She stroke as if she were one of them, evil, heartless, and a darkness eater. This was what she was meant for, to be one of the and yet kill them.

She rode the unicorn down the hill, killing whoever was on her left or right. No one dared block her way.

Cerené closed her eyes most of the time. Even when the blood of Huntsmen spattered on her face, she didn’t open them, grateful to the rain for washing it away.

Shew got wounded, but she didn’t bother to look. She was determined to be as strong as Loki.

Pain, wounds, and aches were an illusion, only manifested by the colors of bruises and blood, but it had no roots; pain was a figment of one’s imagination.

Only one thing could stop her: Death. Even then, she had found it arguable.

Slash, swing, chop, scream, slash, swing, and never look behind.

Fight fire with fire.

Her sword and fangs were Shew’s fire. Her fangs only scared the Huntsmen away. She wasn’t going to waste time biting them one by one. But her sword, made of white glass, energized by Cerené’s breath, was her Art. Some people’s art was a painting, some their knowledge, some their caring for their families. But the Chosen One’s Art was different. It was the cruelty she had to use to make things right, the darkness she used to bring the light, and her individuality in gathering a nation. Shew would have simply ridden back and given her heart to the Queen. She didn’t need one anymore.

Like a maniac, she ended up chasing the Huntsmen as they toppled and ran away from her down the hill.

“She really is the Chosen One,” one of them yelled, fleeing the scene.

Shew ran freely into the forest, away from them. She didn’t bother gazing back at the dead she’d left behind.

“You’re bleeding,” Cerené said. “Let’s stop. I can mend your wounds.”

However, there was no stopping. One single three-eyed unicorn was chasing her now. She could smell his deviously beautiful scent. It was Loki, coming to avenge all those Huntsmen she’d just killed.

“Can you kill him?” Cerené asked, grabbing her shoulder.

Shew’s warrior eyes softened a little. She still wasn’t sure, even after all those she’d just slaughtered, “if I kill him, he will never wake up again,” she said. Cerené looked confused. “He isn’t like the Huntsmen. He is like me, filled with darkness and confusion, not knowing what to do with it. All that he’ll sacrifice for me, being banned from Heaven and saving me, will be for nothing if I kill him.”

Cerené had nothing to say. She wasn’t going to ask Shew about this dream she always talked about. She only sensed Shew’s reluctance for a moment and got off the unicorn, running toward Loki. Cerené decided she’d stand up to him, not to defend herself, but to defend the Chosen One.

“No!” Shew reached out for her. “What are you doing, Cerené?”

“My job, I have to protect the Chosen One,” she yelled, running at the coming horse. “You take care of me, I take care of you, remember?”

Before Shew could catch her, Cerené stood foolishly in front of Loki’s approaching unicorn, stretched out one hand in the air and yelled ‘Moutza!’

Cerené closed her eyes, thinking if she focused strong enough, she could create fire and burn the evil Huntsman.

Shew was approaching to pick Cerené up, not intimidated by Loki, but then let out a shriek as she glanced up at him.

She was too late.

Loki, angry Shew had killed most of his Huntsman, raised his sword at Cerené who still had her eyes closed, trying to create fire with her mind.

Sadly, he was closer to Cerené than Shew, who could not believe her eyes. Loki’s sword had landed a blow on Cerené.

Cerené opened her eyes, disappointed she could not create fire, and glad she wasn’t dead. When she saw what had happened to her outstretched hand, she looked puzzled. A fountain of blood squirted in the air. Cerené looked at Shew with pleading eyes, wondering if this was really happening to her.

Loki had cut her hand off.

“I told you not to leave me!” Shew yelled at her and bent over to pull her up on the unicorn.

As stubborn as Cerené was, she pulled away from Shew and ran toward Loki again, stretching out her other arm, and screaming, "Moutza, you Queen’s Bastard!”

Loki let out a small demeaning laugh, and waited until the little ashen girl approached him.

“This first one was for thinking you could kill me,” Loki said. “This is for being stupid,” he simply chopped her other hand off, and rode away again.

“You little piece of shit!” Shew screamed at Loki and ran toward Cerené, trying to pull her up. This time Cerené wasn’t stubborn. She had that heartbreaking look in her eyes as if questioning how this could possibly be her fate. Shew pulled her up before she fainted.

All she could think of now was saving Cerené. Looking to the left, she noticed they were near the Wall of Thorns. She remembered when Cerené told her that each sleeping beauty in the Field of Dreams was a girl who had been killed. In order to live again, they had to dream and provide sand and tears for a hundred years, and then they could come back to life revitalized.

Shew didn’t know how to resurrect people through the blowpipe, nor did she know about the power of True Names. The Field of Dreams was her only choice to save Cerené. Cerené was dying in her hands.

To go to the Field of Dreams, Shew had to pass through the Wall of Thorns.  Shew rode toward it, not giving a damn about the thorn bush. If she rode fast enough, she should be able to pierce through it. Even if she didn’t, she’d give in to the thorn bush and allow the unicorn to take Cerené to the Field of Dreams.

As she rode, she noticed Loki following her again, but she intended to be faster. Once she entered the thorn bush, a couple of thorn vines crawled around Cerené and the unicorn, sniffing them. They slashed slightly at them, and sniffed their blood. Finally, they let them go.

I’m so close. I can make it to the Field of Dreams.

When the vines sniffed Shew, it took them some time before they slashed at her, tasting her blood.

Instantly they went crazy.

“Can’t you understand that I’m not the enemy,” Shew shouted. “Stupid thorns!”

Shew had come to a point where shedding blood had become really insignificant. She felt the thorns cut at her arms, her legs, and her face. It didn’t matter as long as there was the slightest hope to save Cerené.

If only she could ignore Mozart’s Magic Flute playing in her ears.

Somehow, she did this time.

Being seduced by music was only meant for the weak, not Chosen Ones when they’d learned their powers. The thorns had to do more than cut her skin to stop her.

Finally, Shew crossed to the other side into the Field of Dreams. Her dress was soaked with blood from every pore in her body

She stopped near one of the sleeping beauties, and eased Cerené down off the unicorn. She was hardly speaking. Shew located a free puddle of water and laid Cerené in it. She went back, undressed one of the girls in red, and dressed Cerené. She placed a glass urn to her right and one to her left, wondering if she’d done it the right way.

“Did I make fire?” Cerené muttered.

“Don’t talk now,” She urged her.

Cerené was already fainting. She had no more words to say, disappointed she didn’t live long enough to make fire. She held tighter, not knowing what else to do. She was waiting for a sign. Maybe she’d see Cerené crying sand and tears like all the other sleeping beauties, which would mean Cerené was saved.

“Tay,” Cerené tried to talk gain, her eyes white, not staring at Shew.

“Say nothing,” Shew held her face, trying not to think about the fountain of blood spurting out her arms. She suddenly remembered reading a gruesome fairy tale called the Girl Without Hands in the Schloss when she was imprisoned.

Who are you, Cerené? Who are you, really? Cinderella, the Phoenix, the Girl Without Hands, or my mentor?