~ Stag In the Woods: Chapter Two ~
A grieving woman clings to the memory of the man she lost—until an impossible birth shatters everything she thought she knew about herself and her child. In a lonely Highland farmhouse beneath winter skies, Eleanor is forced to confront horror, grief, and the fragile spark of something new and alive.
When the line between human and beast breaks beyond reason, she makes a choice that will define both their futures.
Chapter One — From Horror Comes Hope
Those first few months after the doctor’s visit passed in a grey haze.
Eleanor told herself it was Thomas’s child. She repeated it like a prayer every time the nausea surged or nightmares tore her awake, tangled in sheets that still carried his scent. Thomas’s child. A last gift from the man who had died trying to protect her. She clung to that belief with quiet desperation, even as her body changed in ways that felt deeply, terribly wrong.
The pregnancy was harder than any book from the village library described. The kicks came too early, too strong — sharp little hooves drumming against her ribs. Her belly swelled faster than it should have. At night she paced the creaking floors while the Highland wind howled down the glen. Some mornings she woke with the taste of iron in her mouth and the wild scent of pine and musk clinging to her skin.
She told no one.
By the time the last leaves had fallen and the hills lay bare beneath iron skies, Eleanor was enormous and exhausted. The due date the doctor had given her came and went. She waited alone in the farmhouse, fire banked low, fear and denial twisting tighter with every passing hour.
The birth began on a bitter December night.
Pain lanced through her so sharply it drove her to her knees on the kitchen floor. She crawled to the bedroom, dragging blankets and towels behind her, terrified yet fiercely determined. Hours blurred into a red haze of effort and sounds she barely recognised as her own. Contractions tore through her like her body was being ripped apart from the inside.
When the final, wrenching push came, she screamed until her throat was raw.
Then silence.
Eleanor lay gasping, sweat-soaked and trembling, every muscle on fire. She forced herself up on shaking arms and stared between her bloodied legs.
A fawn.
Not a baby. A fawn. Tiny, wet, steaming in the cold air, still slick with embryonic fluids. Its damp reddish-brown coat was dappled with delicate white spots. Long, spindly legs folded awkwardly beneath it. Large dark eyes blinked open in the lantern light.
Her mind fractured.
“No… no, this isn’t real,” she gasped, voice hoarse and broken. “This can’t be happening—”
She scrambled backward, blankets tangling around her legs, until her back slammed into the bedframe. The fawn let out a soft, bewildered bleat and tried to crawl toward her on unsteady limbs, nose twitching desperately.
Eleanor retched, tears streaming. “Get away from me! You’re not— you can’t be—”
The creature kept coming, weak and shivering, leaving damp streaks across the floorboards. It pressed its small damp head against her thigh and nuzzled blindly, seeking warmth, seeking milk, seeking her. Another plaintive bleat escaped it, full of helpless need.
Something inside Eleanor snapped.
She stared at the impossible thing — living proof that the monster had left more than bruises and nightmares inside her — and a raw, animal sound tore from her throat. She wanted to shove it away. She wanted to scream until the roof caved in. She wanted to run into the snow and never come back.
But the fawn kept nuzzling, trembling against her, so small and fragile and alive. Its white spots stood stark against the damp fur, steam still rising gently from its body in the cold room.
Her hands shook violently as she reached out. She gathered the tiny creature close despite every screaming instinct. Its fur was impossibly soft and slick. Its small body radiated desperate warmth and complete, unconditional trust.
Tears burned hot tracks down her face.
“I’m here,” she whispered, voice cracking. “God help me… I’m here, little one.”
She rocked him gently as the fire crackled and the wind moaned outside. The promise she had whispered months ago returned now, sharper and heavier than before.
You will not become him.
Outside, snow began to fall softly over the Highland glen. Inside the old farmhouse, Eleanor Hart made her choice through the wreckage of her sanity.
She reached out hesitantly and touched beneath the fawn’s chin. The tiny creature immediately began mouthing at her fingers, searching instinctively for milk. A fresh wave of tears spilled down her cheeks.
“I promise,” she whispered. “I’ll keep you safe from a world that would only see you as a monster.”
The fawn answered with a soft, muffled bleat and pressed his damp muzzle against her stomach, rooting blindly. Hands trembling, Eleanor guided him toward her breast.
For several anxious minutes he fidgeted and squirmed. Then, at last, his lips found what instinct demanded. His tiny tail twitched. His dark eyes slowly closed in complete trust as he began to nurse.
Eleanor bowed her head and wept quietly into his spotted coat while the wind moaned around the old farmhouse and snow drifted across the Highland night.
Whatever he was. Whatever he would become. He was alive. And for now, that was enough.