Red by Paradoxically
II.
For the third time that day, Ginevra—Ginny, to those who loved her best—found herself walking a strange path. She wrinkled her nose absently, throwing back the hood of her velvet cloak and glaring at her surroundings, but most especially at the meandering game trail she found herself treading. This was hardly the way to the little glade with the tiniest, sweetest strawberries she had ever tasted in her life. She had meant to collect them as a special surprise for Charlie, who was visiting their parents. He came closest to understanding Ginny’s choice to live in the wilderness; she always felt she owed him a great debt for that, one that she tried to make up by sharing the treasures of her forest. But this was not the little dell with strawberries run amok. Here were the old apple trees, their gnarled limbs just budding out and filling the air with the sweet promise of fruit come fall. The path was old and loamy beneath her feet—and all wrong for where she thought she had been going. This was a way vaguely familiar, something half-remembered, a fragment of a dream, she thought, as the path turned downwards.
But this was not at all the way that she had meant to come. And yet, it was the third time this day that her feet had turned to this path. Each time, she had gone a little further down the steeply sloping trail before realizing she wasn’t going where she had meant to, until now, when she stood at the mouth of a deep gully, cut into the dark soil by the river. Ahead, the path dove down towards a grassy little clearing, but her vision was limited by the walls of soil that rose up around her on both sides. She strained her ears, but the only sound that she could hear was the mild murmuring of a diminished brook as it spilled over the rocks by her feet. She paused, worrying her lip with her teeth. She could turn back.
She could turn back and go home. It wasn’t that late yet, just barely dusk, and she knew there would be enough of a moon tonight to allow her to pick her way back to her little ramshackle home.
And then not ever find out the why and where and what of this journey; she could fair feel the magic tingling on her skin, feeding her insatiable curiosity.
It would be simpler to turn around. Unsatisfied curiosity she could live with, and hadn’t it already gotten her into full enough trouble already?
But a few more steps wouldn’t—couldn’t—hurt, not here, where the trees stood sentinel over her. Not where the shadows cloaked her like the embrace of an old friend. And a few steps was nothing she wouldn’t undo by turning around and darting back the way she came, like the silver-sided minnows in the stream at her feet.
And in just a few steps, she’d round the bend, anyway, and then she’d turn back. After she’d gotten a very good look around that grassy little clearing.
The magic in the air pulled again, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. Just two more steps towards the steeply sloped path leading down into the peaceful little glen. Then one more—her foot landed on the loose gravel and she pitched forward. She threw her hands in front of her to break her fall, the scree slicing her palms to ribbons. Ginny scrabbled desperately for purchase, but her own blood made the rocks slippery and she tumbled down the slope. One, two, three rotations--her cloak and hair flying wildly and her breath escaping from her in a desperate little squeak of fear--before her forehead connected sharply with a smooth slab of limestone. With great effort, she rolled herself on to her back before the dizzy trepidation overwhelmed her and her world faded to black.
Blood trickled slowly from her creamy forehead and mangled palms as the hours passed. Sunset’s warm glow warmed and then passed over her senseless features, deathly pale against the fiery nimbus of her hair and cloak. Dusk fell and the moon rose, painting the little glen in somber blue hues as a chill night wind rose. Its cold fingers picked and pulled restlessly at her hair, her cloak, the grass… and at the long white fur of the wolf that had suddenly appeared at the ridge, silver eyes gleaming with the reflection of a full moon.
The hulking beast paused a moment before he loped down the ridge, so graceful that he might as well have been a ghost gliding down the low slope, except for the slight swish the grass made as it parted for his heavy paws. He lifted his muzzle and inhaled deeply, wet black nose twitching as he sorted through the scents on the breeze. Human, fear, blood… and something else. Something barely remembered, some memory of a scent that was hidden behind a wall of primal instinct. It was something important, he knew, all the way down to his bones. Something to do with the human form that he had put off.
He jogged forward again, sliding from shadows to moonlight effortlessly as he circled towards the bottom of the glen. The vulnerable figure at the heart of the valley’s depression was clear now, her stark white features nearly glowing against the backdrop of the dark grass.
He approached slowly, sinking into a stalking crouch. It never paid to be careless with a human—or any other predator—and yet, despite the primitive part of his brain telling him to turn away, he felt himself drawn to the supine form.
He slunk closer. Now he could see the shallow rise and fall of her chest, like the slow rhythm of the ocean tide. Closer, and he could make out the spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and forehead, marred by the rivulets of dried blood.
Closer, and he was near enough to close his jaws around her tender white throat. He lowered his muzzle to her face, his great fearsome fangs so close to her tender flesh as he breathed in her scent.
And then her eyes fluttered open.
For the third time that day, Ginevra—Ginny, to those who loved her best—found herself walking a strange path. She wrinkled her nose absently, throwing back the hood of her velvet cloak and glaring at her surroundings, but most especially at the meandering game trail she found herself treading. This was hardly the way to the little glade with the tiniest, sweetest strawberries she had ever tasted in her life. She had meant to collect them as a special surprise for Charlie, who was visiting their parents. He came closest to understanding Ginny’s choice to live in the wilderness; she always felt she owed him a great debt for that, one that she tried to make up by sharing the treasures of her forest. But this was not the little dell with strawberries run amok. Here were the old apple trees, their gnarled limbs just budding out and filling the air with the sweet promise of fruit come fall. The path was old and loamy beneath her feet—and all wrong for where she thought she had been going. This was a way vaguely familiar, something half-remembered, a fragment of a dream, she thought, as the path turned downwards.
But this was not at all the way that she had meant to come. And yet, it was the third time this day that her feet had turned to this path. Each time, she had gone a little further down the steeply sloping trail before realizing she wasn’t going where she had meant to, until now, when she stood at the mouth of a deep gully, cut into the dark soil by the river. Ahead, the path dove down towards a grassy little clearing, but her vision was limited by the walls of soil that rose up around her on both sides. She strained her ears, but the only sound that she could hear was the mild murmuring of a diminished brook as it spilled over the rocks by her feet. She paused, worrying her lip with her teeth. She could turn back.
She could turn back and go home. It wasn’t that late yet, just barely dusk, and she knew there would be enough of a moon tonight to allow her to pick her way back to her little ramshackle home.
And then not ever find out the why and where and what of this journey; she could fair feel the magic tingling on her skin, feeding her insatiable curiosity.
It would be simpler to turn around. Unsatisfied curiosity she could live with, and hadn’t it already gotten her into full enough trouble already?
But a few more steps wouldn’t—couldn’t—hurt, not here, where the trees stood sentinel over her. Not where the shadows cloaked her like the embrace of an old friend. And a few steps was nothing she wouldn’t undo by turning around and darting back the way she came, like the silver-sided minnows in the stream at her feet.
And in just a few steps, she’d round the bend, anyway, and then she’d turn back. After she’d gotten a very good look around that grassy little clearing.
The magic in the air pulled again, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. Just two more steps towards the steeply sloped path leading down into the peaceful little glen. Then one more—her foot landed on the loose gravel and she pitched forward. She threw her hands in front of her to break her fall, the scree slicing her palms to ribbons. Ginny scrabbled desperately for purchase, but her own blood made the rocks slippery and she tumbled down the slope. One, two, three rotations--her cloak and hair flying wildly and her breath escaping from her in a desperate little squeak of fear--before her forehead connected sharply with a smooth slab of limestone. With great effort, she rolled herself on to her back before the dizzy trepidation overwhelmed her and her world faded to black.
Blood trickled slowly from her creamy forehead and mangled palms as the hours passed. Sunset’s warm glow warmed and then passed over her senseless features, deathly pale against the fiery nimbus of her hair and cloak. Dusk fell and the moon rose, painting the little glen in somber blue hues as a chill night wind rose. Its cold fingers picked and pulled restlessly at her hair, her cloak, the grass… and at the long white fur of the wolf that had suddenly appeared at the ridge, silver eyes gleaming with the reflection of a full moon.
The hulking beast paused a moment before he loped down the ridge, so graceful that he might as well have been a ghost gliding down the low slope, except for the slight swish the grass made as it parted for his heavy paws. He lifted his muzzle and inhaled deeply, wet black nose twitching as he sorted through the scents on the breeze. Human, fear, blood… and something else. Something barely remembered, some memory of a scent that was hidden behind a wall of primal instinct. It was something important, he knew, all the way down to his bones. Something to do with the human form that he had put off.
He jogged forward again, sliding from shadows to moonlight effortlessly as he circled towards the bottom of the glen. The vulnerable figure at the heart of the valley’s depression was clear now, her stark white features nearly glowing against the backdrop of the dark grass.
He approached slowly, sinking into a stalking crouch. It never paid to be careless with a human—or any other predator—and yet, despite the primitive part of his brain telling him to turn away, he felt himself drawn to the supine form.
He slunk closer. Now he could see the shallow rise and fall of her chest, like the slow rhythm of the ocean tide. Closer, and he could make out the spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and forehead, marred by the rivulets of dried blood.
Closer, and he was near enough to close his jaws around her tender white throat. He lowered his muzzle to her face, his great fearsome fangs so close to her tender flesh as he breathed in her scent.
And then her eyes fluttered open.
Author notes: Forgive me if I stray into the land of purple prose. It's a personal failing that I don't do much to correct. I rather like my lavender shaded world sometimes. (Especially after this week, which involved chest pain, an EKG, and a whole lot of crying. And no, I'm not really all that old, just rather broken, which is precisely what makes it so terrifying. But enough about me.)
Hint for this story: Peter Stump (or Stumpf) and his girdle. This story owes a certain something to that little piece of history. The mythology I choose to use in this story may not follow exactly with what JKR wrote--remember, I've pulled everyone into fairy tale land.
Again, still not sure of my own feelings about this chapter. It was a fight to get it down into words, but the very vivid images in my mind were Ginny's red hair in the moonlight and a bright white wolf with a full moon overhead. What are your thoughts?
To Be Continued.
Paradoxically is the author of 2 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 2 members. Members who liked Red also liked 112 other stories.
This story is part of the series, Fey.
This story is a favorite of 2 members. Members who liked Red also liked 112 other stories.
This story is part of the series, Fey.
Leave a Review