Ruby's Grimm Reality

CW: Mentions death of a parent, mental health issues, and substance abuse disorders.

It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. Frozen droplets of blood like breadcrumbs made a trail in the woods, lit only by the faint light of a pale moon bouncing against new snow. Ruby followed them religiously, bare feet numb blocks of pain in the snow. There hadn’t been time. No time to put on something warm. No time to find help. 

No time to hesitate as the trees swallowed up the light of the moon, taking Ruby with them.

The snow was falling too quickly, burying the trail even as Ruby followed it deeper into those woods. They were ancient woods. Full of secrets, skeletons, tales of creatures great and small, some magic, some mundane, all hungry.

A smear of red on a tree trunk.

A root in the wrong place, thorns that snagged cloth and skin alike. Foggy breath billowing in front of her face, thin arms wrapped around a tight chest. Ruby stumbled on.

She had always thought that snow was a quiet thing. A blanket across the world. But in the dark forest, it was loud. Crunching beneath her feet, frozen leaves and snapped twigs announcing her half-blind pilgrimage.

Half-blind… Ruby halted, staring ahead. How long had it been since she’d seen that smear of blood? The last hint of life in a forest of white and grey.

She had to keep going, had to find him. Men died on nights like this. Girls died too, but that thought didn’t scream so loud in Ruby’s head.

She didn’t even know the time. All Ruby knew was that there had been a shout, smashed glass, spilt liquid that burned in her nose. Then a trail of blood and snow.

Was it time to shout? To hope that the forest would shout back? Or time to sit down, curl up, let the snow blanket her as well, and sleep? No. Ruby shook her head, stamped her feet, and turned around. She could still make out her own trail, back to that splash of drying colour. Running out of time, running out of light, running out of-

There.

Another drip drip drip. More breadcrumbs deeper into the woods.

Ruby imagined a wolf’s howl, then imagined thick fur and warm breath. Her mind didn’t tread down the dark path of sharp teeth and claws, matted hair, yellow eyes that tracked young prey lost in the woods. 

Her father was a woodsman. More a bear than a wolf; wiry brown hair, calloused hands, broad shoulders that slumped beneath a weight Ruby couldn’t see. Her mother had been stronger, she had smiled brighter, she had put flowers in his beard. Her mother was gone now.

Ruby tried to remember her mother. She tried to remember the man her father used to be.

Ruby tried… She tried to keep walking, but it was hard to remember why. She looked behind her and saw blood that was too fresh, those treacherous thorns, broken branches, sharp stones buried in snow. She hadn’t felt it. Was the same trail ahead of her? Walking in circles, those yellow eyes just past the fading limits of her vision.

The snow was like whisky. A different kind of burn, maybe, but that same numbing fog.

Her mother had liked stories. Ruby liked stories too. In stories, children could do things that grown-ups couldn’t. There were terrible things, true, but there was good as well. A balance. For every wicked witch, there was a kindly godmother that would sweep up a lost child and take them away from broken bottles and an empty fireplace. For every wolf, there was a woodsman.

Breadcrumbs led the way home, not deeper into the woods.

Ruby’s legs didn’t do what she asked anymore. She couldn’t remember why she was there. Had a beast lured her out? Had she been dreaming? Was there a promise of something warm?

There were terrible things in real life, too. But children weren’t as brave or as clever. They got lost. Dead mothers stayed gone. Woodsmen weren’t always strong.

Men died on nights like this.

“Dad?” Ruby’s voice sounded small. She took a breath, cold air burning like hot whisky, and cried out again. “Dad, where are you?”

It wasn’t snowing anymore. Had she really thought she’d find him?

“Dad?” The wind ripped her words away, carried them off. Ruby’s legs wobbled, begging her to lie down, to sleep, to dream of stories told in her mother’s voice.

Girls died on nights like this. Yellow eyes peered through the dark, ever patient, ever hungry. Her mind filled with bad endings, the stories her mother had skipped over. Ruby had flicked through them while her mother was asleep, she’d slept a lot near the end.

“Dad?” More of a sob than a shout, broken and small and-

An echo? A wolf’s howl? A bear’s roar?

Ruby started toward the sound. One step, then another, then another. She called out again, and something answered back.

The fog retreated, warm fingers that had caressed her arms froze and snapped off, falling away.

A dark shape broke up the snow, dwarfed by the trees. He was so small out here. His hand was bleeding, splatters of life and colour and warmth in the starkness. They matched bloodied bare feet, a torn nightie, and scratched arms.

Warmth breath spluttered apology after apology, worry and concern, love that Ruby hadn’t felt since the stories had gone quiet. It had always been there, she knew that, but something had drowned it. Grief and a bottle.

It was dark, and snow fell again. But Ruby didn’t feel it. She heard snow crunching beneath them, but she didn’t feel anything brush against her legs, didn’t trip on hidden roots that snaked around her ankles. She floated in arms that were steadier than they should have been. The anger in his voice, rage at an unfair world and a cruel sickness that stole everything, was gone now.

He was telling her a story.

A story about a girl who had braved the cold to save a woodsman haunted by a wolf. She hadn’t gotten lost, and she hadn’t felt scared or alone. She was warm now. She was going to be okay.

They were going to be okay.