---Ryne---

My back ached as I helped my brothers dig their graves on the lowest slope of a hill. Woodrow had already scouted ahead under the cover of twilight, making sure that Rothfield was far beyond. They conversed under the blanket of a still night, the moon and stars faintly lighting the world below. Occasionally, a gust of cold wind blew through us, sending the edges of our robes flapping.

“We’re safe,” Woodrow huffed, scooping up coarse earth and throwing it over his shoulders. “There’s a farm nearby, though.”

“How are the crops?” Wilbur asked immediately. Failing crops meant poor harvests, which also meant sick and hungry townspeople. Another sign of restlessness that we should be wary of.

Woodrow shrugged. “Didn’t get a closer look, but I’d say not healthy. The wheat looked dry. The oats and barley look brittle and drooping. Animals seem fine, though. Sheep grazing in this meadow near us. Some pigs and hens. I didn’t see anyone, but there was a faint light from further ahead. With that wide space, there’s probably a family of farmers there.”

He heaved larger stones away from his side of the mound, the smell of undergrowth thicker now in the air as he proceeded to claw the earth with his bare hands.

“Are you strong enough to charm them?” Wilbur asked. He too used his hands as he dug. He was slower than Woodrow, his pit smaller, but he stopped now to check if the hollow was deep enough. His concern was for me. He wondered if I had the strength enough to let them outcome the next evening.

Their coffins were laid on the slope of the mound we were digging on. I was near Wilbur’s coffin, making sure that no dirt went inside the closed lid. We stole it from a gravedigger who had died on the road. Woodrow spotted him ahead, face-planted on the ground. We dug him with his own shovel at the edge of a forest, just under the cover of trees.

The coffins were made of thick hardwood from some ancient oak tree, but through many moons have collected scratches and stains. It could still hold him inside, but I often wondered for how long. Unlike my more capable brothers, my bare hands were not built for digging into the earth. I shoveled mounds and would cover them both once they were underground.

“It’s all right. You can dig deeper, I can handle it,” I assured him. Wilbur looked at me softly, his eyes scrutinizing my small frame and my thin limbs. I gripped the shovel in my hand and nodded, urging him to continue.

They needed to be low on the ground and rest undisturbed. The plan was to let them rest for a full night before we went to where we were supposed to go, wherever that was. I touched my heart; the calling was still there. My heartbeat was slow, but strong, anxious but sure of the path. Sometimes, now that I dreamt, I heard words of encouragement, as if my own heart was speaking to me. Be steadfast. We are almost there. You have done well. Onward.

But my brothers come first. They need to sleep.

We’ve been traveling for months, passing small villages in the cover of darkness. Thankfully, hiding in the shadows did not cost any of my brothers their powers. It was a natural ability we were all given, like our eternal youth. The first village we saw had wooden borders, sharpened like large stakes. Some men were stationed at the entrance carrying simple bows and arrows. We heard them as we hid in the thick trees nearby; the survivors of Saint Korbin had already warned them about the nightmare that happened. But they had nowhere else to go and no kingdom to receive them, so they just added whatever defenses were available to them.

It wasn’t until the fifth village that people were more receptive to travelers. We spotted people out in the fields harvesting or picking flowers. Wilbur traded his skills and his medicines for accommodations in a small inn.

I stretched on the mattress on the floor, my legs singing with delight to lay on soft fur. When food was taken to our room, I was grateful for each bite, though I missed the flavor of Wilbur’s herbs. There weren’t even bits of meat on it, only bits of vegetables floating on the top. When I looked outside the window, I noticed that all the children were thin. Then, when the night came and the young ones were put to bed, Woodrow charmed the healthiest villagers for him and Wilbur to feed on. I stood watch just in case they couldn’t control themselves.

We did this all the way through marshes and hills and mounds. I buried them as soon as one of them yawned, sleeping in their coffins as I slept nearby. I would help them emerge from the ground and Wilbur would carry me on his back when it was my turn to sleep. We never went into towns, only villages. If any of them needed our help, we would stay and we would feed them. If weeks passed without any villages, then my brothers hunted in deep forests for me; usually rabbits and pheasants, cooked over a fire.

Finally, when the air grew cold and fresh, I knew that we were near.

I just woke up from my slumber feeling refreshed, and a pleasant burning lingered in my chest. Wilbur and Woodrow noticed, not even questioning that I was leading the path forwards without any map. We walked until we saw the mountains, and walked further still until we saw from atop this view, a grand town. To its right was a curious set of thick dark trees, darker than any forest I’ve seen, and to its left was a wide landscape that seemed to stretch forever. That was probably the main road leading to other villages and kingdoms.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

My brothers were awed by the view, and I knew we were all thinking the same thing: whatever horror that has happened, it hasn’t reached this place. Yet. And so we sped off, eager to see what Rothfield had in store for us, and, deep inside me, thought about what we could do for Rothfield.

___

“We should avoid the farm. We haven’t entered any towns before. I’m not sure if they’ve been warned about what happened back at Saint Korbin,” Wilbur insisted. He smiled at me and thanked me for helping. “I think this is deep enough.”

Woodrow stretched, cat-like and graceful. He yawned and looked at the inky black sky. No hint of morning was there yet, no call of dawn from roosters, but dawn was coming. “Are you sure? They may need help.”

For a moment, Wilbur considered it. He touched his satchel around his waist, always a part of him, like some additional limb. There were still bottles of medicines clinking softly inside. His hand hovered for a moment, fingers twitching, before he secured his satchel.

I can see Wilbur strain against practicality and morals. Another burst of cold wind barreled towards us. Our cowls flapped away from us.

Woodrow shrugged. With a flourish, he winked at both of us, kicked his coffin to the dirt where it landed with a soft thud, and bowed. “Well, gentlemen, it’s been a long night.” And he fell backward to the ground. There was a final sound of a wooden lid opening and closing.

“Will you be all right? You know to run when the people appear, yes?” Wilbur was firm.

He had made me promise to flee if townspeople or outlaws grew wary of a little monk child guarding over a freshly made mound. I only nodded to placate him, but I would never abandon them. They’re all that I have left. They’re all that I know.

“I’ll help dig you out once it’s nighttime.”

Wilbur nodded. We pushed his coffin down the hole where it slid gently to the ground. We shoveled back earth to Woodrow’s coffin first before he looked at me, face serious. He always hated this part, sleeping in his coffin as he left me to an uncaring and superstitious world.

“I’ll be fine,” I reassured him.

He held my gaze, and nodded firmly. Dark shadows were under his eyes. He slid down to his coffin, and lay at its center, his bottles always with him, clinking softly inside his satchel. He closed the lid and I shoveled.

My arms ached, my knees wobbled underneath my robes. Finally, I patted the mound as if I just planted a root plant and cast the shovel aside. I did not notice that there was an apple tree farther up the mound where I buried my brothers. I climbed up towards it and slumped against its bark. It was my turn to nap.

The nearby mountains breathed the deathly chill of early autumn. There, in the distance, was the first crow, the first sound of morning, a tinge of normalcy in a world that was snapping. News of odd snow had already covered some of the saint-king’s realm. Weird frigid snow that snaps the life of every noble, knight, and peasant. Snuffing their lives out. Creeping snow even to lands where snow has never fallen before. It will come to this town, too.

I sighed. What a curse it was to never change, to be weak and fragile and dependent on others for the rest of my nights.

---Claude---

“I can offer you this much, and no more,” Gabriella said as she handed me tiny feverflukes pressed upon the clean napkin I handed her earlier.

They have begun to lose their color, and these flowers are widely known to lessen fever. I remembered them being bright yellow and orange, with soft powdery black seeds at their center. I remembered them growing nearby, brightening the fields and hitting my eyes like the flare of warm sun in the afternoon. And when it was sunset and the winds swept through, it felt like a pleasant sea of flame.

My mother had sent me here inside the town proper of Rothfield to her friend, Gabriella. They grew up together in this very same place back when Rothfield was still turning into a town. I’ve seen her many times when she would visit our farm, back when days were warm and good. Back when neighbors were kinder. Ma and her traded gifts. Gabriella was known as a lover of flowers and so had kept a tiny garden connected to their cottage. They looked so vibrant then. Now she looked old and withdrawn.

“I”m sorry Claude. I am truly sorry.” Gabriella’s eyes were downcast. She looked apologetic. Her hands touched the hem of her blouse. She tucked loose strands of hair back onto her coif, the cap worn by some wives and workers.

“Thank you,” I said quickly and removed my own hat. “This is more than enough.”

Her sad eyes met mine. She knew it was a lie. “If only I could spare some, but you see…” she pointed back to her miniature garden, a spit of land not much larger than a cow.

The flowers and herbs there have dried, starved of sunlight and fresh water. These would be the last things that would grow in her garden, I thought. Just as the wheat on our farm would be our last harvest. The flowers looked like her, the petals drooping, their once bright faces downcast.

“You should preserve them all now while they’re still in that state.” Then I recited a prayer I heard once. “Let all sickness not enter your doors, let it not seep through your windows.”

She looked at her garden. She nodded. “Tonight. I’ll press and store them.” Inside, her young children were arranging the table for supper. Her husband was with them. When he saw me, he coughed to catch Gabriella’s attention. She waved a hand at him. “How is Annette?”

I wanted to be honest. “Not well.” I placed the napkin inside my tunic to protect it from any sudden gusts of wind. “But these will help.” I thanked her again just as her husband took her arm and pulled her inside, closing the doors and windows.

Then another door closed from one of the houses. Then another, and another until most of the cottages and huts here in Rothfield shut themselves off for the night. I pressed the napkin further into the pockets of my tunic and headed home.