As night takes its first approach, birds of dusk’s song weave together a wonderful chorus for the sun’s last dance on the horizon. Streaks of golden hues in the sky bleed into the yellowing foliage of the upper canopy of the great forest of Lindtel, whose leaves of bristled oak hover down on wings of gentle breeze. It has been long since the brazen summer handed its reins to the tender touches of fall, and soon a piercing winter will grasp the lands with an iron grip.

  Parting the oak trees was a barren, grey path of soil, unmarked by foliage or shrubbery. Within this narrow corridor, time itself felt obscured, as cascading leaves and towering growth masked what little remained of the day’s fading light. Unwinding and uncannily straight, it did not split until it came to a vast opening, where a lone structure lay, contrasting the natural appeal of the miles of forestry.

  Meagre and humble, the structure was not much unlike the homes in neighbouring villages. The bulk of the structure was composed of thick pale limestones, with larger, more shapely stones around the edges and frames. Its roof was lined with reddish terracotta tiles that slanted at a shallow angle to either end of its shorter face, a chimney protruding out of the far-western quarter. To its right was an accompanying substructure, an outer-shed of sorts, where a smithing workshop lay below a hardwood ceiling held up by 4 thick. The facade was mostly plain, marked by nothing but a humble wooden door, no taller than a workhorse, and murky, small windows. However, if one were to peer intently, even at a distance, they could catch the vibrant gleam of striking blue eyes through their panes.

  Echoing along the arboral cavern was the rattling of iron fittings, interrupted so often by the creaking of loose wooden planks. As the noise grew closer, the outline of a small drawn carriage could be made along the distant treeline, its relatively large beechwood wheels trailing heavily along the soil, gouging a faint rut in the road. A pair of sturdy shafts protruded a ways forward from the base of its main body, its ends bound by rope to a makeshift collar that sat upon the shoulders of a sure-footed beast.

  The equine was of medium build, not much larger than a donkey, not much smaller than a horse. Its matted chestnut-brown fur is marked by patches of light cream around its eyes and mouth. One could tell by its short mane and horse-like neck that it was a mule, healthy and untarnished. It was indistinguishable from the mules commonly seen around the local countryside.

  Sitting upon the front brim of the cart, manning its reins, was quite the figure. A stout and burly man, dressed in a sleeveless workman's shirt and overalls. His heavy shoulders sat like a pair of extra heads on the sides of a rotund torso, and extended into a pair of tattooed arms that resembled the trunks of an old oak. Above his shoulders, a rough red-brown beard unfurled from his bust to the peak of his abdomen, streaked with strands of grey hair; it mirrored fields of flame and ash. His wizened visage, stained by the scars of time, housed a pair of evergreen eyes embedded deeply below the ridges of his temple, glinting like jadestones on white marble. Upon his head was a grey felt hat, old and worn. It boasted a broad, drooping brim and red band, completing the figure of a working man of the time.

  Decelerating, the carriage swerved by the house and came to a halt just short of the working shed, where the old smith slowly dismounted. Heaving along the edge of the carriage, he hopped off, the thud of his weathered boots against the ground muffled by the obnoxious rattle of the toolbelt strapped below his waist.

  Gentle as his coarse, meaty hands could, the man unties his mule from the cart, letting the shafts fall freely. He leads the beast towards one of the beams of the shed, where he binds it by the reins before unbuckling his own belt and hanging it on a nail that poked out of the same beam. Rolling his eyes, he lets off a sigh of relief as his plump belly hangs, freed by the shackles of its serpentine captor.

  He approaches the beast once more, rummaging through one of its saddlebags before pulling out a round disc of grain and sugar. Tenderly brushing its face, crest, and neck, he feeds it the oat cake, soft wrinkles running across his cheeks as he warmly smiles.

  “Good work today, Rosie, good work.”

  Lazily, he trotted back to the carriage, picking up two cumbersome bags that he slung over his shoulders, manhandling them as if they’d been empty. As he walked towards the door, he glanced at the little window by the porch, where the lingering pupils had since gone, leaving behind an empty canvas of the inner wall. The old man was privy to these signs; he knew what was to come, and as such, he took in a deep breath before swinging the door open to a deafening welcome.

  “PA! PA! I GOT THREE THIS TIME, PA! THREEEEE! HEHE,” exclaimed the smaller figure.

  Not too far from the doorway stood a young, skimpish girl, just shy of her teens. She was of lean build and not much shorter than the man before her. Fair skin, delicate features, and a pair of wide-eyes the colour of sapphires adorned her cheerful visage. Her bleached blond hair, almost silver, was worn short with a fringe that covered her bold brows. It reached down just below her chin and above her shoulders. From either side of her silky mane emerged the pointed ends of dainty ears, a sign of elvish blood she did not share with the smith. Aside from that, she appeared almost human, for elvish features tend to show with age.

  Exhaling as a subtle smirk takes him, he puts down the bags by the doorway with a heavy thud.

  “Oh?” He questions, raising his brows.

  “YES, PA! SEEEE! THREE WHOLE RABBITS! TWO FOR YOU AND ONE FOR ME!” she boasts, raising what seemed to be the lifeless carcasses of three brown hares. Their throats had been slit, and they had long since bled out. Their fur was lightly stained with blood, but clearly rinsed since their parting.

  “Oh, but that one right there looks kind of like a squirrel,” he jested, holding back for a moment before his smirk turned into a cheeky burst of laughter.

  In a short-lived bout of self-doubt, the girl took a second close look at the rodents before addressing the playful accusation, “Papaaaa.”

  The old man took the girl in by the shoulders, squeezing her tight as she tried to keep the rabbits away from the crushing force of his body.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “Oh, you grow, so, so fast, it seems like you’ve grown just over these past two days!” he proclaims exaggeratively before kissing the top of her head, “ I’ve missed you so much, little queen!”

  “I’ve missed you too papa” she sighs, hugging him back as she rests her head on his chest with a smile.

  The inside of the home was warm and simple, reflecting a similar candour to the outer appearance of the home. It was split almost perfectly down the middle of its longer edge by a rickety wooden ladder propped onto a sort of surface. Either side of the home seemed to represent a different functional compartment.

  To the east was what looked to be a kitchen area, where a cast-iron stove sat at the far wall, beneath a smoke chamber that extended into the chimney. Besides it, there was a sink and a wooden countertop table, each hosting a respective hanging pantry closet above them. Between them and the front door was the kitchen table, round, barren, and small; it sat atop an old green carpet surrounded by three wooden chairs.

  The western end of the home was akin to a bedroom, with a single bed and a bedside table propped closer to the easternmost edge. Facing the bed to the other wall was a drawing cabinet and a standing mirror, separated by the small window of the facade. On said eastern wall, there also seemed to be a second door that led to the workshop.

  Unfurling his arms from around the girl to place his hands on her shoulders, “Have you done your literature for the day?” he asks the girl, attempting to look her in the eyes, but failing as she averts her gaze and shakes her head in shame.

  “Well, why don’t you go do that while I get dinner ready?”

  She nods her head twice ecstatically before scurrying away towards the ladder. As if born to live in a tree, she climbs up the steps erratically, disappearing into an upper compartment invisible to this corner of the abode.

  Up there was a second, smaller bed that functioned doubly as a bench, propped against the far wall. Towards the other end was a bookshelf, filled to the brim with books and scrolls the smithy had collected over his years. Despite his looks, the smithy was well versed in literary arts and wished to have the girl properly educated, claiming, “A queen must know the language and culture of her people, and other people alike!”

  In the middle was a small rug, where the girl lay on her stomach, peering into a book, “The Epics of Skadi. It was her favourite book of the entire collection; she must have read it a good thirty times despite the smithy’s requests to explore other works. On occasion, she’s peered into books about animals and beasts, with rare dives into geography.

  Beside the book she was reading, to one side was a runic lantern powered by a small talisman. To the other side was another book, fainter in size and hosting a small “pencil”, a recent innovation of the time, the smithy was quick to stock up on. This was her journal, initially intended for her to describe her literary experiences, something “The Epics of Skadi” rendered obsolete. It became her method of describing her day in words and drawings, helping her bide time alone.

  “DINNER TIME!” bellowed the smith’s voice from below.

  It had felt like a mere minute before the girl had climbed up the ladder, but it was already dark outside, the realisation bringing forth the high-pitched whines of the cicadas to her consciousness. Time tends to flow quickly when she’s reading, especially when it’s her favourite book. She descended the ladder much more slowly now, the long day’s fatigue beginning to toll on her body as night took its final form.

  At the table were two metal bowls of stew, one noticeably larger than the other. The Smith had prepared a stock of rabbits and chopped some vegetables to go along. Carrots, shallots, and potatoes that he’d brought with him on his day trip. It was surprisingly pleasant, seasoned with turmeric, pepper, and thyme. Though a younger smithy would never have the patience to learn the culinary arts, he was more than happy to do so to help the girl live the best life she could.

  By the bowls were also two metal cups, also of different sizes; however, this time the contents too were unalike. For the girl, the smithy had poured a cup of water he’d filtered from the local stream. Now, for himself, he’d poured a frothing mug of dark ale that he called his “sleeping potion”.

  Pulling back the chair by her bowl, the girl threw herself onto its base, pushing it slightly as she fell into it. She took in a long whiff of the stew, closed her eyes, and drew a big smile on her face before easing it all out. Looking at the smithy, who sat opposite her, she giggled and prepared to pounce on her bowl before the smithy was discerned.

  “Little queen, are we not forgetting something?”

  “Right!” she exclaims, putting her hands down on the top of the table and closing her eyes, she begins her prayer in tune with the smithy.

  “May the Gods of the south to the Gods of the north, bless our meal and what comes forth. All fathers, all mothers, the stars up above, spare us our darkness and nurture our love.”

  The girl then opens her eyes and looks at her guardian in approval, who provides a simple nod. She lunges at the bowl with both hands, raising it most of the way to her face before the smithy tics in disapproval, forcing her to pause and spill some stew on her lap.

  “THAT is no way for a Queen to eat,” he explains, tapping his metallic spoon onto the tabletop.

  “Paaaa, but I don’t wanna be a Queen, I wanna be a hunter-warrior! Like Skadi!” she exclaims in protest.

  “Well, you can be Thor himself for all I care, but I assure you, even the most battle-hardened warrior uses a spoon to eat their soup,” he replied calmly.

  “Fine…” the girl conceded, putting down her bowl and proceeding to eat her soup with her utensil.

  They simultaneously finished every last drop of stew remaining as if they had not eaten for days, before sculling down their respective cups dry. Slouching back into their chairs, bellies swollen with food, the pair sat appreciating the night’s sombre atmosphere for a couple of moments before the smithy interrupted.

  “Well, time to pack it up, the sleeping potion is kicking in,” he said, smacking his lips as the girl giggled at his remark.

  They cleaned up after dinner and switched off the lanterns before each retreated to their own bed.

  “Goodnight, Papa!” the girl exclaimed from the little attic.

  “Goodnight Hunter-Warrior Queen!” he replied, “I love you!”

  “Hehe! I love you too, Papa!”

  They’d both dozed off as soon as their eyes had shut. Worn by a hardy day, they would both be in for a long night’s sleep, had it not been for the dancing of shadows above their beds a mere couple of hours later.

  The disturbance sprang the smithy from his bedding and on towards the wall. Peering outside, he saw lights dancing in the distant treeline, sending him into a fit of internal rage and frustration. It seemed the time had come, but it was too soon, far too soon. Yet again, when wouldn’t it be?