's shaft. "Guess what I've got?"

Florence clapped her hands in a childish euphoria, a grin spread wide across her flush lips.

After roasting it over the fire for what felt like quite some time, Florence and I ate in pleasurable silence. Our first meal in days.

I pored over what our next move should be as the pink tinge of the rising sun stretched over the horizon. Assuming my tracking was accurate until this point, we were not far behind. I considered leading us West to attempt an alternate route, but our prey's home was most directly accessed from the South. We were already headed that way.

I craned my neck to peer at my companion. An auburn curl graced her cheek, still flush with pink from the cold. Her lashes curled upward in a natural way that I thought was very pretty. My body felt hot at the observation.

"Where to next, Captain?"

Her use of the satirical nickname startled me. I'd jokingly told her days ago to call me that and she seemed to have taken it very seriously.

I tried to avert my gaze from her eyes as unassumingly as possible and cleared my throat.

"Well, I was thinking we'd continue heading South. It's the most direct route."

"Aye aye."

I choked back a laugh and looked away from her.

Putting out the fire, I threw the hare's now-clean bones into the snow. I offered Florence a hand up and ignored how my stomach twisted when she took it.

I used my shirt sleeve to wipe off the blood from the arrow I'd used and put it in my quiver.

"Ready?"

"As ever." She threw me a reassuring smile and gestured for me to lead the way.

We walked on for many hours, the sun having fully risen and set again before I stopped us in our tracks.

"There. Right there." I spoke in a hushed tone, careful not to startle it.

Florence was very obviously confused as she squinted her eyes into the night. "What are you seeing that I'm not seeing right now?"

"Quiet. We don't want to scare it."

Though I couldn't see her, I felt her eyes roll.

The creature I sought froze dead in its tracks, but I felt as though it did not yet sense us.

As silently as humanly possible, I inched my fingers to pluck my bow off of my back. I held it in one hand at my side, using my other to reach back and select an arrow from my quiver.

My breaths were controlled, steady. I nocked the arrow in my bowstring, feeling its familiar stretch as I pulled it taut.

I stretched, stretched, waited, breathed, and... released.

My arrow hit home, pinning its victim to a tree as it had done so many times before. I paused, listening for an echo of the creature's pain, waiting until its breaths slowed and then stopped.

Florence's hand appeared at my shoulder. I waited for words of encouragement, or wisdom, or congratulations, or... something to make my heart flutter.

"What the hell is that thing?"

I gazed at the creature nailed against the tree. The inky blackness, its shapeless form.

"That," I breathed, "is the dark."

I am mad, I am mad, I am mad.

The people tell me so day in and day out. I hear their whispers. But they are not so loud as to drown out the screams.

In my waking hours, my chambers flood with oil thick as blood. It soaks my clothes, seeps into my hair, pours in through my eyes. There are screams from the other side of the doors. They scream and scream and scream and I am mad.

In my sleeping hours, they do not relent. I am mad and they still scream and I feel the oil in my lungs and it tastes like blood and I am mad and my stomach is full of it and they are screaming and I am mad.

There are days when I lose myself. Keeping busy becomes my friend and I am safe from the reckoning of my own mind. The screams are now whispers.

She is mad, she is mad, she is mad, they say.

Hearing them does not cure me.

Mad, insane, sick.

I am sick, I am sick, I am sick.

I am cared for, I am taught, I am fed. But the fullness of my belly does not mean my stomach will not make room for my sickness.

I am fine until I am not. I lay in my bed. Its sheets are slick with the oil from the morning. There is a pounding on my door.

My belly is full, but I am malnourished by sanity.

I am mad, I am mad, I am mad.

I am destroyed.

"You're bleeding."

"Yes, that's what happens when you stab someone."

My eyes darted between the sarcasm in her eyes and the hand pressed against her bleeding side.

"They bleed."

I wielded a knife in my hand. Not of my own accord, it seemed, I was responsible for her wound. My hand trembled as I tried my damndest to keep my grip on the knife's hilt, its braided leather no doubt leaving its mark on my palm.

Before I could begin to form a response, the girl twirled a knife in her hand that was twin to my own. A wicked grin contorted her face, the mischief in her eyes transforming into something cruel.

Any apologies I had considered swiftly avoided leaving my lips. My grip on the weapon tightened.

So, this is how it will be, then.

She agilely dodged my first attack, meant to strike her in the shoulder. She careened backward, her lithe physique serving her well to keep her balance and prepare her for a strike of her own.

Somehow, I managed to maintain my composure. I did not feel like myself. Some deranged, evil thing had corrupted me, corrupted my body and mind. I desperately tried to hold onto what semblance of myself remained, but my mind was slipping.

I thought no more of concern for the girl before me, no more of how she fared. I thought only of the knife in my hand and the damage I intended to inflict.

A quick glance at her lips informed me that she was going to make some sort of snide comment.

Her wits were no match to my blade.

Before a sound escaped her, I lunged forward with the knife in my palm. She attempted to avoid the strike, but I caught her in the arm and pulled her back into me. I caressed my blade against her throat, ruefully teasing the point into her pale skin.

"And what happens when you slice their throat? Do they bleed then, too?"

I felt the girl's breath hitch under the weight of my hand and I smiled at her fear.

A minuscule part of my brain begged me to stop. This is cruel.

The thought was quickly suppressed by those of malice. She deserves this.

As soon as my hand, with a mind of its own, began to press the blade's edge further into the girl's throat, she gripped my arm and threw it forward, knocking me off balance and removing my hold on her.

She abused the sudden movement and moved herself a great distance from me, brandishing her knife and open arm before her. Though her eyes revealed the extent of her pain from the wound in her side, her lips twitched with the whisper of a grin, as though she were amused. I worried if she could see the battle inside my mind.

Our labored breaths echoed in tandem throughout the cavern walls. I noticed unconsciously that her empty hand trembled ever so slightly, illuminating her fear.

Part of my brain sinfully delighted in this knowledge, reveled in it. The part of my brain that was still my own recoiled at the observation.

We circled one another, our footprints leaving imprints in the dirt.

I falsely lunged forward and, as anticipated, the girl moved to dodge my assault. As she did, though, I flicked my hand towards her abdomen, releasing my knife from its grip.

I watched the blade sink into her torso. Blood seeped out from her wound, soaking her shirt in a vicious circle of hurt. Horror etched her features. The twin blade fell from her hand. Fingers creeped up to put pressure on her new injury.

I watched with panic.

From the very moment my silver blade embedded itself into her skin, the wretched possessor of my body and mind released its hold on me.

What had I done?

I collapsed to my knees at the same moment she did, crawling on my hands and knees toward her. My knife fell from my grip, dropping next to its twin. A burning feeling inched up my throat, sobs threatening to break.

My sister, my sister. What had I done to my sister?

Her eyes stared blankly at the cavern's roof. There was no trace of the girl with whom I had once stolen paint from the market alongside, with whom I painted the walls of our tiny home. As sure as I was that there was no trace of me left in my body, there was no trace of my sister.

I sobbed over her body. My sister, my sister. My twin.

"Guess what happens when someone bleeds out," she croaked.

I soundlessly pressed my hand harder against her torso, begging with every god to keep her alive.

I waited.

And waited.

After too long, my hands shook as they closed my sister's eyes, relieving her from the pain and horrors of this world.

Our legs had all but given out long ago. Our bodies ached, our lips begged for even a taste of fresher water than what we had been surviving off of for too many days. Our bones were becoming old, though we felt younger still as we pushed forward.

For what felt like many weeks, we had wandered the forest in search of something, anything, that would tell us we were getting closer.

Closer to life. To youth. To bliss.

Our lungs grew weaker with every breath and yet it felt impossible to cease our search.

My brothers and sisters. How they followed me blindly into the brush, how they matched their footsteps with my own as I led the way. How unaware they were that I was just as lost as they.

The horizon, so thick with vegetation one could not see what lay in front of them, glowed faintly with the setting sun. An orange hue enveloped the forests' leaves, but the minutes ticked by as they grew darker and darker still. We watched until we could see only the slightest evidence that the sun had ever been to visit. Until we could see nothing at all.

Except— the faintest light, some distance to my left. Wordlessly, I led my kin through the dense grass that caressed our knees and toward what hope I had left in my body.

The light struck me as highly peculiar. I felt as though my feet were leading me toward it without my mind's consent, pulling me, heavy-footed, into the dark. It was nothing special, the light, but the minuscule yellow glow of it compelled me nonetheless. Could this be what we have been searching for, seemingly in vain, for near a week?

"Where do you take us, sister?"

I neglected to answer.

He would learn soon enough.

We drew nearer to the light after walking for some time, our lungs no stronger and our legs no more sturdy than they had been before. Perhaps this was not what I anticipated.

The light illuminated the entrance of a cave which, by the looks of it, led to a tunnel that did not have an end.

Alongside my brothers and sisters, I stopped at the threshold.

Maybe five feet from the cave's edge was the light. It appeared to be a candle, though wax did not drip from its sides, and it stood on a slab of rock that rose directly from the ground.

None of my group had the countenance to approach it. I had led them there. This was my responsibility.

I took cautious steps toward the cave. One foot over its entrance. My sides feeling pressed in by its grotesque-smelling walls.

I heard the hesitant steps of my brethren behind me. They don't tread without fear, I know, but they will learn to relish in what I have gifted them.

"Eternal youth."

The candle cast light upon the glimmer of a fountain further into the cave. Its trickle echoed throughout the space, the sound of the water calming the group's nerves. Understanding dawned on the faces of my kin. This is where I had led them: to the Fountain of Youth.

I turned to them, a grin wide on my face.

A grin that disappeared with the light of the candle as it snuffed out.

It became clear that this cave was not what it appeared.

Soon, the darkness shrouded us, hiding us from the hungry gazes of our predators.

"I hear you Mom, I hear you!" Raya hollers on her way out the door, slamming the squeaky hinges closed behind her. Home by dark, she thinks, I can do that.

Her well-worn backpack slung over a shoulder, lantern in hand, Raya makes her way deep into the forest behind her family's squat excuse for a home. She stops and looks back at it once, as though to reassure herself of its presence, and continues on her way.

The sun dips just below the horizon in front of her, basking her skin in a golden light, warming the dark hair atop her head. She weaves her fingers through her curls, a nervous habit she adopted after several of these visits to the woods.

I'm basically Red Riding Hood, she thinks, except way cooler.

Raya lifts her skirts with her free hand as she walks, saving the delicate pink lace from the countless puddles of mud and herself from her mother's wrath should she ruin it.

On a dry patch of grass, Raya stops. She tucks her hair behind an ear and listens intently to the sounds of the forest life. Birds in the trees, a rabbit nearby. And, ah, a deep rumbling some thirty or so feet away. I must be close, she thinks.

She holds the lantern out in front of her as the sun droops further away, illuminating the path cleared from the brush, and the large, muddy footsteps that litter it. She matches the footprints as she follows them, step for step, and comes upon a familiar pile of stone.

Not a pile— a home.

Raya approaches it gingerly, adjusting the bag on her shoulder once more, and sets her lantern atop a tree stump by her side.

"Hello?" she tentatively calls.

The answer comes as a deep rumble, the stones in front of her trembling from its bass.

"It's me," Raya reassures. "I brought you some things."

She takes off her bag, emptying its contents in front of the stone house. Bread, cheese, an apple. "It's all I could manage."

Her voice shakes as she speaks, fearful of what might lay within that had yet to show itself to her. But whenever she comes, it takes what she gives.

Raya only hopes it never asks for more.

"Okay, well," she whispers, taking small steps backwards on the path she came from, "I'll see you... tomorrow..."

The last word fades into the wind as Raya pauses, hands trembling when a figure rises from behind the stone house. When it stands fully, it has at least six feet on Raya.

"Holy shit," she whispers. The creature peers at her.

Lantern back in hand, Raya dares to raise it at the figure. It lights up what few features are visible of the creature, long hair hiding most of its face. The creature feels feminine and yet masculine, young and old, nothing and everything.

"I'd... best be going," Raya squeaks. She takes hurried steps in retreat, afraid to turn her back, but afraid to stay any longer. She goes increasingly faster, stumbling over roots peeking from the ground, swallowing her fear and beginning to wonder what good she ever thought she was doing by coming here.

"Wait."

It speaks in the deepest of voices, assuring Raya that this was what was rumbling all these weeks as she dropped off what she'd started to refer to as her 'donations'. Raya freezes, feeling paralyzed when it speaks to her. She stares up at it, silently begging herself to grow a pair, to say something, anything, to not get herself killed over a stupid mistake like forgetting her manners.

The creatures bends down, a scraggly finger poking out from its long, wispy sleeves — that much resemble that of a grim reaper, she thinks — to hook onto a strap of her backpack, lying in wait next to the food she'd left.

Of course, she'd forgotten it.

Raya watches as she creature moves ever so slowly, as if to keep Raya in this state of paralysis for as long as possible.

It rises to its full height again, holding Raya's bag with a boney finger. This is it, she thinks, it's gonna kill me.

"You forgot this."

It extends its finger towards Raya even as she flinches away, arms over her face, which she thinks might permanently be contorted into a grimace after tonight.

She reaches out slowly, before plucking the bag from the creature's finger as though it might explode.

"Thank... you..." Raya squeaks, then bolts.

She swears she saw the creature smile as she turned to flee, the stringy curtain over its face doing nothing to hide the glimpse of bliss emitting from its form.

writing an actually decent story with so few characters to work with is more difficult than i remembered

A guttural scream escapes my father's throat as an arrow embeds itself into a tree not an inch from my face.

Hands grab me from behind, fingertips sinking into the tender skin of my arms and dragging me from the woods. One clamps over my mouth the second I am prepared to call for help, hard enough that I'm unable to move my head. Not that I would have been heard over the chaos of my village.

I kick and flail my arms in a desperate attempt to free myself, but the hands that hold me are stronger than I am. I'm carried for what feels like an hour, though the fight never leaves me. I still have no tell as to who my captor is, but I'm confident I will be able to make my escape soon enough.

If I could get back.

As I fight, I wonder if anybody's noticed my absence. My father was occupied with another assailant as I was taken, but has he yet realized? Has mother? Have they searched for me like I'd have searched for them?

Eventually, we stop. The hand at my mouth is released, but the one at my arm doesn't so much as loosen its grip. Finally, I glimpse my captor.

Male, light skinned, lean but not weak, tall. Wearing a mask, so his facial features do me no good.

Before I can even open my mouth,

"Don't speak yet. I am here to help you, but you cannot speak until she arrives. Do you understand?"

He is looking around nervously, for this 'she'. Perhaps he is frightened of her.

"My fa-"

I say no more than this before he kneels down to my level and clasps his hand right back over my mouth, nearly slamming my head back. My eyes widen in repulsion. When was the last time this guy had a shower?

"Do. Not. Speak."

From then until I learned who this woman he spoke of was, his hand stayed right where it was. Not yet could I attempt to flee.

I would have to wait for the right moment.

Though we were in the midst of the woods (and I still have no idea how he sensed her), the mere snap of a twig alerted my captor of his leader's (?) arrival.

From a thick copse of trees emerged a very tiny woman. Tinier even than myself. Almost laughably.

One might have mistaken her for a child.

My captor bowed immediately, shoving me down onto my knees with him. I refused to lower my head.

Wordlessly, the woman nods her head at the man, motioning for him to step aside. He reluctantly releases me, leaving his handprint stark white against my arm.

I hope that fades quickly.

"You can stand."

Her voice is almost shrill, girlish. But I waste no time getting my knees off the dirt.

As I take her in, I am surprised at what I see. The woman is maskless, with a small slope of a nose and full lips, dark brown eyes glistening of mischief.

Much to my surprise, the woman smiles at me as she too takes me in. And then she opens her arms to me.

"My Ophelia, finally!" Her grin seems to grow wider and wider, and I have absolutely no idea what to do. Who the fuck is this and why the fuck does she know my name?

"No, not there yet? Okay," she says, seemingly disappointed that a girl who has never met her doesn't immediately want a hug, but sounding no less cheerful.

After an awkward moment of silence, she invites me to sit with her on a big rock. I stay put.

"Either explain to me who the hell you are or return me to my clan at once," I demand. "Or I will leave myself."

I look this woman in the eyes as I say so, making sure to get across to her boy toy as well.

At last, the woman giggles.

"My dearest Ophelia," she cajoles, "I know this must seem strange to you but my dear, I am your mother!"

I silently take in her features again, brown eyes and browner hair, nose with a smooth slope same as mine. I shake my head. No.

"I have a mother."

"Sit, please," the woman says in a voice sweet as honey. "I will explain everything."

"No. You are mistaken," I tell her. "I have–"

I am interrupted by a gut-wrenching battle cry vibrate throughout the woods, right near where I stand.

Who better to interrupt this extremely odd conversation than my father, leader of our clan?

i haven't written in two long so this is an attempt to get the rust out of my brain

To her, I often glance over, Hoping to catch a glimpse of the Palest of skin, soft and wintry, With eyes green as trees of the forest

My love as powerful as the strongest winds, For her my soul does howl, I think a thought that, this just in: If I cannot have her I may swell with rage

I cannot leave with Not a promise of her hand, no, But I watch as she leaves, My heart broken, surely to Never recover from the rejection she silently blows

"Over the wintry Forest, winds howl in rage With no leaves to blow"

— Natsume Sōseki

my first attempt at poetry... so this was an interesting challenge!!