Another Spoiler!

Alright. this one actually has a chapter heading! But this isn't the full chapter this time. This is just the beginning. But I proofread it a little bit and I think that for starting this in fifth grade, it's really good (even though I've had chances to enhance it). Enjoy!


Chapter 2:
Tyrants of the Forest



The girl was hurt, poor thing. She wondered why she had to suffer the pain and why no one seemed to care for her. She guessed that she was probably the only one who knew her own name, Maritire. Tucking her waving red hair behind her ears, she clutched her ankle, holding it as delicately as if it were a valuable glass object. Maritire sat on the forest floor, wishing she were somewhere different, somewhere wonderful, instead of being this nomad orphan stuck in a great wood. She was lucky to be caring for her foot at the moment, having been nearly killed numerous times in her life. She thought of all the memories, all the things she had gone through. Several thoughts came to mind.
She squeezed her eyes to shut everything out. Maritire knew she was a complete wreck, feeling selfish at her own spoiled thoughts. She had thought she could outrun that thrice cursed dark person, but then the rock had come out of nowhere, and set her foot turning at a weird angle. Barefoot, too, which meant that all the cuts around the wound could become infected, and there would be no one to tend to them. Why didn’t a bear as well make her his dinner now? Her only question was why the person had run on and left her alone after chasing her for so long.
Oh, she could just picture the bear lumbering to her, sniffing the air and breathing heavily in its brutish way. And then he’d smell everything; the blood, the meat on her bones, her human scent, the stench she had gained since she last came to a deeper part of the stream and bathed. It would be two seconds, a simple blow on the head, and she would be over. Maritire didn’t see the point of her wandering anymore either because it had gotten her nowhere, and everywhere it took her chased her away quickly. She’d liked it when there had been a home for her, a bed, and a family. The bear image suddenly shifted into something about the same size, but several times more menacing.
Shutting her eyes again, Maritire hoped that she didn’t have to remember, that she didn’t need to think of it now. But her memory groped for it, against her own will, clawing at her eyelids so they would stay open to the past. These moments were the times that kept her vigilant because of what they reminded her of. Maritire had to keep the horrid memory intact, only so that she kept the will to live and again knew her mission. The heat in her chest grew, all the images swirling to get in order, to where everything had begun. To the beginning, when she’d had all that she needed, now all vanished. The cursed klethimobix.
Her mother, lying in bed, called her name with a hoarse voice, saying,
“Maritire, I want you to take care of your father the best you can. I know your so young, but do what you know.” Maritire’s high-pitched six-year-old voice sobbed,
“You’re not going to die Momma. Poppa can take care of himself. Why am I taking care of him?” A small chuckle was followed with,
“Because he’ll lament my death. And yes, I know it’s sad, but I am dying.” Tears flowed down both of her cheeks. She was gasping now. “Try—you m-must t-try to b-be good, p-please?” All Maritire could do was nod yes and leave the room while her mother fell into a soft slumber.

Maritire was seven now. Her mother lay in bed, coughing in a horrible manner. Her father held her shoulder tightly, hoping for his wife’s survival.
“Maritire,” he said. “Go into your room and do anything you are able to do in there that will occupy yourself, alright?” His voice shook slightly. Maritire didn’t hesitate, but she ran through the house, tears flowing all over her face, wishing her mother would either die now or be cured forever. She hated klethimobix. Hate was the best she could do for it. So Maritire let her wrath wring out until she couldn’t cry anymore. By then she was asleep and she could let the years pass until she saw the day her mother left.
She woke in the morning and rushed to her mother’s room. Thank heaven she was still alive, but the klethimobix had now taken her mother’s voice along with the hearing that had been gone for months. All Maritire could think of was how much she pitied the sight of her invalid mother, too sick to speak, hear, and soon she wouldn’t have the right to see her pretty daughter’s face. She hated klethimobix.

Maritire was now eight, glad that she could have at least a couple weeks with her mother before she died. The sad part was that her mother couldn’t speak, hear, see, or feel things physically. She was frail and whiter than a ghost, with an exception of the yellow blisters that had been all over her skin since the beginning of it.
During supper, Maritire had a feeling that something, or someone, was coming to her home. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling at all; she was afraid of what might happen. Her mother could die any moment, and people would take her away to be buried, or Maritire would be taken away herself because her father would also die because of the pain. She didn’t speak to her father during the whole meal, but regretted it. A knock sounded heavily on the door, as if the person wished to break the door down.
“Enter.” her father said solemnly. With a loud boom, the door slammed wide open and in marched five large men in dark cloaks and hoods that covered their faces and an assortment of things on their belts.
“Your daughter is to come with us,” One of them addressed her father in a determined tone. It was almost frightening. “You may not make any disagreements, sir.” Maritire looked at her father apprehensively. They would not take her away, even if he did die out of a broken heart! At the man’s words, her father looked at them seriously and told them,
“My daughter has no importance to you whatsoever.” The one who had spoken shifted onto another foot.
“I believe you are mistaken.” He took a strong hold of Maritire’s arm.
“No!” her father cried. “You will not take my daughter away; do you hear me! “ the men began pulling her toward the door. “She has a mother to tend to and a family. You will—” He stopped. The lead man was dragging her out the door roughly, and another stood outside ready to take her up into his arms. Raising his voice, her father cried, “If you ever knock at my home again, there will be no mercy!” Maritire was frightened at her father’s words, for these men were twice his size, and her father also had no weapon with him. What scared her worse was that these men wanted her for something she was sure had to be dreadful, but she didn’t know what it was. The one holding her fingered the hilt of a sword at his side with the other hand.
“You shall not hinder us, man!” said another of the men. “I swear by our master, we will take your daughter with us or your family will die before we do!” And with that he drew a sword and advanced on Maritire’s father. The first let go of her and followed suit as all five of the men came toward her father. Maritire stared at her father fearfully, unable to move. Closing her eyes tightly, and then opening them again, she turned and ran before she could see the rest of the horror that had been wrought.
Crying, dashing blindly, she prayed to her god, wishing—hoping—that her parents would be all right, knowing that her efforts were fruitless. After many hours, she was so exhausted that she fell on her face into the winter snow and cried herself to sleep, curling into fetal position. Later she woke and crawled into a hollow at the bottom of a great tree and there she fell asleep until she would run again.
Maritire brought herself back to senses and shivered hard and long. That day had been not only the worst, but the devil owned it himself. She knew those men still awaited her somewhere, to take her life for the reason she didn’t know. Whatever master they served knew her, and Maritire was sure that whatever purpose she had was powerful enough to stir someone evil, even though she didn’t know what it was herself. The thought of her mother drove her mad, the idea of her father was loathsome, but thinking of herself and the way she had managed to stay alive was truly enough to curdle the world. She wanted to face those men someday, no longer a small eight-year-old, strong and wise, and defeat them all, though it seemed highly unlikely that would ever happen.
Then she remembered the darkly dressed person who had been chasing her before. The temperature seemed to drop as she thought of what his purpose might have been. Or maybe she was trapped in this forest! He’d chased her just to get her scared, and then when she stopped believing that she’s was in pursuit, strangers would come up all over and try to take her away to the master one of those men had spoken of. But Maritire thought, it still could all be ridiculous anyhow and the man had mistaken her for someone else. He could possibly have been someone who was thrown out of a city because he had a dangerous mental condition. But what were the odds of that?
Quieting her unhappy thoughts, Maritire listened carefully, and heard a trickle from somewhere far off. Oh, why did she have to smash her foot on that stupid rock? Slowly scooting towards the sound, she made her way over to a small stream, which didn’t look pleasing. Taking a handful of the muddy water, she splashed it onto her scratched up face, then she washed her foot, which was throbbing with pain.
The wood was filled with grand trees that looked down on her in a condescending way. Their boughs sat as if on hips, their hollows glaring at her in shame. Maritire almost told them to quit staring at her, and then reminded herself they were only trees. Yet she believed trees had great power. They housed hundreds of creatures, whispered messages in the wind, and sheltered the ground from the rain. But because they sheltered the rain, they held it all to themselves. This made the trees tyrants of the forest. Her washing ritual continued for a while, as she sat watching the wood, and then Maritire retired to sleep.
Restlessness ran in her brain, as if the slight paranoia that she’d gained could wake though she herself slept. It drove her far from where she lay, far from the wood and the stream, but no further from pain.
She was standing on a tall hill, seeing a vast valley before her eyes, with a war raging below. It was dark in that valley, yet moonlight shone on her hill. The cries from below were anguished and desperate. Horses fell, men fell, flags fell. Fire flew from the hands of a group of men all garbed in black, their faces grinning maliciously. Looking to the east, Maritire saw a light flare in a tent as a young man helped a young woman inside. As they entered, their silhouettes told that the woman had been lain down. Had she been wounded? Two hands joined together above her face; she was still conscious. Maritire turned back to the battle out in the field.
She seemed to be getting sick by the sight of bloodshed when a darkness came over her. The white dress she wore seemed to glow, and was the only source of light throughout the area. The noise of the battle ceased, leaving her clueless of direction. A breath sounded behind her, and with a turn she faced something she couldn’t see. It was someone, or something, her size; it must have been human. Hearing a whistling noise in the air around her, the hilt of a sword collided with her head, leaving Maritire to fall unconscious to the ground, blood blending in with her hair.
Seeing her fallen figure, Maritire woke and sat upright, nearly hyperventilating with shock. A dream about war didn’t feel good. It added to all the other ideas that she so hated. Looking all around her, Maritire gasped.
The place where she had fallen asleep wasn’t the same. It was elevated, so it felt like a round top. She couldn’t see anything very well, it was dark. Shaking with terror, she pulled herself into a more comfortable sitting position. After a while she adjusted to the darkness and she saw her dream hill. Nothing was raging around it; she was glad of that. She was also fortunate not to be wearing white, but a plain brown. Maritire felt her forehead, hoping she was seeing things. Something had dried there; she felt it all down her face and over the scalp. Was the dream real? That was impossible. And she was not a victim of near death—again.
Maritire shifted her weight so that she didn’t disturb her ankle as much. Her dream was really frightening to her, for one who had been nearly killed probably thousands of times. It reminded her of when she’d had to watch her parents get killed, though that was far different from the dream. In the dream many people had been dying, and Maritire might have been witnessing the last moments of a very young woman.
She felt at her bodice, and finally grabbed hold of the picture she’d drawn of her parents when she was younger. The lines were perfect, the shading exact. She fingered the hair she had done on her mother, as if trying to stroke it vicariously through the drawing. A teardrop fell on her finger, thankfully missing the paper so that it didn’t spoil the picture. Her only talent seemed to be art. It was a work that she knew deserved a frame. Before she could spoil the picture, she tucked it back into her bodice and wiped her eyes. Maritire could make herself seem so strong, but inside everything was weak, like rubber. She hated showing weakness because she knew it would be disgraceful. At least, it would be if it were shown before someone she cared about or before people who looked up to her. Thankfully, there were none of those categories.
Well, she had to sleep the night out now, strange place or not. No more thoughts, no more worries, let the head stay down. Maritire tried hard to simply listen to the gentle breeze around her. Soon her mind calmed and she laid herself back down.