"Where have you been?" A voice questions from behind. "Rita has been searching for you since morning.

River finishes scrubbing her hands clean, in the bucket filled with ice water, then cups a handful and splashes it over her face in an attempt to cool the rose that shakes in her blood, and shadows her cheeks. "I was washing the linens." She lies smoothly, avoiding the girl's stern stare.

"Is it an emergency?" In all honesty, River's body still judders at the inability to rid herself of the images of intimacy seared in her mind.

River shifts to her side as they pick a path back towards the village, "Not really, it's regarding tonight."

River licks her teeth thoughtfully, squinting up ahead as a group of children rush past them, their wooden swords clashing playfully, "What of tonight?"

"Lilith will be telling the story," River remarks mildly. Dark billows of clouds string from the near distance, moments later the familiar curve of thatched roofs and dried brick chimneys form as their village comes into view. "Will you be done with chores by then?"

River hums absentmindedly, mentally checking over the numerous chores bestowed upon her that day. Despite the cool autumn weather, her mistress needed the linens washed and draped, the kitchen scrubbed clean and two chickens slaughtered for the feast at night.

The blood moon practice is a ritual celebrated every six months, bi—annually. A festival in praise to the gods who have granted them yet another year of peace and prosperity, away from the wretched clutches of the beasts that roam beyond the borders.

They have not been caught despite the growing tensions as villages burn to ashes, leaving behind no trace of life in their wake. No one survives the attacks and no one would for the commander that led the beasts was known to be callous and merciless . No one knows of his name or origin.

Only a scarce handful that survived to tell the tale of destruction can recall the man's physique. Even then, terror had struck their hearts and minds rendering them mute.

River scarcely worries over the attacks for they seem so far away. Before she would have moments of suffocating anxiety whilst lying wide awake in the dark, straining to hear the wolves beyond. Sometimes she would hear it — a howl so low, almost drowned out by the wind, and other times she simply shrugged it off as a trick of the ear.

Yet as time went on, worries of wolves and beasts carefully tucked themself into the cranny of her mind as she had other situations to stress over.

She knew they were safe.

Their leader had trained the best of warriors; both men and boys, who patrolled their borders night and day. Among those boys stood one that had always drawn her attention. Adriel. Tall, lanky, sure—footed yet witty Adriel. A mop of dark curls and beguiling blue eyes that smiled into hers from across the field.

Watching the couple make love beneath the drooping willow tree, River could not help but place herself in that position. Adriel above her. His calloused, warm hands skimming the length of her legs and thighs, his hot mouth praising the skin on her neck. He would see her scars like those of beauty, her dark unruly hair as something magical and bright. And he would whisper his promising delights whilst slowly thrusting into her, filling her with his whole being ——

"River!" The hiss of a woman startles River and she glances up just like her friend, Eleni, scuttles in the opposite direction. Warily, River watches her mistress from a distance, standing beside the small wooden home. Rita, her mistress of eight years, is a small, fat woman in black with a gold chain descending to her waist and vanishing into her belt, leaning on an ebony cane with a tarnished, gold head.

Her skeleton is small and spare; perhaps that was why what would have been merely plumpness in another is obesity in her. She looks bloated, like a body long submerged in motionless water. Her eyes are lost in the fatty ridges of her face, they look like two small pieces of coal pressed into a lump of dough as they move from one passing figure to another until finally, they land on River.

"Where have you been, girl?" Her voice is as tangible as the stench that permeates from her. A soft wheezing sound strangles the lady.

"Down by the river—"

The lady waves a chubby, liver—spotted hand dismissively, "the linens are still unwashed, have them done before dusk."

Pressure grows in her mouth, causing her muscles to flex and twitch. River lowers her eyes in deference as she speaks, "Yes, mistress." She stands, hands clasped before her and waits for the woman to turn and leave, conscious of the eyes that drag over her figure. Her mouth twists into something short of a snarl before pivoting and waddling away.

River watches the lone woman's retreating figure spitefully before sighing softly and turning on her way to collect the laundry.

The day's weather had been fine from dawn, cooler as the sun rose and languidly cooled even further whilst it set. River spent the majority of her day by the river, washing her mistress's shit—stained linens. A widow with gaps in her teeth caused by long years of childbearing—and no living child to show for it, Rita spends her final years living isolated from the rest of the village.

When River was first purchased by the lady, her days had been riddled with endless anxiety and fear. The beatings had been as consistent as her lack of discipline — myriads of rules that River, then ten years old, had failed to understand or live up to. Once she woke up five minutes later and was forced to sit in the river, naked, at dawn when the water was as its coldest.

Another time she had been caught eating before the mistress and was locked in her room for three days with neither food nor water. River had learned her position beneath the woman's roof.

It took eight years of consistent growth to finally understand what she liked and did not like. How she preferred her linens to be washed, the type of herbs in her tea, how many brush strokes and the amount of pressure applied on her soft ageing scalp.

The punishments abated with time, perhaps because River had finally mastered every technique leaving no fault. Or maybe it was age that finally crept on the mistress, arthritis aching her joints rendering her unable to lift a cane. All that was left is the grating lash of her tongue.

Dusk settles, casting the cloud in red hues of crimson. River hangs the final piece of clothing, casting tiger orange glows across the billowing sheets. Her head tilts up at the faint sound of beating drums, thudding against the earth — a signal of the ceremony yet to start.

Plucking the basket from the ground, River makes her way back to the cottage humming tunelessly to a folk song, unaware that this would be her last night home.