Calling the inhabitants of Uthain cursed only prompted a gust of muttered reprimands from Peter. Rolling her eyes, Alyviah attempted to explain that it's inevitable, for the lands were cursed and so its occupants were bound to be as well.

When all that failed, she pointed out that her father basically, and indirectly, described the villagers as such, according to his tale, which only got her a disgruntled glare in return.

"What brings such appalling, superfluous thoughts to that head of yours, child?" The bewilderment was clear in her father's inquiry. Yet, it didn't make sense. She wanted, no, needed to know.

"If the lands are cursed, why are people still living in here?"

When trees enveloped them again, so did silence, awkward, tense, heavy. The stranger's penetrating gaze got lost among the branches and leaves. She shuddered, letting her mind stray, conjuring possible reasons behind her father's lack of response and the disturbing tale.

Peter, for once, was torn between enjoying and worrying about his daughter's troubled quietude. Her lips were unmoving, but he was certain that her brain was bursting with endless questions and theories. He feared for her safety. For all the damned gods' sake, she'd asked him to teach her how to fight. What is his Aly even thinking about?

His heart stuttered, dread trickling into his system. Perhaps, letting her accompany him to the village was a mistake. His suffocating worry only amplified with each footstep, clogging up his dry throat.

Davette greeted them atop the stairs, quickly catching on the swirling edginess surrounding both her husband and daughter. She wondered what had happened, yet, remained cheerful, welcoming and urged Alyviah to help her in the kitchen. Peter suspected it had to do with his hardened features; his wife was offering him the chance to cool off before lunch, some time to think.

However, his mood only darkened the more he stayed by himself, his swings getting fiercer and more frantic as the wood almost cussed him for it lay strewn and broken in useless splinters.

Lunch was torturous; the only sounds emitted were of the wooden utensils as they scraped against each other. Davette tried to keep a light conversation going, her attempts failing miserably as neither participated. Yet, that didn't stop her. "Aly," her eyes narrowed, "I have prepared the mixture. Go, wash that hair of yours." Alyviah grunted, annoyance marring her face. "Don't give me that look, child. Rub your eyebrows as well!"

It took tremendous efforts for her to detach her lips, her mother's glare sewing it back together before proceeding on a monologue about the benefits of her recipe to one's hair, a recipe that was carried by generations after generations in her family. Rolling her eyes, Alyviah cleaned her plate and stomped out, quietly of course as to not trigger another lecture.

Peter's eyes refocused on round, warm and callous fingers wrapping around his limp hands as they sat folded atop the table. He'd almost burned a hole in them with the intensity of his scowl, or so Davette said. Rubbing his taut arms, she urged him to go over today's events so she'd understand.

Davette's heart hammered against her generous chest before sinking with the final shocking conclusion. "It is time, Peter."

He wanted to protest, shout, deny. However, no matter how much they dreaded this, it was time indeed. Their fingers intertwined.

The inevitable can never be avoided.

A couple of days later, Peter approached his daughter as she sat cross-legged on the stairs, gazing into the distance at the dancing trees. A passive look was plastered across her face, but her eyes shone with deep, unexplored longing. "Take this." A bundle of dark brown clothes was tossed her way. It smacked her in the face then landed in her lap.

Alyviah's curiosity outweighed the irritation her father's smug face fueled. "These are your garments, father."

He shook his he ad. "They were," he corrected her. "Now, they're yours. Your mother had them tailored to fit you." Perplexed, she tilted her head to the side. "Hurry up, Aly." Peter's booming voice easily reached her eager ears as he strutted away. "Put them on. We don't have the whole day."

Her breaths raced out of her burning lungs, the pants slipping down her hips as she clutched at her chest, trying to tame her pounding heart and swinging breasts, the tunic's fabric soft under her sweaty palms.

"Too slow!" Peter yelled over his shoulder, showing her his back, his dissatisfaction. "You call that running, Aly? How embarrassing!" He certainly loved to taunt her at every given opportunity, which was so her father but still infuriating. She was trying.

Sway your arms, Peter had instructed. Push your legs, move, move, move. Set a goal, a destination, and run.

She was running, alright, but the outfit was proving to be inconvenient, a hindrance. Alyviah flushed, mortified at the fact that she was wearing pants. Holy trees and delicious squirrels, she was wearing pants!

Slowing down, her trembling body bent over, palms clasping knees that nearly gave out from exhaustion. "I can't," she rasped out, "I can't."

Peter was almost satisfied. "So, you've given up? What a shame." However, his content smile contradicted his words before a breathy chuckle wiped it off.

Straightening up, Alyviah crossed her arms, something she'd picked up from her robust mother. "I shall never." The determination coating her voice, words and eyes shattered the remaining shards of hope lodged deep within his aching soul. "A better outfit is required, however. This one is too big. I can't run if all I'm doing is trying to prevent it from falling."

The disgruntled man blushed. "Oh, my. I had no idea, Aly!" He splattered, calling over his wife to get it fixed so they can resume their training. After wrapping an old night gown around her chest, willing the soft mounds to go to sleep and stop dancing around, the sweltering girl fastened her newly-customized pants over a large tunic and around a narrow waist, stuffing them inside her brown boots afore recommencing the dreadful rounds.

A couple of weeks after the beginning of her training, Alyviah felt lighter the more she ran, like she could drift off along the wind and be carried away among the clouds to endless lands of mysteries and adventures.

Run, stretch, run, stretch. The mantra was embedded in her mind, between her amber orbs. "Always stretch your muscles, Aly." Her father kept on repeating, after slapping the back of her head whenever she forgot.

Then, Peter decided it was time for more activities and started piling extra things for her to do.

Each time they went to collect wood or visited the village, she carried everything all the way home. At first, the poor girl struggled. Huffs, groans and grunts disrupted the natural songs of the forest as Peter watched, encouraged and taunted. "Push," he'd said, and push, she did. If only it stopped there. "Cut those logs in halves. Yes, all hundreds of them." And, so, she swung her twig-like arms until they almost fell off.

Alyviah's days now consisted of endless amounts of silent cuss words, running, heavy-lifting and hanging from trees.

"What? But, why?" She gasped, almost fainting at the new given task.

"You love trees so much, Aly. Why do you sound so repulsed?" Her father's sly grins were her source of motivation, as her strength dwindled and muscles ached. "Climb, choose a perfect sturdy branch, hold it tight and hang in there, my lovely fighter."

It was beyond aggravating. Yet, despite her constant complaints, she loved every second of it.

Alyviah felt alive, her blood thrumming, her soul bursting with energy. However, she was concerned, confused, wondering whether she was simply starting to get everything she had ever wanted or asked for, or her parents had ulterior motives behind this.

Secrets, perhaps.

MEANING OF THE WORDS USED:

Arcane: means secret, mysterious, understood only by few.