It gnawed at her insides with sharp and unyielding ferocity, as if the hunger were. With her stomach growling noisily, reminding her at each loud noise how long it had been since she had eaten, she sat cross-legged on the wooden floor of the treehouse, clasping her stomach. The adrenaline of the escape, the focusing occupation of building her refuge, had masked the emptiness until now.
She stood and looked around the meager shelter. Her golden eyes flickered with faint determination as she knew she could no longer just ignore it. Food. She needed to find food.
She made her way down from the treehouse, pausing as she listened to the forest around her. Today, the silence felt heavier, broken only by the flutter of wings here and there. The ravens perched close by, regarding her as they always did, yet offering nothing.
The trees were thick; the floor was carpeted with damp leaves and circles of mushrooms. She knelt beside one cluster, cocking her head to survey them. Some looked edible, yet she wasn't so sure. A memory fluttered in her mind: her mother's warning voice, speaking to her of poisonous fungi. She was wary, her fingers reaching out to touch the cap before pulling back. She could not afford the risk. Not yet.
Deeper in the woods, she was soon searching for anything: berries, fruits, even garbage left behind by passing animals. But the forest gave her nothing. Scratches on her hands from the branches, as she pushed aside, at every step seemed to take her further into frustration.
A rustling nearby drew her attention. Instantly, her senses came alive, and she froze, lowering herself as low as possible to the ground. Slowly, she turned in the direction of the noise, narrowing her eyes as she caught sight of a rabbit darting through the undergrowth. Her stomach twisted with hunger as she watched the small form, so oblivious to her presence.
She moved carefully, deliberately, and quietly with each step. The rabbit paused, ears twitching, and she was still holding her breath. Her heart was running as, with bated breath, she crept closer, her fingers itching to snatch it.
But then suddenly, the rabbit jumped out of a clear blue and vanished in a thicket. She staggered forward, fell heavily onto her hands and knees, feeling sharp pain, but was only slightly compared to staring at the spot where the rabbit had lain with frustration inside, which boiled over.
She tried again later, setting crude traps with vines and sticks that were at hand. But each time she checked, the trap was empty; it's rude design was no match for the cunning of the forest creatures.
Hours passed, and the sun climbed higher then sank low. She sought berries again and found none, or those few shriveled and bitter upon the bush. No more fortunate finding nests by attempting to climb trees; the birds, too quick and watchful, allowed her to do no more.
By the time she returned to the treehouse, the weight of her failure pressed down on her. Her stomach churned, her limbs heavy as she dragged herself up the trunk. She collapsed onto the wooden floor, staring up at the patched roof, her breathing shallow.
The ravens had returned, perched on the beams above her. They cocked their heads, watching her with those sharp black eyes that seemed to understand far more than she expected.
She sat up slowly, meeting their gaze. Her lips parted, and she whispered hoarsely, "You're just watching, aren't you? Always watching. Can't you help?"
The birds didn't answer, but one tilted his head further, as if weighing her words.
She laughed sardonically; it was a hollow sound against the quiet. "Of course not," she said quietly, running her hand over her tangled red locks.
Still, with the darkness of night drawing full deep into the forest, she yet held a glimmer of hope. She just could not give up—please, not now. It was true she had gone fragile, but her broken pieces refused to fragment inside her. She'd do it again tomorrow, and maybe find some other means of survival.
Kneeling to her chest against the chill seeping through the wooden sides, she sat in the treehouse. Her stomach was a churning knot, hard and relentless. She looked at her hands, which shook, and her breathing came in shallow gasps. The day's failures felt almost to suffocate her—so tangible, so heavy.
Then suddenly, the quiet flutter of wings broke the stillness.
She looked up in time to see a raven dive down and alight upon the edge of the treehouse. His black plumage glimmered faintly in the moonlight, and his keen eyes, unblinking, fastened on her with an unnerving steadiness.
She frowned, her voice hoarse as she muttered, "What do you want?"
The bird cocked his head to one side, as if weighing his words.
Before she could say anything more, another raven landed beside the first. And then another, and another.
Her heartbeat quickened as she leaned back slightly, her eyes darting from one to the other, for they just kept on coming, one after another, till their dark silhouettes filled the space around her. In a very short while, the little treehouse seemed alive with the soft rustling of feathers and the low croaks of the birds.
She swallowed, her voice shaking. "Can you…understand me?"
The nearest raven cocked its head and emitted a caw that was almost but not quite an answer. Then, as though she'd asked the right question—in concert, the flock parted: opened up, in fact, to admit others, heavier-winged, behind.
Her breath caught in her throat as she saw it: a piece of bread clutched in the claws of one raven, another with what looked like a half-eaten roll, and yet another with the crust of something stale but unmistakably food.
She blinked in utter unbelief as, in one fluid movement, the flock moved as one, each raven placing its prize before her—the pieces of bread scattered, crumbs making a small heap at her feet—a feast compared to the nothingness she had endured.
Her hand shook as she reached out, touching her fingers against one of the pieces. It was rough and stale, but it was food. She looked up at the ravens, her chest tightening with emotion she couldn't quite name.
"Why?" she whispered.
The ravens simply watched her, their black eyes gleaming in the dim light.
For the first time in what felt like forever, she smiled—a small, hesitant curve of her lips. "Thank you," she whispered.
The birds didn't answer, but somehow, their presence was different now. They weren't just watching; they were helping.
As she took a bite, her slow and deliberate eating, the ravens remained perched around her like silent sentinels. The hunger, once a gnawing beast inside her, was lost to a strange, quiet comfort.
She didn't know why they'd done it or how they seemed to understand her need, but for now, it didn't matter. For the first time in days, she felt a sliver of hope.
The ravens stayed long into the night, their watchful presence a reminder that maybe she wasn't as alone as she had thought.