It was a cool autumn day, the trees alight in warm hues. The first hint of winter was still frost in the shaded spots of grass. The brook bubbled and gurgled over the soft rocks and down the many twists and turns of the pebble bank. A doe and her twin fawns coming to the water side to drink.

The fawns skipped and danced a few feet down the bank, bleat-ing and kicking out their feet. Around the corner they paused, shoulder to shoulder with their beady eyes on the figure before them.

A woman with long dark auburn hair stood in a white gown that looked to whisper gently around her frame despite the strong breeze that rattled the leaves. Her pale skin with tired rain blue eyes, full pink tinted lips. In her arms was a bundle of old farmers clothes. She pulled one hand from her bundle of cloth and tenderly stroked one of the fawns heads, then the other.

Satisfied with a pet the two trotted off back to their mother, leaving the woman alone at the stream.

The woman watched them go, the lines of her face drew longer as she turned back to her task. Laying the bundle of cloth at her side she pulled out a roughly sewn white shirt. Blood pooled across the front of the chest. She dipped it in the water, rubbing it against the worn smooth stone. Humming quietly as the water ran red.

Laying the damp cloth in her lap she reached into the bundle and produced a small ball of pins and needles. Picking a needle she continued humming, the soaked cloth wetting her own white gown but she began to hem the hole in the chest of the shirt. A soft prick and pull as a near invisible string stitched the fabric back together.

With it fixed she laid it to dry on a tree branch, returning to the pile to wash a roughly sewn set of trousers. They had small specks of blood, but were mostly just dirty. Hemming a torn knee and laying it to dry. Nestling back by her pile she stared deep into the water. A soft shaky hand lifting the small bloodied shirt from the blood soaked pants.

The shirt had several holes in it, but she was careful while she tended to her tasks. Scrubbing the small childs clothes against the smooth rock, tears streaked down her face. Desperately she wished these clothes did not need washed, humming breaking into quiet sobs. Her whispy fingers gripped the soiled shirt, tears dripping into the water.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” a strong voice said from behind her. 

She gasped and turned, sniffling as she eyed the finely dressed man.

He wore a dark suit with fine seams, a bowl like hat on his head that he slowly took off to hold in his hands. “May I ask who’s clothes you are washing…?” He seemed hesitant, but stood fast as he looked into her watery eyes.

Her mouth shut, biting her lip. She knew this man, a buisness man seeking land to create a large factory. Tomas Kindle was his name, though she did not know that personally. Knowing what was to come she tried to will her mouth to remain sealed. However her lips parted, speaking slow and quietly, “To Mr. Michel Stautsburn and his boy Gregory Stautsburn.”

“I see,” he replied gently. “How very unfortunate. Good day.”

Her heart wrenched, sure it would crawl out of her chest as the man turned and walked away back toward the road. Tears anew flowed down her face, and her hands willed the cloth against the rock. Desperately trying to stop herself from cleaning the child's clothes.

She knew them, and it ached to think small young Gregory would be ripped from the world, and she the messenger. Longing for someone, anyone, to come and stop her. Angry that a god fearing business man did not attempt to spare a child such a fate. She wanted to tear the clothes in her grasp, but the heel of her hand continued to massage the blood and dirt from the cloth.

She could see Gregory, his auburn hair cut short above his ears, buck teeth and freckles running around the yard with their dog JoJo. She remembered his birth; hours of painful labor in the bath tub, screaming for Michel who was off drinking with the pretty inn girls. She had only just heard his first cry and felt his wet body press to her chest when she left him.

A pain filled scream bounced off the trees around her, wishing and praying someone else would hear her and stop her. To tear the clothes from her grasp and spare him. To halt her task, to ask who the child was, and save her son.

The water ran clear and she hefted the wet cloth into her lap as if it were made of solid iron. Hemming the many ragged holes. Hands working quickly and calmly despite the tears and sobbing.

The bushes rustled before her, and a man in a dirty coat and muddy jeans peeked around a tree, rifle in hand and two rabbits tied to a rope slung over his shoulder. “Ma’am… are you alright?”

Her mouth opened but no words came out, for her pain did not matter. Her hands gripped the shirt and lifted it, holding it out to him. Take it! Take it please!

He jerked back, stumbling a bit, “A Bean-nighe…” He gulped hard and straightened himself. “W...Who’s is it?”

“Gregory Stautburn,” she gasped, finally able to speak.

“A child…?”

“Yes, he has not seen his sixth winter…” Tears spilled over her cheeks. Take it! Save him!

The man shifted and glanced around a bit, “And… How will he die?”

“Mercenaries will shoot him,” she stated, calm and quiet like.

The man looked up at Michels clothes in the tree, “And him?”

“Michel Stautburn, shot…”

He seemed to chew on a chapped lip, taking slow shuffled steps to the stream, a dirty hand reaching out for the shirt and snatching it as if she herself might grab him. “You will stop washing this childs clothes…”

A heavy breath passed her lips, and as she looked over the small trousers dusted away like ash to a breeze. The man dropping the shirt as it did the same.

Her task was finished, and she stood, collecting Michels clean clothes and turning to step away.

“Wait… Who are you? You look familiar...”

She paused, standing between low bushes under the golden hued leaves of an oak tree. “Samatha Stautburn…”