Page 17 of The Knucker King

Her patient’s face brightened. “Really? How? Where? Can I see her?”

“Perhaps, one day,” the midwife said. “The Well King took her. She’s living with the Faeries now. The magic they have, it will heal her and will change her. She will not be fully human anymore.”

Joan shifted, gritting her teeth as she did so. She said nothing for a while but held out her cup. Avice poured more of the steaming liquid, carefully watching the woman across from her. Unfathomable emotions shifted across her face. It was a part of their existence in Lamorna. Babies died, women died, and they were warned of that brutal reality from girlhood. From the moment they were married and pregnant, they and their children could die. Be it from labour and birth, or a husband’s brutal fist.

Finally, the young woman nodded and sipped. “The best outcome I could ask for, given the circumstances. I just hope the next one…” Joan glanced to the door and back to Avice’s face. “…lives, or it might not be the birth that ends my life.”

The midwife clenched her jaw so hard she thought she might shatter her teeth. Biting back the anger, she nodded and took another sip. She found her cup empty and poured a little more into it. The tea did not bring her comfort at the idea of the young woman under Robert Shepherd’s fists. She squeezed her eyes shut; the hands of Joan’s husband were replaced by the meaty knuckles of her own attacker. Avice’s fingers, under their own volition, traced the raised scars on her face. She shook her head back and forth, trying to dismiss memory from her mind. Avice’s eye’s fluttered open, and to her surprise, Joan was watching her carefully.

“I understand,” the midwife responded simply.

She cast her gaze to the shutters and realised there was a scrap of daylight left. Just enough time to get home before the all-consuming dark of the night could swallow her whole.

“I must start my journey home,” Avice announced.

She quickly gathered her belongings in her satchel. Leaving a pinch of ground willow bark in a small wooden bowl next to the pallet, she met Joan’s grateful face. Just as she was about to brave the outdoors, hand on the doorknob, her patient called out to her.

“Midwife!” She pointed to the bronze hook by the door. “Do not forget your gloves.”

Avice followed Joan’s gesture. She smiled and plucked her well-worn gloves – the same pair she had forgotten in her rush to save Hope – from the spot and tugged them on. Avice let out a sigh; grateful the cold would not snap at her fingers on her march home.

She beamed down at the tiny woman by the hearth. Bundled in blankets, her eyes had brightened, and there was a slight, pink flush to her hollow cheeks.

Avice nodded in satisfaction. “Thank you, Goodwife. If it is alright with you, I will visit again, soon.”

Joan returned the grin and nodded. “Please, and travel safely.”

A warm feeling of friendship curled in her belly. Avice took a deep breath, before stepping out into the penetrating cold, beginning her exhausting trudge home.

8

Chapter 8

Trewoofe

It had only been a few days since he had last seen her, but Trewoofe could not get Avice out of his mind.

She stalked his dreams. He saw the flash of her determined expression, the raven sheen of her long hair, the earthy, brown softness of her eyes, and the ripple of her rear as she jumped.

He awoke abruptly in his nest, his crest fully displayed and flushed. It was not the only thing that had presented in his sleep. The long, hard length of him had erupted from the seam between his hind legs. Trewoofe was ready and wanting. Large pearls of moisture beaded at the top of his long, purple cock. The Knucker had to relieve himself, he was so hungry for her, it hurt.

I want to rut. Trewoofe had not wanted since the men in gold and red had marched across the land above, bringing the Cross God with them. He sat up on his haunches. He reached out of his nest and ran a front paw over a moss-covered rock, just a step away. Soft and smooth. Just like she would be.

Trewoofe shifted his long body from his nest, careful not to bump the sensitive head of his length as he climbed out. Swollen and aching, he stood on his hind legs and laid his cock on the boulder, mounting it as he would another of his own kind.

“Cold.” He shivered as the dampness seeped into him. “She would be warm.”

The Knucker experimented, pulling back and pushing forward, the springy moss stimulating the underside of his sensitive skin. The careful movement sent shoots of tingling pleasure up his spine. He dug his hind claws into the soil beneath him as he repeated the movement. It felt pleasant, but not enough.

Trewoofe flicked his tongue out, the forks running over his nostrils, imagining he could still scent Avice there. Shifting his forepaws from gripping the rock, he instead covered his cock with them, fully encircling himself. Another thrust and Trewoofe’s eyes nearly rolled back into his head with euphoria.

He writhed, rippled, and coiled. Imagining it was her; that it was his little witch beneath him, that he would make her cry out in pleasure. How he would give to her, satiate her, and lay her languid in his nest before he would mount her and fill her. His scales vibrated as he upped his pace, tail unfurling and lashing into the river behind him. Splashing droplets of shimmering water all over his body, the contrast of the cold drops and heat between his rear legs stimulated him further.

Avice…

Trewoofe rose up to his full height and threw back his head. He opened his mouth and roared, rattling the humming crystals in his nest chamber. The agonising pressure that had been building in his core erupted. He sprayed himself all over the boulder, soaking it with his spend. Throbs of euphoria pulsed through him, making him twitch. He collapsed into the mess he had created, panting heavily, as he dreamed of his little witch’s cries of pleasure.

I want to give her a gift.