Snow.
Light and pure, floats and flutters through the air, drifting aimlessly, burying everything. The tall trees are bare, their bark, black as night, contrasting starkly with the white heavens. Snowflakes blanket the forest ground, the ice shimmering like diamonds against the pale light. A sharp winter breeze whistles through the bushes, white specks flurrying in its wake.
The snow is relentless, falling over her lap, her folded hands, her arms, her shoulders. It drapes the chairs laid neatly around her, the floral arrangements, the aisle leading towards the center of the open meadow, the marble podium surrounded by blood-red roses.
It falls over the closed casket.
She inhales slowly, the frigid air burning her lungs, and when she exhales, it comes out as a gauzy cloud, like smoke. Her hands are covered in flimsy gloves made of delicate black lace, and she feels the weight of a gold ring sitting perfectly on her finger, its opal shimmering silver. Above her head sits a traditional Vistelian mourning veil, its web-like shroud falling over her face and stopping just below her neck, the top adorned in a gold brocade and teardrop pearls. The back of the veil falls beyond her back, draping her frame, almost invisible against her uniformly black dress.
There is no sound. There are no voices. No pain. Just peace in the wintriness, so overpowering she feels the burden of it settle on her shoulders. She takes it all in, and as her lungs expand once more, the smell of wet earth invades her, and she is running through the Sine Woods, her feet bare and her hair flowing. Her power still hers.
It is so intoxicating, she takes another long breath, and this time, beyond the smell of snow and frozen forest, she gets a hint of something else, like sweet smoke. She vaguely recognizes it.
White Sage and Dragon’s Blood.
Her ears shift at the creaking sound of settling wood as someone sits down on the chair beside her, the scent of Silvani incense both overpowering and familiar.
“How interesting,” the hoary voice says next to her.
An old, mournful smirk plays on her lips before replying. “You came.”
Both figures sit in the silence of the desolate requiem, both looking onward.
“Who are we mourning?”
“I do not know,” She replies, turning her head, the pearls in her headdress swinging elegantly, her long neck stretching as she surveys the empty chairs around her, devoid of mourners. Her gaze returns to the draped casket. She watches as the snow lands over its smooth dome, forming small mounds that drop silently onto the ground.
“A Vistelian funeral,” the strange voice continues, amused at the arrangement.
“Never a lover of the burning barges and the flaming arrows,” she replies, a soft chuckle interlaced with her words.
“No,” the voice says contemplatively. “You wouldn’t be.”
The casket is sealed shut. The garlands that decorate it, row upon row of delicately woven lilies and chrysanthemums, meant it was to remain closed. Never to be disturbed. There is an outline of a seal at the podium’s center, but the frost makes it impossible for them to read from where they sit, and neither can be bothered to stand. The question resonates once again against her ribcage.
Who are we mourning?
“Why are we mourning?” Her voice comes out in a powerful whisper, and with the veil rustling close to her ears and the lack of an immediate answer from her newly-arrived companion, she questions if she spoke at all. She cannot remember moving her lips.
“Love,” is the voice’s simple answer.
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“There is no love here.”
“You always had such an aversion to love,” the voice begins before taking a shuddering breath followed by a muted cough. “It is no surprise you cannot recognize it now.”
It is then that her eyes travel to the person beside her and sitting there, her face riddled with tribal markings, her white hair cascading down her back and fanning around her, is Gródur Un.
There are silver beads on her thin braids, which match the thick, silver necklace that hangs proudly around her neck, a symbol of her status as the tribe matriarch. Her frail fingers have the faint etchings of her ceremonial tattoos, her hands placed neatly over her knees, covered in a thin layer of snow. Her staff is located to her right, resting against the chair, and she can just about make the many symbols carved on the fine wood. Dried blood gave the staff its distinct color. She is wearing the same dark, evergreen gown she wore when they first met, but it seems to have taken a new shine. During their first encounter, Grodúr Un’s eyes had been shut tight, thin skin folded beneath her brow, evidence of her old age. She had been, however, still as perceptive then as she was when she first became the leader of the Silvani.
Her ability to see merely lay elsewhere.
But now, there are no folds, no touching of faces, no barrier between her and that vast expanse of energy. Her eyes, a rich, warm brown like dried cinnamon, framed by delicate white eyelashes, were wide open.
And they were looking right at her.
When she speaks, her lips do not move. Gródur Un’s voice, robust like a gust of strong wind, comes from nowhere and everywhere at once. She can hear it echo around and inside her and feels it settle somewhere deep within her.
“Why are you here?”
“I am dying,” she responds simply.
This is followed by a long silence.
“Then, why are you here,” Gródur Un says finally, more a statement than a question, her voice devoid of emotion. With her head, she gestures at the casket. “And not there.”
“Because the gods have a twisted sense of humor.”
“You don’t believe in the gods.”
“True,” her smirk grows into a full-on smile, her white teeth peaking through the intricate lace. “But they do not need to know that.”
She hears Gródur Un’s soft guffaw and, still smiling, turns to look at the great witch sitting beside her, an odd understanding settling between them. There is no pain in Gródur Un’s eyes, no hatred, no enmity. But she could sense her grief in the depth of lines around her mouth, by the way her hands grasped at her knees and did not clatter about as they used to, by the way the sides of hers tipped slightly downward, giving her an air of perpetual heartbreak.
She quickly looks away. But Gródur Un was never one for the weak-willed.
“Look at me.”
It takes her a second, but she finally obeys, and when their eyes meet again, Gródur Un takes the staff in her hands and places it above her lap.
“What you seek,” Gródur Un continues. “I will not give.”
“Gródur Un, I–.”
“That is my punishment to you,” Gródur Un says, and her words are final. “For her.”
Clang!
“Gródur Un,” she hears the desperation slip into her voice. Her chest feels as if it will burst open, and she bites her lips as she remembers the darkness of the dungeons and the smell of her own waste and the death of all who knew her and the feel of her blood running down her arms and the strike of the guard splitting her lip and the clasp of the chains and the stripping of her power. “Please.”
Clang!
“One thing is for certain.” Gródur Un’s mouth is set in a grim line. Her gaze travels over the meadow and pierces through the woods. “You can no longer remain here.”
Gródur Un then grabs the staff next to her, her many bracelets jangling as she places the long wooden object between them. With her hand still gripping the staff by the middle, Gródur Un looks at her once more, and her gaze holds the power of lightning and thunder.
The trees ruffle in response to a sudden storm and a frenzied gale circles the meadow with a blood-curdling howl, the white dust like ghosts gnashing at the sides of a dream. Her veil parts violently from her headdress, giving life to the desperate wind in the form of a black specter. Aware of the suffocating presence of doom just beyond the line of trees, the women do not look away from each other.
“I am not your savior,” she finally snaps back at the elder, and she feels her desperation giving away to anger, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
“Always so full of yourself,” Gródur Un answers with a soft tone acquired after years of mothering, her head bowing slightly, her lips turning slightly upward. “And if we were ever in need of one, you would certainly not be it.”
Clang!
“But you are Venandi,” Gródur Un releases her grip. Beneath the shadow of the weathered thumb, she can see two deep etches connecting to form a V. A streak of old blood lies gruesomely above it, darker where it pooled within the crevices.
“And you made us a promise.”