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She heard the clearing of his throat before he spoke.

“Valeria?” Ivan asked sheepishly.

She turned to him expectedly.

“I hate to ask.” He continued. “But, I’ve been here for a long while. I do not know how long, but the sun has set many times. I know I cannot leave, but…”

He rubbed the back of his head, seemingly to smooth out the hair. It had not worked.

“I thought, you can do a great many things, strange things…” again, hesitation, “and I wanted to know, can you see my mother? My father? I just want to know if they are okay. They are getting old and only have my younger brother to help them.”

Val felt her heart stir and ache in a way she had forgotten it could. It was longing, but it was sympathy as well.

She had not known that he even had a brother.

She gave him a slight smile. He clearly needed the reassurance.

Her mouth twitched, and she realized how forgotten the motion had been. Had she truly not smiled in so long?

“I will see what I can do.” She said, but panic rose within her. She did not know what to do.

That evening, after supper, Ivan had gone to fetch water from the well. Val, however, quickly made her way to the circle in the clearing. She did not know what to look for or do, but this was where so many rituals took place. This was where the Hag had done her sorcery…

She sat there for hours, thinking and playing with the dirt, but nothing came. She tried to close her eyes and find the thread to the Hag, but even touching it had produced nothing - not even the clank of the chains.

“Gods…” She whispered in exasperation.

So badly had she wanted to help him. She remembered being trapped there by the Hag.

How much she would have given then to see her mother again. How big of a price she would pay only to know that she had been alright.

“Rolling around in the dirt suits you like a little pig.” She heard from the trees.

Sirin.

Val smiled despite herself, as somewhere in the very depths below where her morality lived, she had missed the bird-woman.

“Perhaps I belong here.” She told her, making a half-hearted pig-like noise. This seemed to be to Sirin’s liking because she flew down to the boundary of the Glade but did not cross.

“Bring me an apple crumpet,” Sirin demanded.

“Won’t you come and eat with me? I will set the cloth out, and you can have your pick.” Val said.

“No.”

Val frowned.

“I’ll ask him to stay in the hut and not come out until you leave.” She offered.

“No!” Sirin cawed. “It is not because of the reeking vinegar-man that I do not come, although, were you to give him to me, I may consider it.”

“No.” Val shook her head, shooting down the subject of Ivan. “Why do you not come?”

“You used my name.” Sirin hissed.

“I use your name all the time!” Val defended herself.

“No. You used my name.” The bird woman emphasized ‘used’ and ‘name’ both. But Val just looked at her questioningly. Sirin shook herself and ruffled her feathers in annoyance. “Had I known you would soak up the stink of this place, I would have never given it to you, Nameless One.”

“What?” Val kept her eyes on the bird-woman. This felt like one of those times that she would make a nasty revelation about the nature of the Glade.

“You sit there weaving threads and do not understand what you do?” Sirin asked. “You wrap yourself in them a little more each day and then sit there like a dolt telling me you don’t know?”

“How did you know about the thread?” Val asked as she had never spoken of her connection to the Hag with Sirin before.

“You’ll burn down the forest were I to hand you a candle.” Sirin sighed. “You do not give your name to a Nothing-touched. You do not do so because they tether to it. If they are strong and clever enough, they will manipulate it, or, if a Hag, they’ll bind you with it altogether. You know nothing.”

Val tried to hide her surprise, but it proved impossible.

“I’m sorry…” She said quietly.

The bird-woman perked up.

“What’s that, Nameless One?” She mocked.

“I’m sorry, I will not use your name in such a way again,” Val assured her, pausing, “But you must promise that you will not hurt my guest. Not even if you learn his name.”

Sirin sat with an unreadable look on her face.

“You ask of a wolf not to hurt the defenseless calf.” She said finally.

“The calf is under the watchful eye of a bear.” Val retorted. Again, there was a long pause.

“Fine,” Sirin said, and, looking at where the roots met the grasses, she stepped over the threshold. Val breathed a sigh of relief. “But I will not share a meal with him. Nor will I speak to him; his smell of vinegar and musk offends me.”

“Alright.” Val agreed.

Sirin looked her up and down.

“Crumpet. Now.”

Val had not wanted to overreach with Sirin by immediately asking the bird-woman questions - especially those that would be in any way helpful to Ivan. But, as days passed, she saw his face grow sadder and found his eyes lingering on her with a certain hurt as she remained silent on the subject. They’d been friendly enough that she felt a certain responsibility to him, even if, by all accounts, she had none.

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“Sirin?” Val asked her one day as they sat in the meadow, snacking on apples in the early morning. The bird-woman looked at her, her expression suspicious, catching Val’s tone. “Is there a way– that is, is there something I can do to see places far away?”

“And why would you want to do that?” Sirin asked incredulously.

“I want to see my mother.” Val lied.

“Are you not afraid of what you will see?” Sirin inquired.

“I am,” Val told the truth. She hadn’t thought of looking for her own family, but if the chance was there, she could not imagine what she would feel if her mother was unwell. She’d left her alone, although in a village where she was loved. “But if one were to avoid everything they are afraid of, they would never leave their house.”

“There is plenty to be afraid of in your house,” Sirin remarked.

“Sirin.”

“What makes you think such a thing is possible?” She asked.

“Nothing, I suppose. There is just so much that is possible here.” Val admitted. “And I know so little of it.”

“You do know very little.” Sirin agreed, and not necessarily about the subject at hand. She seemed to think for a moment. “Why don’t you just use the plate?”

Val rolled her eyes.

“I do not need to primp, Sirin. Whatever is on my face can remain there. It’s fine.”

“You always need to primp, and if I were you, I would,” Sirin told her quickly, irritated. “But that is not what I mean. You are so vain.”

“I am not!” Val furrowed her brows.

“And yet when you look, you only wish to see your face. Had you wondered about anything or anyone else you would not be asking me.”

Val looked at her, unsure of what Sirin had been saying or if she understood correctly.

She took the plate with the apple to be a glorified mirror, was Sirin telling her now that it had been more?

“What do I do?” She asked.

“Do as you do, but ask it something besides what you always do, Conceited One.” Sirin threw the rest of her apple down on the ground. Without saying another word, she flapped her wings and took off, not one for goodbyes.

Val watched her disappear behind the treeline and immediately ran toward the house. She was winded by the time she got in the door.

Ivan stood quickly from the cot where he had been lounging, and seeing her crazed face, his turned to great concern.

“Plate!” She gasped. “Water!”

He grabbed a mug and filled it from the carafe, handing it to her.

“No!” She shook her head and pushed past him. She carefully brought the plate from the cupboard and set it on the table.

“Get me an apple!” She instructed him, and he plucked a red one out of a bowl, handing it to her. The look on his face was of great alarm.

She put the apple on the plate and carefully poured the water in until it stilled and the surface became smooth.

She tried to steady herself by taking a deep breath and consciously avoiding looking.

First, she thought of the Insipid Flatlands, no particular place in mind aside from that. When she opened her eyes, she saw that Ivan’s had been on the plate and his face had greatly paled. She looked down and saw the stretching grasslands and a dusty road.

“Merciful All-Father…” He whispered.

Val’s hands trembled. It had been within reach the whole time.

“Go ahead…” She whispered, not taking her eyes off of it. She moved aside slightly, and he moved forward. Both of them leaned into it, eyes searching for a change. But, the grass only swayed in the wind.

“How?” He asked.

“Uh…” Val thought about it.

All she had done was what she always did to see the Hag. Just sort of… visualized it?

But no, it was more than that. She’d reached inside herself and pulled something out - she gave something from deep in there in exchange for this reach. She wondered at this moment if perhaps it had been her soul… and that was why the Nothing had crept into her.

“Wait…” She heard him, and when she looked back the plate was muddy. It was as if fine dirt had been thrown in, and as it settled, it gave way to thick rows of trees - their branches thin but growing many. Little leaves sprouted from them, among them small green berries.

“What berry trees are those?” She asked quietly and without thinking.

“They aren’t,” his voice was hushed to match hers, “they’re olives.”

She did not know what those were, but she did not ask.

As the image moved through the trees, it came upon an older man. He was lovingly picking up the branches and examining them for ripeness. His eyes were tired and head balding, but he had been in good shape and the color of his face was lively. He wore a loose-fitting, long white robe. It covered him almost fully from the sun.

Then, the image in the water rushed forward until it reached a pure white home - its flat roof made of the same white stones as the walls. In front of it, a woman sat on a roughly cut bench. She was patching a pair of linen pants, her wrinkled hands moving skillfully between the cloth and thread. A boy, maybe fifteen or so, pushed aside the curtain in front of the door, bringing with him a kettle of water - condensation beading on it in the hot air.

Val stood close enough to feel the tremble. When she looked over, the look on his face had broken her heart. It was one of happiness, longing, and regret. He smiled slightly to himself, his eyes eagerly taking in the image as if trying to memorize every detail. Then, he stood back, and it faded.

Without warning, he spun around and pulled her into a tight, heartfelt hug.

Immediately, she both heard and felt how fast his heart was beating. His arms squeezed her in a way she knew he was unaware of, and his head bowed against hers. She had not felt a human touch in years, not one that did not involve her dragging him through the field. He was warm and alive, and she lost herself momentarily in the embrace - until he dropped it, stepping back in dismay.

“I’m so sorry!” He hurried to say.

“It’s alright.” She stood shaken and was sure that it showed on her face.

He looked to the plate.

“I don’t think my heart can handle more right now.” He said. “Do you mind if I pour it out?”

“Wait.” She stepped up to the table again. Willing herself to pull something from within her that she hoped she had, she closed her eyes again.

The water darkened. She opened them, and the image of a woman kneading dough appeared. She looked well, although her face showed clear signs of age. She wiped her hands free of flour on her apron and turned to grab something from the stove. Val felt the pressure rise to her throat, and her eyes moistened. She blinked it away before a tear could form, and the image disappeared.

When she looked up, she saw that Ivan had been watching her, his head slightly cocked to the side and eyes unreadable.

Val stepped away, leaving the plate on the table. Not meaning to, she sniffled. And she heard him behind her. When she glanced, he was just standing there by the table. He looked more at peace than he had in months.

She wiped her nose, not wishing to show him any more than she already had. And as she made her way back to the door, she heard him behind her.

“Thank you.” He said, and nothing else.

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That night, he’d gone to sleep long before her. A single candle burned on the table, and Val used its steady light to write in the journal.

She documented what she’d done and what the plate had been capable of doing. She documented that both she and Ivan had been able to see into the depths. She’d noted sadly that less than half blank pages remained. To count them, she listed through. Toward the end, one that had been ripped out was neatly stuffed between a page and the back cover.

She brought it out, studying it closely. It was the hand-drawn map that he had made for her. She recalled His hands moving fast; the markings that he made were detailed but clumsily jotted down. How preoccupied with it he had been. How he pointed to it, trying to explain it to her.

How annoyed he got when she did not understand.

Her hand ran slowly about its edges where the paper was torn out. Without meaning to, memories of him had flooded and overwhelmed her.

Maybe it was the touch of someone else, the gentleness of a body next to hers that had reminded her of things she forced herself to forget. But she allowed herself to think of him, even to imagine His face.

Even so many years later, she could still see every detail in her memories.

A movement caught her attention at the corner of her eye, and she turned her head.

An image swirled inside the plate that was left out on the table. She leaned over it, her brows creasing. As the mud settled, naked trees among piles of snow appeared. A fire blazed far from their branches - its light pushing away the frosty fog.

Next to it sat a dark figure, although she could not quite make it out. She leaned closer, a feeling akin to panic welling up. The figure turned its head.

And there she saw the face that had been half burned and scarred.

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