His face couldn't be seen. Even as they grappled and stumbled together around the tiny cottage. Sounds of wordless grunts and snarls, hands slapping flesh, bare feet scuffing over the floorboards. They were face to face, yet she could not see him.
One of their hands collided with something, and it plummeted to the floor with a crash, shattering.
That will surely wake the neighbors!
They battled on. Still, no words were uttered. There was nothing to say. No threats would make her relent, and no amount of pleading would convince him to take pity. He grabbed and snatched and tugged, and she yanked and flailed and spun away. Endlessly. Bumping into the table, the edge of it jabbing painfully into her hip. A pitcher toppled over with a heavy thunk.
Grab it! Hit him with it!
There was no chance to grab for it or anything else. His hands were like lightning, seizing a wrist or a bicep as quickly as she wormed them out of his grasp. Slowly, his large bulk was gaining ground, hovering above rather than beside or behind. Her legs were weakening. The muscles shuddered and crumpled from exhaustion.
He had backed her into the corner now, with her spine pressed into the crevice where the two walls met. A chest was along the wall, and her leg was crushed against it as he leaned down on her with all of his weight. Meaty fingers seized her face and dug into her cheeks.
Her eyes were open, staring up. But she could not see his face.
"No!" she hissed, just before his other hand pulled back and then hurtled towards her like a tree coming down in a wind storm.
The girl awoke with a ragged gasp and a wild spasm of arms and legs. Sweat drenched her face. She could feel the hot droplets running along her temples. Her pillow stank of it.
A quivering hand slid beneath the dampened pillow, and her fingers fumbled at the small, paper pouch. She pulled it out, her chest heaving, lungs frantic for air that didn't seem to come quickly enough. The pouch was brought to her face, pressed to her nose and lips. A green and faintly woodsy scent flooded her nostrils. She laid there, gasping, trembling, and praying to unknown powers.
Hours later, the dawn found her unmoved, curled tightly around herself, the scented pouch clutched in her hand. Blue eyes drifted slowly open, and looked down at the object in her palm. The scent of terror and sweat lingered in the room.
With a heavy sigh of resignation, she sat up, brushing away the still-damp locks that had plastered themselves to her milky cheeks and neck. A small, leather-bound book sat on the table beside the bed, along with a finely sharpened bit of charcoal for writing. Pulling the book into her lap, she thumbed through the pages, stopping at the first one that had no writing upon it. She took the charcoal pencil and wrote three words.
"It didn't work."
