The crunching of the soldiers’ boots on leaves far below her warns Arai to be quieter. Just one loud creak could alert them of her presence. Otherwise she should be fine, well hidden. Adults could be so stupid; no one ever looked up, especially not the numbskulls her father sent after her.

Even so….. Arai bites the inside of her cherry lip. Any raven black haired girl running around the treetops in a frilly, petal pink dress would be conspicuous. If one of the hired men grew enough of a brain to look up or she jumped onto a branch wrong, her freedom would come to an abrupt end. She tries brushing away her fears; she is as at home in trees as her mother was hosting one of her dreadful tea parties. After all, hadn’t her favorite pastime been to visit the birds’ nests in her mother’s orchards? Couldn’t she, by age six, travel across those same orchards without touching the ground or being detected by Mother’s tea parties as she passed by them? She’s not such a klutz as to snap a twig. She can stay concealed even with the pink dress.

The footsteps move away, but she keeps going; another group would be coming through at any moment.

The momentary forest hush causes Arai’s thoughts to wander. She wonders what her father told those men combing the woods. Do they think her a helpless maiden waiting to be rescued from the fears of being lost? A king would never tell his subjects that his only daughter has run away. It might ruin his reputation. Anyway, why would he tell the truth when he had lied so much to them about her childhood?

They should have the right to know about their princess, about the odd birthmark on her shoulder blades that so greatly affected her life. It shouldn’t have been hidden; all the times she would coax birds to play with her, bring a newborn bird to her mother, or even find all the pieces of an eggshell for her collection. Their subjects should’ve been allowed to know more about her, about them.

Even if her father hadn’t covered up a majority of her childhood, he would never tell those who hunted her that she had ran from him. It would bring him too many difficulties if anyone else knew what she had screamed at him – that she didn’t care who it was to; there was no way she was going to get engaged at age ten. So she left. She sprinted through her mother’s orchards to reach the woods.

Those woods are getting darker now, and almost even more solemn than before, if that is possible. Arai slows to a stop, her evergreen eyes darting around, searching for the next branch. It is farther than she is used to jumping, but she is sure she can make it. A short running jump and she’s airborne between the two trees.

It looks like she’s going to make it, if only she can gain a few more inches. She’s going to fall short. In the instant of the adrenaline rush and a light rain of feathers, dark wings appear out of her back.

She flaps them like crazy, but they aren’t strong enough to win against gravity. Arai feels herself falling, faster and faster as exhaustion starts taking over.

The impact with the ground instantly knocks her unconscious. Her now crooked wings dissolve into black wisps, starting at the tips going inwards until the base is gone, leaving her birthmark as the only indication wings had been there.

Twenty minutes later, a man comes out of the brush and examines her, just to disappear back into the tree line. He shortly returns with two younger males and what looks to be a makeshift stretcher. Laying her carefully onto the stretcher, the two teens then pick it up, and the three men disappear the way they came with Arai now cradled in the sling.

***

The brook bubbles in Arai’s ears as she sleeps in the beautiful day’s sunshine. Over eight years have passed since she escaped from that castle her parents called home. She can’t figure out why she hadn’t left sooner; she had found everything she ever wanted in these woods.

The people who had rescued her were her family now. They had raised her, made her who she was. When they had found her, they had thought her to be sent by angels. They said she had fallen from heaven, which was true enough; she had fallen, and if heaven is paradise then the treetops are her version of heaven.

Arai fingers the dress made for her by the women of her chosen family. She has many brothers and sisters in the community, something she could have only dreamed of before. And then there is the community’s own mother hen, “Ma,” who had been a better mother than her actual mother.

“Lady Arai, it’s almost midday.” Of course one mustn’t forget Sarah. “Lady” Arai saved her from…. let’s just say an “unpleasant occupation,” so Sarah works as a sort of assistant now. At the moment she is trying to find a dry, level place to set down the wicker basket draped over her left arm.

The aroma of fresh baked bread and smoked venison, intensified by the summer heat, draws Arai out of her daydreams.