Chapter One

Autumn. The sun was low in the sky by late afternoon, as it would be that time of year, creating slanted shadows that made the forest by the river seem, golden, black, and thick. There was no wind, but there was a bite in the air, a cold chill that left ice crystals on the grass in the morning and thin layers of it on windows. The ice would be melted by noon, however. The sun and its slanted outstretched arms, while seemingly not direct enough for the cold, would drink the ice as greedily as a forest fox on the run as he approaches a stream in a moment of apparent safety, his nervous tongue lapping, quickly, short strokes bring the water in. A rustle in the dirt, he jerks his ears to the left. Auburn, red, brown, black. Leaves and fur blend together in the ground. Only the whites of his eyes tell you he’s there. Rifle loaded. Snap. Click. He bolts, a blur. The tips of his black night paws a part of his racing shadow. Ten feet. Twenty feet. Bang. The body falls, the shadow falters. Like black smoke, an apparition. Blood from the body. Nervous lapping, quickly, short strokes bring the blood in. Heavy footfall stirs the leaves. Away, away. The shadow runs into the trees.

“Beautiful.”

“What a pelt on her.”

Two men approached the body of the fox. They were both dressed in black pants and black jackets, almost formally, but they wore them with comfort and familiarity. One was clearly younger than the other; they were father and son. The older of the pair, and therefore the father, was a bear of a man; tall, broad-shouldered, bull-chested. The dark hair on his face had the look of something untamed, its short length only the result of frequent grooming. His eyes too were dark, and large like his nose.

“Her blood will spill lovely.”

The son was different. He had inherited the dark eyes of his father, but his face and body were small. His waist and spine were like that of an ermine, and the glint in his eyes even sharper. His hair was black, short, and thick. Naturally, it shone in the autumn’s slanted sun. He could not be more than twenty, but by the time hi would reach his thirtieth year, it would be streaked with silver.

“Lovely, indeed.”

“How shall we carry her? Such a lovely beast cannot be thrown over the shoulder.”

“Over the shoulder, no.”

“But across the chest.”

“Across the chest, indeed.”

The father lifted the fox to his broad chest and carried it like a child, tender and gentle. “Her heart sill beats,” he said. “I feel it against thine own.”

“No matter,” replied the son. “She passes now as we are speaking.”

The father shifted the body of the fox against his chest, revealing a glistening spot on his black jacket. He ignored the blood, and he led the way back through the forest.

xxx

Her feet were bare. She had removed her shoes and tied the hem of her ebony dress up so that it bunched around her knees, her long, fair legs exposed to the autumn air. She was beautiful. To her mid-back, down her hair went, rich honey-brown in tone, natural waves in all the places that were right. Thin lips, a sloped nose. Eyes brown, light brown, golden as dead leaves come, alive as sunbeams breathe. Her protruding collarbone, ever so slight, served to showcase a full bosom, above her finely curved waist (perfect in their slope, just right for the hands of a man). This flesh at that moment was at work.

She gave the pump six strong pushes and water gushed out of the pipe. The wide basin beneath it slowly filled with icy water as she pumped it form the spout. The water splashed onto her exposed legs and she was soon shivering, goosebumps rising.

The pump and the basin were located in her yard. Her yard being the forest, more or less. It was an isolated plot of land, barely cleared of trees. A lone house. Log and sliced wood, a crude brick chimney. Two floors, but small. This barely-there clearing only grudgingly let the small house stand there, small patches of uneven sunshine the only light from beyond the tops of the trees.

A child, at that moment, appeared. She bore a wicker basket in her arms, all filled with clothing and cloth, all black and white.

“You’ve brought the laundry, Sylvia.”

“I have, Mother.”

“Place it in the leaves at my feel, and help me wash.”

The child obeyed her, placing the basket in the leaves. With her small hands, she pulled a white garment from the basket, identical to the one she wore. As she straightened it, her fingers found a small hole at the bottom hem.

“Mother,” said the child, nearly distressed.

“Sylvia.”

“This one needs mending.”

“Then put it to the side.”

Sylvia placed the white dress down in the leaves next to the basket. She and her mother continued, separating the blacks from the whites and putting the blacks into the basin of cold water first.

From the bottom of the basket, the mother retrieved a bar of white soap. Her hands scrubbed furiously at the clothes in the basin. Sud bubbles cleaned the dirt from her nails. The child jumped and shivered and giggled, holding up the hems of her white dress from the water and soap, feet stomp-stamping, suds spreading throughout the basin. Sloshing and swirling, water and soap.

“Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, indeed.”

Sylvia stopped her stamping. The greetings were cold. Her mother rose from her knees and turned.

“Hello, Governor,” she said. Her hands loosened the knot so that her legs were covered by the true length of her dress. She patted her hands try on her thighs. “Good evening, almost, to thee too, Tristan.” Civilly cold.

A breeze fluttered the mane of the black haired young man and his father with the fox. A smile. Not cold, not warm. Somewhere between lukewarm and desire. Desire in the eyes of the son.

“Thank you. For your manners, Ana.”

A small flick of her hair as the breeze died. A dead leaf nestled at her feet. Ana narrowed her brows. Slightly.

The governor spoke. His voice rumbled a chasm.

“Only in passing, we speak.” He shifted the body of the dead fox on his chest. More blood. “Her blood will run cold in moments.”

A nod from Ana. The governor walked onward past the house. Tristan drew closer, only feet form where she stood.

A whisper, clean and sharp. Drawn to its maximum sound.

“Whore.”

Only this close to her did he realize her eyes were gold.

Only this close to him did she realize his eyes were black.

In passing. Hatred gazes warning as they pass eachother, the leaves disturbed, the soil upturned. No sound. A quiet passing. Eyes locked until the other is out of sight.

A/N: Hey everyone. Thanks so much for taking the time to read and review my new story. I would just like to say that this is purely experamental. Yes, I know that the tenses jump around a bit, and much of the sentance structure is out of order from how it usually would be. I did it on purpose, for the sake of experamenting. Just putting that out there. I hope you all liked it! Tell me what you think. And remember that I always review back!