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The others see the birds and mice, see the glamor of her hoard of animals, and make assumptions. They see how she struggles to pull or push as Ylfa does and ignore how light her feet are, how she moves in shadows as well as the mice who search for food under the nose of a cat. They see what they want, and don’t look deeper.
If they did, they would see the creeping briars growing from still-bleeding cuts, would notice that her circlet is ever so slightly bloody as they pass it around, as though she pulled it from her head. If they looked closer, they would see the horror of a wave of chittering mice chewing through constricting binds, would see the power of a falcon up above who is loyal first and foremost to the Princess of Reverie. But they don’t look closer, don’t see the eldritch beast wearing gowns and a kingdom on her shoulders.
Ylfa comes closest, sees her hero make shots that she shouldn’t be able to while hawks and ravens circle above, lending their eyes. She sees the Otherness that she carries reflected in pale hair with thorns on her brow. But she fails to notice the creeping of the thorns as she marvels at royalty and plays as all kids should be able to.
Gerard disregards any Otherness he shares with Rosamund as the familial relation they share. Sees how she jumps as though she ought to have the wings of her starlings and relates with the powerful frog leap he has. Writes off the strangeness of his human cousin having similar abilities that a curse gave him. Lives in blissful ignorance determined to ignore anything more out of the ordinary than the quest set before them already instills.
Pib sees a kindred hunter but doesn’t see the spark of mischief that hides beneath the mantle of a maybe-sole-survivor of her home, doesn’t see the searching foxes and screeching corvids that seek shining objects to present to the first of her name. He sees the walker of shadows, the one who Knows animals as he does. Sees the tamer, the listener, the one who walks with the wild.
Mother Goose sees a girl, handed too much responsibility and too little respect. Sees the girl under the guise of an adult, the terrified thing that fears making choices lest she choose wrong, the one that revels in being able to choose. So focused on protecting children, he misses the Harbinger of Wild that seeps out of her every pore, he misses She Who Commands The Forest, misses the power she holds.
Pinocchio misses the most, he sees an archer and not much else. He sees a woman who will protect him. She reminds him of Pib, in a way. Able to protect but young, able to be trusted with his back but the guilt of what "Mother" asked of him, the watchdog and guard of a jewel he was supposed to protect weigh him too heavily to see the way she sways with the wind, listening to what the birds call, he’s deaf and blind to how plants lean towards her, how they bloom brighter as she passes, as though to impress an empress.
None see how the scars of vines crack over her, how they seem to nearly glow in dappled sunlight, ethereal. How her shadow accommodates two sets of wings, one of thorns that spread in a warning and one of feathers that stretch to encompass the whole of whatever forest she is in. They do not see how her overly long sleep left her connected to the land of dreams, how her opponents seem sluggish and slow, as though they just woke up.
The Wild recognizes her, allows her free roam and reigns over its domain, sees the fluttering flame of her soul, how it is as fickle as the winds and just as strong. She yearns for True Love and yet hates that she is choiceless in her story, her idea of Love changes from minute to minute, but her loyalty to the Wild and her friends stays strong as a leaf-stripping gale. She is Chaos, she is as much a Wild One as the swarm she commands, just as Other as the Wolf That Lingers In Shadows.
She is changed in ways others don’t see but it is there, the sharpness of her teeth, jaws capable of snapping bone. Eyes that reflect light and track movement too well for a human. Ears that move independently, modular in unnatural ways, sharpened ever so slightly to catch noise better. The Wild is as much a part of her as it is her domain. She is its ruler but is changed by her title, Harbinger of Wild, Empress of Chaos, and Pandemonium Portent. These titles make her more akin to her domain, more Wild.
No matter how frail, how thin, or meek she looks, there is no world where Rosamund would not choose to defend, to protect that which she holds dear. A nebulous maybe-perfect-prince will lose to her blade if he threatens her sister, her cousin, her friends, her family. Rosamund is idealistic, but she’s been tempered by the harsh teacher of the forest. Let no one say that she doesn’t learn quickly, one death and she rises again, refusing to watch her fellows fall, refusing to take the easy way out, no matter what they offer.
The thorns may continue to grow, and she may despise the nightmares of painful bindings and a cocoon of pain and safety, but the Wild winds itself along her shoulders, a Mantle of creatures who will claw and chew her out of whatever horror binds her. Starlings will dance for her on nights when the shackles of briars bite too much, a moose will offer its antlers as a battering ram when the foes seem endless, and the mice will emerge when she needs them most.
The others may not see how she moves as predator over prey, how the set of her shoulders and the movement of her spine is feline, a hunter assured in its success, they may not understand the subtle movement of weight that signals the forest to Listen to her, but she knows. Rosamund du Prix may not know if her kingdom sleeps or lies dead, but she Knows her place in the forests she ran through as a child, she Knows the creatures. Knows the Wild she holds and commands within her.
Her abilities as the hunter have always been her pride, a lesson she was given as a way to humor a young child cooped up in a palace away from any sharp objects. Arrows dulled, she learned to shoot on a pristine range, over a century ago now. Ailing animals taught her to hunt as a predator of the forest she roamed, easy targets for sure but they taught her well, would hide in places untenable to her, a game of cat and mouse that taught her how to strike swift and true.
Sheltered and kept soft, Rosamund had to learn the kill-or-be-killed world of the forest, but she soon caught on to the cycle, life and death and life again. The kingdom of Reviere may have fallen, but her dominion of the Wild is unchallenged, it’s ever-changing but never lost. She is Wild, her steps light as a breeze, her arrows sharper than her tutors would ever allow, sharper than the thorns that dig in and out of her skin. She will not be stopped, she will not falter, for her forest is as Wild as she.
Ylfa bonds with Death and she nods, this is right, this is the way of the Wild, pup and parent. The Wolf offers no bow but his ear twitch is enough to know it accepts her rule as Harbinger and Leader. She smiles with too many, too sharp teeth as he devours his captor and she lets herself relax, the prey is gone and she has someone Wild to watch her back, she rolls her shoulders to resituate the weight of non-existent wings settling as feathers rustle and resettle.
The Wild is as merciful as it is ruthless, the home of predator and prey, where it looks on and gives as much help to one as the other. There was a reason she was a linchpin for the princesses, the fae worked within order, worked off of reasoning and logic, such as it was when bending reality was present, she was Chaos, she brought discord where they needed organization. The reason she was sought after by so many factions was because she brought the Wild with her, the natural turmoil of the forest, brought That Which Makes Us Equal, The Balancer, The Scales Of Life, the Wild .
And so, wind tangling curls and feet as swift as the birds up above, Rosamund lets the Wild flow, tree roots seem to move out of her way, keeping the path clear as she darts by. Faster, and faster still, she runs, she hunts, searching for her family, eager to win the race, Pib may be a cat, and Ylfa has her wolf strength, but she is the Wild. Gerard and Mother Goose, with Pinnochio on his shoulders, are waiting ahead to see who comes out first. Rosamund’s foot pushed off the ground, and up above, the shadow of wings, vast enough to encircle a forest, flared out as if in flight.