Dark Forest (Watty's 2017)

Part 1

He molded into the crowd of strangers seamlessly, all but invisible except for one set of dark eyes that clung to him like a shadow. Zara knew he was looking for her. She could almost taste his desperation. It was always the desperate that came to find her. She was, after all, a last resort. A force only to be dealt with when all other hands had been dealt. She made no move to get up and greet him, choosing instead to let him come to her. She settled back in one of the tavern's rough, wooden chairs and drew her cloak tighter around her.

The room reeked of ale, sweat, pipe smoke and the faintest whiff of baked chicken as it wafted from the kitchen. Before, it would've been a scent Zara wrinkled her nose at. She never would have even considered actually stepping foot inside the dingy little pub. Now, the smell was familiar to her. As were the people, the drunks hiccuping into their mugs, the workers scurrying to and from wooden tables scarred with cracks and nicks, and the travelers with their strange ways and even stranger stories.  

She took a sip from her pint glass and it was at that moment the man's eyes finally latched onto hers. Even from where she sat, she could see they were green. A dark, full green, much like the shade of the towering pines that bordered the dark forest.

Here we go, she thought. What is it this time? A rogue troll? A pixie infestation? Another jealous husband?

It could have been anything.

Before she'd been a soldier. Respected, even envied. Now she was nothing more than an outsider with all the capabilities and skills of a fighter. Dangerous, unaccepted. Except for when something needed to be done, of course. Usually something that went against the kingdom laws. How could she refuse after all? With what she had done, why would anyone believe she wanted to follow the laws and be a valuable, upstanding citizen? The whispers followed her in the streets even still. Murderer. But she wasn't. Not really. A large part of the blame fell at her feet, certainly. But she was no murderer.

The man found his way through the crowd in no time and sank down heavily into the empty seat across from her. Zara blinked at him, her only acknowledgment of his presence. He looked back at her from beneath thick, dark eyebrows and a mass of tangled, black curls that covered his ears and the nape of his neck. One particular rogue curl kept falling over his eyes, only for him to consistently push it back with a large, calloused hand.

She ran her eyes over him. He had a worker's hands, that was certain, and tanned skin from being out in the sun. His clothes were not fine, but not cheap either. Yet he looked like a man that did not care much for appearances in his plain gray colored shirt and black traveler's pants and boots. She tried quickly to gauge what he could possibly need from her. With a handsome face like his, he probably wanted her help disappearing from a gaggle of desperate girls who's hearts he'd broken.

Despite her curiosity, Zara held her tongue and waited for him to speak. She would not ask what he wanted from her. She never asked.

He carefully licked his lips. "Are you the one they call Zara?"

She tilted her head softly to one side. "I suppose that depends on what it is you want from her." A cool smile flitted across her features before disappearing completely.

He knew who she was. She could tell by the way he was perched on the edge of the chair, hands resting on the dingy table top. He was poised to attack her, should she give him reason to do so. She fought back an amused smirk. Unlikely. Zara was many things, but she tried very hard not to make foolish one of them. The last thing anyone should do in a pub full of agitated, drinking men was to start a fight. Then everyone would want in.

"You are my last hope."

It was the same line she'd heard a hundred different times and each time it did nothing to sway her, or even make her feel the tiniest bit important. That would've been unwise. She wasn't important, not anymore. Thinking that way would only lead to trouble. Anyway, she highly doubted what he said was true. She may not have been his last hope, but rather the only one left who was willing to get the job done, whatever it was. There was a noticeable difference between truly being someone's last hope and being someone's last willing hope.