13 May 2006

I have been stewing on this for about two months. I tried to sketch it, but my skills aren't there yet. After another hopeless attempt I gave in and wrote it.

Disclaimer: I do not own No Rest for the Wicked ( w w w . f o r t h e w i c k e d . n e t ) . This comic belongs solely to Andrea L. Peterson. The song is my own creation, inspired by two songs and Red.


November was still in the clearing, sitting down with her cloak beneath her delicate derriere. Red and Perrault, on the other hand, were in the skirt of trees where they could see her, but she could just barely see them. It was just as well for it was rather obvious that Red's cold glares at Perrault and Perrault's snide remarks were wearing thin very, very quickly.

Perrault stood a healthy length away from Red, frowning and staring into the depth of the forest. The fierce look of concentration annoyed Red, almost as much as that sarcastic mouth of his.

"See anything good, beast?" she spat, the usual smirk gone from her face.

Perrault looked at her, wary at best.

Red gripped her axe, taking one step forward. She narrowed her eyes, and she could see a shadow of fear flit across his visage.

"Can't speak, cat?" she asked, taking another step forward.

Perrault took a step back. Red paused. This had not quite been what she expected from him, but then she took another step. There -there was the fear. She smirked, raising her axe in mock threat.

Then the whole world collapsed.

Her axe was no longer within her hand. The item in question lay about a metre away and Red stood there, unarmed and stunned. Perrault had her wrists clamped in his hands, so hard that she could feel a bruise spreading beneath his fingers. She didn't dare to breathe, feeling the needle teeth against her neck pulse with each puff of air in sharp release. She thought to struggle, to get away and grab her axe, but she couldn't. She remembered all too well, and she felt the sudden prickling of tears. Red stood there, stilling her thrumming pulse and pained heart; she stood and forced the fear away, remaining passive.

It took a moment or so to remember that the beast was not the Wolf, but this mangy cat whom was frightened of her... the mangy cat that she had threatened time and time again that, when she hadn't meant it, the mangy cat attacked her. Red remained as still as she could be. When Perrault let go of her, only then did she realise that she had forgotten to breathe.

"I suggest that you stop running from your problems and face them," he said calmly.

Red stood where she was, too still for his liking and too quiet. In a moment her clouded eyes cleared, bringing back the old loathing and coldness. She could see he had been nearly as frightened as she was, but neither would admit to it.

Red picked up her axe and held it tightly.

A beast would always remain a beast, even after they good deeds; but little girls always changed into something twisted, especially after they accept the good deeds of a beast.

And Perrault had done one too many good deeds.

I believe that this story makes just a touch more sense if you have already read Blackbird Singing. I wrote this because I wanted to see how they would react. One or the other is bound to snap, and I chose Perrault because Red can be patient -as her apparant success at hunting has shown us.

Feedback is appreciated -and, yes, I do realise that this story is shamefully short, but what are you going to do?