Pocket Universe

This is for my 50originals claim.

Quick Summary: Mary wishes a different life than the one her mother intends for her.

Warnings: Mind control of the identity-altering nature, sex, and abuse of mythology and fairy tales.



Mary reached up and clutched the amulet her mother had given her. "It's just the dark," she murmured as the snap of a branch somewhere off to her left made her startle. "Nothing's different except the dark." Bolstered, Mary pressed on deeper into the woods.

Ah, the lies we tell to comfort ourselves. The sardonic voice in her head sounded a bit like Malcolm, at least the Malcolm she wanted, not the Malcolm she knew, shy and soft and demure. A man with his looks should be haughty and cool, almost cruel, someone worth taming.

Malcolm was already tame. What was the fun in that? Oh, he offered stability -- bakers were always in demand -- and kindness -- his father hadn't been around long enough to show him what else a man could be -- but there was no challenge. He wanted a meek wife to settle into his dull life and bear him sons and daughters to carry on the family legacy.

The idea made her shudder, and Mary tightened her grip on her amulet. She was certain her mother had not had protection from a dull marriage in mind when she gave Mary the amulet, but protection was protection.

The rustling and snapping branches off to her left took on the distinct sound of pursuit. Mary's pulse quickened, but she did not break her pace. She let go of her amulet, and the iron, warm from her hand, settled between her breasts. Mary bit back a laugh. This was closer to protection her mother had had in mind.

A young woman alone in the woods should have more protection than a mother's amulet, however. Mary dipped her hand into the basket she carried. Beneath the bread and milk and honey sat the hunting knife she had taken when her mother wasn't looking.

Her pursuer veered off. Mary relaxed, feeling foolish. The sounds were probably a nighttime scavenger. She had nothing to fear. These were the same woods she used to wander during the day before her mother's health started to fail.

She rounded the bend in the well-worn path and drew up short. Even in the dark, the figure leaning against the tree was unmistakable. The Woodsman. The women in the village always made the sign of warding anytime he was mentioned.

He was a large man draped in the furs of the wolves he killed. Killed with his bare hands in some stories, the fanciful ones, Mary suspected. More than likely he trapped them like normal men. She wondered if he watched them struggle in his traps, if he killed from a distance with a well-placed arrow, or if he moved in close and slit their throats. The latter, she figured, not seeing a bow on him.

He watched her. Moonlight cut a path between them, so the Woodsman's face was in shadow. Mary could not make out his expression.

Well, my dear, in that respect you're even, the voice of the Malcolm she wanted said, and Mary had the sudden desire to hear the Woodsman's voice.

"Kindly let me pass," she said, resisting the urge to reach for her amulet again.

He was not actually blocking the path. He straightened up -- oh, he was tall! -- and motioned to the space in front of him. Mary strode forward. The path was narrow enough that even if she kept to the far edge, she would still be within his reach, so she kept to the middle, looking straight ahead with her head held high. A brave front, and probably recognizable as such, but she would not slink by like a frightened cat.

"Thank you," she said, trying to elicit a spoken response from him.

He said nothing. Mary stopped and turned. "Are you going to keep following me? I heard you, you know."

He snorted and stepped back between the trees. Silently.

Mary bit her lip. Perhaps that hadn't been him earlier. She touched her amulet briefly, then continued on her way. It would be midnight soon. She had wasted enough time with her childish fancy. Well, one of her childish fancies. It was time to see if her other was fancy or salvation.

Her mother had only taken her to the ring once. Mary had been six, but she remembered the way as if she walked there every day. Perhaps it was some old magic, or perhaps it was the shock of seeing her mother make offerings to the Fair Ones. The women in the village made the sign of warding every time they were mentioned, too.

The Woodsman and the Fair Ones. Sometimes, Mary didn't know which her village feared more. The Woodsman, at least, was real, though he never ventured beyond the woods. And Mary had never heard of anyone being abducted by him. Abductions were always attributed to the Fair Ones.

The ring sat well off the main path. At old stump shaped like a crone, Mary stepped off proper path and picked her way along one of the deer paths, mindful of the blackberry brambles that tugged at her clothes. She sounded entirely too loud and clumsy to her ears, but her attempts to be more careful and quiet only made more noise.

She had not remembered the way being so difficult when she had come with her mother all those years ago. But then, she had been following her mother, not forging the way. Mary pushed a branch aside. She stumbled. The branch whipped back and sliced her cheek just below her eye as Mary found her footing. She cursed and touched her cheek. And then she cursed again. She was bleeding, bleeding and making the sign of warding before she realized what she was doing.

Your mother would be so proud to know she trained you well. Mary choked back another laugh and the voice added, Except for the part where you're repeating her foolishness.

If her mother didn't want her to learn from her example, then she wouldn't have brought Mary to the ring. The voice in her head snorted. Didn't I say something about the lies we tell to comfort ourselves earlier?

Lies or not, Mary had to try. Malcolm had proposed, and she'd have to answer soon or her mother would answer for her. And her mother wanted what every mother wanted for her daughter -- safety and stability and some measure of kindness.

It was why her mother had brought Mary with her to the ring. Mary remembered the ritual and the offerings to, remembered the way her mother had placed the bread and milk and honey on the stump in the center of the ring and then sliced a line down her palm to add her blood to the offering. "Take of my food and my drink and my blood and then listen to my plea, Fair Ones. Let my daughter grow proud and strong. Let her escape the taint of her father and have the security of a good life. Give her that, and you may take me on the eve of her wedding."

There would be no wedding. Still, if any of the tales about the Fair Ones were true, there had to be atonement. Mary stumbled into the ring.

The Woodsman sat on the stump in the middle of the ring, large hands splayed out over his knees. Mary reached up and clutched her amulet again. "You're in my way."

"So I am," he said, and his voice was the same as the voice in her head.

Mary took an involuntary step back and then caught herself. She reached into her basket again and curled her hand around the knife. "Kindly step aside."

He spread his legs and settled back. "You are the intruder here."

"Aren't we both? Or are you going to tell me you're one of the Fair Ones?"

He laughed, and the sound settled around her like one of his furs, sleek and soft and musky, heavy with promise and power. "Is that what's in your basket, girl? Bread and honey?"

"And milk."

"Ah yes, and milk. And a knife so you can bleed."

"Yes."

"The baker would make a fine husband."

Mary narrowed her eyes. "What do you know of the baker?"

"More than you know of these woods." He rose and stalked towards her. "Your mother is dying, girl. There is no offer you can make to spare her."

Mary stood her ground. "She came here once. She made an offering."

"Was it accepted?"

She licked her lips. The Woodsman loomed above her, and he was close enough that she could smell him now. It wasn't an unpleasant scent, far from it, in fact, but it was unwelcome. She did not need the distraction of salt and musk and leather. She did not need some small part of her mind detailing just how different his sharp scents were from Malcolm's comforting smell of home and safety.

He smiled, and it was terrifying. "Go home to the baker, girl. Let your mother die happy."

Mary fled.

***

Her mother didn't ask where she had been. Mary didn't return the knife to its hiding place. She did give the milk to the cat and ate the bread herself, but the knife stayed tucked in the basket with the honey. She'd collect fresh bread and milk when she gathered the courage to return to the ring.

Malcolm called on her in the morning, asking if she had thought about his proposal. Mary begged off answering, claiming she had to care for her mother, and kind, sweet Malcolm said he understood, of course, but would like to help her. His eyes betrayed him. Mary saw the wild fear when he saw the blood on her mother's handkerchief, and it made her angry enough to drive him away.

"You're a fool," her mother said, and she struggled out of bed and gathered her shawl around her.

"What are you doing?"

"Making amends."

Mary grabbed for her. "You're too sick. Stay in bed. I'll...I'll brew you more of that tea the midwife left."

Her mother pushed her away, and Mary was shocked enough by the sudden strength to stand dazed in the middle of the room. "Mother, please. I don't want to --"

Her mother cut her off. "Of course you don't want to marry him. No girl your age wants a man like him, but when you're older you will, and then you'll thank me." She coughed and pushed Mary away again when she moved to help.

Mary watched her mother leave. She returned at sunset, bearing fresh bread and a smug smile. "The wedding will be on Midsummer's Eve."

Mary could only dish out the stew. She didn't touch the bread.

Three times, she gathered up fresh milk and bread, and three times, she ventured to the edge of the forest before losing her nerve and turning back. Mary imagined the Woodsman watching her from just inside the trees and laughing at her. She imagined Malcolm fumbling with the ties of her wedding finery -- her mother had pulled the dress she had been married in out of her cedar chest, and it was lovely, too lovely for women like them, but Mary held her tongue -- and was torn between laughter and tears.

Her mother died two weeks before the wedding. Malcolm's family rushed the funeral so the wedding would continue as planned. Mary let them. The entire village stood behind them. There was nothing she could do.

Again with the comforting lies. The voice -- was it the Woodsman or just a rebellious part of herself? -- had been silent since she fled from the woods. Mary welcomed its return because it made her remember her mother's offering.

"Let my daughter grow proud and strong. Let her escape the taint of her father and have the security of a good life. Give her that, and you may take me on the eve of her wedding," her mother had said. And instead of being taken on the eve of Mary's wedding, she was taken before.

The Fair Ones hadn't accepted her mother's offering.

Mary gathered a new basket -- bread and milk and honey, and also cheese and jam and apples. She hooked the knife to her belt and, on impulse, carefully wrapped her wedding dress and placed the package in the top of her basket.

Full dark came too late for Mary's taste. She left at dusk. The village children were chasing fireflies under the watch of the nosiest adults. Mary had no doubt she was seen, but nobody followed her. It was common enough for young women to make offerings for a long marriage. Nobody would search for her until morning. By then, she would be gone.

She heard no sounds of pursuit this time, and she did not encounter the Woodsman until she reached the ring. He was sitting on the stump, an axe slung over his knees this time. He was not wearing his furs, as the summer heat had come quickly and lingered well into the night. His shoulders were large and broad, his arms thickly muscled.

No woman would call him handsome, but he was a striking man. Mary felt her breath catch, and she remembered his scent and the way his laughter settled around her and wanted him.

He looked up at her. Mary couldn't parse his expression. She faltered.

"You're still an intruder, girl."

"My name is Mary."

"Careful, girl. I already have more power than you. Best not to tip the scales too much in my favor."

"You're not a Fair One. What can you do with my name?"

He smiled. It was still a terrifying sight, but Mary felt fixed in place. "You'll be married soon," he said.

"Not to the baker."

"You wish for a different husband?"

"Yes."

He set his axe aside. "Come make your offering, then."

She approached. Her fear came back in a rush, so her breath was shallow, mouth dry, legs watery. She reached for her amulet and stopped herself. She did not need protection from this. She shifted and clutched her basket in both hands.

Her senses sharpened. The night was humid, the air still and settling over her like a cloak. The rich scent of loam and greenery made her dizzy, and she could taste the Woodsman's scent in the back of her throat. He shifted, spreading his legs so she could kneel between them. She looked up at him, uncertain, feeling too much like some small creature caught in a snare.

He stroked her hair. "Your offering?"

"I have bread," she said weakly, setting the basket down in front of her.

He chuckled. "And honey and milk?"

"And cheese and jam. And apples."

"You're wearing the knife this time. Do you still intend to bleed?"

"The Fair Ones didn't accept my mother's offering."

"That wasn't my question, child."

"It was before."

"Before you weren't kneeling between my knees with your wedding dress in your basket."

She blushed, and something warm and pleasant uncurled low in her belly. "I'm...I'm not going to cut my palm."

"Don't play coy."

She looked up and met his eyes. "I'll only bleed if you make me." She placed her hands on his knees and rose up on hers. "Will you have me?"

He curled his hand at the back of her neck and kissed her. He was everything she wanted from Malcolm, firm and demanding and willing to take what he wanted. She had no doubt he wouldn't fumble with her dress if he wished to see her in it.

And she had no doubt he wanted her. She reached up and steadied herself against his chest. His heartbeat quickened, matching her own, and it made Mary bold. She pressed against him and made her own kiss demanding. He could take her, but she'd take him right back.

He chuckled and twined a hand in her hair. He pulled her head back to kiss her throat, forcing needy whimpers from her as he pulled her up onto his lap. "Last change to flee, girl," he said, hitching his hips so she could feel just how much he wanted her.

"I told you. My name's Mary."

"Not for much longer."

He didn't give her time to puzzle out his meaning. His clothes melted away, though Mary chose to believe it was a trick of her lust rather than magic. If it was magic, he was a Fair One, and if he was a Fair One, she should fear her fate.

She couldn't fear the feel of his hands on her, the flex of his muscles under her palms, the taste of him, the slide of his skin against hers. And she couldn't fear her own wet warmth, his mouth on her breast, the sharp pain when he lifted her on him, the exquisite way he filled her.

She couldn't fear the pound of blood in her ears or her need to taste him or the way the warmth in her belly was building towards something amazing. His pulse under his lips strummed through her. His moans filled her mind as completely as he filled her body.

How could she fear something so perfect?

She couldn't. She didn't. The heat peaked, trembled for a moment, and then washed through her. Mary was burned away.

***

She felt the intruders before her husband. She screeched and swooped low, settling on his raised forearm. "My lovely," he murmured, stroking the feathers on the back of her neck. "Show me where they are."

She took flight. These intruders were from the village. The baker and the midwife in search of a foolish girl. She circled above them. The sight of the baker filled her with ire. She wanted to dive down and claw out his eyes. How dare he wear a face similar to her husband's when he did not have the strength to support it!

How dare he pursue a girl who did not want him.

Her husband laughed. Ah, my lovely, you are a fetching prize. Settle down now. It won't be fun if you frighten them away before I arrive.

True. She knew what would be fun. She left the hawk and settled in the ring. The girl they wanted had been here. Her basket sat near the stump in the center of the clearing, and while the food was gone, the dress she had brought remained. She unwrapped it and held it up. It was pretty enough, she supposed, and she let the ivy of her gown take on a similar shape and flow. The honeysuckle in her hair blossomed.

She stepped onto path and waited for them. The rounded the bend and drew up short. "Mary," the baker breathed, starting towards her.

She laughed and melted into the oak at her back.

Her husband stepped out from behind her. The midwife made the warding sign, and that made him laugh. "You're in my woods, woman. I won't flee my home because you don't like me."

"Will you at least release Mary?" the baker asked.

Her husband stroked her trunk. "I hold no one captive."

"Please. We're to be wed."

"Your girl is gone. I suggest you find a new bride."

The midwife glared at him. "She wasn't yours to take."

"She was hers to give." He tossed the baker an iron charm on a braided string. "Find a new bride. You're young enough for that, boy. I'll even bless the union."

The baker stared at the charm, eyes watery. "You --"

"Hush," the midwife said, grabbing his arm. "The Woodsman can't lie." She approached them, or rather, her. The old woman refused to look at the Woodsman. She closed her eyes and placed both hands on her trunk. "At least you waited until after your mother passed." She still refused to look at the Woodsman. "You'll guard her, at least?"

"As she guards me."

"I suppose we can't ask for anything more."

"Not without offerings." Her husband raised his arm. "Come, my lovely. We'll let them leave in peace."

She slid out of the oak and tucked her arm through her husband's. Neither looked back as they strode deep into their woods.