The Atoneress 838
Copyright© 2026 by Farathric
Chapter 1: Winter Solstice
I
I wake up, shivering from the cold. I am in a forest, by a small, calm stream. I see my reflection in the water: wavy curls of shiny, copper-blonde hair surrounding a pretty face without the tiniest mole, freckle, or any other flaw, the kind of face that could drive a man crazy with desire. A desire that a man could only dream of fulfilling in his wildest dreams, because I am...
Who am I? What is my name? Farathric, right? No, that is definitely not my name. It was a word in my native tongue. It would translate as “The Cursed One” in the human language I knew. But it’s the only thing that comes to my mind when I try to remember my name. Wait, why was I thinking instinctively to myself in the human language? I look into the beautiful, large, amber eyes of my reflection, and I don’t find any answers.
I need to go and regain my memories. I desperately need to remember my name, my real name that brings me so much splendour and glory. First, I need to focus, and it’s so hard to think in this thrice-damned cold. I need to make a fire and warm up a little. It will be easy; there is a lot of wood around me. All I need to do is gather it and say...
What do I need to say? I remember another language, not my native one, and neither is it the one to communicate with humans; it is one to command the world to do as I please. But I don’t remember how to summon even a little fire. Well, I do remember some very simple formulas. I focus on a small, dry branch of a nearby tree and command it to move. Nothing happens. I realise that I do not have even the tiniest drop of magical power.
Well, I’ll find some source of power and then find a way to get back my name and rightful glory. But I need some food, warmth, and protection from danger first. I focus on my shivering body. I feel my amazing hourglass figure; large but supple breasts, round buttocks, and long, slender legs. I can run very fast, that I know for sure, but my arms and back lack muscle.
The simple, black dress, with just a shirt and one underdress underneath that I’m wearing, surely isn’t proper clothing for this weather. There is a bag slung over my shoulder. I look inside and find a handful of quills, a small knife to sharpen them, a small glass bottle of ink, some sheets of parchment, and a single silver coin. I suddenly feel angry: how dare some human offer me silver instead of gold and gems? Why is my dress not of the finest silk dyed in purples and deep blues? It’s not right, though I do not remember why.
But then, I remember I need to do something about my position. Anger doesn’t help. I decide to put it aside until this is over and get my revenge later. I need to get some coat, or I’ll freeze to death. I remember how to read, and I’m sure I can write very beautifully, so I could work as a scribe to earn money for a coat. I swallow the humiliation this thought brings. If I need to work to earn the money, that’s what I’ll do.
On my belt, I find a simple dagger. I frown upon the primitive, undecorated work, but it is sharp and provides me with some protection. Around my neck is a simple wooden pendant. Wood! I swallow anger. The two small crossed wings carved in oakwood are sacred; somehow I know it. I also know that most people would not recognise it, and of those that would, it would bring me more enemies than friends. I hide it deep under my dress.
I recall the language that I used to speak to command the world. Now I use it to command myself: anger has no use for me now. I forsake it. I renounce all the anger. I will not ever feel it ever again until the day I decide to reclaim it. I focus on the dress of cheap wool on my body, on a silver coin in my bag, on undecorated iron on my belt. I feel nothing. Good, it worked. Now I try to renounce the cold, the pain in my head, the humiliation of needing to work with my own hands. It does not work. I’ll need to feel those. For now.
II
I get up and start walking. There are only a few patches of snow here and there. I see a lot of dry wood on the ground and oyster mushrooms on the sides of the trees. It’s bad. Poor humans visit forests for wood to warm their huts and for food to feed themselves, right? So if there is so much wood and food around, it means I’m far away from human habitats, right?
Suddenly, I realise that the world is broken. Humans prefer to go cold and hungry rather than go into the forests in fear of dangerous monsters. They don’t trust each other either. They have forgotten the right of hospitality and are wary of strangers. They disrespect unmarried women. They do not decorate their belongings and surroundings, because surviving takes so much effort that beauty is a redundant luxury very few can afford.
The world is broken, and it is my fault. How is it my fault? I do not know. But I need to fix it. I need to protect the endangered, feed the hungry, heal the wounded and the sick. That is my way to getting back my memories.
Hours have passed, and I can barely stand when I finally reach the edge of the forest and see the fields. There are huts beyond the fields, and I nearly cry from happiness when I see smoke coming from the chimneys. Fire. Warmth. This thought brings me strength, so much needed to keep walking.
But there is a moat around the huts and primitive wooden fortifications. I can only enter the village one way, and this way is guarded by three men armed with agricultural tools. Their faces show no kindness as they approach me. They start asking questions: who am I, where do I come from, what was I doing in this weather in the cursed forest in such weather in such clothes. Questions I have no answers for. I open my mouth to ask them to let me sit by some fire, but my numb from cold lips aren’t able to form articulated sounds.
They debate what to do with me. Two of them want to drive me back to the forest that I came from and forget about me. I might come from the Tarry Village and come here to steal or do some other harm. Better not to risk strangers in their own village, right? But the third one, Henry, points out that I have good-quality shoes. So I could be the wife of someone important. Maybe they’ll get rewarded if they save me from a sure death from the cold? Besides, there are monsters in the cursed forest. No one would risk being eaten by them only to steal a chicken. Oh, how humiliating it is to stand here, envy their poor and ugly but warm clothes, listen to how they debate on my fate and not even be able to speak.
Henry promises he’ll take full responsibility for allowing me inside the village. Should I do any harm, he’ll pay for the damage. That convinces the other two. Henry yells to someone I can’t see to take his watch and drags me. I cannot find the strength to walk in a dignified way, instead of being dragged like a ragdoll. And he doesn’t lead me to any of the huts.
III
He takes me inside a barn. But at least the wind doesn’t blow here, and it’s a little warmer than outside. He pushes me onto a pile of hay and ties my hands to a pillar with a rope that seems like it’s usually used for harnessing draft horses. The degradation makes my insides twist, but there is nothing I can do. I still don’t have even the tiniest drop of magic in me, and even if I did, my lips are still too numb to speak the spell. And Henry is strong. He looks about 20, has a short black beard, and I’m sure that his warm coat hides the strong body of a man accustomed to hard work in the fields. I wouldn’t stand a chance against him physically, even in my fittest shape. I lie helpless on the hay as he takes my dagger and searches my bag.
He begins asking the questions again. Who am I? What is my name? Why was I in the forest? Why did I come here? I wish I knew myself. I slowly regain feeling in my lips. I think I could speak again, but I pretend I still can’t from all the cold. I hope that if I get more time to think and he speaks a little more about his guesses, I will be able to come up with some lie to explain my situation.
But he doesn’t say anything useful. Instead, he tells me how he needs to make sure I don’t have any other weapons on me. It is the first time I see his smile, and I don’t like this smile on his face. He slides his large hand under my clothes and keeps muttering that I could have a small knife hidden here or there. I don’t believe him, and I’m sure neither he doesn’t believe that I could somehow hide a knife between my breasts. This doesn’t stop him from pinching them and squeezing, then pinching my nipples, telling me over and over again how he does it for his own protection and to protect his village from a potential danger.
My hands are tied, and telling him to stop would be admitting that I can already speak, so he might demand the answers again. I think about the pendant hanging from my neck between the shirt and the dress. I wonder how I will explain it if he finds it and recognises the symbol. No, not if. When he finds it. It’s impossible to miss, I know that.
But ... he does miss it. He’s too busy making sure that every single inch of my breasts has been “searched”. After a short while, he got very methodical. He pinches my breast, moves his finger a thumbnail’s width, going in circles around my nipple. Whenever he reaches the topmost point of the circle, he holds his thumb there, as if to remember where he stopped; he pinches my nipple, squeezes my breast and pinches my nipple again with the rest of his fingers. Then he gets back to the circles, moving one thumbnail’s width away from the nipple from the point he paused at.
It takes five such circles for him to be satisfied that he searched my left breast. Then he inspects the right one in the same way. I shiver in fear, but I hope it looks like I’m still too chilled to speak.
By the time he finishes “the search”, the pendant is still well hidden, but I can no longer pretend that I can’t speak. I’m sure that I would be furious at myself if I hadn’t forsaken the anger. I’ve allowed him to treat me like that to give myself time to think of something to tell him, and what for? My head is still empty. Worst of all, I want him to continue. Though I don’t remember my past, I’m quite sure that what he just did was the most painful and degrading thing that has ever happened to me. But his rough, brutal hands are warm. I wish he wouldn’t stop touching me, and I feel so humiliated by this wish.
When he begins his inquiries again, defeated, I tell him the truth: I don’t remember my name, I don’t remember where I come from, what I do for a living, and I don’t remember what I was doing in the forest. He finds it strange, but he can’t think of any reason for me to lie, so he decides to believe me. He begins thinking aloud about what best to do with me so that it would be easier for my husband to find me.
I know of a human marriage; I know what a husband is, but with effort I recall that though there are women and men among my kind, we don’t practice marriage. Oh, how I wish I would remember what my kind is. I dare not tell him I’m not human. Until I learn something about the history of this world, I must keep it a deepest secret - it could very well may be that humans would consider me an enemy just for not being one of them.
But I do tell him that I don’t think I have a husband. He smiles a smile that I like even less than the previous one, and suddenly I know that revealing that I have no husband was a huge mistake.
He leans down toward my ear and whispers: I could take you home, make sure you can sit by the fire. You could have some warm soup. I could even make sure that you can sleep in a warm place. You’d like that very much, right? I nod. So he continues: All you have to do is give me a little pleasure. You do remember how to please a man, right? Just lie down and spread your legs a little; I’ll do the rest of the work. But don’t you make any sound.
Do. You. Agree?
I remember copulation. My kind does it too. Somehow I wish he’d take me by force. Maybe it would feel less humiliating than having to agree to please him for a bowl of soup and the right to sleep in a peasant’s bed. I hold back the tears. Water on my face would drain the valuable heat out of my body even faster than the cold air. But I nod. This doesn’t satisfy him. Do you agree? He repeats and waits for my yes. So he hears it.
He pulls my dress and underskirt up. A wave of cold hits my legs. His pecker is already hard and swollen when he unties his pants. The act itself is quick and painful, but I desperately cling onto his warm body. He takes it as a sign of my pleasure, and I dare not disabuse him of the notion. See, see how you like it, just don’t you scream from the pleasure, hush, it’s good, I know, but stay silent - he mutters. I dare not tell him the groans I muffle with effort are due to my suffering. When he is done, though the pain is intense, I appreciate his warm seed inside my body. I do not worry; I don’t think I’m capable of getting pregnant with a human.