If I return to the cottage without any berries again, will Grandpa still give me that tight smile?

As the wind caresses the tip of Rozell's ear and makes him shiver, his eyes wander from the blanket of snow on the ground, the little specks on the barren branches, to the roots and logs that aren't far different from the flat dirt.

Winter doesn't even spare a patch of grass for the bugs wherever he glances at.

With a heavy sigh, Rozell lifts his soggy boots off the thick blanket and moves to another clump of bush next to him. However, the blanket of snow conceals the prickers the plants haven't yet shed, which leaves him pained from thorns despite his grandfather's warning to wear his patched gloves earlier that morning.

Holy roots, this tires me more than usual.

Shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight, Rozell groans. His basket is too light. Despite his hope that its contents grow themselves, there are only three black chokeberries, two elderberries, and a twig of ripe winterberries.

Rozell closes the basket with a sour expression. He steps farther from the bush and stands in the middle of the forest path, glaring at the army of trees on his either side.

If only you worked together with the snow and gave me a basket full of berries, I wouldn't need to walk farther away from the cottage.

His glare turns sharper after a chirpy bird, with snowflakes on its brownish belly, lands on one of the branches and snaps a twig full of winterberries, before flitting back to the sky.

Again, the snow disappoints Rozell. If it wasn't all slippery and heavy, he might've been strong enough to climb a tree and snag away every berry-full twig he found. He would've returned quicker to the cottage and brought a bigger smile to Grandpa's face—better than the tight one he always has these days.

Da and Ma always smiled that way to me too, back when I was still in Avoridge Town. But they looked more awful after I left them to stay with Grandpa. Do they miss me, or is there something else going on? And why can't I make Grandpa happy too?

The sunlight grows thinner the deeper Rozell enters the forest. Now not even the shawl around his neck protects him from the breeze. When his fingers shiver inside his gloves, his grip on the basket almost slips off a few times.

Oh well, I still need to find more berries for Grandpa's pies.

He crouches around the trees' roots and gropes around for any signs of a living plant. When his fingers brush against something thin and ragged, he pulls it out of the snow and whistles in joy. Not one, but two branches of winterberries—their brilliant red fruits dancing along with the wind. He chuckles when his stomach growls like a bear in response.

But before long, faint shouts from some distance away catch Rozell's ears. It must be the hunters from Mountkirk Village. Their snow-crunching bootsteps and the violent echoes of their shovels are louder than he remembers.

They might reach me in a few counts if they ever mistake me as a bird... again.

When it happened last time, it wasn't pretty. Grandpa wore a tighter smile than usual when Mr. Clam, the village's notorious hunter, and some other villagers rapped on the cottage's door like eager woodpeckers. They handed him over to Grandpa like a potato sack and grumbled about how he shouldn't try to deceive the ears of experienced hunters or he would end at the sharp, yet slim tip of a kunai knife.

Rozell clenches his fist.

I have to hide.

Gripping his basket like his life depends on it, he bolts to another twin of the cursed bush and bends low behind it. He almost yelps when his glove gets pricked again, but quick enough to hold his breath when giant shadows appear from the other side of the path, followed by brash chuckles that send the birds off the trees.

The hunters are back. And they carry more sacks than usual.

"I love winter. Finally, another hunting season."

"I know, eh? Pity that Chief never lifts that 'hunting only in winter' rule. Does that mean he'll let us starve for three seasons, before we get to throw a feast on the fourth?"

As the men bellow with laughter, Rozell curls himself into a smaller ball and peeks through the gaps of the bush.

Years ago, when Grandma was still around and stopped by at Rozell and his family's cottage, Grandpa once told him about the hunters' way of hunting. "They eat everything they find," he said, his hands forming a pair of sharp-toothed traps. "Even the smallest of birds. Their meat is too skinny to enjoy, but the hunters still kill them. They never set anything off their traps."

A girl's gentle sniff, like the whisper-silent movement of a young doe through fresh snow, surprises Rozell out of his muse. "Silly puffins. Chief does that to keep the stability of this forest. If we hunt in all seasons, the animals won't have time to breed. There'll be nothing to hunt when that happens."

He has never heard of any other females besides Ma. Or the wails of his baby sister.

Since when do the hunters accept a girl in their team? And how brave is she, if she can handle these animal traps?

"But the animals are too skinny in winter! They're out of food," the first hunter protests.

"Shush! No arguing here. And boy, you don't need to chide us for that, Ren," the second voice—lousy and husky—replies, joined by the scratchy sound of his shovel against the snow. "Your cheeks sure are too big for a youngster. Now, set the traps. Then we wait behind those bushes until sunset."

Rozell's heart leaps like a startled animal. He almost throws his basket into the thorn bush and draws the hunters' attention with its rustles, but the solid clangs of their tools cover his tracks.

Flimsy fletchers! Now where should I go?

He turns his head to more rows of bigger and fatter trees behind him, easing his cramped legs. With gritted teeth and a firm grip on his basket, he crawls away like a sneaky raccoon. The thick snow stops him from rushing forward, but at least it doesn't rustle as he tramples on it.

The last thing he needs today is another encounter with the foul-mouthed hunters.

Once the brown-speckled trees shield his back, he collapses on the ground and clasps his hands together. His teeth chatter since the sunlight is thinner than the previous path.

One glance at the strangers shows how they're still invested in their traps.

Rozell lets out his held breath.

Phew, finally. But how will I find more berries now?

His stomach complains again and he pats it to stay quiet. The longer he stands still, the more he wants to grab the twig of winterberries from the basket. But at the image of Grandpa's frown in his head, he clenches his hand into a fist before it gets to slip into the basket.

❄❄

By the time Rozell adds another six winterberry twigs and a handful of elderberries into his basket, the melted snow has turned into puddles around the area. He flinches at the chill climbing up his trousers, yet his smile never fades.

Grandpa can make at least two pies with these.

He grins at the bunch of berries in his basket.

Maybe Grandpa will smile bigger this time.

He glances around to make sure he has raked through every corner in this part of the forest. But when the weak sunlight reflects off a strange, silvery item on the distant ground, Rozell lifts his eyebrows.

What's that? Grandpa and I never use something made of silver. They're too expensive and heavy.

A couple of bright blue-bellied birds dart past Rozell, nipping on something near the object. The bigger one flies away as he approaches them, while the smaller one continues to peck on its vibrant red meal. At closer look, the bird feasts upon fallen winterberries.

Rozell's eyes twinkle with joy. But as he prepares to grab some of the berries for himself, the bird chirps in an unnatural rhythm. A slim and sharp knife pokes out of its red-stained wing, which lies limp on its side. And the eagerness in its eyes lessen with each passing count.

Whoa! Where did this knife come from?

Casting a rapid scan around the area, Rozell tosses his basket away as he tends to the wounded creature.

Is this one of those hunters' traps? If only I warned the bird to stay away from those berries!

Even when the blade is only the size of his fingers, it opens a wound twice as big on the bird's wing. As his heart pounds in a rushed beat, Rozell pulls the sinister weapon out of the wound, praying that he's done the right thing.

"Don't die!" He places the weakened bird on his palm.

The bird's chest rises and falls as it chirps for help. Its eyes begin to wander around. More blood gushes out of the large wound, and as Rozell pulls off his glove and presses it on the hole, a tear slips from his eye.

"No, please don't die!"

The hunters will cook you in a cauldron tonight!

His ungloved hand shivers not only thanks to the cold snow, but also the warmth draining out of the bird's limp body. Its breath turns shallower with every count.

I must take it to Grandpa!

Rozell's basket lies a few steps away. He dashes straight to it when the bird's wings flutter on his palm. He strokes the top of the bird's head with more tears in his eyes.

"No, no, no—"

But the bird gives up its fight before he sets it into the basket. Rozell drops his knees to the ground and chokes on his sobs. The other birds still chirp overhead, unaware that fate just strikes down their friend. He wipes his tears away, but the pain in his chest grows bigger the more he holds them back.

O gods, please make sure it can rest well up there.

Blinking through the fog in his eyes, he searches for a proper place to bury it. The snowy ground doesn't look good—once the snow melts, it'll reveal the dead bird to the hunters who check their traps.

Those evil hunters are heartless. I have to tell Grandpa to stay away from them forever.

Casting the blade aside, Rozell scoots closer to the nearby tree's roots and glares at the fresh, glistening berries lying between the gaps. Someone must've set them there on purpose. He puts the bird next to him and wears his bloodstained glove before digging through the roots to save enough space for the creature to snuggle in.

When the snow melts, you'll be safe here. No one will see you again. And not even the hunters.

Rozell glares at the bloodied blade next to him. The blood even reaches the weapon's short handle, which is as blue as the dead bird's feathers. When his face reflects off the mirror-like tip, anger boils in his insides.

Could this be the slim and sharp kunai knife those hunters mentioned?

The answer hasn't dawned on him when another blade rips through his ankle, and a river of blood pours into the snow. 

P. S. I'd like to give a huge shoutout to @SweetAsRasmalai- for these two lovely banners! They really suit the vibes I'm going for in this story. Check out her other works too <3