the secret of distance

Chapter 18

Notes:

"We all have forests on our minds. Forests unexplored, unending. Each one of us gets lost in the forest, every night, alone."

—Ursula K. Le Guin

She's in the woods.

Not just any woods, but the woods surrounding the Salvatore School, and she knows it because she's been here a hundred—no, a thousand —times before.

Always as a wolf, chasing nothing but air as her paws pound into the ground beneath her, with only the moon to guide her.

But Hope's not a wolf, now. She's painfully human, and she's not good enough in this form. Not nearly quick enough. Not quick enough to hide from the thing chasing her.

She doesn't know what it is, just that it's faster than her and she doesn't know how much longer she can run for. How much longer she can go on for.

She forces herself to keep running, but it's no use. It doesn't matter how long she's been at this, or how fast she is, because she knows she hasn't moved a single inch.

The trees around her are the same, have always been the same, and Hope has the breathless thought that she's been running in circles. She doesn't even know if she's still being chased.

Panting, gasping, begging for air, she turns around to catch a glimpse of the thing behind her, but—

There is nothing there.

Nothing but trees and grass and the dark blue of the night sky. Hope stops short and furrows her eyebrows in surprise, leaning over to catch her breath. Her relief is short-lived.

She turns back around and immediately scrambles backwards, heart shooting up into her throat at the sight of the Timor Tunores in front of her—ghastly and pale and looking every inch the monster it is.

"You cannot run from me, Tribrid," it bellows, a nasty smirk on its face that Hope can barely see through the bits of skin and bone hanging off of its face.

Hope tries to summon her magic, tries to shift into her wolf, but both have seemed to abandon her. Only she is here, and she is not fucking good enough. Never good enough.

The Timor Tunores leaps forward with its hand outstretched in front of it, wrapping its claws around Hope's neck, and suddenly she can't breathe. Can't feel anything but the sharp edges of inhumane nails, can't smell anything but the monster's vile breath, can't do anything but scream and choke and die.

Die.

Hope startles awake with a silent gasp, the collar of her shirt soaked in sweat. She immediately sits up and moves away so that her back touches the headboard of her bed, eyes bright with blazing gold, darting around the walls of her room in panic.

It's pitch black.

It must be after midnight, at least. What time is it?

A hand—is it her own?—pulls at her collar and curls fingers and nails around the flesh of her throat. It moves and scratches the skin beneath it, as if checking for injury. When Hope finds nothing, she takes a deep breath through her mouth that sounds too much like a sigh and a whimper all at once.

Damn it.

She runs her hand through the roots of her slick, sweat-laden hair before lowering it back down and wiping it on her pajamas. Blinking fast and then slow, she forces her pounding heart to calm down.