His routine cycled again with a new day.

Hari watched the steady sun beams slowly push through the cracks of foliage and then suddenly flush more vivid and colorful just as the sun fell from the sky. The night came, and he was left in darkness again, which signaled the end of his routine. It was a somewhat soothing cycle and he hated that he was comforted by this kind of predictability. But there was one part of his routine he figured he would never hate.

Nestled next to a bookshelf that held only one book on its top shelf was an old desk in which he had to repair himself many times. The wood was clearly aged a dirty brown, covered in scratches and nicks that ran against the lines of the wood grain, nails sticking every which way at the joints of the legs and the underside. In any case of it's condition, it was one of his favorite parts of the forest.

He gently grabbed the only book from the shelf and began writing in his log. A sense of sanity was bound to these pages. The only outlet he was allowed to indulge in was with the ink of a pen and the space that lie between the two covers. He started it when he first came to the forest and he imagined he would have gone crazy without it. Being alone for so long was mentally exhausting. Writing out his day felt like a conversation in a twisted and almost completely uncorrelated way, but it was comforting.

He dipped the quill into the ink bottle and pressed the tip to the yellowed page. He recalled that this was the last bottle of ink from the wagon supply from years ago. The fact that he soon could no longer write was shoved to the back of his mind as he started writing.

June 11th, 1611.

Today I did all I was supposed to do. The crops are watered, though they refuse to grow. The laundry is done, though they don't look any cleaner, and my room is dusted, although it will just collect again tomorrow. I ended the day watching the sunset with Nanna by the ring. Another day I lived, if this can be called "living". Despite my objections, this is my place. I'm not completely alone. Darwin visits me by the spring. I think he's lonely too.

He recounted his other log entries in his book. When he settled in the forest, he found the empty book lodged between the wall and the bedpost. It was empty and waiting for his input. He kept it hidden from Nanna as she would have been fearful of his monstrous ideas being recorded. She said any evidence of him would be punished. Put against her doctrine, he wanted to exist back then and did everything he could to leave a mark on this world different from his affliction. If someone came to this place after his routine has come to a stop, he wants them to know he was here, that he lived in this decrepit place. A concise term alluded him, but he wanted to be something to the effect of Mavis' foot prints in the pen. Mavis died, but he was still there with a mark left in the ground.

He read the passage from last week, a particularly exciting day on paper, taking up several pages more than usual. It was fun to re-live such an event when nothing happens for several days.

June 4th, 1611.

I had just finished my daily routine, fire dead, clothes hung up, and getting ready to sleep. I was brought to the window by a sudden noise outside. Shaken, I grabbed my frying pan in two hands and put my back to the wall beside the window, listening as voices fluttered up to my room, a light from below casting an orange glow to the inside roof through the open window. I heard metal clanging against the sound of shuffling feet, horses making sporadic sounds through their nostrils, hooves scraping against stone. I peered past the frame to the ground below and saw three horses and three men gathered, whispering in vein as everything carries in the constant silence of the woods.

Its the Crest!" one man said, flapping the deteriorated fabric that coiled itself around rusty rods.

"That doesn't look like the crest to me. It's as ripped as my body." The man cackled at his own joke, while I found it boisterous.

"Yes , but the wing remains here- see! Same color!" One man walked about with a lantern as the others stayed on their metaled steeds, examining the wreck of the wagon, then speedily to my hanging clothes. Their words bounced up to the window and their excitement at my clean clothes extracted a series of vibrant hollering despite their earlier attempt to be quiet. Something to the likes of "take it with you". 

The man snatched one of my only remaining shirts and scampered to his horse and trotted away. Something about losing a shirt made me angry, but their fascination with such a garment had me equally intrigued. To fixate on a picture long lost over the years from a wagon seemed to be trivial to me. Who knows what they needed it for, but they never returned, I assume they never will.

It was only later that I panicked over a cursed item leaving the forest, reminded by Nanna's haunting words to accomplish the segregation of him and the world. Who knows what chaos the garment will bring into the world if anything, or who will try to find the source of such a disgrace- but I know that as long as the source doesn't pass the peg barrier, the curse is contained. I assume, however, if they wanted me they would have took me as they had the resources and force to overtake my frying pan. For now I'm just grateful they left.

Hari closed to the book, felt the smooth cover under his fingers. The candle light flickered softly against the large stone walls, casting shadows in the corners of the room. The pulse of the light made him calm and reminded him that his own heart kept beating, and that his routine would live to drag through another day, that he would write again tomorrow. After putting back his journal from whence he plucked it, he leaned against the windowsill with his elbows propping his body up, glancing down and remembering the scene that unfolded below that night. Darwin perched himself on the windowsill beside him, the only thing that has so far survived his wretched forest.

In the wind, the blue tapestry quivered over the broken ribs of the carriage. Like a carcass in the desert, dry bones protruded from the ground in which the vessel made it's last gasp for breath. He looked over his graveyard full of ghostly prints in the mud, bodies of utilities long forgot, sad excuses for plants, and Nanna's broken cross all covered in layers of rot and dust. This place held nothing for him, yet the chains that grappled the legs of each grave held his own ankles. It was his final resting place, and he was growing familiar with that fact his forest was gaining more victims. Everything that came into this place died, and he had no reason to think it wouldn't happen to him. But he was still breathing, unlike the ghosts that wander the forest below his small stone castle. Its like he had an army with him that he commanded, that he couldn't even see yet. So he'd live.

He took in a slow breath of the decayed air before turning back to the table. He took the book from the shelf in his hands again, feeling the fragile cover under his fingertips again. He turned to a new page, knowing a second entry was something he never did due to his limited supplies, but he knew it was important for whoever found such a relic to know such thoughts he had in his head. They needed to know he lived, like he already made apparent, but he also wanted whoever this book will meet upon his death to know how he felt.

He dipped the quill onto the page, and felt as the bird looked on, illuminated by the moonlight and the captivation of a boy writing passionately into the night.

*********

The sound of horse hooves were deafening as he Simba and his men rode down the trail, wedged at the trench where rolling hills met

The sound of horse hooves were deafening as he Simba and his men rode down the trail, wedged at the trench where rolling hills met. Dust was stirred into the air , illuminated by the early sunlight.

"What are your orders when we arrive to the forest, my Prince?" asked one of his men. His father sent a handful of some of his finest soldiers from his Inner Circle of government to help him save the Princess and escort her home. If there was truly magic involved, Simba would need all the help he could get.

"We don't know what to expect about her, her captors, or the forest. We will need to remain vigilant and alert. If this place is as guarded as my father suspects, we will need to be careful to not fall for any traps the witch has laid out for us." His squadron was part of his father's inner circle back at the castle. They were in charge of overlooking the kingdom, acting as part of its sturdy government. Simba was surprised his father gave him such high ranking members of the kingdom's elite, but it was an important and dangerous moment for everyone. He couldn't trust just anyone to aid in such a rescue mission.

Though he was mad at his father for breaking tradition and having him complete a tedious mission to enunciate his leadership, he understood that once it was complete he would have a loving and devoted wife to wed, a kingdom who believes in him, and an even stronger claim to the throne based entirely on his actions. Though it seemed off still. He had thought of the possibility of his father setting him up to fail so he could keep his power, but Simba imagined his father wouldn't have put so much effort into building him up to rule over the years only to deny him the chance at the last minute. It didn't make sense, and his father was a logical man. Kasim was a man of necessity, Simba knew. It wasn't necessary to keep Simba off of the throne as far as he knew, so Kasim wouldn't try to do so.

The carriage he had brought with him was fit for a Princess. It was cushioned well, decorated in the most lavish of finishes, and even had windows to look out to the countryside as it rushes by. It was filled with food for her, as it had taken several days to travel here, and room for both of them to get to know her better on the way home.

He blushed thinking of saving his future bride. He wondered what she would look like. He wondered what their first words would be, or whether she would fall in love with him at a glance. He felt butterflies in his stomach after wondering such things, but he also pondered whether it was that or the bumpy ride of the horse. Though this whole trip he spared even sleeping some nights to get here as quickly as possible, he didn't want to jeopardize his mission now, only an hour away from the projected location. When he was little he would always get sick if he rode a horse for too long, and he never grew out of it. He imagined vomiting in front of her after the rescue would be a bad first impression.

"I want to take a break for a bit," he said to the knight to his left, Nathair. "We are making great time. It wouldn't hurt to fill up our bellies before we fight a witch after all."

Next to a stream that flowed from elsewhere, they set up a small fire with logs to sit on. They cooked some soup with an old pan packed for the trip with some vegetables- he watched as it was made, never needing to make his own food. He was a royal after all. He had never learned to cook. Simba made sure they brought lots of carrots because it is his favorite to eat when it was in season. His stomach began to stop fluttering, but he was still excited about the rescue. Sitting on the log, his leg bounced up and down anxiously. Nathair, the general of the troop, looked over towards the nervous Simba.

"Big day today, huh?" he said pouring the soup into a cup for himself, and handing the second one to Simba. They both took a sip, Simba's leg still bouncing.

"Yeah, almost too big." He paused. "Do you think she'll like me?"

Nathair laughed.

"You mean will she like a handsome young Prince who rescued her from a magic barrier to take her home to live as a Queen? Yeah I think you're safe." He patted Simba's back. "You have nothing to worry about but the rescue. Your Princess will fall head over heels for you. I guarantee it." Simba smiled sheepishly, his leg stopped bouncing.

"I hope so. I just want her to be happy with me." Despite Simba seeing the Princess and the mission in general as a huge derailment to his life plans, she deserved to be happy and he wished to give her a good life. Despite their forced relationship, Simba didn't see how disrespecting her in any way could be helpful. Despite the rewards of this mission, the idea of her being handed to him like some kind of prize didn't sit comfortably. His concern was her consent. Would she want to marry him at all? What if she didn't? What then? The butterflies in his stomach started swarming.

Nathair let out an amused huff from his lungs.

"Well if she knows how lucky she is to have you as a husband, then I know she will be." Simba let out a relieved sigh.

"Thank you," Simba said, sipping his soup again. "I needed that."

Nathair smiled in reply. "Now, what's the plan to rescue her, future King?"

Simba, now bolstered with confidence, said simply:

"Kick the witch's ass."