Chapter Text
The forest had become a labyrinth of snow and ice, but Feyre Archeron—AKA Mary Fucking Sue—was above anyone and everyone so she would easily find her way back soon. She’d been monitoring the parameters of the thicket for an hour. Her vantage point in the crook of a tree branch had turned useless; the gusting wind had buried the tracks of any potential quarry.
Hunger had brought her farther from home than she usually risked, but that was winter for you. The sole breadwinner of the family had to get bread for the rest by hunting animals. Never knew bread could be so fleshy.
She’d been picking up straggling animals one by one so far. Yet the hunt for bread wasn’t going well. For some reason, she still had her mere three arrows.
She suspected many deer had already left closer to northern areas, where the wolves hunted. And past those territories, where the Fae lived in the lands of Prythian. Lands, where no mortals would dare go unless they had a Death Wish, which is the best level in Hotline Miami 2: Wrong Number.
She shuddered at the thought. The tales told by the elders had taught every child from young age to never even try and wander near those lands. But perhaps she’d have to. If by no other mean, she’d follow the last of game to feed her family. There was no other way to acquire bread.
She dropped down from the high branch, landing on her feet like a true huntress. Pain barked (wtf??) through her right knee. Ouch. Maybe not so skilled after all. She’d have to carry on, nevertheless.
Her knee protested movement. Not to mention how her joints ached from the cold. Not even her breadwinning furry suit with flappy doggystyle ears could protect her from the atrocious forces of nature.
In case you didn’t already know, she had risked so much by coming so far into the forest. But they’d finished their last loaf of bread yesterday. So they needed more. Because nobody made loafs from their cat. And they didn’t even have one, because even housecats would ditch a shitty family like Feyre’s.
She kept monologuing to herself. But it wasn’t important. What was important was that she had risked so much by coming here. Did you know that already?
She moved quietly under the low-hanging branches of snow-weighted oaks. Snow fell inside her hood. The next thing she knew, it was between the coat’s inner layer and her skin. That’s cool.
Her stomach ached. And her ribs were visible through her skin. Her knee hurt too. Now we know for certain that she’s suffering tremendously while trying to find bread for her shitty family.
Her coat protecting her skinny ribcage, she upped the speed. The knee strain slowed her down, however. She had to keep breaks, sit down and hold her knee like Peter Griffin in Family Guy. She breathed in through her gritted teeth and released her shivering breath in the form of a scream: “Aaaaaaah!”
Suddenly the thorny bushes ahead rustled. She stopped playing make-believe and readied her bow out of an instinct. Katniss Everdeen was her idol. One day, she’d be just like her. One day, she’d find herself her own Peetah. See what I did there? Check the previous paragraph in case you missed it, dummy.
Therefore, she snuck forward carefully and peeked through the frozen thorns and roses that would’ve courted her right there and then had she not been the protagonist. This was the game of hunger, and she had to find bread. Because bread was life. Even more than Shrek.
The howling winds had howled their last howls. How convenient, the reader thought, a small doe now in Feyre’s view, wrenching bark from an oak in the clearing. Barking was their mean of survival. Her was breading. And in the future, breeding. Yikes, no kidding.
The snow fell around the doe in fat, thick lumps. How beautiful. Mesmerizing, even. Eloquent, just like her thoughts in this very important moment that granted no time for internal monologues.
The animal was beautiful. But it could feed her family for a week. It was made of calories like a fat bag of grease bathed in olive oil. Or like my belly after eating a family pizza all by myself.
What truly encapsulated the beauty of the animal was how unconscious it was of the death looming near. Feyre readied her bow slow, making sure not to do anything that’d reduce her attempt to a low blow.
If she succeeded, her family would have their bread. And animal skin for new clothing.
She prepared herself. If the mortals had still believed in gods, she would’ve prayed. But she wasn’t a believer. She was a woman of action. Therefore, she was still waiting for a perfect shot instead of rushing her attempt. And a prince charming to save her sorry ass. But more about that later.
She noticed a pair of golden eyes shining from the bush adjacent to her. As if the forest had gone silent and the wind died and the snow paused, the moment felt like frozen in time.
She was still holding the arrow.
"LET IT GO, LET IT GO!!!" echoed through the woods.
"Not now, stupid snowman!" Feyre hissed. "Shut up."
"OKAY!!!"
Concealed in the thicket, a wolf inched closer, it’s gaze set on the oblivious doe. In that sense Feyre was one with the doe: neither had an idea of what was about to happen. But she had a bow. Like Katniss, The Hunter of the Ever-Doen.
The wolf was enormous. Not to mention its…thing. Feyre’s gaze trailed off. She fixed it quickly enough to not let this scene happen without her contribution.
No wolf was of such unnatural size. Yes, in both ways. By no means would Feyre ever compare a wolf to a pony. Because the gray-furred animal was dangerous. Ponies weren’t. And ponies didn’t have gigantic dongs.
She was uncertain whether to shoot the wolf now or wait for it to strike the doe first. Let it kill the bark-eating animal with no means to defend itself and shoot it only then, she’d score a double game.
If the animal truly was somehow a faerie, being eaten was the least of her problems. If so, she should already be running. But her sprained knee wouldn’t allow that. How convenient for the plot.
She had three arrows, as you already knew. Which is how every sensible person prepared for a tedious, solitary winter hunt. Two ordinary ones, and one made of mountain ash, armed with an iron head. The old man—Ketchum—had sold it to her for a high price.
She had to use it. This was why characters had plot-relevant items.
Especially because her secret sense told her that the wolf had to be from Prythian. Meaning, of fae origin. Meaning that it was weak against iron. Also, to continue her pointless monologue, she reminded herself that mountain ash wood was very rare after the High Fae had burned them all along ago. Yet none of the readers asked for it.
The wolf looked her way curiosity in its eyes.
Was it alone? That’s what Feyre’s life now boiled down to.
But she wouldn’t wait and see. She drew her breath. She had never faced a wolf before. But now was the perfect time to do so. She could’ve waited longer, but it would’ve been most foolish, because of reasons better left unsaid, since there’s none.
She also used personal pronouns for the wolf for some fucking reason. Maybe she secretly knew he was a fae but wanted to manipulate the reader.
The wolf pounced and locked its teeth around the doe’s neck. The bite was arousingly stiff. The growls even more so.
But Feyre ignored her feelings. She had to concentrate. “Damnit. You’re cute. But you must DIE! I will be Katniss one day! Not even this Snow can stop me!” she roared louder than the wolf, unleashing the ashen iron arrow. The fantasy genre bullet sank into the wolf’s skull right through the right eye, because just saying that he died would be too non-descriptive. He slumped motionless on the snow bed, blood spraying from his neck head like out of an overflowing sewage water pipe. CPR would be useless now.
She watched as red blood gushed out of the wolf’s eye socket, staining the snow crimson. She grabbed another arrow, aimed at the other eye, at the still-wincing animal barely alive. She released without emotion. The arrow impaled his skull. Movement ceased.
She skinned and harvested more than enough meat from the wolf, stashing it in her non-sterile bag. Then she filled the rest with doe skin. She pulled the arrows off the wolf and cleaned both. Conveniently, they were still intact. But little did she know she’d never use them again in this story.
She laid one last look at the wolf carcass. She wished she had it in her to feel remorse for the dead thing.
But this was the forest, and it was winter. She had to get back to her family as fast as possible, not encumbered by the heavyweight game she’d scored. Tonight, they’d all have some bread.