The Stocking

The Gift

Fawn woke to a terrible clamor, dust billowing up from the makeshift shelves as the walls trembled around her. Thrusting her quilt from herself, she darted toward the nearest exit, peering outward in dazed confusion.

She startled when Thomas burst into the parlour, his tall, lean body half-hidden behind an enormous stack of boxes. He let them fall to the ground with an ungodly thud before he straightened up again and disappeared.

Fawn's bewildered gaze darted about the room, searching for some sense to the racket. Her gaze landed upon piles of similar boxes strewn across the floor.

"I'm going to sell the house," his voice echoed in her memory. "Damn it all to hell."

A shot of panic streaked across her chest.

No, no, no, she must have been mistaken; he couldn't be leaving, not after what happened yesterday. He had been so kind to her, so sympathetic to her plight. More than that. In fact, if the mere thought wasn't heresy, she would even say that he -

That he what? Her mind mocked her. Cared for you? An insignificant speck he could trod down with one foot? You were fooled, Fawn Braegon. Tricked by human guile. Just as the elders warned you.

Fawn took a stumbling step backward, her head shaking incredulously as she staggered blindly down the inner walls to her chambers. "How could you!" she screamed, her anger quickly dissolving into pangs of anguish.

How could you.

Selling the house was as good as condemning her to death: strangers streaming through at all hours of the day, their unpredictable arrivals thwarting any run for supplies. Besides, with Thomas gone in the winter, there would be no food to borrow. 

She would starve. 

Even if she managed to survive off scavenging until the new owners arrived, they would soon begin their repairs, closing up every hole until she was sealed in a living tomb. Or perhaps they wouldn't even bother. Perhaps they'd simply tear the old manor house down...have a new, more modern home built in its place.

She had no choice. She had to leave while she still had fighting chance. And yet the world was frozen in the deep throes of winter; it was many miles until the nearest shelter, and the woods were unforgiving at this time of year. She would surely freeze to death.

Didn't that even matter to him?

"Dammit Fawn," she sniffled, wiping her baggy sleeve tremulously across her eyes. "You've gotten this far on your own. You'll do it again."

With that she began to plot her route, marking up her large map with charcoal salvaged from the master's fire.

It took her the better part of the day to gather up her things, holding each one lovingly to herself as she decided what to take, and what to leave behind. Her limbs were heavy as she worked, a gaping hole aching in her chest.

As the evening fell, she tightened the strings of the coin pouch, heaving it onto her back. That's when she heard it: a hollow knocking on the walls, faint at first, then growing louder.

"Fawn?" a deep voice called out uncertainly.

Fawn's chest clenched at the sound, her heart picking up speed. She quickly smothered the feeling. He wasn't her concern anymore.

"I thought perhaps I would see you today...I hope I didn't frighten you too much yesterday..."

Her stomach swooped at his gentle words. She chewed the inside of her cheek, unsure whether to show herself. Shouldering her bag of goods higher on her back, she trudged down the narrow wallway to steal a glance out the fireplace entrance. Her heart spiked as she saw his mountainous form kneeled a few feet away, head leaned against the wall. He had slightly misjudged where her chambers were located.