After the initial awkwardness of trying to climb onto his back, Fellabee settled in for the long ride ahead of them.


    <b>? ? ?</b>


    Trees whizzed by as Vincent trudged through the snowy taiga. Every step was a step closer to the blood curdling screams that slowly waned. Like a distant echo in the mountains, the screams would play themselves back in my mind, again and again.


    Every step was a step of defiance. The snow tugged and dragged against my every step. Fear pumped through my veins. Each breath, a toxin. The wind blew against me, ushering me to give in to its embrace. It felt like everything wanted me to go back. To go anywhere but forward.


    My fingertips felt the gnawing bite of numbness. My ears stung. My nose itched with blood. It took everything in me to keep moving. So why did I?


    To me, fear is like a river. If you find yourself in it, you either fight against the current, or go wherever it takes you.


    In the past, I couldn''t leave my room. The current was simply too strong. I had been washed downstream to a cave where there was no way out. I was shattered. Beaten. Dull. I couldn''t cut through the current. I was a fish washed ashore. So used to fear consuming me. I didn''t know what to do with my own comfort.


    In that cave, I learned something of invaluable importance. Overcoming the current doesn''t require a stronger willpower. After all, it was never a battle to begin with. I never left from the side of the river. I climbed my way out of the cave. How? I learned comfort can be a far deadlier poison than fear.


    If fear wants to sharpen my senses, I let it. If fear demands I think deeper, I do. If fear demands my attention, I settle it.


    If I can''t focus, I need to deal with it.


    Fear can be a toddler.


    Calm its concerns and it goes to sleep.


    This act of moving forward is exactly that. Oh, my imagination is this scared of what''s ahead? Let''s see what reality says. If the fear is warranted, then we can run.


    <b>? ? ?</b>


    Have you ever heard the sound of chopping wood? There''s something calming about it.


    The neat snap of the log as the axe cleaves its way through the oaken grain.


    It used to be a happy thought for me. Like a crackling fireplace. And yet, here I was. My beautiful memories twisted by the blade.


    <b>? ? ?</b>


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Cracks and pops of air pockets rupturing amongst chips of bone pierced the gentle silence. Splintering shards burst through sinew, adding nuance to the macabre, twisted melody. Grating, churning, and rhythmic jerking of skin, muscle, and tendon painted a gruesome scene upon my eyes and ears. A semi-blunt wood cutting axe swung into the sky.


    <b>? ? ?</b>


    A petite figure stood over a bloody, putrid pulp. The very sight of it summoned bile from the depths of our guts.


    Unconcerned, the petite lady in red continued her macabre dance with blood and snow.


    A sweet, fruity stench hung upon the cold winter air. The lingering pungency of bile gradually mixed with undertones of metal. The rich presence of blood coated the snow in a brilliant hue. Nature''s art was certainly an acquired taste.


    I felt nauseated and revolted in a way that was difficult to describe. It didn''t smell as foul or gutturally churning as first expected.


    Rather, the overwhelm came from a deep, instinctual rejection.


    It felt as if every fiber of my being screamed to run.


    Screamed to forget.


    Run away.


    Get the fuck out of here.


    And yet, we stayed. Both Fellabee and I stayed. Motionlessly, silently, we stayed. We witnessed the scene unfold before us with a careful, measured reverence. When a person has a gun to your head, every thought matters. It was like time slowed down. Every breath was felt. Every motion, known. Even a twitch of my finger did not escape my purview.


    <b>? ? ?</b>


    As the carving ceremony ended, the petite statured woman looked up toward the sky and sighed a laboured breath. It had been hard work. Sweat beads froze as they made their way down her unblemished skin. Her arms laid resting, stained a vibrant scarlet. The axe hung downward from one hand. It too was thirsting for rest after a job well done.


    She wiped her brow with callous disregard, and looked at us.


    "Why hello there~", she said, brandishing a warm, welcoming smile. Her voice as sick as honey.


    Fellabee was the first to speak. Her poise tempered to an obscene perfection.


    "What are you going to do with that miss?"


    "What? This?"


    The lady in red performed a curtsey. Spreading out her arms to encompass the result of her hard work.


    "Yes miss", Fellabee answered. Her tone direct and respectful.


    "A child''s love is strong, you know? It holds incredible power. Power I alone cannot muster."


    The lady picked up an arm and gently caressed it.


    "These.. They will serve to bind her to this place. And she in turn, will permit none to enter her domain. It''s quite beautiful and tragic, isn''t it.."


    Tears began to well up in her eyes, eventually streaming down her pale cheeks. After a brief sniffle, she wiped them away, staining her face with a stroke of scarlet.


    "It is quite tragic miss.. Truly.."


    Fellabee''s and my heart sank together. This woman.. She has lost her mind. Yet, I knew she must know what happens. She was trying to do the right thing, right? Was Fenrir just as crazy as her?


    Is she insane? Has she actually lost her mind? Perhaps she was truly living.


    What kind of dangerous thoughts am I having?? Am I still suffering from madness myself..


    But then I thought about it. She''s unperturbed by the happenings of the world. She''s just cried because of the tragedy she''s caused. Yet, she''s unremorseful. Not because she feels nothing, but because she truly believes she did her best to try and delay, or stop, the inevitable. She doesn''t reject her feelings, she fully savours them. Whether it''s pain or pleasure. She understands that fear isn''t the only river. All feelings fade. Life is perseverance. Perseverance through every river, and every storm.


    Does she cry because she feels just how horrific what she has done is?


    How it will impact that child?


    Does she pity the child?


    Does she feel justified in her killings?


    I couldn''t hold it in any longer.


    "Miss", I said, conviction flooding me.


    "If doing this changes nothing, would you still do it?"