Malymn ran through the woods as quickly as she could, dodging trees and undergrowth as she sprinted away from it. She flew swiftly. She flew well.
Flaming black, a sight to behold, trailed behind her on the wind. It was a color worth remembering, like spilt oil on a dark blue winter cloak, like a demon’s eyes. It shimmered in the growing sunlight of early morning.
Footsteps whispered through the ferns and grass, deceivingly quiet in the magnitude of the moment. A soft, allegro pitter; a wordless staccato patter. Pale feet sunk fleetingly into the moss before lifting off again. They hushed so noiselessly, one would think none was there at all. But Malymn knew. She knew from what she was running; why it was worth fleeing.
A swathe of fabric was barely visible in the faint light, straggling behind her as she soared over logs and brambles. It was caught many times, to be ripped free, leaving countless tears in the gossamer cloth. Travelling down the sheer shroud was an inky black stain, flashing a myriad of colors when it passed through a break in the trees.
She ran frantically, attempting to be free of the inescapable. Understanding flashed across her face as she realized she would faint before her flight succeeded. Malymn’s grief enveloped her, and she sank to the forest floor. It had been her home since birth, and now she had found her escape, could finally chew off her foot and leave this steel-jawed trap.
Malymn sighed for the last time, having finally been released from her bindings. As consciousness faded, she smiled slightly, knowing that her struggle was over, content for the first time in years.
The sun, peering through the trees, fell in patches across a pale body. In a delicate white gown, torn at the hem and dirtied with mud, she made an ethereal picture. A raven black mane of thick hair spread across the earth around her, the heavy contrast making her look ghostly pale.
There was no doubt she was beautiful, with perfect features and a peaceful face, but upon looking closer, one can see lines of struggle and pain. If one would gaze at her for long, they would notice the thin white marks on her wrist, the chewed nails. The dagger, old and rusty, that sat next to her palm, told the story. It told the truth.
As the light grew, the earth began to awaken. The birds sang; the wind blew. Predators returned to their lairs. Soft murmurs came from the creek nearby, whispers of secrets untold.
And a pallid body lie on the forest floor, but the earth paid no heed. It would lie there for years, and no one mourned. Nobody cried for Malymn, the torn.