Page 83 of Little Red Riding Hood
Red looked up, catching the desperate hope in Wim’s eyes.
“Pretend?”
“That we’re still just two travellers, sharing a path.” Wim’s hand found Red’s, his thumb brushing over Red’s knuckles. “Until we reach Old Oma’s cottage. Then… then we’ll deal with what must be done.”
Red should say no. Should walk away now, before their inevitable clash which would tear him apart. But the thought of continuing alone, of losing these potential precious moments with Wim…
“Alright.” Red squeezed Wim’s hand. “Until we reach the cottage.”
“And then?”
Red met Wim’s gaze. “And then… we’ll see what happens.”
It wasn’t a solution. Not really. But what was the harm in a little make believe? A few more memories to be made, to be stored in the deep crevices of Red’s mind, to be brought out once he was back at the palace, alone in the attic once more.
Red knew better than most how dangerous hope could be. Yet as Wim’s fingers traced patterns on his skin, he decided that perhaps some poisons were worth tasting.
Eighteen
The following days blurred together like watercolours bleeding across parchment. Each morning, Red woke tangled in Wim’s arms, savouring the warmth before they packed up camp. They walked for hours through dappled sunlight, sharing more stories of their lives—Wim’s tales of pack gatherings around bonfires, Red’s memories of sneaking extra tarts from the palace kitchens. Their laughter echoed through the trees, masking the growing weight in Red’s stomach.
Nights brought Wim’s cooking, the aromas of herbs and roasted meat drawing them close around the fire. Red found himself mesmerised by Wim’s hands as they chopped vegetables or stirred stews, imagining those same fingers trailing across his skin. But neither of them pushed for more than gentle touches and shared warmth as they lay beneath the stars. Perhaps they both knew that crossing that line again would make their inevitable parting even more unbearable.
Wim’s feral sickness continued to threaten to emerge, and Red couldn’t help but notice the gap between his episodes seemed to be shortening. Red tried not to show his fear when Wim leaned his arm against a tree, breathing deeply while his body trembled. He’d always try to order Red to move away from him, but Red refused, and would grab Wim’s knuckle-white fist, unfurl it, and slip his hand into his.
Often, holding Red’s hand for a short period would be enough to keep the monster at bay, but on one occasion, Wim left him for an entire day, returning with haunted eyes and blood-soaked hair.
As the forest grew darker and older around them, Red caught Wim inventing reasons to pause their journey. “Look at these mushrooms—perfect for tonight’s soup.” Or, “The light’s hitting those leaves just right, let’s rest here a moment.” Red played along, pointing out interesting birds or claiming his boots needed adjusting. Collecting flowers for their basket, which he swung as they walked.
Each delay was precious, each moment stored away like treasure.
On their final morning, they came across an absurdly tall tower, stretching into the sky like a giant’s needle piercing the clouds. Dark stone, weathered and ancient, wrapped in thick thorny vines. The tower was surrounded by a circular stone wall, moss-covered and crumbling in places.
They walked the perimeter, searching for an entrance that was not there. On the far side, partially hidden by long grass, a body lay crumpled on the ground. Red rushed forward before Wim could stop him.
“Don’t—” Wim growled, but Red was already kneeling beside the corpse.
It was a drained husk, skin grey and paper-thin, stretched over hollow bones like old parchment. The victim’s mouth gaped in a silent scream, eyes sunken so deep they were barely visible.
“Dark sorcery,” Wim muttered.
As they hurried away, Red stared at the tower’s highest window, but saw no flicker of movement in the darkness.
With the ancient trees of the Dark Forest looming ahead, they moved at a snail’s pace. Red spotted a blue-winged butterfly and insisted on following it, while Wim discovered three different types of berries that simply had to be sampled. Neither mentioned how their five-minute breaks stretched into half hours, or how their usual chatter had dwindled to weighted silence.
The trees changed without warning. One moment, Red walked through familiar forest—oak and birch with their welcoming branches. The next, ancient pines towered overhead, their trunks wider than the palace’s pillars. Thick, dark moss draped every surface like an infection. The air grew heavy, tasting of decay and secrets.
Red’s steps faltered. “This is it, then.”
Wim’s fingers brushed against Red’s wrist, a ghost of contact that sent shivers down his spine. “The Dark Forest.”
They stood at the threshold, where vibrant greens faded to muted greys and browns. Even the sunlight seemed hesitant to pierce the canopy overhead, creating a stark line between light and shadow. The border between their journey and its end.
Red’s throat tightened. He reached for his mother’s cloak, clutching the fabric between trembling fingers. All those nights spent imagining this moment, planning his triumphant march into these feared woods—none of it had prepared him for the reality. Not just of the forest’s oppressive presence, but of the man beside him. The way Wim’s warmth called to him like a beacon, even as duty pulled him forward into the darkness.
“We could—” Wim’s voice grew raw. He cleared his throat. “We could rest here. Just one more night.”
Red shook his head, though every part of him screamed to agree. “I couldn’t bear it.”
