In all of the eighteen years that she had been alive, a great many of those had been spent wandering within the woods, whether it was when she was foraging for nuts, berries, and edible flowers while Christian hunted wild game for himself, or fluttering after the Spring Court princess in yet another game of hide and seek, and yet Emmaline had never managed to find herself as grievously injured as she was now. She had been warned of the bear traps, of course, and the numerous other nefarious dangers that lurked within the forest, starting all the way back in nursery school with the other lesser-fae who were more considered more at risk than their noble-blooded counterparts, but not once had she assumed that she would one day fall prey to their existence. It was all her fault, of course, as most things were, but she honest to goodness hadn’t seen any sort of glint of metal hiding in the tall grass, and she had been so panicked and nervous about lost and away from Tatiana that she hadn’t even been looking where she was going to begin with, and - now, she was paying for her foolish behavior in full. Her delicate, fragile, furred little ankle was wedged firmly between the sharp teeth of the bear trap, and the more that she squirmed and writhed in a desperate attempt to free herself, the deeper the metal sunk into her mangled flesh. Blood, and a worrying amount of it at that, slid down gruesomely from the jagged wound, staining the previously pristine and silky velvet of her fur and dripping into the grass, and her wings tittered feebly underneath her where she laid, Emmaline’s sweet and earnest little face drenched in tears and twisted up in unbelievable, unfathomable pain.
But then - footsteps. Barely making an impact on the forest floor, as if the person approaching her in the woods was skilled enough to know exactly how to hide their presence in the woods, and Emmaline let out another weak little cry for help as she realized that she had been found. It didn’t occur to her that she was at her most vulnerable, and that perhaps the person who had come to save her was really the one that had set the trap to begin with; it didn’t even occur to her that the skirt of her dress had flipped up so indecently around her creamy inner thighs to expose the soft baby girl flesh that was nestled between them. She was scared out of her young mind, and absolutely far too trusting and open and naive as it was - at this point, she would accept help from anyone. With a pained little whimper of a sound, she forced herself to open her eyes that she had squeezed shut in agony, and through the blur of her tears she was just barely able to make out the outline of a very large, very imposing figure, clad in a dark hooded cloak that shielded his face from view. He had to be more than a foot taller than she was at the very least, and easily twice her size, and he was…carrying a crossbow. Just like a hunter would.
Immediately, Emmaline’s prey-like instincts were sent into overdrive, and she let out a helpless cry into the darkening night, shaking her head fretfully from side to side and beginning to struggle in earnest against the deadly trap holding her in place. She sobbed, brokenly and devastatingly, but there was nothing she could do as the stranger continued to approach her where she lay defenseless and truly at her most weak. He…he set aside the crossbow, though, placing it down onto the forest floor as if to reassure her that he didn’t plan on using it, and Emmaline looked up at him with her big, teary, uncertain brown eyes just in time to see him draw back the hood of his cloak. Instantly, her gaze was widening, and she let out a shaky little gasp. She…she would have recognized him anywhere, even if he hadn’t spoken to her next in a voice that was shockingly gentle and calm. Ronan. The hunter from the Spring Court. The man that she only ever saw in flashes of shadow and piercing blue eyes. She had admired him from afar, ever since her twelfth birthday when she had accidentally entered his quarters instead of Tatiana’s with an armful of fresh pastries and had promptly blushed a thousand shades of pink, but since then she had been far too shy to approach him on her own, but…now, he had found her. He had come to save her.
The softest, sweetest, and most submissive part of Emmaline went pliant and docile the moment that Ronan spoke to her and told her that she was going to be okay - that everything was alright. She trusted him, of course, impeccably and with her entire heart; the man was practically Tatiana’s uncle, and he had been loyal to the royal family for longer than Emmaline had been serving them. It was…more than that, though. It was as if there was some sort of instinct deep inside of her that told her that she needed to listen to Ronan, that so long as she did exactly as he said, she would be safe, warm, and taken care of. “T - thank you, sir,” she said weakly, shakily, and when he drew out a powerful looking knife and brought it to the glinting teeth caught around her pitiful little ankle, she couldn’t help but let out another whimpering sob, squeezing her eyes shut and looking away as he began to work on the metallic trap. She couldn’t watch - not if he was going to have to cut her out of it, not if she was going to endure further pain, and her fluttering pink pixie wings, as if attempting to comfort her, rose up clumsily from underneath her quivering, nubile little frame, and wrapped protectively around her shaking shoulders.
He didn’t hurt her, though - somehow, without managing to injure her further, Ronan managed to snap open the bear trap, and Emmaline let out another cry of pain when she felt the sharp metal slide out from the torn-apart flesh of her ankle, her tiny body reactively jolting and squirming in shock right before Ronan managed to catch her in his warm, strong arms. More blood, and lots of it, began to pour out of the teeth punctures in earnest, but no sooner had she looked up to Ronan in desperate panic was he shushing her gently again before tearing off part of his shirt and using it to form a tourniquet around her leg, ensuring that she wouldn’t lose nearly as much blood as she would have without it. With a tearful little sound, she did exactly as he told her to do, sitting up weakly and reaching down to apply pressure to her bloodied wound with small hands that were more akin to fretful bunny paws than anything else. All the while, she remained nestled safely and securely in his lap, the delicate length of her back against the broad expanse of his chest, and when she looked up at him with her frightened doe eyes to seek out his assurance that she was applying enough pressure, it was just in time for him to reach down and brush a lock of her glossy curls away from her sweet, heart-shaped, and tearstained little face.
He introduced himself to her, as if she hadn’t spent the last six years of her life shyly stealing glances at him wherever she could and wishing hopelessly that he would notice her, and Emmaline sniffled weakly in response, her tiny wings tittering a little bit against his chest as her heart began to race from more than just the combination of fear, pain, and adrenaline she had been feeling just before he came to her rescue. He was so warm, and she was so dizzy and just barely conscious, and it felt so good to rest back against him like this, to turn her face to the side and nuzzle into the comforting, nice-smelling material of his cloak. “I - I’m Emmaline,” she said softly, tearfully, her eyes fluttering shut with relief as she used her free hand to clutch onto a handful of cloak, not at all unlike the way an infant would clasp at their favorite stuffed animal or security blanket for reassurance. “One of - one of Tatia’s handmaidens. I - I’ve seen you before. I always see you, I - I’m always looking for you…” As delirious as she was, she was hardly aware of what she was saying; all she knew was that her omega-like instincts were telling her that she was safe, that she was with an alpha, and that she needn’t worry about anything else. “Thank you for saving me,” she continued in that same soft, fervent little voice, weakly twisting around the tiniest bit just so that she could rest against him more fully, the top of her curly brown head not even reaching his shoulders as she nestled against his chest. “I - I understand. I trust you.”
This had to be the work of a human; in Ronan’s mind, there was no one among the Spring Court who would dare putting something as inhumane as a bear trap in the woods for anyone to traipse along and find. Especially not with as many fae in the seasonal court who possessed animal affinities or shifting abilities--himself included. And he knew the young faun who was currently cradled against him, of course; the younger sister of one of the noble’s bodyguards. She was a handmaiden, he remembered vaguely; a small, quiet young woman whose eyes he had met on more than one occasion at royal functions. She had seemed so young and timid; the thought of approaching her had seemed a terrible idea, so he just...hadn’t. Even now, with Ronan bent down and trying to staunch the bleeding from the wound in her leg, she seemed...almost afraid of him.
“You don’t need to thank me,” he said quietly, his eyes landing on hers in the din of the forest. And he meant it, for whatever it was worth. Ronan supposed that he couldn’t explain it--not in words, at least--but the need to protect and save this young woman had compelled him so strongly that he had scarcely been able to resist the urge himself. It was as though a knot was tightening between the both of them; a cord of rope that wrapped around the innermost core of his soul and tethered him to her. It was less a thought than it was a feeling; the knowledge that he would do whatever it took to make sure Emmaline Bennet made it out of this alive, whole, and with little more than a scar to remember this entire dreadful experience. And she was losing a lot of blood--far more than he felt comfortable with--so Ronan tucked her body tightly against his own as he carried them through the forest. She was like a small little doll in his arms, pressed tightly against his frame as he glanced to and fro along the forest floor, searching for any sign of danger.
If a human had laid the trap, then did that mean there were hunters in these woods? Members of the resistance who were watching from afar, waiting for the perfect time to strike? The thought of those soulless bastards taking glee in driving the life out of something as small, soft, and innocent as the faun fae bundled up in his arms filled Ronan with a lash of fiery vengeance.
Why was he so protective over her?
But then she was saying that she was always looking for him--looking for him, of all the people in High Lord Viktor’s court--and Ronan swore he felt something constrict in his chest. His heart was thrumming a staccato, and as he clutched the faun to his chest, his cottage began to loom into view. Situated on the edge of the forest, just in view of the palace gardens, it allotted Ronan with a bit of privacy and reprieve when he wasn’t staying in his quarters inside of the palace estate. Presently, he was grateful for the proximity of it to where he had found Emmaline. The sooner he could properly tend to the wound in her leg, the better it was for the clearly delirious young woman who was rambling sweet nothings to him.
“Well, you don’t need to look any further,” he said at last, his voice quiet and soft as silk as he kicked open the door to the cottage and entered the small living space. He kicked the door shut behind him, moving Emmaline to his bed, bandaged leg and all. Unable to help himself, he brushed fallen curls from her face once more, bending down so that they were level with one another. “I’m not going anywhere. Just sit tight while I gather supplies.”
And then he was gone, off to the bathroom adjacent to his bedroom so he could gather a first aid kit he’d thrown together in times of emergency. When he came back, supplies in tow, and made work of setting up shop at the foot of the bed, he gingerly pulled her leg into his lap and got to work on properly disinfecting, cleaning, and dressing the wound. He knew it would likely sting and be uncomfortable for her, so Ronan tried to distract the handmaiden with other modes of conversation. Not that he was particularly skilled at talking; he mainly kept to himself, all things considered.
“So, you’re always looking for me?” he inquired, his eyes sliding up to hers for a moment.
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