Dirt cascaded down the deep recess, covering the small wooden box that housed what was left of the widow’s husband. Father Nils recited from a large gold-trimmed tome in his hands.

We send this brave spirit to you, Anlun.

Watch this soul on his journey from this world.

O’ Hallowed Golden Guardian, we weep, yet we know your light shall shine through.

May he meet a fortuitous fate in the world-after.

The book slowly closed as the hole became a small mound. Nils reached into a pocket in his sleeves, handing the disheveled woman a small flask containing a handful of ash. The widow bit her lip, her face blushed. She sucked in air like she was drowning.

Roy’s eyes narrowed. He looked at the dirt he had just shoveled into the pit. Arthur put his spade down, patting the sweat off of his forehead. He looked just as angry as before. Nils stepped towards the grave, looking up at Arthur.

“Thank you for helping her. ’Tis a shame.” Nils sighed. Arthur’s lips shrunk as he nodded.

The priest looked at the young boy beside Arthur. He inhaled, then turned back to the new widow.

“Stay at the temple as long as you need.” Nils said quietly. Arthur looked out beyond the trees as though something still lurked in them.

“I’ll need to work overnight to get that order done.” Arthur said bluntly, “You didn’t need to be here. Thank you.”

“Where’s Viola?” Roy’s question was met with a finger pointed down the cemetery fields, heading towards the lake.

“Good question.” Arthur said, resting his chin on his knuckles as he held the spade’s handle, “Follow that path down to the lake.” He unstrapped the dagger on his side and handed it to Roy.

“You’re not coming?” Roy asked.

“Can’t.” Arthur said flatly. Roy started his trek to Viola, burying the end of his spade in the grass.

The path to the lake winded unevenly past headstones, most being wood or stone that cracked over the years. Roy pressed on into the trees until a small grove appeared. Moss and mushrooms filled the area, and a single beautiful half-oval slab sat by the lakeside. It looked across the frozen lake, basking in it’s crystalline beauty. Finger marks swiped pine needles and dirt away from the foot of the marble. A small gathering of purple berries lay at the base. A name was inscribed on the left side, while the right was left blank.

Yue Schmidt

1503-1523

It was one of the finest headstones Roy had ever seen.

A stick cracked. Roy turned towards the lake. Viola stepped along the lake shore, completely unaware of his presence. She was far away enough to skew the features of her face. She looked up in trees and down at stones. She meandered, plucking needles off a branch full of Junipers. As she drew closer, a mellifluous serenade touched the air. The silent snow only added to the ghostly beauty of her voice. When she stopped, steamy breath flowed back into chestnut hair.

Roy lingered on her beauty. His grip on Arthur’s dagger loosened. It slipped from his fingers, smacking the snow. Viola turned, looking at the grave. Roy’s piercing eyes startled her soon after. Roy scooped up the weapon, frost biting at his bare fingertips.

“It’s done then?” Viola asked, stepping away from the lakeside.

“Yes.”

Viola was quiet and reserved. The mere presence of her mother’s final resting place took the color out of her voice, “I’m worried about father. He doesn’t react well to things like this.” She said, picking the juniper needles off of the branch.

“How often does this happen?”

“It happened last summer.” Viola placed the berries on the grave, “And autumn before that. My father kills them when he can.”

“They take people? Just like that?” Roy stood near Viola as she knelt, head turning on a swivel at any rustle or crunch.

“They do now.” Viola said, “Father thinks the war made them bold. They got the taste of blood from the battlefields. When the corpses ran out, they got closer and closer to the villages.” She quieted, “That’s how they got my mother. She was picking wild yarrow.”

“I’m sorry.”

Viola reassured, “I was little, I don’t remember her.” She looked straight into Roy’s eyes, “You don’t have to stay here; I’ll be home before dark.”

“I’m not leaving you here.” Roy said firmly.

“Todesspucker don’t stray this close to the village.” Viola said, “They don’t like the temple.”

“Why’s that?”

“Too many people.” Viola said, “Spitters don’t like challenging hunts.”

Viola tried to find the words, but it was difficult. Roy checked his surroundings, looking for something to pull her from such dreadful thoughts. Evergreen shrubs covered the earth, snow smothering the barren spots where flowers once bloomed. He walked away from the grave, weaving between two thin pines. It was there he found a bunch of vibrant red blooms. Their petals tilted upwards, embracing one another like cupped hands.

“Look.” Roy pointed, “We can use these.”

Viola approached. Her eyes filled with wonder upon seeing the tiny patch.

“Blood of Anlun.” Viola smiled. Roy knelt down, reaching for one of the flowers. Viola quickly put her hand on his shoulder. Roy stopped, his neck craning up at her curiously.

“We should leave them be.” Viola said, “They’re sacred.”

Roy looked back at the flowers. He tried to stand up, but the ice beneath his feet made it difficult. Viola held out her hand. When Roy took it, she pulled back with her entire body.

“A flower? Sacred?” Roy asked.

“The Canticles of Anlun say that upon his death, the first queen of Gairm scattered his ashes across the great plains.” Viola stared at the blooms, enchanted by them, “Where the ashes fell, Blood of Anlun bloomed.”

The blooms swayed gently as a breeze tickled the pines above. Roy couldn’t look away from them.

“Didn’t the caravan teach you any of this?”

“No.” Roy laughed to himself, “Sicchus doesn’t care about Anlun.”

“What does he care about?”

“Money.” Roy scoffed, “When he found me, he thought I’d be profitable later.”

“Sicchus raised you?”

“Sicchus didn't do anything. Others tried to raise me, but they didn’t stay long. A Sister of Anlun taught me how to speak. She was closest to a mother I ever had.”

“She sounds like the old innkeeper. When my mother died, she helped my father take care of me. My father worked from sunrise into the late hours of the night. What happened to the Sister?”

“She left.” Roy said, “They all do.”

“You didn’t go with her?”

Roy’s brows furrowed. Darkness permeated his eyes as he gazed out at the frosted lake. Snow fell silently on the ice like feathers, and the trees sagged under the weight of their own branches.

“I tried to.” Roy said, “By the end, she grew distant from me. Sicchus said I scared her.”

“Why would she be scared of you?”

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“I don’t know.” Roy said clearly as though he had said it many times before. It sounded rehearsed.

Roy’s mouth opened slightly as he took in the scenery. Viola spotted an odd twitch beneath the crease of his lip. He stared as far out into the white lake as he could. He inhaled deeply, trying to find solace in the heavens instead. He turned, spotting a small green patch. The moss had defied the encroaching snow, leaving a perfect spot to rest. He sat down beneath the tree’s branches, looking up at them. They resembled a thousand wagon spokes, all infected with tiny green needles. Roy reached into his satchel, pulling a small leatherbound book.

Viola tossed a small stone across the frozen lake. It skittered until it fell through the thin ice towards the center of the lake. Viola spotted the notebook in Roy’s hands. The right page was blank, but the left was full of drawings. The sketch of a man drew her attention. He flipped backward from winter foliage to fall leaves and finally to spring, where he had captured a dozen images of flowers. There was even a deer staring at him with charcoal eyes.

“What’s that?” Viola asked, picking a branch of needles from a tree.

“Drawings.” Roy said, flipping through the pages.

“Did the Sister teach you that?”

“No.” Roy shook his head, “I figured it out on my own.”

Viola was captivated by a woman immortalized in coal. She was beautiful, with long, dark hair. Her smooth, elegant face was devoid of unique features. It looked like he experimented by rubbing leaves and dirt to get a muddied green texture in her irises. The drawing had many imperfections, but there was a soul in her gleaming ursine eyes. A water stain soaked the bottom corner of the page.

“Is that her?” Viola asked. Roy shook his head.

“No.” He answered. Viola looked at him, expecting more. It never came.

“She kind of looks like you. Your mother?” The moment Viola’s words touched Roy’s ears he closed the book. His cheeks reddened.

Viola tossed the branch away, kneeling on the moss Roy rested on as she leaned forward to get a better look. She twisted her body, sitting in the space beside him. As she relaxed into the moss she slipped downward, her head falling against Roy’s shoulder as her boot dug into the snow. Roy freed his right hand, awkwardly pulling her back by her forearm.

Roy sat quietly like a deer listening to a snapped branch. He wanted to recoil, to flee from the heat in his gut. Roy’s heart pounded in his chest, and the burning he felt transformed into a strong, insatiable desire to crawl toward the lake and eat the ice that coated the surface. A small cloud crept from Roy’s nostrils, and his shoulder felt hotter than it had before. She lifted her head away, embarrassed at the slip-up. The details of Roy’s drawings were far better up close.

What started as thick, uniform lines and simple shapes morphed with each season. When spring fell away into summer, the plants he drew livened. In the fall, his coal created a gradient of blacks and grays that formed depth. Every drawing looked like it was smeared from left to right, resembling the oil paintings in Mossglen’s temple.

A man appeared at the start of winter. His face was more defined than the woman’s. While the woman’s portrait faced the front, the man’s was angled like he was looking to the left. Viola was so entranced by his art, that he could feel her breath on his shoulder as she melted into the pages.

“Can you draw that?” Viola asked, pointing out beyond the lake, the twin peaks of Kriedeberg towering over the pines.

“I think I have.” Roy flipped around in the book. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to recall, “We were… In Krober… south of the mountain.” Roy fussed until he spotted the page. He opened it, holding the book towards Viola.

The mountain was magnificent. A prairie was laid out before Kriedeberg, a river running along a narrow path.

“I think we were near a smaller mountain; Silberberg.”

“I’ve never seen that side before.” Viola scanned the horizon, “Cliffs?” She looked at the real mountain but failed to see them.

The drawing showed two steep drops. One was near the base of the mountain, and the other was near one of its twin peaks. They were not visible from Mossglen.

“You have the north side, now.” Viola looked out at the mountain.

Roy detected encouragement in Viola’s voice. He nodded, adjusting himself as he reached into his satchel for the last chunk of coal he had left.

Roy carefully held the tiny sliver of charcoal with three fingers, struggling to get a decent grip on it. The chunk was barely the size of a juniper berry. Viola watched as the tendons in Roy’s hand bulged and receded, changing the darkness of the lines he created. He scratched at the paper, creating thick black lines that seemed to be placed at random. Viola didn’t make sense of them until he suddenly drew downwards, forming the trunk of a pine tree. Dips and dots formed stones on the lake shore, and little sweeping motions created waves. Roy was posturing with a pebble of coal.

Roy tried to think of new things to add. More stones, more trees, maybe even detailing that would draw out the texture of the snow. He looked to the sky for inspiration. There was overcast. He ground the coal into the paper. He used his fingers to smudge a dreary gray sky. Large splotches remained untouched, imitating snow. He licked the tip of his finger, adding more texture to the heavens.

Viola scooted closer again. Roy felt a flush of heat across his arms. Sweat stuck to his ribs, and he could smell the yarrow scent coming off of Viola’s skin. He powered through it, focusing his nerves on the snowcapped peaks.

Viola could feel her eyes growing heavy.

“How long has it been?” Roy asked, noticing the sun was much higher in the sky than before. He could see its light through the clouds, lining up with the lower summit.

“Long enough to worry father.” Viola sighed, putting a hand on her forehead, “We should head back.”

Viola lifted herself away from Roy, feeling the sudden return of the biting cold. A pout creased Roy’s lips. Viola shivered, turning to Roy. His saddened expression quickly faded as he closed his notebook and placed it into his bag. She reached out for him, pulling him off the ground.

Roy gazed into her deep violet eyes. He couldn’t seem to sit still; his face twitched a little as he tried to wave away nerves through his fingertips.

Viola’s warm smile goaded him into doing the same. When he did smile, her pupils grew like flowers blooming. Just as Roy barely lifted a foot to step towards her, she left for the path back towards the market. Roy stood there, watching as she walked away. He looked at the lakeside, then back at her. He tried to find something to say, but there were no words for what he felt. He quickly reached back into his bag.

“Viola.” Roy called, pulling out his notebook, flipped to the mountain, and tore it cleanly from the spine. Without another word, he held the drawing out to Viola.