There was something really freeing about living out in the woods, with nothing but yourself and your own wits to rely on. Something a bit lone ranger, a bit manifest destiny, a bit yeoman farmer hundreds of miles from the long arm of imperialism.

Charlton hated it.

He hated that he hated it. Charlton loved everything about the idea of living off the land, being at one with nature, appreciating God’s creation in all its glory – except actually doing it. Doing it, without the aid of magic or modern conveniences, actually sucked, and Charlton was seriously reassessing the romanticism of the idea. It was actually not romantic being hungry and tired and on edge all the time. He was gaining newfound respect for predators which were not at the top of the food chain – the ones which had to hunt for a living, but which were also hunted. He never felt like he could devote his entire focus to his prey when he also had to watch his back for Alliance agents, bounty-hunters and Shamanic monsters. At night, worry and loneliness bared their fangs and saw off sleep.

Occasionally, packages came from the castle, left tucked under a blanket of moss near the henge’s entrance. Sometimes food, sometimes clothes, sometimes tools… the odd written message to say that there was no sign of any of the other original fairies.

Days passed like this. Weeks.

Charlton knew to avoid people as best he could in the woods, but that was often easier said than done. Shaman’s hunters understood the forest in a way he probably never would and could navigate it near-silently to locate their prey. Anonymity, he had learned, was a much more realistic defence for him than invisibility. He let his hair and beard grow out to differentiate himself from the image on the wanted posters, adopted muted, loose, form-hiding clothes, and avoided speaking if he could help it. His accent was more recognisable than his face. He walked right past the other forest-users and most of them never gave him more than a passing glance.

Most. Occasionally he had to deal with interest from familiars, like the spotted dog which growled at him as he stepped into the clearing. Usually Charlton avoided clearings, preferring the cover of thicker vegetation, but the most recent parcel from the castle contained a book on trapping. Since he wasn’t having a great deal of success hunting or fishing, and the book indicated that you could make a decent trap using materials from the forest if you had enough space, it seemed worth a try. He hadn’t expected that the first clearing he came across would already be occupied.

He eyed the dog, ignoring the fairy and keeping his face turned away from her out of habit. There were plenty of hunting dogs in the forest most days, but they didn’t usually regard him with this much interest. Charlton backed up, ready to disappear back into the trees to find a safer spot to practice trapping.