Blood on the Snow

Skogul watched as her only remaining child faded into the driving snow. The small girl stumbled and skidded along the ridge of the frozen pond before finally disappearing into the trees. With the shaft of an arrow stuck firm between her shoulder blades, there was no way for Skogul to sigh with relief.

A sharp contrast to the frigid wind that whipped the loose strands of her golden hair around her face, the silvered head of the arrow burned. The pain roared in her ears, making her feel dizzy. Blood trickled from her lips and dropped into the snow- the bright crimson quickly dying to a cold black. On her back, she could feel the warmth of her blood running down her dress, only to immediately stick to her skin upon meeting the icy wind.

Another silver arrow whistled near her ear. The tip crossed her cheek, leaving a searing, hair-thin cut on her skin. Fiery pain spread from the wound and made her cheek throb; still, she didn’t dare give these hunters the satisfaction of dying peacefully. Not while one of her children still lived.

As an armored man attempted to rush past her to follow her daughter, Skogul’s arm shifted. She whipped around and sliced upward toward a weak point in his guard. The man gave a strangled cry as his blood coated her furred, wolf-like arm, clutching at his throat before he dropped dead in the snow.

The rest of her shifted until she towered above the werewolf hunters. Her muscles struggled to push the poisonous arrow from her body- her keen ears could almost hear her skin rip as the curse took effect, and she transformed into her lycanthrope body. The tattered remains of her dress billowed in the wind, a testament to the last shreds of her humanity. Only a molded pendant of a wolf head remained intact on a leather cord around her neck.

Fury set her usually gentle blue eyes ablaze. Skogul hated this body. Hated it almost as much as those who stood ready to kill her and her child. Who had already killed her other children and mate. Regardless, she would use every drop of power this hideous form gave her to protect what family she had left.

Long strings of bloody saliva dripped her maw as she stared the hunters down. Animals, she growled inwardly. Savages. Had they only come to us to see who we truly were. Had they simply done better reconnaissance, they would have realized we have done nothing wrong!

Whiteoak, the smoke of which now burned her sensitive nostril, had been a village of werewolves who wanted to live their lives as normally as possible. The brightest and wisest among them had spent years of research and arcane study to try to find cures for the curse or means of controlling it. Chains existed in every cellar of every home in the village. They were there for the singular purpose of maintaining some control during the full moon. Many residents worshipped a goddess of peace and forgiveness, spending their lives farming, hunting, laughing, being human!

Yet these hunters had come and condemned the lot of Whiteoak deserved to die.

Helpless daughters, mothers, wives, grandparents- countless people, people who had never picked up a weapon or fought in their entire lives cut down like rabid dogs, and for what?! Mothers wailed as their babies were slaughtered in their cradles and their children’s throats were slit. Sons and husbands were butchered like pigs as they protected their homes and families.

Her own partner, her wife Ragnveig, a woman the likes of which Skogul had never found an equal to, had stayed to defend the village. Ragnveig was a wild woman far more in touch with her wolf than Skogul. She was tall, resilient, with battle scars that cut across her face and body in a crosshatch that Skogul had enjoyed tracing with her fingers for almost nineteen years.

“Get the pup,” one of the hunters ordered over the driving wind. “We can’t risk even a whelp getting away. We’ll finish the bitch off.”

Flattening her ears, Skogul lunged. Her fangs sun into the throat of a hunter who tried to dash by her. More silvered arrows pierced her skin, the pain made her want to howl, but she dared not let the woman go. Hot coppery blood filled her mouth as she tore the flesh away from the hunter’s neck. It made Skogul sick to her stomach- the taste was vile.

The snap of the hunter’s neck sent her mind home as a log cracked in the fireplace. Skogul had lived on her own for three years after her parents had passed. Ragnveig always visited her to make sure she was well stocked with necessary supplies, that her home was in good condition, and, later, to keep her company during the long winter nights.

Skogul recalled the night Ragnveig asked her to be her bride. The curtain of the warrior woman’s hair glowed brightly in the firelight as she hovered above her. Skogul remembered feeling the slight stubble on Ragnveig’s jaw as it brushed her skin with each kiss; the older woman had always been self-conscious about it and was meticulous about keeping her skin smooth. Ragnveig had the most beautiful grey eyes- like clouds that threatened an oncoming snowstorm. Sweat from her skin shone, highlighting the dips and curves of her muscular frame from her broad shoulders, to the bare chest that barely caressed Skogul’s, all the way down to the dip right above her toned backside. Ragnveig was hard and soft, brutal and delicate, everything that Skogul could have ever asked for in a partner.

The older woman had stern eyes and a natural downturn to her mouth that only seemed to change when Skogul was present. Her booming laughter effortlessly filled the mead-hall during banquets and prompted others to laugh with her. Ragnveig’s dark blonde hair always looked darker because it was usually streaked with dirt and sweat from both work and her time spent in the training yard with the other warriors. Her taut, muscular frame was a patchwork of bruises, scars, and scrapes when she returned.

A sword sliced the air, narrowly missing her ear as Skogul dodged an oncoming attack. Her claws tore the man’s throat. Never had she engaged in so much violence; Skogul wasn’t a fighter- she was a wife and mother, a follower of the goddess of peace; she was not the monster they claimed.

A dying wail sharpened to the first cries of her children; one boy, two girls. Tore had almost been a surprise- it was clear that he had been conceived on the night of Ragnveig’s proposal, though his arrival was not unwelcomed. He was a gentle boy with soft hair the color of wheat; he took after Skogul in following the path their goddess laid out for her followers much to Ragnveig’s disappointment.

Their next child, Jorun, had been born on the full moon with a distinct birthmark on her rump. Any wives’ tales that either mother had brushed off about children born on the full moon were later regarded as fact as the girl grew. Jorun’s spirit was active, wild, and stubborn; she often argued viciously with both of her mothers and fought her brother, then gave the same treatment to her baby sister, Dagrun, when she came into the world seven years later.

Dagrun…

Skogul’s heart fell, and in a moment of distraction, she turned away from her quarry toward the direction her baby ran. It was at that moment when a silvered arrow pierced her shoulder. A roar burst from her as fiery pain coursed through her body.

She swung her fist back and knocked a hunter away as they tried to bring their sword down on her. The arrow stuck deep in her body, and dark crimson blood streamed from the wound. It hurt. The pain clawed at her nearly as sharply as that of childbirth.

Only this pain wouldn’t bring her the gift of bearing life into the world. It wouldn’t give her tiny pups or babies to cradle to her breast. Soft, fragile bodies that cuddle close to her for security and warmth.

A second arrow lodged into her abdomen. Blood spewed from her lips, hissing as it painted the snow.

No… No, she couldn’t do this. Dagrun- her last child needed--

“Mama!”

The cry of pure terror ignited Skogul’s drive to flee. She needed to live so she could protect and care for her baby. Her youngest, her smiling girl, her playful one. That kind little girl, nearly as gentle as her brother but also fierce like her sister.

Skogul charged forward in an attempt to break past the line of hunters. Her left arm was weak thanks to the arrow still caught in her flesh. The other arrow became dislodged as her powerful strides ripped the wound open. Blood coated her grey fur, providing little warmth before freezing in the cold.

She could not break the line.

A third and final arrow to her back sent her skidding forward in the snow, too weak to continue on. Her wolf form faded away as she felt her life drain away. Tears blinded her vision. She stared forward toward the direction she heard Dagrun call for her. The terrified cry of her child cut through the winter wind, and even now, Skogul could tell Dagrun was running for her life.

Then there was nothing.

A terrible abrupt silence as she waited, desperate to hear some sort of indication that her baby was safe.

As the hunters gathered around her bloody, dying body, a man stepped into their circle of torchlight. A young man that could have been labeled as handsome by some. Scars on his face ran nearly as deep as the seething hatred in his eyes.

Clutched in his hand, something familiar fluttered in the wind. He tossed down the bloodied remnants of a blonde braid with a decorative blue embroidered ribbon tied at the end. It was so long there was no way he cut it off the girl’s head without the blade crossing her scalp. Even through her tears, Skogul could see the bit of skin attached to the roots of the hair.

The wail she wanted to release was drowned under blood in her mouth. Instead, all she could manage was a pathetic, choking burble as she reached for the braid. Tears flowed freely from her eyes, and in the bitter cold, froze to her skin; the pain was hardly noticed in comparison to what her heart felt, knowing she couldn’t save even one child.

They watched her mourn- some of them with smirks on their faces. The hunters watched the dying mother lament while holding back triumphant laughter. When they had their fill of what appeared to them a flawless victory, their leader- the scarred man- gave a sharp nod.

Another hunter passed their torch to the one beside them and drew a silvered dagger. They took Skogul by the hair and placed the blade to her throat. “Burn in hell, monster.”

A quick slice followed by a sharp pain that faded to a dull ache as blood pumped from her neck. The last thing Skogul remembered was clutching the bloodied braid in her fist as her head was dropped into the snow. Death came for her quickly, but she would not let her baby go again.