This is a short tale I wrote as a writing project a while back. It is a retelling of an old Russian folk tale. It is interesting to take and old story and reframe it. I did some further polishing before posting it. I hope people like it.
Come closer, says I. It is time to tell the story of Vasilisa, the Beautiful, and of her terrible light. It is time to tell of her journey and troubles, of the old crone, Baba Yaga. I will not bite, my children. Not yet, at least. This is time for a story. There is time enough for you to land in the cook pot later, yes.
“I need your help,” the voice called to Kenet. The place was dark about him, and memory eluded him. Where am I, he thought? He cast around the place, looking for something to tell him where he was. Dim fog filled the air, and shadows stretched across towards him.
The figure stepped from shadow. It was Ele, her slight form cloaked in little more than shadow. She looked at him with sad, loving eyes. Her broken and blood-splattered hand reached for him. The deep cut in her throat made a sickening movement and spilled blood with her every breath. Her lips moved as if to tell him something, but Kenet only heard the sound of wind.