#YLFA SNORGELSSON / verse / main.

[stormlit]

❝ huh. ❞ ylfa chews her lip as she walks, thinking it over. she wishes mother were here; he would know what to do with all this information, he could write it in his book and make magic out of it. maybe help stop this upside down being so wrong. all ylfa can do is hit things...and become kind of messed up animals. she's not sure either is particularly useful, here, and she doesn't want to scare her new friend. they are friends, right? ylfa's not really an expert on making them. ❝ in my world, we call it the times of shadow. where everything's dark and wrong, and everyone's getting the bad endings to their stories. except there, it's the same world, not a separate one. but it sounds like the same, right? it's gotta be the same. ❞ maybe it's all leaking into each other?

she's really not the smart one. ylfa doesn't know why she ended up here. but elle is nice, and she's glad she did. probably. it might be really bad, at home, and she doesn't exactly trust gerard to protect timothy the way she would.

if she's being honest, ylfa doesn't quite follow elle's family, or naming journey, or whatever it's called, but it seems sensible to keep learning what this world is like, so she listens. ❝ my best friend's my grandma. she's called ylfa too, i was named after her. she's dead, ❞ she adds, as casually as she can. ❝ a wolf ate her, so i ate the wolf. i mean, after he told me to. ❞ when they get back to elle's cabin, she's probably going to expect ylfa to take her cloak off, given that it's wet through; maybe it's best that ylfa start sharing a little about herself, first. she doesn't think little girls here have wolf ears, but she does.

❝ oh. it looks like home. ❞ it looks like her grandma's cabin, without the little garden, the net curtains on the windows. it looks like any other cabin, really, but ylfa had no idea what houses here would look like. this is familiar. ❝ i'm always hungry. i hope it's because i'm about to have a growth spurt and take the next step on the puberty ladder. i like eggs. ❞

        “kind of,” elle replies. “the upside down is...like this place, but wrong. dark and bad.” in truth, she doesn't fully understand how the upside down is connected to hawkins, or how big it is compared to the world. is there an upside down chicago? an upside down new york? she doesn't know, and how could she. she's gone farther than that in the bath, so maybe those places do exist. maybe there is an upside down paris.

        she pushes her way through the trees, careful not to let any of the branches whip back and hit ylfa. “not everyone is a number. just me.” the others in the lab had been called by numbers too, of course, but she hasn't met anyone from outside the lab who is. “my boyfriend is called mike, and my best friend is max,” she explains. “my name was jane, first. before papa took me, and called me eleven.” a pause. she's not sure why she's sharing so much so fast. “elle was mike's idea.”

        as they head back out of the deep woods, elle clicks the flashlight on so they can see where they're headed. “i live with my dad in a cabin. his name is hopper.” she glances back at ylfa. “he's asleep now, so we should be quiet going in.” the cabin comes into view, the beam of yellow light passing over the front porch. “are you hungry? i can make eggos.”

[stormlit]

@highaver

it is a warm day in hapley when a young girl in a red cloak makes her way to ferelden's castle and demands to see the prince. she almost doesn't know why she's here, in a place so far from her home, but ylfa's felt a pull, and so her feet followed the path until she arrived. she waits, now, in some grand hall, staring up at a portrait bigger than she is. ❝ is this meant to be you? ❞ she asks, as footsteps approach. ❝ why's his forehead so big? ❞

[stormlit]

❛   company .   silently  sit  with  my  muse  to  comfort  them. / for ylfa from gerard

meme. @storystrung

she doesn't say anything as gerard comes to sit beside her, just turns her head to acknowledge him before going back to looking at the fire, knees hugged to her chest. ylfa is brave and strong and more wolf than girl...but she is still a girl, somewhere deep inside. she thinks she's losing her more every day, though. she wonders if he feels the same; if he feels more frog than prince. what happens, if they stop the princesses and the authors? do they just...go back to their stories? ylfa doesn't think she can ever be that girl again, nor does she think she wants to. that life is in a book that has been tossed into a fire.

if she wanted to, she knows gerard would let her cry, or rant, or something. ylfa's not really sure what she's feeling, though, she's just...pensive. and tired. she doesn't want to think about how hard everything is, how the fight is worthwhile and yet turning her into something new, any of it. tomorrow will come, and there will be time. ❝ what's living in a palace like? ❞ she asks instead. ❝ rosamund's nice and everything when she says i could be a princess, but palaces are so fancy. i'd be scared to touch anything. ❞

[stormlit]

this is not the story ylfa is supposed to be in, but she has to wonder if it's the one lady éowyn should be in, either; is there a version of her story where the orcs don't come, and things aren't bad, and the men don't lock a group of women and children in a room in the vain hope that they survive? does she have a happy ending? it's not something ylfa can ask, of course, but she has to wonder. maybe this all is this world's version of the times of shadow. maybe there is a group of people here, like ylfa's friends, trying to fight the encroaching darkness with nothing but bows and steel.

❝ a bottleneck? i'm good at those. those orcs won't know what hit them. —my axe. it'll be my axe that hits them. ❞ she will help. for as long as she is here, for as long as it takes to find her way back home, ylfa will do whatever she can to help keep these people safe. (she has to wonder: will the wolf find her, if she dies here? will she get to wake up again? she doesn't know. but death doesn't want to get his jaws into her yet, and so she'll do everything she can to avoid finding out.)

but there is no fighting yet, only waiting. ylfa doesn't want to think about the crying kids or the restless need to break out of here and fight. she can't do that, so she listens to éowyn instead. ❝ why don't you do it anyway? ❞ she asks, genuinely curious. some of the greatest fighters she's ever seen have been women. they were still good fighters, even if they were trying to kill her. ❝ it's been peaceful for the men, too, but they still fight. you'd be a really good shieldmaiden. that's such a good title. ❞

        éowyn is not quite surprised by ylfa's questions. their time together has proven the girl to be quite astute, even and especially in matters of battle. “there is a passage in the back of the cavern that leads through the mountains. should the worst happen, we will send the women and children along and cover their escape.” she nods to the doors leading back out into the keep. “we will use the cavern's entrance as our choke point, and keep the orcs occupied long enough for the others to flee.” she has thought about this a great deal.

        what she does not mention is the fact that she imagines they both must know: neither éowyn nor ylfa is likely to survive, if things come to that. they will fall defending what is left of rohan's people.

        storm-grey eyes return to ylfa's face as she declares herself a good defender, slight smile returning to the white lady's face. “and i believe it,” éowyn says. she had, after all, argued with her brother as to why a girl ylfa's age should be allowed to carry around such a weapon. he assumed she could not possibly know how to use it, whereas éowyn knew better. ylfa already has the bearing of a warrior, despite her age.

        “the women of rohan fought as fiercely as our men, once,” éowyn says, the slightest tone of wistfulness in her voice. “my mother told me stories of the shieldmaidens. her tales inspired me to pick up the sword.” she shakes her head. “but much time has passed since then. times of peace, where our contributions were needed less at war, and thus our potential skills in battle were forgotten.”

[stormlit]

balfour is right, of course. ylfa can't really pretend otherwise, even if she wanted to. even if it wouldn't feel like lying to an authority figure—and herself. but it weighs heavily on her all the same, the fear. the right thing shouldn't also be the hard thing, it just seems unfair. but this is a world of unfairness and difficulty. nothing is easy. nothing is fair. if it was, a little girl wouldn't be here at all.

❝ yeah, ❞ she says quietly, fiddling with the end of her perfect, neat braid. ❝ he was really cool about me being a werewolf. he knows things were bad. ❞ timothy's been there for her, he won't suddenly want nothing to do with her ever again...right? ylfa wishes she wasn't scared. the wolf grumbles inside her chest, reminding her that she doesn't have to be. things are scared of her now.

❝ you can tell them. i wouldn't ever want to hurt any of you. ❞ she may be strong, but they're powerful too, her friends. if she got close, they could subdue her. and friends don't just give up. they've all been through bad shit. ❝ i don't really think there's anything that can help. it only happened once. it was just...a bad once. like, you only need to chop off your hand once for it to be bad, or something. ❞

The others deserved to know. They did. If Ylfa thought herself a danger - even if Balfour did not wish to believe it to be true - then the others should at least be aware of such a thing. But she had asked him not to say a word, and she had been through enough, these past weeks. Things no child should have to see or have to do.

He didn't know what to do. There was nothing good here, nothing fair or simple to navigate. Any decision that any of them made would undoubtedly feel like the wrong one - or, worse, the only one they could have made and equally horrific. What could he tell Ylfa? To make it better. To spare her something.

He rubbed at his beard and sighed.

"You do not have to tell them, Ylfa," he said, finally. His tone was firm but not without affection, reassurance. "But you should. Perhaps just even Timothy. And if you allow me to tell the others, I will explain that you are no threat and they have nothing to fear. But we might all help you better, if we know."

[stormlit]

oh, okay, this is the kind of world where they expect little girls to be good and stay on the path and not be wolves in a red cape, taking the hits because they can, got it. her world was like that too, but the times of shadow have made monsters of them all, no exceptions. ylfa's a terrible liar, but if she just leaves out some of the truth, the part about different stories and werewolves, that's not a lie. right?

she wishes mother goose were here to ask. he'd know what to say.

❝ not alone-alone, but like...they're at range. ❞ or gerard. is it so strange? ylfa doesn't know if magic exists here, but clearly monsters do, and where they are, people forced to fight them follow. even those who should just be visiting their grandmas and losing at gin rummy. she shrugs, trying to be noncommittal. ❝ don't worry, i can handle myself. what were those? ❞

the best part? would it be the best part if she wound up hurt — worse than? skilled or not, he'd worry about the recklessness of childhood, the difficulty in recognizing the real cost of a fight. he'd have not known it in childhood himself, regardless of how much he'd tried to emulate heroes in the old stories.

he drives his sword through the middle of one of their enemies, forced to kick it to pull the blade free, just as he sees her dart around him to take on more of them. he can't stop her. as soon as the club hits her, he swings for the monster, catching it between the neck and shoulder.

the way she jumps back into the fight is impressive ( though the way she bares her teeth feels far less that of a human child ).

❝ who is asking you to fight alone? ❞ had she been older, it might not have been so odd to see her wield an axe and talk of fighting by herself. he feels like every second he's spent with her, he's had more questions come up. they finish the last of the enemies and aragorn catches his breath, sheathing the sword once more and turning his eyes to her. ❝ don't worry, it's already been forgotten, ❞ he assures her, but pauses, ❝ are you out here by yourself? ❞

[stormlit]

there was a time, both not that long ago and in a whole other life, where timothy was the only person ylfa had. when things went bad, he was there, instead of turning against her and joining a mob armed with torches and pitchforks, and she would do anything for him. anything at all. it's true she has friends now (even if most of them are grown ups), but mother goose is special. when she's really afraid — and fear does curl in her belly, whatever bravado ylfa might have — it's him that makes her feel safe.

if he wants to muddle through braiding her hair, if he wants to cling onto the last vestiges of a past life, she's okay with that. more than, even; ylfa loves to spend time with him.

❝ i'd be okay with short hair, if we have to. 'cause i don't think your book teaches braiding. ❞ the things they have done...only to be humbled by a simple plait. ylfa bets rosamund can do them better, but though she wants to bond with her at any given moment...she likes that this is their thing, her and timothy. he could never be a replacement for grandma, but it's nice to have someone else look out for her in that way. ❝ a cosy nook, ❞ she teases with a little disbelief, following him over to it. ❝ is cosy possible? ❞

Timothy's smile wrinkles at the corner of his eyes as he beams with as much excitement as his face can hold. It's important to him that she has this moment. That they both do. Things are so different and they will continue to change and flip and twist and turn and -- he settles his mind before it spirals. Knowing all that he knows can be a heavy burden in the least suspecting of times. But right now it is important to focus on Ylfa, perhaps more for him than her.

The Goose had told him something that has been etched into his mind ... heart ... the very essence of his soul. You wished for a way to save your son, but I think in some ways you view the world as your children. You take care of people and things. A truth so striking even he did not see it before it fell upon his lap. There is a selfish need within him to preserve something childlike within Ylfa. Especially in times of shadow.

" Oh, ye of little faith. " he teases warmly, though reaches into his back pocket to produce a small pair of scissors. " Of course I have them, I've learned to always have a backup plan! " a hearty laugh escapes him as he claps Ylfa on the shoulder with his free hand. " Come on. Over here, I found a particularly cozy looking nook. "

[stormlit]

trust is a big deal, so of course she says, ❝ it's not a big deal. ❞ there's not been a lot of people in her life that ylfa has been able to trust, and with grandma gone now, balfour's one of the few. she's not sure she even realised it until she said it, but she does trust him. she feels safe with him, like she's meant to with mr woods, the social worker, except he never bothers coming. she shrugs, and kicks the ball she's been dribbling towards the goal as hard as she can; as usual, she has too much force and it goes flying over the crossbar. ❝ fudge! sure. yeah. totally. everything's bright and breezy. i don't think my mum wants me to come home. can we do tackling? or just...go for a walk or something? ❞

@stormlit asked: “I trust you.”

ㅤ“ Yeah? ” Balfour smiles at that, some genuine and warm thing. Ylfa is a good kid, if not something of an absolute terror when you put her on the pitch. He'd not really known what he was getting himself into when he agreed to do some coaching at various schools - but if he can help her out at all, in any way, as he seems to be doing, then Balfour reckons it's worth it. “ Well, that means a lot coming from you. ” He watches her face for a moment, and then has to ask: “ Is everything alright? ”

[stormlit]

❝ oh. ❞ okay, so, evidence of horseless carriages aside, maybe this isn't a world where all the people know about magic. maybe the monsters here aren't known by normal people in normal villages living normal lives, but are hiding away, so it's harder to talk about. maybe he thinks she's a normal little girl, too, like her story was written to be about happiness and family, and not about wolves in the night. but it wasn't. ylfa knows better.

❝ i know about weird stuff, if it helps. you don't have to be all, i'm going to shatter this girl's view of the world and make her reassess everything she's ever been told by grown ups who say they want to keep her safe but really just want her to be frickin' docile. that happened when a wolf ate my grandma. ❞ there's no vampires in her world, but ylfa can guess, in a way. this boy who isn't a boy, who can't be much older than rosamund but who carries some of the same darkness. don't they all? they've all been touched by the shadow.

whatever this world is called, ylfa had hoped the times of shadow hadn't made it here, yet. but maybe it has.

she chews on her lip, considering for a moment. ❝ okay, but you gotta promise you won't run away or try to kill me or anything. ❞ ylfa considers sticking her pinky out, but that could be a rude gesture here, so she doesn't elicit the promise. instead, she pushes her hood back, showing the wolf ears it was keeping hidden. ❝ this isn't—it's not just the ears, i can fully— ❞ she holds her hands up like claws, ❝ —but that seems like bad manners. ❞

lucy would really be better-suited to this situation. she's the one who looks at the world with a real sense of wonder, and isn't afraid to put herself out there. edmund— not as much. too practically-minded, these days, and not nearly as friendly.

well— he doesn't look as friendly, to strangers, anyway.

❝ i don't really know how to explain it, ❞ he says, honestly. dead but not-dead, a living corpse fed by the blood of others, stuck in one place forever— none of it sounds especially appealing. or like someone a person would want to continue a conversation with. edmund grimaces, more than smiles. ❝ what sort of monster do you mean? ❞

[stormlit]

ylfa is not the girl other girls want to spend time with; this she learnt long ago. and snow white isn't exactly ylfa's age, and she's not exactly like the kids in pottingham, with their mean words and disdain for ylfa's grandma-fostered interests...but ylfa still thought she would be in the background, here. they are with princesses, after all; this is far more rosamund and gerard's area than her own. she just thinks they're all really cool. snow white, too. the sort of dead thing is really interesting.

❝ kind of, yeah. i thought you'd want to do princess stuff. ❞ she is not a princess. and if ylfa aches for a tiara, just a little, it's still probably for the best; whoever heard of a werewolf princess? but she can talk to snow. she can have tea. ❝ definitely. grandma says the extra lump doesn't count if you crumble it up first, so it's not like it's really bad for you. ❞ already ylfa seems more relaxed. ❝ are there proper tea rules? ❞

        snow white is cunning enough to know when someone doesn't quite trust her, and she has to remind her heart that this is not her rose red. at least, not yet. this little red clearly has no memory of the stories where they had grown together as two flowers with their roots intertwined. but snow remembers. “we can talk about anything. is it so strange that i would be curious about you?” the princess thinks she understands the motives of most of ylfa's party, but ylfa herself remains a mystery. “do you take extra sugar in your tea?” she asks, then admitting: “i've always liked mine more sweet than is proper.”

[stormlit]

their conversation isn't forgotten; balfour's words will echo in ylfa's mind for a long time to come, she thinks, something she can hold onto. it's strange, to have people, when she only had her grandma, before all of this, nobody else she could hold onto and trust completely—and as far as she knows, she never died and got reborn alongside grandma, like she has with her friends here. it's just different.

so the conversation's not forgotten, but ylfa's happy to flip to the next chapter and think about something else. there's no time to wallow, in this life; every day they wake up and every day the horrors come. the hunger, too. but this is one thing she can help to sate, and it does ylfa good to be useful, to do something that will benefit the entire group. it's all too easy to feel powerless, even when there's a wolf inside you.

❝ henry's better, but i bet timothy can still make something good. ❞ she can't cook, pinocchio's made of wood, pib's a cat, and everyone else is royalty who were waited on; timothy's kind of their only option for something edible. ❝ i won't, i promise. ❞ ylfa sniffs the air. ❝ this way. did you hunt, when you were at home? i think princes do that. ❞

Balfour smiled as Ylfa got to her feet, something sad hiding in the back of his eyes but glad to have distracted her for the time being. She was too young for this. Both of the children, Rosamund... Life cared very little about such things, however. All that a person could do was get through it. Get through it and help those you were bound to through these trials as well.

He got to his feet with a grimace. Life moved ever forward. And they were hungry.

"Mm, well, we best hope Timothy is a good cook, then, mustn't we?" The rest of them were children, animals or royal fools. What an odd band they were. "Come, then. Show me what a fine hunter you are, Ylfa Snorgelsson. We'll feast like kings tonight and everything will seem better than it does now. Just do not stray too far from me, understand?"

[stormlit]

❝ can princes not wear pigtails? is there some kind of princes' rulebook that says so? ❞ ylfa's not sure he really counts as a prince, out here. none of them are the people they were, before, and none of their titles or status matter. for those of them who had that, anyway; some of them were just normal people who grew up dreaming of castles and princesses and didn't realise that those castles could be so dark and crumbling.

they're just people, trying to survive long enough to make a difference. sometimes it's hard to remember that they were ever people at all; the little things, like this, help. ❝ uh. so. i didn't magically learn how to do braids well. i was kind of hoping i would. so i wouldn't call it dignified. ❞

Balfour laughs gently, and pretends to make to swat her hand away as if she's being some great nuisance. Vain as he often is about his hair, she can't exactly do anything to it that he can't fix. Pigtails included. Though, if keeps her mind off of whatever is troubling her - and he is no fool, Balfour knows it is a long list of likely candidates - he's tempted to let her get away with it. Tempted.

"Here I was hoping that you were going to make me look princely. Dignified, even. Is it not to be so?"

[stormlit]

i always miss you. warmth spreads though ylfa's chest like grandma's spiced cider on a winter's day, and she wants to hold onto it forever. any time she sees balfour's castle in the distance, she gets the feeling that she's going where she needs to be, and any time she has to leave, she wants to huff so hard she blows the rest of the world away. but he misses her. that's enough to make any lonely girl grin.

❝ i'm taller than you now, silly. ❞ she's not, but ylfa acts like it anyway, comparing their heights with her hand. it's not a lie if she does it at an incline, so her hand ends above his head. ❝ it's all the string beans and giant lobster. if i eat giant food, maybe i'll be one. it'd be awesome to be able to touch the clouds. ❞ she pats balfour on the top of the head.

❝ you really always miss me? 'cause i miss you. ❞

@stormlit asked: ❛ did you miss me? ❜

ㅤ“ I always miss you. ” Balfour kissed her forehead, that same fatherly gesture he offered every time it was she came to see him. One day - perhaps even soon, at the rate she was growing - this would become quite a difficult task. She was growing quickly, his Ylfa, and something told Balfour that she would soon be taller than him. For now, at least, her forehead remained at a more or less reachable height.

ㅤNaturally, he had to comment on it.

ㅤ“ My, but you're getting tall. I swear, you were this small, last time you were here. ” He gestures comically short - shorter than she had even been when they first met - and grins. “ What have you been eating? ”

[stormlit]

❝ but it's another world, the upside down? ❞ it has to be, right? another world, or maybe a place between worlds; the girl knows ylfa isn't from here, she can tell, she knows she came from somewhere else. does everyone, here? maybe there's a giant sign above ylfa's head, or maybe they all know about multiple worlds and parallel storylines and things not being as they should be. ❝ wrong. my story's all wrong, too, in the neverafter. it wasn't meant to go the way it is, but the times of shadow are really fudging things up. ❞

it's leaking through, then. from the neverafter, from the lines between, maybe from this upside down, too; shadow is spreading like smoke, impossible to grab hold of but choking all the same.

❝ your full name's a number? ❞ is that normal? maybe that's normal, here. maybe the world's full of elevens and fives and six hundred and twenty-threes. ❝ elle. it's a good name. i guess ylfa is most like me. or red. it's probably too dark to see, but my cloak's red, that's why. it's not about blood or anything. although i guess it could be. ❞ would that be better, or worse? elle seems kind of skittish, but it's understandable; the monsters that lurk in these woods might be different to those ylfa is familiar with, but monsters are monsters, and the big bad wolf can be anywhere.

she nods, pulling her cloak tighter around her as she follows elle; whatever she fell through has gone, so there's no going back right now, and ylfa's not worried about her safety. elle's a kid, like her...and ylfa knows how to fight, even without her axe. she knows how to protect herself. ❝ i know i sound sick, but i'm not, i just have a perpetual stuffy nose. i don't know if i can get sick. ❞ do wolves get colds? ❝ do you live in the forest? my grandma did, in a cabin. ❞

        “the lines…between?” elle repeats, uncertainly. this is not a place she's heard of before. not a place she recognizes, from mike's game or otherwise. she only knows the upside down, and the void she goes into sometimes in the bath. “the upside down is a bad place,” she offers in explanation. “dark. and wrong.”

        she takes another hesitant step forward, shoes squelching in the wet earth beneath her feet. the rain is starting to pick up. “elle is…short for eleven. but. sometimes people call me jane.” she follows the instinct, the need to relate. names are something people can have in common, even when they aren't the same. “i like elle best. it feels like…me.” she tilts her head, wondering which of ylfa's names felt the most like her.

        but first. the rain. “come.” she turns and starts walking back towards hopper's cabin, only pausing after a few steps to make sure ylfa is following. “we should get out of the rain. to not get sick.” a pause. “it's…okay. safe. and warm.”

[stormlit]

❝ no, i came out of a door in the lines between. ❞ what's the upside down? some kind of mirror world, maybe, this world's version of the times of shadow? because if her world is being fricked with, ylfa thinks it makes sense that others would be, too; those doing the fricking aren't bound to the neverafter, after all, but exert power over it from a world that isn't a world at all. she frowns, blinking away the bright spots in her vision from the lantern light. ❝ i mean, i was dragged. or fell, it's unclear. there was definitely some falling. i was kind of focused on trying to land on my feet and not if the world was, uh...upside down? ❞

who is this girl? if she's here, talking like she knew ylfa would be — which is all topsy-turvy, since ylfa herself didn't know it — she's gotta know more than the average person of...here. right? ylfa hopes that's right; she doesn't know how she's going to explain everything otherwise. but it's hard to see her in the dark, hard to be able to judge whether she's a potential age-appropriate friend, or someone to be cautious of.

❝ i'm ylfa. ylfa snorgelsson. people also call me little red. ❞ she pulls her cloak tighter around herself. ❝ i'm from the neverafter. it's...i'm pretty sure it's another world? i swear that's a real thing! ❞

        “hi,” elle says again, then quickly lowers the flashlight to the ground. ���sorry.” she blinks, trying to make out the other's features again in the dim remaining halo of light. “you came out of the crack. from the upside down.” it's a statement of fact. she saw it happen in her dream, and she can usually tell the difference between what she sees that's real and what she sees that isn't.

        she takes a cautious step closer, flashlight catching a glimpse of crimson fabric in the dark. red is not eleven's favorite color. the color of blood. the stuff that calls monsters. she stops. “my name is elle,” she says, carefully. “what…is yours?”

        elle's head tilts slightly to the side as she asks, damp, dark curls sticking to her forehead. “and from where…did you come?” the girl looks normal enough to eleven; nothing like henry or the creatures he controls in that dark place. is it possible she came from another part of the world? that henry's cracks spread deeper and farther than they realized? the thought is frightening. she has to find the truth.

[stormlit]

why, if she had to get dragged out of the lines between, couldn't she have ended up in a world where it didn't rain? already ylfa's cloak is soaked through, it probably won't be long until her teeth start chattering, and, oh yeah, she has no idea where she is. she didn't get to see which door she fell through, she doesn't know what happened to her friends, if they're scattered throughout this forest, stuck in other worlds, or wondering where the heck ylfa is—but she knows this isn't the neverafter. it doesn't look any different to woods she's wandered through before, but it smells different.

this is a new world. but of all the things in all the stories that scare little red, that isn't one of them. she's dealt with new territory before. the thing that does scare her? not knowing how to get back.

for now ylfa trudges through the forest, wondering if she should make this easier on herself by shifting, growling under her breath when she nearly trips over a tree root. she's not trying to be quiet. she doesn't know how to be quiet; she always was a clumsy girl. she does, however, squint at a bright light shining through the trees, raising a hand to shield her eyes. should she say hi back? is that what she's meant to do? because that person doesn't sound like a grown up; they sound like a kid, too. that's scarier, in fact; pinocchio aside, ylfa's never gotten along particularly well with children.

❝ hi? ❞ she said, cautious; she thinks her hand's a little hairier, a little more claw-y, in anticipation of a threat. ❝ uh...could you lower your lantern? it's sort of blinding me and that seems like a pretty rude way to say hello. ❞

a random starter from eleven for ylfa / @stormlit

        elle isn't stupid; she knows there's a potential for anything coming out of the upside down to be dangerous. that's why she doesn't wake hop when she has the dream she knows is actually real. that's why she grabs a flashlight and heads out into the woods to investigate on her own. because she also knows, somehow, that this being won't be dangerous to her. eleven feels as if there's some invisible thread connecting them, some sameness that she doesn't understand. and that's why she decides she needs to find them.

        so she picks her way through the woods in the drizzling rain, scanning the trees with her flashlight, squinting as the narrow beam of light cuts through the darkness. that's when she hears it; the sound of someone approaching. elle stops, frozen and listening. above the light sound of raindrops on the leaves, she can hear twigs snapping. an irritated growl. she swings around, leveling the flashlight on the space between two trees where she's pretty sure the sound is coming from.

        “hello?” she calls, uncertainly. “i'm here…” she's not sure if the person she saw in her dreams saw her back.