Red listens silently, because the story is familiar, because the story, she thinks, is hers. "I understand," she says at last, and coughs on the last syllable, her throat dry. "Wolves—I know wolves. But in a story, a wolf doesn't have to be a wolf, does it? No one's afraid of a wolf in a story. When it comes to life, and they see it, it isn't a wolf any longer. It's something real."
The wood of the door, too, is dry and dead, as she reaches for it, her hand trembling a little from the slight effort she has to make. Dead wood, old stone, this ruined castle is just that. It is like a corpse that still breathes, or a living thing that has slept too long.
Lost in her own thought, Red pauses just before touching the broken door. "Every story is about something real. Usually it's fear. Fear eats up grandma, although a wolf might not... that's why people started telling stories about me—about plagues, and invasions, and machine rebellions. I scared them, so they turned me into a wolf, and they hugged their axes for comfort..."
She stretches out again and this time, with a quiet grunt, just brushes the edge of the door with her fingertips. The last hinge bursts open with a loud crack, sending metal splinters flying; and the door crashes to the ground.
From the side of it that faced the hinge, tendrils are slowly growing, waving lazily towards the low light, and barky knots have swollen up, digging into the ground with their roots.
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Date: 2018-01-23 10:51 pm (UTC)The wood of the door, too, is dry and dead, as she reaches for it, her hand trembling a little from the slight effort she has to make. Dead wood, old stone, this ruined castle is just that. It is like a corpse that still breathes, or a living thing that has slept too long.
Lost in her own thought, Red pauses just before touching the broken door. "Every story is about something real. Usually it's fear. Fear eats up grandma, although a wolf might not... that's why people started telling stories about me—about plagues, and invasions, and machine rebellions. I scared them, so they turned me into a wolf, and they hugged their axes for comfort..."
She stretches out again and this time, with a quiet grunt, just brushes the edge of the door with her fingertips. The last hinge bursts open with a loud crack, sending metal splinters flying; and the door crashes to the ground.
From the side of it that faced the hinge, tendrils are slowly growing, waving lazily towards the low light, and barky knots have swollen up, digging into the ground with their roots.
"Sorry," Red says.