Wicked Things
Apr. 29th, 2013 07:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jackofknavesTitle: Wicked Things
Author:jackofknaves
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Renard/Nick
Summary: Stay on the path, young traveler, for there are wicked things that live in the forest.
Length: ~2,700 words
Notes: Written for the![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
grimm_exchange and originally posted here.
There once was a young man named Nick, though most everyone called him Red Riding Hoodie, for he was rarely seen without his favorite coat; it was faded, too many throws through the wash, and worn threadbare at the elbows, but was as comfortable as Nick’s small cottage, where he lived quite contently for many years.
One day, word reached him that his old aunt, who had raised him since his parents died when he was a small child, had taken ill. Aunt Marie was a stubborn woman, who insisted on living by herself despite her age and sickness. No matter how much Nick cajoled, she would not leave her small trailer at all to come live with him.
He worried constantly about her, so finally, with his mind made up, he donned his red hoodie and packed a sturdy basket of food and herbs to take to his dear old aunt. There were many dangers to be found in the woods, but Nick was unafraid, for he knew as long as he kept to the path, he would have nothing to fear.
With these thoughts in mind, he set off as soon as day broke the sky.
Now many might think that the world was always as it is today, albeit wilder, as the wind never blows different nor does the sky ever change color – but some things in those days were different, much more dangerous than they are today. Even the trees, which rise comfortingly above and undulate gracefully in the wind, were darker and wilder. The trees of this particular forest were dark especially, and the things that lived inside this forest darker still. There were trolls of monstrous size, with tombstone teeth and hearts as hard as granite; there were horrible skittering spiders which were ten times the size of an average man and had stingers that dripped the foulest venom; there were even wolves, but not at all like the wolves today. These were wicked, wretched beings, with fangs razor sharp and minds that were quick and cunning. They thought nothing of tearing apart a young maid in the forest and leaving her bones for their pups to chew on.
There was, however, one path in the woods that was free and bright. Though it wended its way through the forest in sinuous curves, not a plant brushed its vine across its way, nor did any of the fearsome creatures ever venture on it. It was said that long ago, a great King with secret powers, had laid the path for wayfarers to travel safely through the Dark Forest, and to this day it had never grown wild, though most avoided it entirely and it lie mostly untended.
This was the path that Nick would take through the forest, and as dawn broke the sky and painted it in brilliant colors, he lit out toward his aunt’s house.
He had walked for several hours when he first heard a call, as sweet as honey, beckoning him from the path. He could not identify the voice as either female or male, so unearthly was it.
“Come, little one,” it laughed lightly, as silver as a wood-elf’s, “Come and play, Little Red Riding Hoodie!” Though he found himself quite entranced by it, he could hear the echo of the words his aunt had told him long ago:
“Never stray from the path, Nick,”
And he held fast to his course. The voice followed him for a bit, before suddenly breaking off into a vile hiss and spitting noises. He heard it scamper away into the underbrush, no doubt chasing some poor deer who had fallen across its loathsome path, and Nick shuddered but continued on.
At lunch, he broke for a light repast of a hunk of bread, a slice of cheese, and an apple, when he heard the second voice. It was much deeper, nigh a growl, and stretched the words smooth in its gaping maw: “Come, little one, come join us,” it said. “For there are many delights to be found in the forest, and none whither you go. Come, little Red Riding Hoodie.”
And again, Nick ignored the voice, though he searched the forest for the source of voice intently, but saw nothing but a few weeds growing alongside the path. Shivering, he packed his lunch and set off again.
His heart lightened when he heard the dim sound of water gurgling, for it meant that he was close to the river, where he could rest for a while. He whistled gaily and swung his backpack full of supplies over his shoulder, eager to be at the end of his journey, when he heard a third voice, this one more gruff than any other.
“Little one, where do you travel?” the voice said, and Nick turned, quite surprised to see a man standing beside one of the towering oak trees. He was a tall man, with dark hair sprinkled grey, and a long thin nose, and green eyes as pale as young saplings.
Perhaps it was the river so near, or perhaps it was Nick’s naïve nature, but he answered readily, “I go to visit my aunt across the river, sir!”
“Your aunt!” the man said, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. “What a good boy you must be, to travel so far to visit a relative.”
“She is sick, sir,” Nick said, ducking his head, “and I worry for her.”
“But a boy must not travel alone on such dangerous paths,” the man said. “Come, I will lead you by a shortcut.”
The man held out his hand and smiled encouragingly at Nick, who wavered. He glanced at the path, which added many miles to the journey, then to the man’s smile, before shaking his head hesitantly.
“I apologize, sir, but I must stay on the path.”
“Surely you wish to reach her soon?” the man asked, inching forward. “The path will continue on for miles yet, and winds so as to add a day to your journey, whereas I know a quicker way, for I follow the fox, and see the deer, and naught will bother me in the forest.”
“You are a woodsman!” Nick exclaimed.
The man bowed. “Sean Renard, of the Royal Huntsman, at your service.”
“Nick Burkhardt,” Nick answered quickly, bowing in kind. “But I was told to stay on the path.”
Renard looked vexed for a moment, but his brow quickly smoothed, and he dipped his head in acknowledgement. “You are a good lad. Then do me the honor and tarry for but a while and I will scout ahead, and make certain that nothing molests you on your journey, young traveler.”
Nick could see nothing wrong with this, for Renard smiled so bewitchingly and had so honest a face, and so he agreed and laid down his pack and made bed for the night.
Now while he waited, Renard moved ahead swiftly through the forest, for he was more than a Royal Huntsman – the forest creatures, even the most evil and wicked of them, did not bother him, for they knew him as King, before he was ousted and exiled to the deepest parts of the Dark Forest. The spiders cringed from him and the dark, creeping things that lurked in the caves of the cliffs hid from his sight. He had dark business to do before the night ended.
The next morning, Nick woke up to find Renard standing again at the side of the path.
“Wake, little one,” Renard said softly. “For light has broken and you stay too long. I have made the path safe for you, and will accompany you on your journey.”
Nick rose, and gathered his things, and started again. If he noticed that Renard never set foot on the path, but stuck to the shadows alongside it, he did not say anything, for the huntsman was sure-footed and fleet. He chatted with Nick as they walked and Nick cheerfully answered his questions about his aunt and himself.
They came soon to the river, which was broad and deep, and filled with treacherous eddies and currents that would claim a prize to whatever creature was bold enough to step foot in the waters. There was one bridge that spanned it. Nick set foot on it when he noticed that Renard had stopped some ways back.
“Are you not coming?” he asked with a curious look.
Renard bowed deeply and shook his head. “I regret that I must leave you now, for I have neglected my duties too long. Stay on the path, little one, and venture not from it for even the sweetest voices, for they will weave many a lie to distract you from your destination.”
With that, he disappeared into the woods, and even Nick’s sharp eyesight soon lost him in the tangle of vines and webs that grew between the trees.
Ahead was his aunt’s trailer, and he broke into a bright grin as he saw it approaching ever nearer.
“Aunt Marie,” he called as he ventured inside, “It’s Nick. I bring you food and healing herbs, to help with your ailment.”
“Child?” a wavering voice called, and Nick stepped forth to the bed, where the covers were piled high over a body. “Come closer, my dear boy.”
Nick ventured closer, but a suspicion was growing in his mind and he stopped a few feet from the bed.
“Why do you cover yourself so, Aunt?” he asked pleasantly. “For it is quite warm.”
“The fever chills my old bones,” the woman moaned.
“But why do you not speak above a whisper, Aunt? For my ears are keen and yet I must strain to hear you.”
“The sickness strangles my voice,” the woman hissed.
“But why,” Nick said, taking a step closer, “do you hide yourself so?”
And with this, he tore off the blankets and revealed a young woman with golden hair lying on the bed. The woman uttered an unearthly shriek and launched herself at him, and to his wondering eyes, Nick saw her visage transformed into an eyeless monstrosity, with one cheek marred in a harp of tendons and muscle. The woman slammed into him and he fought her off, throwing her onto the bed and picking up a knife, he held it to her throat.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “What have you done with my aunt?”
“She is gone,” the woman hissed, angry at her prize being taken so.
“Where is she?” Nick pressed the blade against her skin until a small line of blood appeared.
The woman’s eyes darted between the blade and Nick’s face, and she said, “I do not know! The trailer was empty when I came upon it, and I was told to wait for you to come.”
“Who told you this?”
“I will not say,” she said, and even the increased pressure of the knife did not sway her words. “I will not say. I am bound to him, and he is my liege. Neither threat of death nor torture will bring his name to my voice.” She spat at him. “Release me, Grimm, for I am no prize of yours.”
“Why do you call me this?” Nick asked, puzzled, but in that moment of distraction, she flew from the bed and ran out the door into the forest. Nick gave chase to the edge of the treeline, but only heard the sound of laughter from the dark.
“Little Grimm, Little Grimm, won’t you let me in?” she taunted from the safety of the foreboding forest. “Look for him with the pelt of black and eyes of red, for he knows why your aunt is dead.”
He let her flee and returned to the trailer. The inside was spare and plain, with only a little bed and a nook for cooking and eating. He searched it until he came across a hidden closet, which popped open as if it were waiting for his exploring touch. Inside were weapons of every size and make: axes forged with ancient runes, morning-stars heavier than most men could heft, and strange things, too, such as a black claw grasping emptily at the air and more besides. Nick shook his head in confusion, for his aunt led a simple life, and had no need for such things.
Deep inside he found a book, and when he pried it open, he found it was written in languages unknown to him, and some unknown to all but the most learned scholars; finely drawn pictures decorated the yellow pages, and flipping through, he found a likeness of the woman he had just seen. Bolstered by his find, he continued going through, compelled by something deep inside him that was just now stirring, and found finally a creature that had a rough black pelt and eyes that seemed to glow from the page.
“Blutbad,” the guttural language identified it as, and Nick wondered.
For back in those days, these things were known to people, even just as stories, but known still – they were not forgotten and dismissed as stories are today, but warnings that the wise heeded. The Grimm line was not passed on through knowledge, but instinct and blood, and within him, Nick could feel his ancestors stirring and pushing him onward.
Without knowing fully why, he hefted a short-sword from the closet and strapped it across his waist, and with a deep breath, followed the path to the west, where a line of smoke was rising above the thick canopy.
At last he came to a crux, where he could not follow the path any longer, and he wavered in indecision, for he could still hear the whisperings around him as dark creatures spoke of dark things in their dark tongue.
Drawing his courage about him, he took a deep breath, and stepped off the path.
Without warning, a hand settled on his shoulder, and Nick whirled, sword at the ready. Renard stood there in his plain breeches of deerskin and simple tunic. He held his hands up.
“Peace, little one,” he said comfortingly. “For I am not your foe.”
Nick sighed and put his sword back into its scabbard. “I am sorry, but I thought you were someone else.”
“Who did you think I was?” Renard purred, taking a step forward.
“There was a woman – not my aunt – and she said to look for – “ Nick suddenly shook his head, for it felt as if his mind were swimming in a fog and he could not see his thoughts clearly. “I am sorry, I must be tired.”
“Exhausted, I’m sure,” Renard said, placing a gentle hand on Nick’s shoulder.
Nick looked up, his eyes clouded. “What big hands you have,” he murmured, not knowing fully why.
Renard smiled. “The better to touch you with,” he said, drawing his hand up to Nick’s cheek and letting it rest there for a moment, caressing the soft skin beneath his palm. He caught Nick’s gaze and took another step forward.
“And what big eyes you have.”
“The better to see you with,” Renard replied. He let his hand drop, curling it around Nick’s waist and pulling him forward to rest against his chest. Nick let himself lean heavily against the warm body, and stared up at him in a daze.
“And what big teeth you have,” said Nick.
“The better to taste you with,” Renard said, and he leaned in to claim a kiss. It was not a soft kiss, but a demanding one, and Nick felt himself helpless to refuse. His lips bruised under the pressure of such a kiss and the woodland creatures made horrible sounds around them that might have been laughter, for even dark creatures can feel a spell at work, and this was an old one, being woven as sure as one of the attercop’s webs.
“Come, young one,” Renard said, releasing Nick from him and pulling the man along by the hand. “For there is much to do.”
“My aunt-”
“Your aunt is lost,” Renard said plainly. “And so are you.”
He leaned forward and whispered gently into Nick’s ear: “Haven’t you ever heard, little traveler? You should have stayed upon the path, for there are wicked things that live in the forest.”
Author:
jackofknavesRating: PG-13
Pairing: Renard/Nick
Summary: Stay on the path, young traveler, for there are wicked things that live in the forest.
Length: ~2,700 words
Notes: Written for the
grimm_exchange and originally posted here.There once was a young man named Nick, though most everyone called him Red Riding Hoodie, for he was rarely seen without his favorite coat; it was faded, too many throws through the wash, and worn threadbare at the elbows, but was as comfortable as Nick’s small cottage, where he lived quite contently for many years.
One day, word reached him that his old aunt, who had raised him since his parents died when he was a small child, had taken ill. Aunt Marie was a stubborn woman, who insisted on living by herself despite her age and sickness. No matter how much Nick cajoled, she would not leave her small trailer at all to come live with him.
He worried constantly about her, so finally, with his mind made up, he donned his red hoodie and packed a sturdy basket of food and herbs to take to his dear old aunt. There were many dangers to be found in the woods, but Nick was unafraid, for he knew as long as he kept to the path, he would have nothing to fear.
With these thoughts in mind, he set off as soon as day broke the sky.
Now many might think that the world was always as it is today, albeit wilder, as the wind never blows different nor does the sky ever change color – but some things in those days were different, much more dangerous than they are today. Even the trees, which rise comfortingly above and undulate gracefully in the wind, were darker and wilder. The trees of this particular forest were dark especially, and the things that lived inside this forest darker still. There were trolls of monstrous size, with tombstone teeth and hearts as hard as granite; there were horrible skittering spiders which were ten times the size of an average man and had stingers that dripped the foulest venom; there were even wolves, but not at all like the wolves today. These were wicked, wretched beings, with fangs razor sharp and minds that were quick and cunning. They thought nothing of tearing apart a young maid in the forest and leaving her bones for their pups to chew on.
There was, however, one path in the woods that was free and bright. Though it wended its way through the forest in sinuous curves, not a plant brushed its vine across its way, nor did any of the fearsome creatures ever venture on it. It was said that long ago, a great King with secret powers, had laid the path for wayfarers to travel safely through the Dark Forest, and to this day it had never grown wild, though most avoided it entirely and it lie mostly untended.
This was the path that Nick would take through the forest, and as dawn broke the sky and painted it in brilliant colors, he lit out toward his aunt’s house.
He had walked for several hours when he first heard a call, as sweet as honey, beckoning him from the path. He could not identify the voice as either female or male, so unearthly was it.
“Come, little one,” it laughed lightly, as silver as a wood-elf’s, “Come and play, Little Red Riding Hoodie!” Though he found himself quite entranced by it, he could hear the echo of the words his aunt had told him long ago:
“Never stray from the path, Nick,”
And he held fast to his course. The voice followed him for a bit, before suddenly breaking off into a vile hiss and spitting noises. He heard it scamper away into the underbrush, no doubt chasing some poor deer who had fallen across its loathsome path, and Nick shuddered but continued on.
At lunch, he broke for a light repast of a hunk of bread, a slice of cheese, and an apple, when he heard the second voice. It was much deeper, nigh a growl, and stretched the words smooth in its gaping maw: “Come, little one, come join us,” it said. “For there are many delights to be found in the forest, and none whither you go. Come, little Red Riding Hoodie.”
And again, Nick ignored the voice, though he searched the forest for the source of voice intently, but saw nothing but a few weeds growing alongside the path. Shivering, he packed his lunch and set off again.
His heart lightened when he heard the dim sound of water gurgling, for it meant that he was close to the river, where he could rest for a while. He whistled gaily and swung his backpack full of supplies over his shoulder, eager to be at the end of his journey, when he heard a third voice, this one more gruff than any other.
“Little one, where do you travel?” the voice said, and Nick turned, quite surprised to see a man standing beside one of the towering oak trees. He was a tall man, with dark hair sprinkled grey, and a long thin nose, and green eyes as pale as young saplings.
Perhaps it was the river so near, or perhaps it was Nick’s naïve nature, but he answered readily, “I go to visit my aunt across the river, sir!”
“Your aunt!” the man said, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. “What a good boy you must be, to travel so far to visit a relative.”
“She is sick, sir,” Nick said, ducking his head, “and I worry for her.”
“But a boy must not travel alone on such dangerous paths,” the man said. “Come, I will lead you by a shortcut.”
The man held out his hand and smiled encouragingly at Nick, who wavered. He glanced at the path, which added many miles to the journey, then to the man’s smile, before shaking his head hesitantly.
“I apologize, sir, but I must stay on the path.”
“Surely you wish to reach her soon?” the man asked, inching forward. “The path will continue on for miles yet, and winds so as to add a day to your journey, whereas I know a quicker way, for I follow the fox, and see the deer, and naught will bother me in the forest.”
“You are a woodsman!” Nick exclaimed.
The man bowed. “Sean Renard, of the Royal Huntsman, at your service.”
“Nick Burkhardt,” Nick answered quickly, bowing in kind. “But I was told to stay on the path.”
Renard looked vexed for a moment, but his brow quickly smoothed, and he dipped his head in acknowledgement. “You are a good lad. Then do me the honor and tarry for but a while and I will scout ahead, and make certain that nothing molests you on your journey, young traveler.”
Nick could see nothing wrong with this, for Renard smiled so bewitchingly and had so honest a face, and so he agreed and laid down his pack and made bed for the night.
Now while he waited, Renard moved ahead swiftly through the forest, for he was more than a Royal Huntsman – the forest creatures, even the most evil and wicked of them, did not bother him, for they knew him as King, before he was ousted and exiled to the deepest parts of the Dark Forest. The spiders cringed from him and the dark, creeping things that lurked in the caves of the cliffs hid from his sight. He had dark business to do before the night ended.
The next morning, Nick woke up to find Renard standing again at the side of the path.
“Wake, little one,” Renard said softly. “For light has broken and you stay too long. I have made the path safe for you, and will accompany you on your journey.”
Nick rose, and gathered his things, and started again. If he noticed that Renard never set foot on the path, but stuck to the shadows alongside it, he did not say anything, for the huntsman was sure-footed and fleet. He chatted with Nick as they walked and Nick cheerfully answered his questions about his aunt and himself.
They came soon to the river, which was broad and deep, and filled with treacherous eddies and currents that would claim a prize to whatever creature was bold enough to step foot in the waters. There was one bridge that spanned it. Nick set foot on it when he noticed that Renard had stopped some ways back.
“Are you not coming?” he asked with a curious look.
Renard bowed deeply and shook his head. “I regret that I must leave you now, for I have neglected my duties too long. Stay on the path, little one, and venture not from it for even the sweetest voices, for they will weave many a lie to distract you from your destination.”
With that, he disappeared into the woods, and even Nick’s sharp eyesight soon lost him in the tangle of vines and webs that grew between the trees.
Ahead was his aunt’s trailer, and he broke into a bright grin as he saw it approaching ever nearer.
“Aunt Marie,” he called as he ventured inside, “It’s Nick. I bring you food and healing herbs, to help with your ailment.”
“Child?” a wavering voice called, and Nick stepped forth to the bed, where the covers were piled high over a body. “Come closer, my dear boy.”
Nick ventured closer, but a suspicion was growing in his mind and he stopped a few feet from the bed.
“Why do you cover yourself so, Aunt?” he asked pleasantly. “For it is quite warm.”
“The fever chills my old bones,” the woman moaned.
“But why do you not speak above a whisper, Aunt? For my ears are keen and yet I must strain to hear you.”
“The sickness strangles my voice,” the woman hissed.
“But why,” Nick said, taking a step closer, “do you hide yourself so?”
And with this, he tore off the blankets and revealed a young woman with golden hair lying on the bed. The woman uttered an unearthly shriek and launched herself at him, and to his wondering eyes, Nick saw her visage transformed into an eyeless monstrosity, with one cheek marred in a harp of tendons and muscle. The woman slammed into him and he fought her off, throwing her onto the bed and picking up a knife, he held it to her throat.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “What have you done with my aunt?”
“She is gone,” the woman hissed, angry at her prize being taken so.
“Where is she?” Nick pressed the blade against her skin until a small line of blood appeared.
The woman’s eyes darted between the blade and Nick’s face, and she said, “I do not know! The trailer was empty when I came upon it, and I was told to wait for you to come.”
“Who told you this?”
“I will not say,” she said, and even the increased pressure of the knife did not sway her words. “I will not say. I am bound to him, and he is my liege. Neither threat of death nor torture will bring his name to my voice.” She spat at him. “Release me, Grimm, for I am no prize of yours.”
“Why do you call me this?” Nick asked, puzzled, but in that moment of distraction, she flew from the bed and ran out the door into the forest. Nick gave chase to the edge of the treeline, but only heard the sound of laughter from the dark.
“Little Grimm, Little Grimm, won’t you let me in?” she taunted from the safety of the foreboding forest. “Look for him with the pelt of black and eyes of red, for he knows why your aunt is dead.”
He let her flee and returned to the trailer. The inside was spare and plain, with only a little bed and a nook for cooking and eating. He searched it until he came across a hidden closet, which popped open as if it were waiting for his exploring touch. Inside were weapons of every size and make: axes forged with ancient runes, morning-stars heavier than most men could heft, and strange things, too, such as a black claw grasping emptily at the air and more besides. Nick shook his head in confusion, for his aunt led a simple life, and had no need for such things.
Deep inside he found a book, and when he pried it open, he found it was written in languages unknown to him, and some unknown to all but the most learned scholars; finely drawn pictures decorated the yellow pages, and flipping through, he found a likeness of the woman he had just seen. Bolstered by his find, he continued going through, compelled by something deep inside him that was just now stirring, and found finally a creature that had a rough black pelt and eyes that seemed to glow from the page.
“Blutbad,” the guttural language identified it as, and Nick wondered.
For back in those days, these things were known to people, even just as stories, but known still – they were not forgotten and dismissed as stories are today, but warnings that the wise heeded. The Grimm line was not passed on through knowledge, but instinct and blood, and within him, Nick could feel his ancestors stirring and pushing him onward.
Without knowing fully why, he hefted a short-sword from the closet and strapped it across his waist, and with a deep breath, followed the path to the west, where a line of smoke was rising above the thick canopy.
At last he came to a crux, where he could not follow the path any longer, and he wavered in indecision, for he could still hear the whisperings around him as dark creatures spoke of dark things in their dark tongue.
Drawing his courage about him, he took a deep breath, and stepped off the path.
Without warning, a hand settled on his shoulder, and Nick whirled, sword at the ready. Renard stood there in his plain breeches of deerskin and simple tunic. He held his hands up.
“Peace, little one,” he said comfortingly. “For I am not your foe.”
Nick sighed and put his sword back into its scabbard. “I am sorry, but I thought you were someone else.”
“Who did you think I was?” Renard purred, taking a step forward.
“There was a woman – not my aunt – and she said to look for – “ Nick suddenly shook his head, for it felt as if his mind were swimming in a fog and he could not see his thoughts clearly. “I am sorry, I must be tired.”
“Exhausted, I’m sure,” Renard said, placing a gentle hand on Nick’s shoulder.
Nick looked up, his eyes clouded. “What big hands you have,” he murmured, not knowing fully why.
Renard smiled. “The better to touch you with,” he said, drawing his hand up to Nick’s cheek and letting it rest there for a moment, caressing the soft skin beneath his palm. He caught Nick’s gaze and took another step forward.
“And what big eyes you have.”
“The better to see you with,” Renard replied. He let his hand drop, curling it around Nick’s waist and pulling him forward to rest against his chest. Nick let himself lean heavily against the warm body, and stared up at him in a daze.
“And what big teeth you have,” said Nick.
“The better to taste you with,” Renard said, and he leaned in to claim a kiss. It was not a soft kiss, but a demanding one, and Nick felt himself helpless to refuse. His lips bruised under the pressure of such a kiss and the woodland creatures made horrible sounds around them that might have been laughter, for even dark creatures can feel a spell at work, and this was an old one, being woven as sure as one of the attercop’s webs.
“Come, young one,” Renard said, releasing Nick from him and pulling the man along by the hand. “For there is much to do.”
“My aunt-”
“Your aunt is lost,” Renard said plainly. “And so are you.”
He leaned forward and whispered gently into Nick’s ear: “Haven’t you ever heard, little traveler? You should have stayed upon the path, for there are wicked things that live in the forest.”
