Red by Paradoxically
Red
I.
It was a trip that the young woman had made often enough—though the woods were dense and deep, she whistled merrily in a place where even the rare gloaming puddles of sunlight fell in hushed heaps. She always stood out, that girl draped in red velvet finery over faded calico and muslin. She wasn’t much more than a bare slip of a thing, certainly too small and young to be parading about a forest so dark without a care, without a reason to fear, and absolutely alone to boot. There had been more than enough reasons for a little girl to avoid the forest’s embrace before, but that was becoming all rather long ago, and those thoughts about why were tidily compartmentalized away in her pretty little head—and honestly, she supposed that she was not very much of a little girl now. No, acquaintance with darkness had forced an early metamorphosis. It ruined her, but made her safe in the seeping, subtle, jealous ways of the night. She had been claimed by the shadows and the light both--no one else had ever walked the Forbidden Forest with as little care as she.
In her solitude, she thought that it might be considered her own fault, really, that she could walk openly where no one else would dare. She had never questioned the dark haired stranger who had appeared at the edge of the clearing near the family’s cottage, never asked her parents (or her bevy of siblings) exactly who the man was, or why he was there. He had called himself “friend”, and that was enough for a tender hearted witch at the age of 11. He was a jealously kept secret, this person whose attention she didn’t have to share. And he wormed his way into her sunlit mind, carefully harrowing up her heart and planting the deadly seeds in hopes of bearing dark fruit. Like a strangler fig, he wanted his ideas to take root and grow, grow until she was entombed in their suffocating embrace. But she saw none of that, at least, not until it was too late. To her eyes, he was another lonely soul, a kindred spirit who was more than just a little but lonely—he kept to the shadows and taught her how to survive in them as well.
Her parents were just woodcutters, if magic ones, and they enjoyed living a simple life in their ramshackle cottage overflowing with redheaded children. If one child, even their dear little girl child, was a bit quieter, a bit more inclined to be on her own, well, that was something of a boon, was it not? A little Dark magic was to be expected out here in the barely tamed wilderness, so it really wasn’t all that unusual for there to be a bit of residue here and there—that the Dark magic followed Ginny like iron filings seeking a magnet went unnoticed until it was almost too late. By then, her hair and smile had both grown lank and wan as she began to fade away. Her large brown eyes had been haunted for some time already when her body utterly collapsed and her mind retreated to a fevered abyss. She had lain in the forest in a sleep so deep and terrible that, when she was found, her parents had begun to mourn her and harvest the flowers for her bier. And then, when the silver bearded stranger appeared, they had begun to hope, though he was terrible in his anger and relentless in his quest to drive out the shadows. For he was the first among them to see the man in the shadows as what he was—a parasitic creature feeding off of her magic, her life, his search for dominion seeking a hold within her mind, waiting for his dark ideas were meant to take root and suffocate her.
And so the old man began with fire, burning and purifying the beloved copse of old trees that made up so much of the woodwright, driving out the Dark stranger. He burned with fire, and yet he could not make it pure-- though this let the sunlight shine all the more brightly in the Weasley family clearing, the silver stranger was powerless to do anything about the shadows cast by the greater forest beyond, or the shadows that had already taken root in the girl’s mind. When he had banished the man in the shadows, the girl awoke from her slumber. The silver stranger had framed the girl’s face with his hands and looked deep in her mind, but he could not understand. The shadowed man had no more hold over the girl, but her mind was no longer brightly lit. Instead, sun-dappled shadows populated her head. He could not understand it, for a creature who lives only in the brightness of day can only understand dark as the absence of light. It did not make sense to him that she had survived at all--indeed, he believed that she should have died in the forest. And so he had released her with a sigh, not understanding the deeper magic that ran in the forest, the magic that makes seeds sprout in the dark of the earth, that turns dead things into life-giving loam, the magic that would claim and protect the girl as its own, whether she chose to walk in the light or the dark.
Even the girl did not understand it, not really. She only knew that she had experienced deep and abiding terror before, and this—this walking under the hulking spread of ancient trees—was no part of that. She was embraced, and safer than she had any right to be. And so six years passed, and her family forgot the worst of it as the memories began to be buried deep under new little concerns and thoughts from each passing day. The girl grew into a woman, into her name, Ginevra. And when she reached the age where most of the women in the nearby village began to be courted, to be married, to be swollen with child, she left her parents humble home for a ramshackle little dwelling all her own, just a short morning’s walk away from her childhood home. And yet, it was worlds away, for her little hut was encircled by the forest that everyone else dreaded. She told herself that it didn’t matter, that she didn’t feel the loss of a suitor or the simple life she knew that her parents had planned for her from birth. If she grew a little restless at times, she would firmly tell herself that it was nothing, that it had nothing to do with loneliness.
And yet, the forest knew.
It knew, in the ways of ancient living magic, that this dear little one that lived in its leafy embrace held an aching heart in her breast. The songs that had once spilled from her throat in a joyful chorus with the birds in the canopy had become rare. Her tears watered the ferns around her humble home more frequently now. And though she whistled merrily today, it was a lover’s ballad, and there was no one to whistle the harmony back to her but a few birds on the nest.
Perhaps the ancient magic of the forest would not have stirred so strongly had it not been spring, the season of lovers and life, but it had a way of coaxing the most reluctant flowers into full bloom. A young girl, with roses in her cheeks and hair the color of ripe strawberries, wouldn’t be all that different, given time and the right circumstances.
I.
It was a trip that the young woman had made often enough—though the woods were dense and deep, she whistled merrily in a place where even the rare gloaming puddles of sunlight fell in hushed heaps. She always stood out, that girl draped in red velvet finery over faded calico and muslin. She wasn’t much more than a bare slip of a thing, certainly too small and young to be parading about a forest so dark without a care, without a reason to fear, and absolutely alone to boot. There had been more than enough reasons for a little girl to avoid the forest’s embrace before, but that was becoming all rather long ago, and those thoughts about why were tidily compartmentalized away in her pretty little head—and honestly, she supposed that she was not very much of a little girl now. No, acquaintance with darkness had forced an early metamorphosis. It ruined her, but made her safe in the seeping, subtle, jealous ways of the night. She had been claimed by the shadows and the light both--no one else had ever walked the Forbidden Forest with as little care as she.
In her solitude, she thought that it might be considered her own fault, really, that she could walk openly where no one else would dare. She had never questioned the dark haired stranger who had appeared at the edge of the clearing near the family’s cottage, never asked her parents (or her bevy of siblings) exactly who the man was, or why he was there. He had called himself “friend”, and that was enough for a tender hearted witch at the age of 11. He was a jealously kept secret, this person whose attention she didn’t have to share. And he wormed his way into her sunlit mind, carefully harrowing up her heart and planting the deadly seeds in hopes of bearing dark fruit. Like a strangler fig, he wanted his ideas to take root and grow, grow until she was entombed in their suffocating embrace. But she saw none of that, at least, not until it was too late. To her eyes, he was another lonely soul, a kindred spirit who was more than just a little but lonely—he kept to the shadows and taught her how to survive in them as well.
Her parents were just woodcutters, if magic ones, and they enjoyed living a simple life in their ramshackle cottage overflowing with redheaded children. If one child, even their dear little girl child, was a bit quieter, a bit more inclined to be on her own, well, that was something of a boon, was it not? A little Dark magic was to be expected out here in the barely tamed wilderness, so it really wasn’t all that unusual for there to be a bit of residue here and there—that the Dark magic followed Ginny like iron filings seeking a magnet went unnoticed until it was almost too late. By then, her hair and smile had both grown lank and wan as she began to fade away. Her large brown eyes had been haunted for some time already when her body utterly collapsed and her mind retreated to a fevered abyss. She had lain in the forest in a sleep so deep and terrible that, when she was found, her parents had begun to mourn her and harvest the flowers for her bier. And then, when the silver bearded stranger appeared, they had begun to hope, though he was terrible in his anger and relentless in his quest to drive out the shadows. For he was the first among them to see the man in the shadows as what he was—a parasitic creature feeding off of her magic, her life, his search for dominion seeking a hold within her mind, waiting for his dark ideas were meant to take root and suffocate her.
And so the old man began with fire, burning and purifying the beloved copse of old trees that made up so much of the woodwright, driving out the Dark stranger. He burned with fire, and yet he could not make it pure-- though this let the sunlight shine all the more brightly in the Weasley family clearing, the silver stranger was powerless to do anything about the shadows cast by the greater forest beyond, or the shadows that had already taken root in the girl’s mind. When he had banished the man in the shadows, the girl awoke from her slumber. The silver stranger had framed the girl’s face with his hands and looked deep in her mind, but he could not understand. The shadowed man had no more hold over the girl, but her mind was no longer brightly lit. Instead, sun-dappled shadows populated her head. He could not understand it, for a creature who lives only in the brightness of day can only understand dark as the absence of light. It did not make sense to him that she had survived at all--indeed, he believed that she should have died in the forest. And so he had released her with a sigh, not understanding the deeper magic that ran in the forest, the magic that makes seeds sprout in the dark of the earth, that turns dead things into life-giving loam, the magic that would claim and protect the girl as its own, whether she chose to walk in the light or the dark.
Even the girl did not understand it, not really. She only knew that she had experienced deep and abiding terror before, and this—this walking under the hulking spread of ancient trees—was no part of that. She was embraced, and safer than she had any right to be. And so six years passed, and her family forgot the worst of it as the memories began to be buried deep under new little concerns and thoughts from each passing day. The girl grew into a woman, into her name, Ginevra. And when she reached the age where most of the women in the nearby village began to be courted, to be married, to be swollen with child, she left her parents humble home for a ramshackle little dwelling all her own, just a short morning’s walk away from her childhood home. And yet, it was worlds away, for her little hut was encircled by the forest that everyone else dreaded. She told herself that it didn’t matter, that she didn’t feel the loss of a suitor or the simple life she knew that her parents had planned for her from birth. If she grew a little restless at times, she would firmly tell herself that it was nothing, that it had nothing to do with loneliness.
And yet, the forest knew.
It knew, in the ways of ancient living magic, that this dear little one that lived in its leafy embrace held an aching heart in her breast. The songs that had once spilled from her throat in a joyful chorus with the birds in the canopy had become rare. Her tears watered the ferns around her humble home more frequently now. And though she whistled merrily today, it was a lover’s ballad, and there was no one to whistle the harmony back to her but a few birds on the nest.
Perhaps the ancient magic of the forest would not have stirred so strongly had it not been spring, the season of lovers and life, but it had a way of coaxing the most reluctant flowers into full bloom. A young girl, with roses in her cheeks and hair the color of ripe strawberries, wouldn’t be all that different, given time and the right circumstances.
Author notes: So... thoughts? Love it? Hate it?
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