Queen of Ash

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓀𝑒𝓉

Ashlyn scrubbed the floor harder as the sun rose into the sky behind her. The floor of her parent's cottage was splattered with blood after a fruitful day of hunting. The minute her father had stormed into the cottage, a smile plastered on his face and a deer slung over his shoulder, she'd known more chores awaited her. Another sleepless night filled with cleaning and sweeping in order to please her parents.

In the adjacent room, the rustling of sheets told the 18 year old girl to hurry up, unless she wanted to face her mother's wrath. So Ashlyn scrubbed harder at the dark stain on the wooden floor. She knew it wouldn't go away, so she tugged a carpet over it, hoping that her mother wouldn't notice.

"Ashlyn dearest, have you made breakfast yet?" her mother yelled from the only bedroom. She hadn't even bothered to get out of bed. Not even bothered to say good morning or ask how Ashlyn was doing. But the young girl was used to this, used to being ordered around by her parents.

Ever since Ashlyn had turned 18, she was expected to find herself a husband and a house. She was expected to bear children and stay at home. Just like her mother.

"No, I haven't yet," she yelled in response, wiping her hands on her dress. She never liked it anyways. She hated the way it was tight around the waist and made to enlarge her assets. She hated the way she couldn't run without tripping over the grey fabric and face planting into the snow.

"Why don't you make it yourself," she mumbled under her breath, wondering why she hadn't left the house yet.

But the 18 year old knew why she hadn't left her parent's house.

Finding a husband and bearing children didn't appeal to her but her mother continued pushing her to meet the village men. Ashlyn was dragged to tea parties where she was forced to smile and make small talk with the possible husbands. Where she was forced to wear her mother's silky and flowing dresses, embroidered with flowers and made out of the brightest pinks and purples.

Ashlyn would rather spend her day running through the forest, hunting or painting in her secret hideout. She'd rather run free in her favorite blouse and hunting pants, a hunting knife sheathed at her hims. 

She loved the way the blade glinted in the moonlight and sliced through just about anything. The only money she was ever given was to be used to buy dresses and cosmetics to please men, but Ashlyn always saved a few coins for hunting supplies. After several months, she'd acquired a bow, a satchel of arrows and a hunting knife.

She didn't remember who taught her how to hunt, assuming it was her father. But once hunting grew boring, Ashlyn set out to improve herself. She asked around, asked any men in the village for fighting lessons but they flat out refused. They told her to go back to her home and stay inside, for it was too dangerous outside. 

They told no woman could ever shot an arrow or fight with a hunting knife. So she set out to prove them wrong. The young girl would sneak off into the night, and with the stars watching her from above, she trained. She ran miles, jumping over logs and ducking under the overgrown bush. She shot arrows fast that light and learned to wield a knife.

But one day she pushed herself too far. After spending hours in the cold night without water and food, fighting till she was out of breath, Ashlyn tripped and fell, smashing her head against a rock. Or that's what they'd told her the minute she woke up, a wet towel on her forehead and an angry mother peering over her. She couldn't remember anything that had happened before, all those 16 years forgotten.

Yet she still trained at night, hoping one day to use her skills.

Ashlyn scuttled over to the small stove and lit it, placed a pan on the burner and cracked two eggs. She reached for the egg carton but realized there were none left. She would go without breakfast. Again.