Chapter Text
Loud pops and ripping cracks filled the air as fibers tore and vessels burst under pulverizing force. Demolishing, savage teeth came down again and again on their victim with audible, hungry snaps. A low growl rumbled like thunder over the rain of mangled pieces, the chunks joining the utter mutilation spread at the feet of the merciless attacker until there was nothing left to devour and destroy. In its bristling hunger, the figure arched stiffly over the carnage. Another, fearsome growl permeated the breeze as bared teeth clicked in a continuous itch to crush and ruin. The figure’s head snapped to and thro, wide, unseeing eyes searching and seething for more.
Yet as the seconds wore on, the tension and hungry anger upon its being began to recede. Its snarls gradually faded from the open air as its snapping jaws stilled. Dull, unfocused eyes blinked gradually into clarity, regaining the color and focus that had nearly vanished into a white trance. With cleared sight, the figure’s ferocious expression fell away.
The wooden man snapped to attention, his mind stumbling as if out of a sudden sleep. Shaking his head, the doll nervously looked around as he rubbed his aching jaw, feeling something was wrong as his senses reregistered the world around him.
Daylight flittered through the virescent canopy above him, streams of sunlight brightening every color they touched within the lush forest. A cool wind rippled the light and shadows around him as leaves swayed gently against the white-clouded ceiling of late afternoon. Flashes of color from the twittering birds above added to the scenery’s natural paints, darting between branches in their evening conversations and feedings. Beyond their whistling chatter, a creek babbled some distance beyond the tree line ahead of him, its waters fed by the melting ice of the mountain towering mightily over him as a colossus of stone and trees, a gatekeeper for the rest of its more frigid brethren that lay beyond.
It was all a canvased scene, harmonious and tranquil in its natural splendor. Yet, the living doll found the peace fragile and deceiving, a haunted feeling filling his hollow body. For he could still feel the lingering signs: the fog over his thoughts, the tenseness of his unfeeling body, the hard ache in his jaw, and a burning heaviness that would not live his hollow chest.
He had felt all these things together once before, and it terrified him.
His dread rose as he searched his memory of the past minute or so, the images murky at best from the apparent blackout. His last recollection was of leaning back against a tree, trying to enjoy the scenery as he waited for his companion. Yet, left alone with his thoughts, his mind had rapidly turned to worry and anxiety, as a hot, ominous ache had begun to plague his chest for a second time in his life. And with the final battle of their traitorous journey looming just beyond the mountain range, his anxiety sent his mood swirling. There had been the terrifying thoughts, a crumbling sense of his self-worth, and then a frustrated anger, at himself or his circumstances he couldn’t be sure, before the hollowing ache flared painfully in his chest. Then . . . nothing. Just like that.
His hands began to clench and quiver with a dreadful realization, his fearful gaze falling. Only then did he notice the object in his hand, then the ground beneath him. He felt his nonexistent stomach drop with a cold wave of shock, his body beginning to tremble at the recognition of what he had done . . .
. . . without thought, without will, without any feeling at all . . . only with rage.
That ravenous, monstrous rage.
“Hans?”
The nutcracker jolted, wide, golden eyes darting up to meet those of a worried sienna. He stood frozen in alarm as his dear companion emerged from the stand of trees, her delicate brows and mouth drawn down in puzzled concern. Dressed once more in her freshly-cleaned travel dress, her hands slowly lowered themselves from combing through her long, rosy mane, her hair still damp from her stream bathing. She studied him from under a mass of shade until her gaze fell to his feet. The sight of her instant shock and confusion sent guilt and panic surging through the fretful doll. He dropped his gaze immediately from hers as he took a trembling step back, quaking in his need to hide. “C-Cl-Clara, I . . . I-I-I’m sorry. I . . . I d-didn’t mean to . . .!”
Clara’s staff, once long and beautifully carved, was now a mess of splinters and chips in the grass. It had been a gift to her by a kindly merchant for their journey over the mountains, a reward for saving her life. It had been a prized possession of the elderly woman, an heirloom even, but she had hoped it would serve a greater purpose in Clara’s care.
Hans had, at first, been studying and admiring its craftsmanship while Clara attended to her washing and bathing, and now because of him, it had met its unfortunate end between his teeth. The only recognizable piece left was a small chunk of the staff’s top section still clenched in his hand, the damaged carving of a fox’s head peeking out from between his large, white fingers. Even now, after what he had done to the gift that Clara had begun to cherish and admire, he couldn’t bring himself to drop its last shard.
Clara gawked at the scattered pieces at his feet for a long minute, bewildered. But when, her wide eyes darted back to him, her confusion and concern increased at his trembling body and cracking voice.
“What . . . what happened?” she asked, but Hans only shook his head. He kept his gaze locked on the ground speckled with the ruined woodwork, flinching and trembling.
“I-I . . . I . . .” He choked on his words, unable to voice the truth. His visible distress served only to worry his friend further. She moved towards him, her hands raising in a pacifying gesture.
“Hans? Hans, it’s okay. It’s-” Hans jolted back unexpectedly, his wide, panicked eyes snapping up as he took unsteady steps away from her. Stunned, Clara stopped dead in her tracks, watching him retreat from her with pained confusion.
“Hans?” Her hurt and lost expression stopped the nutcracker in his own tracks, freezing in a darker section of the day’s shade. He stared with darting eyes, conflicted and ashamed, before he forced himself to calm down. He took deep breaths, closing his eyes for a moment as he pushed through his panic. The peaceful sounds of the forest around them, uninterrupted by his turmoil, helped ground him when he might have been swept away.
Yet still, the dreadful burning in his chest refused to let him forget, a slow, threatening squeeze of a heated vise around his very soul.
And when he opened his eyes again, his gaze was steady, yet still haunted. He shook his head.
“N-No . . . no, it’s not okay.” He said meekly, his tone like a scared child’s. Evermore concerned, Clara took a hesitant step closer. When he didn’t move this time, she crossed the rest of the way to him, trying to reassure him all the while.
“It is alright. Whatever happened, I’m not upset. It . . . It was just a stick.” She glanced down at the destroyed gift briefly, remembering the lovely carvings of wildlife upon its large, knotted top, with engravings of leaves and vines wrapping down its length. She remembered the kindly woman who had gifted it to her, so glad to see her late mother’s beloved workmanship finally put to good use. Clara had spent some time along their continued journey adoring its craftsmanship and using it to more easily cross the steeper hills and gullies leading to the foot of the first mountain. They had planned to put it to even better use upon their mountain climb, but now . . .
Such thoughts brought a certain sadness over the faithful item’s loss, yet she would not hold it against Hans. She knew him well enough by now to know that he would never destroy such a thing on purpose.
Her thoughts were cut short however when she reached out to place a comforting hand on Hans’s arm and the nutcracker flinched back. With his bulky arms crossing his chest in an anxious self-hug, he turned away, simultaneously discouraging her touch and hiding the fear so soon growing stronger again upon him once again. His fingers curled tighter around the staff shard.
“I-It’s not just that, Clara.” The brittleness of his voice and his refusal to look at her sent the young woman’s worry skyrocketing, but his behavior made her unsure of if he would appreciate any gestures of comfort at the moment. Instead, she opted to stand close to him in the deep shade of an oak, silent and waiting as a comforting presence for her nutcracker.
There was a long pause between them, the only sound being the whistle of the wind through the trees and the birdsong. A bit of the cool breeze that had raced down from the mountain tugged playfully at their hair, his stiff, blackened spikes shaking while her long, autumn locks swayed behind her. Hans’s eyes bore a hole into an off-standing tree, fearful indecision playing within his golden orbs until finally, he found the strength to speak the words. “It’s . . . it’s happening again . . .”
A sudden chill up Clara’s spine at his ominous whisper, an unexpected dread sparking to life within her. She glanced down at the wooden pieces scattered at her feet, the carvings of animals and vines smashed beyond all recognition. Some parts were torn to tiny shreds, while others were crushed into nests of splinters.
A foreboding feeling arose. She looked back up at her hunched nutcracker, leaning to the side to try to see his face better.
“What is?” she prodded gently. Hans’s eyes clenched themselves shut as he ducked his head, his arms hugging himself tighter as a shiver rattled his body.
“T-The . . . that Frenzy . . . from when I . . . snapped.”
Clara’s whole body tensed, chocolate pupils shrinking in shocked remembrance at his shaky words. The peaceful woodland faded away for a blood-chilled moment.
She remembered a scream, echoing with such rage over the mulling horde of mice that clawed and grabbed at her. Then there had been blood, arching into the sky and splattering across the ground. Fur-covered arms fell into the dirt before her, flesh and bone torn from shoulders in a near instant as terrified screams and agonized shrieks filled the air.
Then Hans had suddenly appeared from the fray, standing rigidly between her and their attackers. A feral snarling had rolled viciously from him as mice both living and dying fled from him in a scurrying panic.
It was at that moment, when the mice had gone and Hans finally turned to the sound of his name on her lips, that she realized that something had gone horribly wrong.
He was no longer her nutcracker. His comforting and kind presence was gone, leaving behind a ferocious being with blank, hollow eyes and blank expression. His body twitched and vibrated as though in the throes of a malfunction, his large fingers curling and clenching at his sides as if desperate to grab and crush something. And his teeth, sharp and crushing like she had never seen them before, were bared in a tightly-clenched snarl, blood splattered across his face and dripping from his clicking jaw.
It was a terrifying sight, that bloodthirsty madness, but they were lucky. He fell unconscious within seconds of the danger passing, awakening a few minutes later as himself again in her arms. She could remember well the absolute horror that had dawned on his face when he saw the carnage around them, when he understood what he had done with his own, shearing teeth in his spontaneous insanity. It had taken Clara quite some time to calm him down; even longer to convince him that she was not and should not be afraid of him.
“I-I felt like this before . . . before that fight. Like my chest was catching fire and my head was on the verge of a migraine. I just wanted to lash out at something . . . anything! I w-wanted to . . .” Hans continued, pulling Clara from her thoughts. She flinched, pained by the torment in his voice. She did remember him acting strangely the day before the encounter with the mice. He had been more distant and frequently distracted. She had caught him several times staring off into the void, and seen him flinch at seemingly nothing, an almost pained grimace on his lips. A couple of times, he had even reacted to inconveniences with spontaneous anger, falling into volatile behavior that was very unlike him. But whenever she asked if he was alright, he would immediately apologize for his snappy attitude, and only mention his growing worry over a constant, aching feeling in his unfeeling, doll body.
She had tried her best to be reassuring and to help him evaluate his worrying pain, but their conversations would all drift off with little more than a promise to seek out answers the next time they were in friendly company. The best they could hope for was that they would soon find an artisan who would know what to do, or that whatever was ailing him would soon pass. Yet it was soon after one such discussion that she caught him baring his teeth at nothing, clicking them together at random times. She became convinced that she had seen his eyes drain of color in split-second glances.
“I-I felt it coming . . . a-and when those mice attacked us, attacked you, I . . . I just lost it.” Hans whimpered. Clara felt like kicking herself for not recognizing the signs sooner. She had noticed he becoming jumpy and distracted, but hadn’t put much thought into it. They had both been on edge for a while, nervously waiting for an attack at any moment as they journeyed closer and closer to the castle where the Mouse King awaited. Guilt assaulted her for her own carelessness at Hans’s plight, seeing his shoulders shaking. Still, she wished he had told her sooner. Carefully, she placed a hand on his back, rubbing right over the seams of his lever.
The nutcracker winced at her touch, but did not turn around. Instead, he looked down at his hand. Uncurling his fingers, he stared at the broken piece of the staff, the fox’s undamaged eye staring back at him accusingly.
“I could have hurt you then . . . I-I could still . . .” He trailed off when Clara placed her other hand firmly on his arm, interrupting him.
“But you didn’t. And you still won’t. I know you would never hurt me.” There was a sad timbre in her voice, but she kept an air of certainty. A kind smile brightened her face, caring and trusting as she tried to turn him around. She needed him to see that she was not afraid.
“BUT IT WASN’T ME!”
The sudden, angry shout startled Clara back, her smile disappearing with a gasp when Hans whipped around on her. She was met with an angry scowl and his narrowed eyes, his teeth gritted and fists clenched at his sides. The staff’s only remaining shard bounced off the ground at their feet from the force of his downward throw.
Clara stood fixed in place, alarmed as the nutcracker’s left shoulder jerked in a sudden twitch and his pupils shrank. Yet the tension lasted only a moment more before Hans’s expression fell, the anger bleeding out of him like water from an overturned bucket. Taking its place, a look of horror and guilt appeared. Tears gathering in his eyes, his hands rose to hide his face as he retreated back deeper into the shadows.
“Cl-Clara, o-oh gosh, I-I’m sorry! I-I-I-”
Clara didn’t give him any chance to escape before throwing herself on him in a hug, halting his broken apology. Hans went stone-still, his hands hovering over her body. His conflicted mind blanked on what to do next.
“You’re right. It wasn’t you.” Clara whispered. The delicate arms around the nutcracker grew tighter around his wooden frame. “But you were still there. You protected me. You made sure that I wasn’t hurt. And you came back to yourself once the danger had passed.”
Hans stayed silent, still absorbing her words. Then she looked up at him with her kind eyes and soft smile, and the cursed man could no longer resist the part of him that desperately needed her presence, craving her comfort despite everything he feared for her.
He felt so selfish.
“C-Clara . . .” He moaned brokenly as his arms finally wrapped around her, his head falling over hers. A tear slipped down his wooden cheek as he pushed his face into her hair and whimpering. “I’m just . . . s-so scared.”
Clara’s heart sank, holding on as his larger body shook in her arms. She rubbed along his back and over his lever soothingly, wishing he could feel her touch as he lamented.
“I-I can feel it. It’s going to happen again, a-and when it does, I . . .” A massive shudder made his joints rattle. He clenched his eyes shut as he felt the maddening tightness coil around his core like a deadly threat, demanding in its terrible hunger for violence.
“I could never forgive myself if I hurt you. O-Or . . . or . . .” He couldn’t finish. Just the thought of that horrible possibility threatened to crush his very soul.
Warmth and sympathy gathered in Clara’s chest. She lifted her hand to his face as she pulled her head out from under his to look him in the eyes.
“You won’t. I know you won’t. It’s going to be okay. We’ll figure this out together.” She promised, his voice determined and certain. She then continued to hold him tenderly as he trembled and breathed in unsteady rhythms, fighting to hang on to her words. They stood wrapped together for some time, Clara whispering reassurances to her scared friend as the world around them continued to rustle and sing without worry under the sun.
Finally, Clara felt the wood pressed against her begin to still, the sound of hitching breath next to her ear steadying. A soft smile lifted her lips as she sensed her nutcracker calming down at last.
But her smile dropped when she remembered the cause of all this. However much she comforted him and believed in him, she knew that Hans’s fears were not unfounded. They still didn’t know the exact cause of this madness that they had nicknamed, “The Frenzy”. Clara couldn’t imagine how terrifying it must be for Hans, to feel something so uncontrollable building up inside him and not knowing how to prevent it from bursting out and turning him into something like a rampaging beast.
They needed to find a way to fight this. She had to help him.
Thinking back, Clara recalled his first Frenzy, picturing how Hans before and during the attack. She had definitely seen a sort of rage exhibited in it all, an anger that lashed out viciously at everything around it. There had been the discomfort and irritation leading up to it, with Hans becoming frustrated easily and unusually aggressive. Looking over her shoulder, she eyed the remains of her staff, thinking on its destruction and reluctantly on the lethal bites inflicted to the mice during that first time.
If the Frenzy was based in wrath, then perhaps . . .
“Did . . . did letting it out help?” She asked as he loosened his grip around her, his arms letting her step back from in his arms. He gave her a confused look.
“What?”
Clara gestured back at the mess of shards and splinters laying behind her.
“Do you feel better? After . . .” Hans blinked before looking to the mess past her, flinching at the sight. Nonetheless, he focused on her question.
He could still feel the signs, mainly the burning tightness in his chest and the lingering ache in his head and jawline. He still felt the fear, the anger, and the frustrating itch to somehow relieve these pains . . . but he was calmer. He was surprised to find that the feelings seemed duller than before his ‘blackout’. More distant and manageable.
“Uh, y-yeah. I think so . . .” He replied, still unsure, but a tad hopeful. “I still don’t feel . . . right, per se . . . but it doesn’t feel as bad now.”
Clara grinned excitedly, nodding her head.
“Then maybe this is a good thing! Perhaps it would help to let it out every now and then. Blow off the steam!” she advised, already thinking over some ways he could do so. Studying him, her eyes zeroed in on the small scratches around his mouth, a lone splinter lodged in the right seam of his jaw. Impulsively, she reached out and pulled it out with a pinch of her fingers.
“Maybe something to bite on?” She suggested, flicking the tiny shard away. Looking back up at him, she found him staring at her in disbelief.
Whether it was from her unauthorized removal of the shard, her suggestion, or both, she was not sure, but she suddenly felt that she may had crossed a line. Flustered at her insensitively, the woman quickly tried to make amends with frantic gestures. “I’m sorry! I mean . . . if you’re not comfortable with that, we could, um . . .” She fell silent as she struggled to correct her misstep, her eyes boring holes in the ground. But before she could think of what else to say, she heard him took a deep breath, then slowly exhale.
“I-If it keeps this . . . thing under control . . . I’ll try it.”
Clara’s head snapped up, surprised. Then she smiled in relief, pulling him into another hug. “Then whenever it starts to get bad, we’ll find something for you to vent it out on. With luck, that will keep this in check.”
Hans hesitated, then hugged her back a second time, a little smile at last breaking through his gloomy mien. “Thank you, Clara.”
His friend smiled brighter at his blither tone. She nodded against his chest, humming in affirmation.
“You are always welcome, Hans.” She squeezed him one more time before stepping away. Hans’s eyes never left her as he gave her a fuller smile, but it promptly fell when he caught the sight of the shattered staff, another flinch marking the reappearance of shame. He gestured to it.
“I-I really am sorry about this. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I would never-” Clara cut him off with a shake of her head, placing a hand on his arm.
“It’s alright. Your wellbeing is far more important than any walking stick’s.”
Hans didn’t look quite convinced, a haunted gleam still in his golden eyes, but he nodded nonetheless. Closing his eyes, he took in an unnecessary breath and let it out slow. “Okay . . .”
He gave her a weak smile, stepping back from her touch.
“I’ll uh . . . I’m going to go find some more wood for tonight’s fire. I’ll try to see if I can find something good enough to replace your staff. It won’t be anything like Ava’s was, but . . .” His smile dimmed, the familiar guilt bleeding through as he shrugged dejectedly. Then he grimaced. “A-And I’ll see if I can find anything to, uh . . . b-bite on . . . while I’m at it.”
Clara nodded, but she did not hide her worry at his somber mood and the sudden end to their conversation. “Alright, but are you sure that you’re feeling alright now?”
Hans nodded back, already turning to step deeper into the trees. “Yeah . . . yes. As okay as I can be right now.” He stopped briefly to look over his shoulder, flashing her a small smile. “I won’t be far. If you need me, just yell out.”
He waited for Clara’s acknowledgement, watching her with a softer expression. The young woman was silent for a time, unsure of him, before she gave a weak smile of her own. “O-oh. Alright. Good luck!”
Hans nodded and turned away. A second before she lost sight of his face, Clara saw his expression change. His smile fell into a grimace, his eyes narrowing and his eyebrows knitting into an expression of discomfort. She saw him raise a hand to his chest, his figure slightly hunching forward, before his quick pace took him behind a thick stand of trees, the crackling rustle of his footsteps upon the forest litter steadily fading away.
The red-haired girl remained where she was, staring after her fleeing nutcracker. She contemplated going after him, to make sure he was alright, but quickly decided against it. She didn’t want to cause him anymore stress and they both had tasks to complete before nightfall. Besides, they could further discuss his troubles and what they planned to do about them once he returned.
With a sigh, Clara turned to walk back to camp, but paused when she again found her gaze on the pieces of shattered wood at her feet. Among the unrecognizable pulp, she spotted the shard that Hans had thrown down in his spark of anger. Bending down, she seized the small chunk, feeling the splintered edges poke against her fingers. The round eye of the elegant fox carving stared up at her, its body curling between her fingers with shredded edges cutting across its form. Running her thumb lightly over the fox’s head, Clara sighed before standing up and continued on, leaving the rest of her fragmented staff to be claimed by the forest.
~<>-----------------------------<>~
As the sun inched further towards the horizon, the blue of the sky became awash in glorious shades of whites, yellows, and oranges. In the changing light, the white caps of the mountains took on their gold and fiery hues of late evening, darkening clouds drifting by the snow’s reflective brilliance. In the distance, a darker mass of clouds chased the retreating sun in a menacing display, but the promise of rain had yet to be announced upon the wind with the rumbling tone of thunder.
In the forest below the frontlining mountain, the shadows had lengthened and darkened. The whistling and chirps of woodland creatures were still present among the trees, but at a quieter, dozier chatter.
Clara crouched beside a fallen log within a small clearing at the mountain’s foot. A juicy crunch cut the relative silence as she bit into the flesh of a reddened apple, one of three that her nutcracker had returned with on his latest venture for firewood. Chewing on the fruit of nature’s labor, Clara held the apple aloft in an ungloved hand as she finished smoothing out her bedroll beside their firepit. Task completed, she rested herself upon the log next to her satchel, Hans’s hat, and their supply bag. Taking a moment to enjoy the peace and her tasty treat, her thoughts wondered to the blackened clouds decorating the distant horizon over the trees. She hoped the storm would pass them by and not drench them in rain during the night.
The sound of footsteps approaching drew her from her thoughts, her head turning as she swallowed.
Hans came around the splayed shield of the log’s exposed, gnarled roots, another load of wood in his arms. Carefully bending down, he added his latest haul to their haphazard woodpile, keeping only two, long pieces, both nearly two inches thick and as straight as tree branches came. They did not appear old like the rest of the wood, but freshly harvested from a living tree, any smaller branches stripped off. With them in hand, Hans stepped up to Clara, a hesitant look in his eyes, before he tentatively held one out to her.
“Will, um . . . will this work?” He asked meekly, watching as Clara took the offered branch. Her fingers felt out its sturdiness and smooth bark. Planting the end of the stick against the ground, it held the weight she leaned into it with no sign of bending or breaking.
“Yes! Yes, this will work great! Thank you!” She smiled with delight, curling her arm around her new, walking staff. Hans’s hand went straight to the back of his head in a nervous scratch as he smiled back.
“Oh, no need to thank me at all! It’s the least I could do after . . . what I did.” His smile dropped, remorse still swimming in his eyes. Clara set her staff down against the log and placed a hand on his arm as he sat down next to her, his elbows perched on his legs.
“That was not your fault. We both know you never would have broken it voluntarily.” The nutcracker glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, frowning despite her words. Instead of answering, he looked down at the second length of wood still in his hand. His gaze was uncertain, contemplative, and a bit reluctant. Concerned, Clara leaned forward to try meeting his eye. “Hans?”
He didn’t react immediately, but his expression began to change. A determination overturned the uncertainty in his eyes and, with a quick, searching glance at Clara, a decision was made. With little hesitation, he brought the end of the rod to his mouth, dropped his hinged jaw, and bit down.
Clara watched in surprise. His teeth sliced through the wood as if it were just a piece of sponge cake. The wood cracked and splintered under the tremendous pressure, while the sharp edges of his teeth easily separated a chunk from the rest. Lowering the length of wood, he set about pulverizing the piece in his mouth, chewing it into a rain of splinters within seconds. Opening his mouth wide, he spat out the rest behind their seat, hunching over to use gravity to empty his mouth of the mulched wood.
He straightened up with an unenthusiastic grimace, some stubborn splinters stuck in the seams for his jaw. Clicking his teeth softly, he turned to her with an uncomfortable wince, unhappy with the mess in his mouth. Yet there was still resolve in his eyes. He was already raising the bitten stick to his mouth again when he asked, “Uh . . . how many times do you think I should do this?”
Clara gave him a sympathetic look.
“Maybe try a few more bites and see if you feel any different after that.” Smiling gently, she reached for a large shard she saw lodged in the corner of his lips with a quick “May I?”. After a moment of hesitation, he gave his permission with a small nod, and she carefully worked the shard out from the edge of his month seam. Flicking it away, he worked his jaw with a discomforted face. She frowned and gave him a meaningful look. “But only if you’re comfortable with continuing.”
Hans considered her, then the chomped sapling in his hand. Then with a sigh, he brought it back to his mouth, splintering cracks piercing the air again as he pulled the now shorter length of wood away. As he chomped away at another piece, Clara patted his shoulder reassuringly. “Just for a little while, Hans. Hopefully, this is all you will need to do.”
Unable to answer with wood and bark popping between his teeth, Hans only nodded. He hoped that this would work, that this would somehow be enough to calm the strange rage that he seemed to have been cursed with along with his nutcracker body.
Still, he also hoped that he wouldn’t have to chew on trees for very long. He was grateful that he couldn’t taste the sharp wood and sticky sap, but his dulled sense of touch and barely movable tongue did make getting the resulting mess out of his mouth difficult.
Casting him one last, worried glance, Clara turned her attention back to the surrounding forest, taking another bite of her apple. The skin of the fruit broke and crumpled between her teeth as the fibers of the sapling cracked and shattered between Hans’s. They both took bites together in silence, watching the evening deepen in relative peace.
Clara finished her evening snack first, tossing the seed-filled core far into the bushes behind them. Looking to Hans, she found his sapling reduced to the size of a small baton in his hand, the nutcracker lost in thought as he slowly shredded another piece between his teeth.
Content that he seemed to be doing well, his red-haired companion let her gaze drift over to her bag as another, crunching bite from the nutcracker sounded. Her sight landed on the fox carving, sitting daintily on top of her satchel where she left it. She reached over and took it into her grasp.
Running her thumb along the fox’s curling body, she smiled fondly down at the figurine, its image very much reminiscent of the Fox Guardian. The kindly, spirit-like Guardian had once been the fox kit that Hans had saved from a bear trap as a child. Now he was one of the few Guardians who remained to protect and tend to the ancient lands on which the Doll Kingdom was built upon. The others had already been hunted down by the mice in their own territories.
The last they had seen of Hans’s old friend was as the giant fox had vanished into the deeper protection of his wilderness, taking with him the animals and people that had survived the carnage brought to the mouse-scarred realm.
She sincerely hoped that he was still alive and well, far from the Mouse King’s reach.
~<>-----------------------------<>~
A strong wind raced down from the looming mountain and into the sea of trees below, one of many to come with the approaching night. The scrapping and rubbing of innumerable leaves and branches created a roaring crescendo, the power of the wind reverberating loudly in the ears of all.
‘Perfect.’
He set a quicker pace, the wind masking the rustle of his large bulk as he slinked his way through the thick brush. His claws sank eagerly into the earth with each step, his sharp, yellow teeth bared in wicked anticipation. Twisting branches and skeletal twigs scratched at his battle-scarred armor, tangling on his dark grey fur and black cloak, but he paid them no heed. Even the thorns stabbing at his cheeks and palms did not deter him from the familiar scent carried to him on the breeze.
The wind began to weaken, the cascade of trembling leaves growing quieter as the flow lost its strength. Within moments, the verdure of the forest became still, the chorus silenced to a low murmur. He stopped in his tracks, his tail giving a tilting twitch. The signal silenced all noise behind him, all movement disappearing from the thickets and undergrowth at his back.
His muzzle bunched with an impatient snarl, but he held himself still and quiet. He just had to wait for the next gale to stalk closer to his quarry, undetected.
Just a little closer and the prey he had longed for would be in his claws.
And then he was going to enjoy the pleasure of tearing the wretched toy’s soul straight from his shattered chest.
He was so hungry for it.
~<>-----------------------------<>~
“Ah!”
Hans jolted against the log at Clara’s cry of pain, somehow almost choking on the debris he had been emptying from his mouth behind their seat. Alarmed, he jumped to his feet, spinning around to her.
“Clara?! What’s wrong?!” He nearly shouted, small chips of wood flying from his mouth as the last piece of his ‘chewstick’ fell to the ground.
The young woman sat cradling her hand, the shard she had been holding laying in the grass at her feet. At his shout, she looked up at him, a hand rising in a calming gesture.
“Nothing! I’m okay, I’m okay! I just . . . ah, pricked my finger.” She uncurled the hand she had been holding at her chest, showing Hans her index finger. Looking at her upturned hand, he spotted a long, needle-like splinter stabbed deep through her skin, the sight making him hiss in sympathy. Clara turned her finger from side to side, wincing at the sight and sting of the nasty prick. She had held the shattered piece of her staff too hard too suddenly when she had turned it over in her hand, unintentionally jamming the large splinter deep into her finger in the process. She was thinking over the best way to remove it when Hans bent down and reached for her hand.
“Let me see.” He requested. She promptly shook her head to dissuade him, but he had already gently taken her bleeding hand into his.
“Hans, I’m fine! Really! I’ve pricked my fingers on sewing needles back home more times than I can count!” She assured, but Hans still held her open hand between his own, watching her blood bead around the small spike. Slowly, Hans brought a hand to hover over hers, his fingers stopping just short as he looked up at her.
“I’m going to pull it out. Is . . . is that okay?” he asked hesitatingly. Clara blinked, glanced down at her finger, then back up at him. Finally, she nodded, giving him a small smile as she gave in. Hans smiled gently back.
“Okay . . . on 3.” He said as the very tips of his fingers pinched at the exposed end of the large splinter, grabbing firm hold after a few, gentle tries. Clara prepared herself.
“1 . . . 2 . . .” His hand darted away, taking the sliver of wood with it. Clara yelped at the sharp pain, then hissed as blood began to flow freely over the side of her finger. Hans flicked the splinter away and released her hand, allowing her to bring her bleeding finger to her lips. She held it there for several seconds, the taste of her own blood on her tongue.
“Ah! Oh, that smarts.” She hissed as she took her finger from her lips, watching with a frown as the blood quickly reappeared. Hans watched her repeat the process, yet the blood continued to flow. The skin around the nasty puncture began to redden with irritation, Clara wincing at the heartbeat ache that it produced.
An idea, a memory in fact, came to Hans then. The man straightened up and looked around, thinking hard on where he might find what he needed until he spotted the fan of the log’s thick roots.
Clara looked up when he began walking away, her expression puzzled. “Where are you going?”
He looked back at her as he stopped beside the roots, giving her a small grin.
“Just here. I might know of something that can help with that.” He focused again on the tangling roots, walking around them slowly as he searched. Clara observed him curiously, wondering what he could be looking for. Looking back at her bleed, she frowned at the sight of the blood already dripping off her finger again. With a tinge of homesickness, she remembered what her mother used to do for small cuts and bleeding pricks like this.
“I wish I had some honey. Some would do great for this.” She pouted with a longing tone, putting her finger to her lips again as she looked down at the cause of her injury.
The staff shard lay between her feet, its light-brown grain marred by a single spot of red that had managed to drip onto it. Grimacing, she reached down and carefully picked it up, staring at the spot of blood on the fox’s face. She tried to rub it away, but the action only worked to smear the red color across the wood. When more rubbing failed to remove the blood, she gave up. Opening one of the small packs attached to her belt, she stored the shard away. Even now, she couldn’t bring herself to throw the scrap away.
She looked up in time to see Hans returning to her, his hand cradling something she couldn’t see. She tilted her head in confusion as he knelt down in front of her.
“Here.” He muttered as he gently took her bleeding hand and placed it palm-up on her lap. Releasing her, his large fingers moved to his open hand and she watched in astonishment as his fingers pulled back a thick film of white, sticky strands, previously invisible against the white fabric of his palm. As Hans worked to arrange the multitude of silky threads into a suitable shape with his large fingers, Clara realized what they were with a touch of unease.
“Cobwebs?”
Hans nodded, grinning reassuringly as he finally got the webs under some length of control. “Uncle would sometimes use clean cobwebs on my scrapes and cuts when I was younger. It’s an easy way to stop small bleeds and prevent infection.”
Positioning the stretch of web above Clara’s bleeding finger, he looked up at her, eyes asking permission. Clara was unsure for a moment. While she did not have a huge fear of spiders, had in fact many times admired the designs of their webs, she still did not find the feel of their sticky homes on her to be enjoyable. Yet, Hans was looking to help her, and she trusted him and his dear uncle with her life.
So, with a steadying breath, she nodded her consent. Smiling, Hans lowered the webs onto the bleed. Clara stayed still while Hans concentrated on wrapping the thick webbing around her finger, working to detach the clinging strands from his own fingers. After a several minutes of silent working, Hans paused for a moment, considering, before leaning over and taking a long, rounded leaf from the thick bush growing beside the log, making sure it was clean and flexible before curling it securely around the layers of webbing. Once the leaf had completely covered the webs, he paused again, noting the webs’ secure hold, but his doubts remaining. He looked over at his shoulder, hesitated for a second, then reached a free hand up to his epaulet.
“Hans—”
Before Clara could protest further, the nutcracker grabbed a strand of his epaulet’s fringe and gave it a sharp tug, pulling it free with barely a flinch. He waved her off as he brought the piece forward. “It’s okay. It didn’t hurt anything.”
Before she could say anything else on the matter, he pulled the think strand apart and brought one of the golden strings to her finger, trying it around the frond with only a few fumbles of his bulky fingers. Clara remained still for him until he finally leaned back, letting her inspect his work.
The top-third of her finger was completely covered in a cocoon of white, the webbing sticking to her fair skin and the plant cover stubbornly. A speck of red had been visible through the webbing over her cut, but it had not appeared to be expanding before Hans had added the leafy covering to protect the webs. The sun-golden thread from his epaulet topped off the make-shift bandage like a bow on a gift, tied in small knot secure enough to hold everything in place.
A bright, beautiful smile graced Clara’s lips as she looked up at her dear friend with appreciation and a bit of wonder.
“Thank you.”
A blush invaded Hans’s wooden cheeks at her heartfelt tone and sweetened gaze, his hand scratching at his head bashfully.
“Y-You’re welcome.” He stammered with a grin.
Then his eyes snapped wide, a look of horror striking across his face. Clara was immediately alarmed . . . until Hans pulled his hand away and thin, white strands of leftover webs stretched from his fingers to his dark hair.
Clara slapped a hand over her mouth to stop herself from bursting out laughing.
~<>-----------------------------<>~
A bluebird burst from the branches above, sounding a shrill alarm. Similar calls answered it and the sound of frantic scratching revealed a grounded squirrel racing up a nearby tree to safety.
He just barely kept himself from spinning around and flying at the imbecile clumsy enough to scare a braindead twitter-box in a tree. If their prey was attentive enough, a godsdamn slipup like that would give away their entire approach!
His ears flicked forward, listening intently. His lowered tail made a quick slash through the air, the simple motion promising wrathful consequences to whoever dared make a single sound.
The bird’s call faded into the distance as he and his pack became like rocks amongst the brush, silent and motionless. The only visible movement was the slight twitch of tattered ears, zeroed in on the faint pair of voices conversing ahead. Based on their casual tones, it didn’t seem that they had heeded the bluebird’s warning.
Their presence was still unnoticed.
And just in time too. The trees had begun to shake once more as another powerful, mountain wind filled the world with the roaring clamor of leaves. The faint scent of rain had joined it, hinting at a coming storm.
Nature’s signal to advance.
With another flick of his tail, they stalked forward as one, the sound of their noisy passage and clinking armor hidden under the guise of wind. He kept to the shadows, the others following his lead in silence. Within moments, the voices ahead were clearer. He was able to make out words. The scent of them was stronger, and the memories it brought fueled his bubbling wrath.
They were very close now. Just within reach. Just as unsuspecting.
Two twitches of the tip of his tail and the rustling at his back faded off. Fanning out, his pack sleeked off under shadow and undergrowth in a deadly arch around the mark, a formation like a giant maw opening up to swallow its prey whole. He continued forward with them, moving straight down the middle towards his goal with growing zest. From one shadow to another, from tree to tree, through one wall of ferns into the next, he drew closer.
At long last, he was at the final stand of trees. Peering over the edge of a shallow ditch, he crouched stone-still as the wind died down. He could see pieces of the girl beyond the screen of forest plants, her amber hair and purple dress standing out brightly against the browns and greens of the woodland. However, his dark, red-rimmed eyes were locked on the colors of red, white, and gold moving slowly across the gaps in the foliage. The doll’s head moved into clear view as it toyed with something in its hands.
Murderous rage filled his entire being at the sight of the nutcracker’s ugly mug, flowing like lava out from his chest, through his veins, and into his dripping teeth and flexing claws. He licked the drool from his scarred lips like before a tantalizing meal, eager to give into the rage. Slowly, he raised one, black-clawed hand, reaching for the deadly steel that awaited wickedly on his back.
His hand snapped tight around the cold grip of his favored weapon, stained black from seasons of spilled blood and ruptured souls.
On the next gale, its blade would taste more.
‘Soon, brother. Soon, its head will be kindling in our hearth!’
~<>-----------------------------<>~
Light giggles twinkled with the birdsong as the last of the cobwebs were pulled from Hans’s stiff hair. His head bowed and turned to the side for her, Hans listened to Clara’s bell-like laughter in both embarrassment and fondness as he kept himself still. After a minute or so, her combing digits fell away.
“There. All done!” She announced, wiping the webs from her hand onto the grass. Hans straightened up from his kneeling to stand, his hair clean and a blush still present on his cheeks.
“T-Thanks.” He stammered sheepishly. He mentally restrained himself from scratching at his head again in his nervous tick, despite his hand now being clean of cobwebs. Clara waved him off.
“There’s no need to thank me. It’s the least I could do for all your help.” She held up her bandaged finger for emphasis. The nutcracker’s gaze drifted his handiwork with some amount of satisfaction, allowing himself to relax from his small bout of humiliation.
The wind picked up then, the mountain breeze forcibly rattling the trees and whistling past their ears. Hans watched as Clara’s hair danced upon the invisible currents, the woman’s head ducking into her dress’s collar as the chilled air prickled at her neck and face. She shivered.
Concerned, Hans looked around, taking in the deepening shadows. Looking up through the gaps in the shivering canopy, he could see the sun floating beside the mountain above them, the bright orb sinking lower and lower. There was maybe only an hour left before the sun would disappear behind the mountain, taking with it all its warmth and light until dawn. Looking back at his cringing friend, he knew they couldn’t waste more time. “It’s getting late. It’ll be dark soon and the temperature is going to drop even further tonight now that we’re this close to the mountains.”
Clara glanced around herself, quickly realizing he was right. She could definitely feel how cold it was getting, the comfortable coolness of the air turning into a biting cold. She hummed in agreement.
Stepping next to their supplies, Hans inspected their prepared fire pit and stack of timber. “I’ll get the fire started. Do you know where we put the flint and steel?”
The red-haired woman perked up. “Oh, yes! Um . . . one moment! They should still be in one of the bags.”
Pulling her rucksack closer, she pulled apart the draw-stringed opening and began digging, moving aside small packages of food and tools alike. As she searched, Hans busied himself, bending down to gather up a small mound of tinder. He concentrated on forming a loose nest of dead leaves, pine needles, and bark shavings as Clara pushed the bag aside, her hunt unsuccessful.
“No. Not in this one . . .” she huffed before reaching for her satchel bag next, unbuckling and flipping its cover away. The first item to greet her sight was her nightdress, cleaned and neatly folded over the rest of the satchel’s contents.
And there, sticking out from beside the dress, was the curled length of steel that she sought, its flint companion likely hidden beneath.
“There you are!” With a victorious grin, Clara pushed her soft dress aside, intent on revealing the flint and pulling them both out.
A thousand, glittering lights burst softly before her eyes as sunlight greeted the inside of the bag, the abrupt sight halting her hand. As recognition of the item alighted upon her, a puzzled frown pulled at her lips, her thoughts wondering off for a long moment.
“Clara?”
The call of her name startled her back to the present. She turned to see Hans peering worriedly at her, a prepared tinder-nest perched in his hands. The woman jerked back to her task. “Oh, sorry! Sorry!”
She quickly reaching into the bag, grabbing the steel strip and its flint partner laying beneath it.
“Here you go.” With a smile, she held them out for the nutcracker. Hans hesitated, his eyes searching hers in concern, before he stepped forward and took the offered tools.
“Thanks. I’ll have the fire going soon enough.” Smiling back, he turned back to the fire pit, circling around it to avoid their supplies and Clara’s bedspread. He set the bundle of tinder on the ground and quickly set about striking the flint against the steel, hoping for a spark to land. He gave the steel several strikes, nothing happening at first, before a weak spray of sparks showered down onto the dry kindling. Hans’s own eyes sparked with hope at the sight, but his encouraged expression quickly disappeared when no light caught on the tinder nest. With a huff, he struck the steel again and again, getting a few more flicks of light, but no takers to the dry bundle.
Hans could feel his irritation rising with each failure, the feeling unusually hot and vengeful. After yet another failure, a part of him wanted to rip the little nest apart, maybe even crush the stupid piece of metal between his teeth for good measure.
Han shot away from his task with a surge of dread, frightened by his own, vicious thoughts and the fiery ache creeping into his core. Feeling his anxiety mounting, he took a minute to calm himself down, taking deep breaths despite how needless breathing was for his lungless body. He forced himself to focus on the peaceful afternoon, letting its tranquility flow into him as he worked to let his frustration go.
Having closed his eyes in his brief mediation, he reopened them slowly to look worriedly down at the tools in his hands. Raising a hand to his too-warm chest, he eyed one of the thick pieces of wood set out for the fire.
‘Anything to keep this thing in check . . .’
Resigned, he set the flint down in the grass and picked up a thick, wooden piece from the woodpile. He brought it to his opening mouth, ready to chow down, so to speak, but stopped short.
Clara was still sitting on the other side of the fire pit, strangely quiet and still. In her hands was a glittering length of rope, its crystalized threads shining like veins of multicolored diamonds in the sunlight. She stared down at the dimly glowing cord in quiet uncertainty, its sparkling purples, blues, and pinks reflecting brightly in her eyes.
Lowering the dead branch from his jaws, Hans frowned, his concern turning to her in an instant. She looked almost . . . lost.
“Um, Clara?” he called hesitantly, breaking the girl’s contemplation for a second time. Clara’s wide, blinking eyes looked his way.
“Yes, Hans?”
“Is . . . is everything okay?”
The young woman appeared puzzled at his question. But looking back down at the shimmering threads resting in her hands, she quickly understood.
“Oh . . . oh yes. Everything’s fine.” She muttered, but the cursed nutcracker wasn’t the least bit convinced by her answer. Fortunately for the cursed doll’s peace of mind, Clara spoke up again, her tone hesitant as she observed the crystal-like rope sparkle in her hands. “It’s just . . . I’ve been thinking . . .”
She ran her fingers along the tightly woven threads, tiny specks of light reflecting off its length to alight upon her skin. Brushing against it, the tiny, braided string of Hans’s epaulet around her finger glowed gold in the rope’s refracted light.
“Yes?” Hans prompted, ready to listen.
Clara remained silent at first, still thinking, before giving him a troubled look. “Hans, I still don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this.”
Her nutcracker looked on questioningly as she continued to eye the threads in her hands.
The rope had been ordinary once, human-made from thick linen and worn with age. Clara had found it in a barn and used it in a plan to save the Fox Guardian and innocent people from raiding mice. In the end, the rope had been broken, but the plan worked, the battle won, and Clara had been rewarded for her efforts with the very tool she had used, gifted by the Great Fairy herself when the Fae had shed her disguise as an elderly woman among the people. Even in her weakened state, the powerful being was able to cast one, last spell on the cord of rope that had rescued so many lives, weaving its broken threads back together and creating it anew. Glittering threads of vibrant colors had appeared out of thin air from around the Queen of Fairies and weaved themselves into the mended rope. She proclaimed each of the ghostly strings to be a single strand of each Guardian’s essence, be the Guardian slain or still walking the world.
By the end of the spell, the rope had no longer been of rough and dirtied linen, but of a smooth make like glass of ever-shifting hues, sparkling and glowing beautifully with mysterious power.
Clara could recall distinctly the moment she first held it, the cord’s length drifting into her hands. It had felt incredibly warm at first, the fibers almost humming against her skin. Then that warmth had raced up her arms, surging through her entire body like a hot stroke of lightning. The intense feeling took her breath away and made her heart skip a beat. She had stood paralyzed before the gathered witnesses, the rope gripped tightly in her hands, her body shaking, her breathing heavy, and her thoughts in a whirl. Hans then caught her just as her legs gave out.
That had been over a week ago, but ever since, the enchanted rope had been both a bizarre comfort and a puzzling riddle to Clara. What it was capable of was still a mystery to them both, one that was really beginning to dig at her curiosity.
“The Great Fae said that this would be of great use to me, and that it would be vital to our journey. But . . . but she never told me how!” Some frustration leaked into her voice. She had already performed minor tests on the gift in the days past, but all the results had only pointed to the abilities of a normal length of rope. “What can it actually do? What new properties does it have?”
She looked up at Hans for answers, but alas, he did not have one. He only stood with a thoughtful expression upon his wooden face, his brows hanging low as he tried to think of something.
“I don’t know, um . . . maybe it’s unbreakable? Or . . . ah . . .” He winced, dissatisfied with his own answer the moment it left his mouth. His hand automatically rose to scratch at the back of his head in his unease while he attempted to come up with something more helpful. As he shifted from one foot to the other, Clara considered his answer.
“Perhaps . . .” She mumbled, a dozen other possibilities entering her mind. Raising to her feet, she recalled the Queen’s words.
“To your will, it has been woven.” She softly recited, carefully stepping around her bedding and their small spread of supplies.
“With your strength, it is striven.” She slowly walked around their resting spot, her nutcracker watching with a curious lift of a brow.
“And from your love . . . will it awaken.” She finished, stopping in the open grass across from their setup. The words echoed over and over in her head as she looked up and caught sight of a young tree a few yards away in front of her, standing apart from the others with a trunk only as thick as her leg. She studied it pensively, one of her theories popping into her mind.
‘What if . . .’
She moved the rope between her hands, taking one end and looping it back around its length. Soon, she pulled the end tight around its middle in a loose knot, forming a good-sized lasso. Dangling the loop from one hand and holding the rest in coils in the other, she began to twirl the hanging length, eyeing the stump of a missing branch on the side of the tree. As the rope spin beside her, she concentrated on the feeling of the crystal-like braid in her grasp, mentally reaching out for the warm power that softly radiated against her skin.
A cold breeze stirred the air around her as she positioned herself into a comfortable, ready pose, her hair dancing around her as the wind grew in strength with the lasso’s every rotation. She narrowed her eyes, concentrating past the clattering noise of the mountain squall.
‘To your will, it has been woven.’ That was what the Great Fae had said.
Then maybe . . .
Surrounded by the applause of restless trees, Clara pulled back and threw the rope forward with all her might, sending the looped end sailing towards the tree. Both cursed nutcracker and human girl watched the shining cord fly through the air, Clara holding her breath as she willed it to lunge forward and wrap around the tree like a climbing snake.
Her efforts were rewarded . . . with the sparkling end of the rope smacking limply into the tree’s trunk, dropping onto the grassy ground with a dull thud.
Hans and Clara together fell dead silent, staring wide-eyed at the magical rope shimmering in the dirt and grass. The nutcracker turned to Clara, entirely confused on what she had tried to accomplish, when he saw her start to shake. Alarm burst in his chest, and he stepped towards her in concern.
His apprehension was blown away, however, when he saw Clara biting back a growing smile. Within seconds, she burst out laughing, her amusement ringing warmly through the cool air. Tears peeked from her eyes as her empty hand cradled her aching stomach.
The sound of her laughter. The sight of her snicker-bent figure. The absolutely pitiful result of whatever she had tried to do. Hans couldn’t stop his own laugh from bubbling up from his chest. Her hardy giggles were too contagious, and soon he was snickering along with her.
Being the only one in need of breath, Clara was the first to try calming her relentless chortles, still wiping away tears at the hilariousness of her ridiculous test.
“W-Well, ha ha! I-I-I should have expected that!” She snickered. What she had expected instead was a moment of magic, for some sort of spell and power to be cast from her throw of the rope, given all the other impossible things she had seen on their travels. She had been disappointed with normality instead, but that didn’t stop her from finding her ill-fated effort particularly funny. Another eruption of chiming giggles left her as she thought about how she must have looked, causing another dose of Hans’s own laughter in effect.
Wiping away tears of his own, Hans let his chuckles finally trail off as Clara focused on deep breaths. Regarding her warmly, the nutcracker let out a few more chuckles before speaking.
“Well, maybe we can test it out on a few more things tomorrow before we move on. Maybe we can see how much it can lift or if it can . . .”
His words trailed off, his amusement sliding away as Clara reopened her shining eyes, looking back at him with reddened cheeks and radiating happiness.
Time seemed to slow down. His world narrowed, tapering his focus until all he could see was the beautiful woman standing before him. In an instant, he was captivated by the bright joy that played across her lovely features and sparkled in her warm, captivating eyes . . . until it all drained away into a look of horror.
Her laughter died, leaving only the whistle of the wind in his ears. Her wondrous smile disappeared under a silent scream. Her elegant body froze in place and the round pupils of her chocolate-brown eyes shrank with petrified terror.
Scared confusion suddenly became all Hans knew, as for a terrifying second, that cowardly, irrational part of himself surged forth, screaming at him that his worst fear was being realized.
‘She’s scared of you!’ it cried. This wonderful woman had finally recognized the monster he believed he was uncontrollably turning into. Just a split second of that thought crushed any happiness forged in the laughter of the moment.
But then, within those limping seconds, he realized something far more important.
Her petrified gaze was not aimed at him.
She was looking behind him.
The enchanted rope fell from her hands, dropping slowly through the air as if sinking through water. Everything moved so slowly, ticking by at a snail’s pace as Hans felt a hard pounding in his chest, filling his ears like a thundering drum growing louder and louder.
The rope hit the ground in complete silence. Hans’s own confused voice was the only sound before—.
“Clar—?”
“HANS!” The girl’s scream rang out like the shattering of glass, her terrified shriek bursting through the lull of time with the force of a sledgehammer. Time abruptly raced forward again as if it was fleeing for its life, leaving Hans’s head spinning in the whiplash.
He didn’t have any time to react as Clara sprang towards him.
He didn’t understand. He couldn’t see anything but her.
But she could see. She could see the trap springing around them, her nutcracker’s back to a monstrous shadow lunging out from the forest darkness with sharp teeth and claws. She could see the wicked fangs of a hungry blade racing down to rend his body apart.
But he couldn’t see . . . not until he saw it all reflected for the smallest moment in Clara’s wide eyes as she threw herself into a desperate race to reach him first.
Ravenous howls and war-cried screeches filled the once peaceful clearing.
Hans’s mind went blank.
***CUT TO BLACK***
Chapter/Episode End Credits Song: The Hunter - Adam Jensen