Seven Deadly Sons

Ameline. (21)

The pounding of the horse's hooves very close behind me pushes me to keep running, even though my energy had depleted almost instantly after leaving the stables at an entrance to the court.

Why do I refuse to commit to morning runs? Even a jog. A fast-paced stroll — any preparation or exercise would have helped me in this moment. I wondered hysterically.

Breathing so heavily I could honestly be mistaken as a steam train, I desperately cling to the little bundle in my arms and tried my best to stop tripping over every tree root in this forest.

I had shifted the cross-body bag to wrap around my neck.

After falling to my knees for what must have been the tenth time, I decided I really could not outrun horses with the extra weight (even without the weight, if I'm honest). The anger in the horses neighing is so profound and unbelievable, I shake as I look for somewhere big enough to hide the two of us under the roots. I wonder how angry the people within the hunting party are. Probably quite...

Absentmindedly, I notice the roots around me actually writhing and slithering with pre-emptive movements. One whacks another away from what must be that trees spot and the anger in the gesture has me looking for a nicer tree to hide with. A nicer tree? What a bizarre thought.

Just, what was it - yesterday? I was trampling every plant I could find. Maybe they have a vendetta against me now. I wonder again whether the princes have some connection to the land, wonder if the one hunting me now is listening to the talk of these roots. I wonder if I'm crawling into my very own, personal cage.

All the same, I still scramble beneath one without thinking too hard about it.

Will the roots ever rise back up again once they are in the ground? What if they stay sunk for centuries, millennia? I am reminded of the thousand-year-old tree I leashed my poor mule to, a tree that has probably told all its tree friends that I am a murderer.

Holding a whimpering Oliver close to my chest, I gently stroked his head as much to my comfort as it was to his. When he continues to cry, the stroking starts to become significantly most aggressive and I end up pointing his tiny snout to me and seething: "shush!" every five or six seconds. Eventually, he grumbles his way into a circle and lays down.

Now that he is settled, I strip off all unnecessary items that I possibly can. The jewels are all removed; from ankles, ears and throat. I tug at the necklace-slash-headpiece for a few moments, but when it starts hindering more than helping me, I give up. A few strands of hair fall in ringlets from the horns, and I decide to let the headpiece remain in case need it to skewer someone; that moment which could be fast approaching. I immensely regret letting the girl put it on me, now just as much collar as the one on Oliver is.

Could the prince or another witch enchant it to choke me? I shove the thought away as quickly as it came, unbidden.

The clever dress doubled up nicely as a corseted romper, it's curator (likely Tierney - that clever boy) styling it more for fashionable spontaneous horse riding rather than charging through forests away from certain death. This was evident in the fact that the dress was unfortunately not entirely forest green, as the fabric had originally appeared. When the moonlight shone on it, it basically became a huge silver shimmering beacon saying "Come get me asshole!" Or, perhaps a funnier; "Dinners served!" the second comment made me smile, slightly. I pick up handfuls of the surrounding soil, damp from lack of sunlight, and begin rubbing it into the fabric; both ruining the stunning creation and its shine after struggling to remove the tight hook and eyes from skirt. With the romper muddied and soaked, my pale legs bare, I am suddenly ten degrees cooler and shivering. I pull Oliver to me for warmth, and find him shaking too.