Instead of freezing, every step forward the Huntsmen took, Shew equaled it with another step forward. She wasn’t afraid of them anymore. If the Huntsmen were fear itself, she’d decided there was no better moment to face it.
About fifty strides away, the Huntsmen stopped. They pulled their cloaks back, showing their ugly disfigured faces, staring at the bold princess who stared back at them.
Cerené swallowed hard.
Each passing moment Shew looked at them, she gained more strength. Fear was just a coward like all of us sometimes. Dare look it in the eyes long enough and it will bow with respect.
A flat smile shaped the Huntsmen’s faces. It was like: really, are you looking back at us? Who do you think you are?
Shew made sure she did not flinch for a second. She raised her sword in the air, and one of the Huntsmen took a stride back. It was the beginning. Rights were taken step by step. Wars were won drop by drop of blood.
Another Huntsman stepped back. Shew could see the confusion building up on their faces.
She took a step forward and uttered one word, “Me,” she was answering Loki’s question when he asked her who’d stand up for her. “The worst thing about fairy tales is that they make you think you have to wait for the prince.”
The Princess of Sorrow, realizing she needed no mentor, no Chanta, no moon, rode down the hill and attacked.
It would be hard to explain what really happened. Shew swung her sword as if the Queen had really eaten her heart, and the heartless girl left was nothing but a beautiful monster. Shew was merciless, chopping off heads with one strike just as Loki did in Furry Tell. Everything her father taught her crystallized before her eyes. She even imagined herself wearing her father’s armor, killing the Intruders. Every trick, every maneuver, and every heartless swing was in the name of her father whom people feared all over the world.
She stroke as if she were one of them, evil, heartless, and a darkness eater. This was what she was meant for, to be one of the and yet kill them.
She rode the unicorn down the hill, killing whoever was on her left or right. No one dared block her way.
Cerené closed her eyes most of the time. Even when the blood of Huntsmen spattered on her face, she didn’t open them, grateful to the rain for washing it away.
Shew got wounded, but she didn’t bother to look. She was determined to be as strong as Loki.
Pain, wounds, and aches were an illusion, only manifested by the colors of bruises and blood, but it had no roots; pain was a figment of one’s imagination.
Only one thing could stop her: Death. Even then, she had found it arguable.
Slash, swing, chop, scream, slash, swing, and never look behind.
Fight fire with fire.
Her sword and fangs were Shew’s fire. Her fangs only scared the Huntsmen away. She wasn’t going to waste time biting them one by one. But her sword, made of white glass, energized by Cerené’s breath, was her Art. Some people’s art was a painting, some their knowledge, some their caring for their families. But the Chosen One’s Art was different. It was the cruelty she had to use to make things right, the darkness she used to bring the light, and her individuality in gathering a nation. Shew would have simply ridden back and given her heart to the Queen. She didn’t need one anymore.
Like a maniac, she ended up chasing the Huntsmen as they toppled and ran away from her down the hill.
“She really is the Chosen One,” one of them yelled, fleeing the scene.
Shew ran freely into the forest, away from them. She didn’t bother gazing back at the dead she’d left behind.
“You’re bleeding,” Cerené said. “Let’s stop. I can mend your wounds.”
However, there was no stopping. One single three-eyed unicorn was chasing her now. She could smell his deviously beautiful scent. It was Loki, coming to avenge all those Huntsmen she’d just killed.
“Can you kill him?” Cerené asked, grabbing her shoulder.
Shew’s warrior eyes softened a little. She still wasn’t sure, even after all those she’d just slaughtered, “if I kill him, he will never wake up again,” she said. Cerené looked confused. “He isn’t like the Huntsmen. He is like me, filled with darkness and confusion, not knowing what to do with it. All that he’ll sacrifice for me, being banned from Heaven and saving me, will be for nothing if I kill him.”
Cerené had nothing to say. She wasn’t going to ask Shew about this dream she always talked about. She only sensed Shew’s reluctance for a moment and got off the unicorn, running toward Loki. Cerené decided she’d stand up to him, not to defend herself, but to defend the Chosen One.
“No!” Shew reached out for her. “What are you doing, Cerené?”
“My job, I have to protect the Chosen One,” she yelled, running at the coming horse. “You take care of me, I take care of you, remember?”
Before Shew could catch her, Cerené stood foolishly in front of Loki’s approaching unicorn, stretched out one hand in the air and yelled ‘Moutza!’