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RNRMWSGVTVT

“Relix Nah….riss?”

Milo opened their eyes and looked down at the journal in their hands. Nah-rez. Narez. Relix Narez Relit.

Words were always hard for them. Motions were easier. The handsigns came quick, almost without meaning. Just fun motions they could copy from Alphonse or Ludovic.

“Relit. Maahhhh…. morum?”

Their eyes dart to the page again, scowling. Mamuri. Worum.

Words were always hard. This was harder. Nonsense phrases that could launch javelins of stone or pull a person into a ground. Or maybe kill disease. Their eyes closed again.

“Relix. Narez. Mamori. Orum.”

No, that didn’t sound right. Their eyes opened again. Relit. They forgot relit. Ludovic’s voice came to mind. ‘A mispoken phrase can cost your friends their lives.’ Milo sighed and read the page again. Relix. Narez. Relit. Mamuri. Worum… Not Orum. Worum. Eyes closed.

“Relix… Narez… Relit… Mah-Mah-Rii…. Wor-Uum.”

Eyes open, look at page. Relix Narez Relit Mamuri Worum. Mam[U]ri. Mamuri. Not mamari. Mamuri. This was stupid. Nothing was getting done. Did they even really need to know this stuff? They’d seen Alphonse cast with just his hands before, they could surely afford to just not learn this dumb made-up bullshit phrase for people who just wanted to be loud while casting. Fucking dumb. Bullshit.

Milo threw the journal onto their bed, sighing in frustration. Stupid fucking brain. Stupid fucking bandit good for nothing brain that couldn’t even remember some baby-speak blah-blah language for people who were smarter than it. They clasped their hands in front of them, palms together. Handsigns were easy.

Middle fingers locked, curl pinky and pointer. Flip upside down. Pointer to thumb. Make fists, twist over, thumbs together. Bring up to shoulder. Flip outwards, right to left and left to right, clasp fingers together. Flip around, palms up, thumbs still together. Break, clasp an orb. Right hand palm up, left down. Clasp fingers. Break to form V.

Easy. Alphonse had called it Maelstrom. Said it was bullshit. Speaking was bullshit. Maelstrom was easy.

“Relix. Narez. Relit. Mamuri. Worun.”

Eyes to the book. Worum. Not Worun. Stupid fucking brain. Worum. Wore. Uhm. Wore-Uhm. Worum. What other handsigns were there? Alphonse did Sight alot.

Hands together, palms touching. Pinch. Open in triangles. Sideways. Spin. Hands Flat, pointer and thumb touching, facing downward. Upside down diamond. Flip up, pointer and thumbs pinch to make mask. Back into Diamond but upright. Bring down to chest.

“Relix. Narez. Relit. Mamuri. Worum…. Sigun?”

Sicun. Not Sigun. Sick-uun. Everything else was right though. Sicun. Sicun.

Alphonse had said Magic was like Flips. Mostly as a joke, but Milo found it a useful comparison. Before you flip you need to stretch. You need to practice curling your body. You need to get comfortable being upside down. You need to trust your body to move without your mind. Handsigns were easy because they were an extension of the skills they’d practiced for years in the woods already, just smaller. Why were these words so difficult in comparison?

Speaking was hard because coming up with the right words was hard. No amount of words could convey the meaning a shrug and a head tilt could. No turn of phrase could communicate a purse-lipped smile in response to a questioning look. But did Milo need to come up with the words for Magic? They remained the same every time. A universal response to a dozen questions.

A cartwheel was a set of actions taken in order every time, with only minor adjustments based on angle, speed, and weight. If taken out of order they would do nothing. If the actions didn’t flow, then the cartwheel would fail halfway through. Many minor parts that individually do not matter, but which when taken together make a new and more significant thing. Would Milo really need to learn each word, then, or could they learn the words as cousins to each other, each individual pieces of a whole? A set of actions that conveyed sound, each strung together not because they had meaning but because their order was what determined their significance.

Relix-Narez. Not Relix, Narez.

Eyes back to the book. Full incant.
Relix. Narez. Relit. Mamuri. Worum. Sicun Gundavult. Vorug. Ta. Verg. Tira.
Relix. Narez. Relit. Mamuri. Worum. Sicun Gundavult. Vorug. Ta. Verg. Tira.
Relix-Narez-Relit-Mamuri-Worum-Sicun-Gundavult-Vorug-Ta-Verg-Tira.
Relix-Narez-Relit-Mamuri-Worum-Sicun-Gundavult-Vorug-Ta-Verg-Tira.
Re–Na–Re–Ma–Wo–Si–Gu–Vor–Ta–Ve–Ti–.
Re–Na–Re–Ma–Wo–Si–Gu–Vor–Ta–Ve–Ti–.

“RElix, NArez, RElit, MAmuri, WOrum, SIcun, GUndavult, VOrug, TA, VErg, TIra. ”

The words were slow and awkward in their mouth. Not half as fast as Alphonse could speak them. But speed would come with practice. Repetition would lead to Mastery.

“Relix, Narez, Relit, Mamuri, Worum, Sicun, Gundavult, Vorug, Ta, Verg, Tira. ”

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Journal de Suzette

He told her once that her dog only liked her for the taste of salt on her skin. She licked her wrist and made a face, asserting that skin salt was overrated and it had to be her charming personality. Or the food. Most creatures will love anyone that feeds them.

Luisant is obsessed with food. Each day begins with the scent of butter sizzling in crepe pans and ends with tables laden with cheese rinds and empty pots stained by mulled wine. When the cold comes we spend long hours scouring the forest so the community can warm their bellies slurping down shared soup. No one goes hungry in our little town.

But they did. Even if men didn’t come spreading tales of abandonment and starvation, we would know from the malefic. The haunted, hungry remains of achingly familiar ghosts. It makes sense that even the spirits of of the forest tempt you toward gluttony with their strange teas and berries.

The Benalians would urge you to love your brother for his merit, not his salt. To find strength in unity, chastity, and continence. Yet they would burn the half of god that doesn’t behave.

That other half sees the dog for the beast it is and meets it on its terms. Boldly willing to trade blood for flowers and thank honey for the sting. Fighting to preserve the sacred balance of things, so the monsters can grow in peace.

And yet, in this precious valley they come together over bread. The salty kind.

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Why art thou blooming now

It was well after midnight, but Esparei was used to their late night chats, sitting by the fire with drinks and a bite to eat. Tonight, it was tea- fine Capacian tea from her own personal collection- and toasted bread with the last of a jar of marmalade. She set the tray next to Ragnar and arranged herself on the cushion across from him.
“What is this, my Lady?”
“You like jam?”
The Njord gave her a wide grin.
“Oh yes!”
“This is like jam, but orange.”
“I see!”
He slapped a hearty dollop onto some bread while she poured them both tea. And ate half in one great chomp.
“Mmmm! Yes! Very good!”
Esparei giggled and passed him a cup.
“I’m glad you like it. I’ll have to get it more often. How are you feeling?”
“Well enough- why?”
“We did just have…quite the time. You almost drowned, you were almost executed, the fire went out…”
They both shuddered.
“Lady Esparei, we are up against much. And I am more active than most. But I am fine, as you can see.”
“But the oath-”
She fidgets with her cup, anxious.
“…Do you resent me for it?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Some might think you’re my loyal dog now. Or a servant to my House. It’s wrong, of course, but-”
Ragnar patted her shoulder, gently, with his free hand.
“Lady, I understand why the decision was made. And I understand what my role is, yes? You told me your grandfather- Lord…Lord…”
He clutched the teacup with both hands and made an embarrassed grimace in the general direction of the fire.
“I cannot speak it. Please repeat it for me?”
“Lord Aram.”
“Aaarrr-ahm.”
“Close enough.”
She giggled.
“Your grandfather, Lord Ahhhhram, has a group of his most loyal around him. And surely you are doing the same.”
“I’m trying…my retinue’s delay made things…harder.”
“How so?”
“I wanted to have extra hands to help make the work go a bit smoother. And to watch over those of us doing good work- that’s the purpose of the oath! My duty is to nurture the garden and oversee as it expands and diversifies, and I cherish every Rose we’ve ever inducted into the House. We have many more in Capacionne, obviously. But you have the distinction of being our very first Njordr Rose.”
“Ah yes, a wild thing that grows in an unforgiving land-”
Ragnar’s tone is tinged with dramatics, but there’s a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Esparei smiled back.
“Wild but enduring, no matter what. That’s what I find so unbearably lovely about this place.”
“Truly?”
“Do I make a point of lying to you, Ragnar Stoneskin?”
“No, no, you do not. I just- even I have a hard time seeing my homeland as lovely. Why do you say it is so?”
“There is beauty in something that endures. That says ‘here I am, my roots are deep, and I will not be moved by gods or man’. That speaks to a strength and love in the land I can’t put into words. Not adequately. I think only a skald could- it deserves to be spoken in the tongue of this land, not my clumsy attempts at it.”
Ragnar was silent for a long moment, then he took a careful sip of tea and tried to speak.
“Lady Esparei-”
“Please call me Esparei when we’re not in public. Don’t stand on ceremony when we’re sitting cross-legged on the floor while you’re eating marmalade with your fingers.”
“Ah you caught me! But Lady- Esparei- you speak of my home with such love and care. And you are not of this land, but you do not come here and try to force it to change for you.”
“That’s how you ruin your garden.”
“I see.”
“And I would be a poor guest indeed if I came into a home that was not mine and moved everything around to MY liking, eating all my host’s food and smashing up their belongings.”
“That is a very good way of putting it, yes.”
“My purpose here, which the Saenger Lords know, is to uplift and enrich the community. Working with the Church and the common folk. Tending to the space we seek to command, or we’ll be left with a patch of sour earth and an empty garden. I’m no great commander, no hulking brute with a sword or an economy minded fellow with every last vegetable priced to the stalk. They have their place, and their purpose, to whatever end that is. I know I couldn’t do their jobs. But I do know I can do mine best serving the people, as a Highborn should.”
“You spoke to Brother Erasmus about this most passionately, I remember.”
“I did. And I meant every word.”
“I know you did.”
Esparei finished her tea, deep in thought for a minute.
“I still need to learn Njordr, don’t I.”
“Ha! Yes, yes you do!”
“Then I can speak to the Avalanche and give him marmalade too, and make many friends.”
“Oh no- we may have to fight over the orange jam, it is very good.”
“There’s enough to go around, you menace!”
They dissolved into merry laughter. By the time they finished the tea and toast, it was late. Ragnar slept by the fire, in Esparei’s reading chair, axe across his knees. And Esparei, in her bed, hair falling over the pillows like so much spilled coffee, dreamed of flowers growing in ice and songs in the dark.

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Svart Returns Home from Forum

Svart made his way to his hovel. He looked behind himself to make sure he wasn’t being followed and nobody was spying on him. Satisfied, he entered and made sure to close the door behind him. He then checked the window to make sure there was nobody watching him from outside and closed the shutters again. He looked around his room to make sure nothing was out of place and nothing was odd.

Only then did he pull out the treasures he had found this forum. He had an earring. It looked valuable. There was a shiny stone that looked like it could be a gem. The metal might be silver. The button he had found in the gravel outside the tavern was yellowish, so it might be gold. Then there was the necklace with a dainty chain holding what looked to be a carved raven’s skull. He had found that under his bed after everybody had left for their homes. He always swept as the last thing before leaving. He always made sure to sweep, as there were sometimes treasures that were left behind by previous occupants. Sometimes the people who ran the forum sleeping rooms would get angry if it wasn’t done, and even try and charge for cleaning. He always did it so they wouldn’t get angry and be mean to Svart. He would put these treasures in his treasure chest.

He had found some treasures, but he hadn’t made any money this forum. Knut hadn’t wanted any scouting this forum. He had to farm to support all the Gothic nobles and their entourages with their minstrels, cooks, and women. He had gotten some hemp from it all, but it wasn’t as much as Knut paid him to scout and certainly not money. He also hadn’t sold anything. He had plenty to sell, but had been told not to sell raw materials. He was supposed to only sell goods he made. Not raw materials. That made sense. He’d make more money that way. However nobody wanted any carpentry or needlework done.

He had been working to make himself stuff anyway. He had comfortable small clothes, fine boots, and bedding made for himself. He also had found some paper to make a fan. He would look so comfortable and rich with a new fan.They will all be surprised to see that Svart has a fan once he is done. Jealous also. Now, if he could only find ink. Nobody can make ink. He is saving up all his herbs to get some ink. Pretty soon, he’ll have lots of nice things.

For now though, he should work on armor for himself. Fighting the Hollowsong had left him injured. Armor would be nice. He has all the materials, and just needs to work it together. Once he has armor for himself, he could make armor for Knut’s soldiers. They will need armor and Svart will make the best armor. Perhaps he should learn blacksmithing. Then he could also add metal to his armor. No good for him, but Knut will want metal armor for his soldiers. That will also sell for more also. Knut, and Victor, will surely pay more for metal armor. Perhaps even in gold. Armor is very valuable. Then he can put all that money in his treasure chest with his other treasures.

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In the Shadow of Leaves 4: That Ain’t Raat.

“It was like some oily fingers were all fiddlin’ right under mah skin,” he said with a frown. “You know when yer workin’ da skin off a lapine, an ya slide a finger up der ta loosen da pelt? Felt like dat.”

The room slanted room was cold in the winter air, and the small fire in the hearth did little to banish the chill from the drafty room. Noémie sat with her wide, glittering eyes watching him from her perch by the fire. She wasn’t her usual chatty self, but the family got sedate this time of year. It was hard to shake the oppressive darkness of the woods when the days were so short. The friar understood and continued on, trying to fill the space with his warmth and words.

“Ain’t never felt nothin’ like it,” he said again, brows furrowed. “Like all the beautiful tings on God’s green earth went squirrely all at once. Da preacher man says it something called annie-croix. Gots ta do wit dem wizard folk. Can’t square it in mah brain.”

Reflecting, he could clearly visualize the multi-armed monstrosity. As if a spider had merged with a person, but also weapons, the wall, and the ornery temperament of a bear with a sore tooth. When it had touched him, that oily not rightness had swept through him. Like his bones were trying to shift under his muscle against his designs. It had hurt and caused a strange distress to his stomach he’d never felt before either. It was as if the lunch he’d eaten had wanted to climb out of him. Unsettling and uncomfortable.

“Dun tink Imma go back,” he continued quietly. “Felt… wrong. Da most wrong I ever feel, down der in dat lab. Cadence an dem said it was some sorta body er some tin. Corpse of a witchking? I dunno, didn’t make no right sense ta me.”

A shiver crept up his powerful shoulders. And then when the moss covered mage had ‘corrected’ the problem in his bizarre way.

“The doc say dat it weren’t nothin’. Dat mah body could take reams more before, but I ain’t so sure,” he said doubtfully. “Felt like mah skin was peelin’ off and bones was crackin’. Didn’t hurt so much as felt real… wrong. An’ his boss-man, dat one ain’t all der, I dun tink. Askin’ after my mind. Doc said I was a functional lunatic. Ain’t sure what he mean by dat. Seems rude as hell, honestly.”

With a glance at the pale girl, he blushed slightly.

“Forgive ole uncle Henri, cher,” he said. “I dun mean ta use the vulgars. Anyway. Dat boss wizard did somefin wit his fingers an my body twisted up and smoothed out right. So I guess it all fine in the end. Just… dun wanna go back der.”

It was a strange sensation, when he reflected on the cave. He wasn’t afraid. That wasn’t a thing he’d felt in a long time, if he really thought on it. It wasn’t fear, just a deep abiding wariness. The feeling of being entirely unprepared for a situation and going in there anyway. It just felt wrong was all.

He let out a long sigh and straightened up, dusting the dried and frozen mud from the white of her clergy clothes. Then he walked to Noémie and scooped her up.

“Duncha worry yer pretty head about it, cher,” he said. “Past yer bedtime, and Uncle Henri be jess fine. Dun cha worry none.”

He carried her up to bed, the room cold and quiet, just the occasional sound of shifting bodies to let him know his family was present.

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Conversations with myself.

Corbin left the tent briskly, pulling his hood up and over his head to protect him from the cold drizzle that this afternoon had brought. He pulled the sides of his coat closer to him, cursing the lack of waterproofing on the sides of the thing. It was his own fault, after all, there should be plenty of beeswax from Linette. He just had gotten too busy with other things to actually mix it with the oils and then apply it to his cloak. The thickness would keep him warm until the drizzle soaked it through. Once soaked through, any semblance of warmth it provided would fade, and it would only be a hindrance. He had maybe a couple of hours before that happened so he quickly made his way under the canopy of the forest.

“You have questions?” a small squeaky voice chirps inquisitively in his ear. The sudden surprise of it makes Corbin nearly jump out of his skin in panic. But really, it’s not something that should have come as a surprise in the first place: The spiders had been talking to him for months now. Ever since the emissary arrived at the gathering in the woods that night.

“Y..Yes. About the Knight.” He hated spiders. They were creepy little crawly things that tended to get everywhere and he could never tell which ones were going to bite and which ones were not. They were creepy and skittery, and generally just made him uncomfortable whenever one was around. Sure, it wasn’t their fault they were creepy. Spiders played a vital and important part in the health of the forest by keeping the more dangerous insects at bay. He just wished they would do their jobs…. over…there.

“The darkness is good, it hides us.” the voice responds while Corbin represses yet another shiver from running down his spine. He had sorta walked into that one. Of course, the spirit wouldn’t immediately know what a Knight was, at least without more specificity and context.

“N..No. One of the Cruzemore’s men, one of their soldiers, their knights. P..people say he started acting weird once the spiders got into his head. Made him do some really bad things. Can you tell me about that?” Corbin didn’t really want to know if the spiders had driven the man to torture and kill people. He didn’t want to be involved in this discussion at all, but someone had to. Someone who would be able and willing to speak to the spirits and hear what they say needs to be involved in the discussions. If this spider queen really was a Vacatran Crone, the circle needed her. His people needed to help her, and any other members of the faith who might still yet live in her lands.

The silence stretched on for much longer than Corbin felt comfortable with. Not that there was anything even remotely comfortable about the situation, to begin with. He had almost convinced himself that the little messenger had taken his request and left, possibly to go get the answers he sought. His heart had even just started to calm down when the tiny voice spoke again, making him flinch a second time.

“We did what was necessary to guide them through the Mists. It took all we had to do this.”

A perfectly appropriate answer from a spirit. Not a ‘yes’, not a ‘no’, and something each side could interpret to support their original arguments.So pretty much no help at all. If it were a person he could accuse them of dodging the question or being obtuse, but spirits were just like that sometimes. Expecting a depth of understanding of the complicated social nuance of intent and evil was a lot to ask of a little spider whose whole world was about weaving webs and trapping insects for lunch.

“Umm… Thanks” he says finally. “I will leave some of my next hunt at the house in the grove for you.” Just because the information wasn’t particularly useful didn’t absolve the need for payment. That was a lesson hard to learn long ago. Silence followed, and Corbin lied to himself that he was probably alone again. In truth, he knew deep down that he was never really alone anymore, but admitting to that was not something he was ready to do just yet.  

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The inevitable turning point

Corbin left the tent briskly, his emotions roiling under a thin façade of calm. He knew this day would one day come, and he was no better prepared for it now than when he first realized it was inevitable all those years ago.

“I thought I would have more time…” he muttered to himself. It was another lie. He’d known for years now that it was only a matter of time until Isabel swore her oaths and became an official priestess. Hell, the only thing that actually surprised him is that it had taken this long already. A small part of him had always hoped he could talk her out of it, but that would be like talking the trees into growing sideways instead of up.

So, he did what he always did when his emotions were too much for him. He ran away into the woods to gather things for the town. Hunting always calmed him. It allowed him to be alone with his thoughts in the cold uncaring murk of the forest. The forest didn’t care if he was happy, sad, scared, or furious. It simply was, and it always sang to its own rhythm and pulse.  He could lose himself in that pulse; get swept up in the currents of the winds, in the trails of the game, and in the simple repetitions of scavenging.

Isabel taking vows had been a foregone conclusion. An inevitability he had been dreading, but by no means unexpected. Sophie Joining at the same time was a surprise, but only in that way that you are surprised the soup fresh off the fire is too hot to eat right away. They were both doing what they thought was best to help serve the town, and really, they probably were. They were not wrong in perusing their ambitions, in following the love within their hearts. And who was he to tell them not to?

He had already shifted his pace and posture and arrested his breathing before he’d even consciously noticed the freshly left pile of deer droppings. Judging by the size and texture, there was a buck nearby and upwind of him. The hunt was on.

Memories flooded his mind in the stillness of the forest. With each cautious step towards his prey, another story from his childhood played itself over again in his mind. Stories from his mother, about the dangers of talking too freely about the old ways and traditions. Names of relatives and friends from long ago who were persecuted and killed for their bonds to the forest and the ways of Vacatra. Warnings against going to those who wear thelion for help or trust, lest the whole family be put to death. Over the course of his entire life, he had never once seen a member of the lion faith harm a member of the circle in the way his mother’s stories recounted. Still, he knew the old stories to be true, and they haunted him all the same.

The buck was grazing in a small clearing just beyond the next bush. He leveled an arrow at the beast and aimed to shoot it in the neck. It would be a clean kill with as little pain as possible, and they would eat well tonight. His breath hung in his chest as he lined up the shot and held for just the right moment.

“That wouldn’t be Isabel though, right? There is no way she would ever hold his family’s connections to the spirits against him like that, would she?” he thought. His breath exhaled. The arrow loosed and smacked loudly into the great oak tree just behind the buck. The sound startled the beast who took off with a start and a grunt of fear. Corbin watched in dismay as his prey disappeared into the underbrush, likely never to be seen again.

“Yeah. I didn’t think so.” He muttered to himself.

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Terror most mundane

It is in the most mundane of things that true terror can be found.

Walking alone through the woods at night and hearing the wildlife go quiet.

Staring at a task knowing that if you start you HAVE to finish.

Laying in the grass waiting for the guard to pass.

Heartbeat pounding in your ears as all sound fades.

The creak of wood and clank of iron as a chest opens. Echoing in the night.

Not knowing if all the work, the stress, the fear, is worth the risk of dying alone in an enemy camp.

And the worst.

The congratulations of work well done. The well wishes. The looks.

And knowing.

You might have to do it all over again. As others look to you and what you’ve done before.

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-Sticks and String

CW: Violence, Eye Trauma

It was a familiar dream, seen a hundred times and to be seen a hundred times more. He knew this, but still fear filled his gut like glowing lead. Hot, heavy, toxic, and lethal.
Snow swirled around him, burying him up to his ribs, and biting deep into the sopping wet cloths we wore. Yet still he ran. One foot in front of the other, he ran. Stillness was death, by cold or by blade, he knew that if he stopped, he would die.
And so a much younger Rosto ran, through thick drifts of snow and howling wind. Though freezing rain and ice capped streams. He ran from the images that would haunt him forever, he ran from the sounds of battle and bloodshed, he ran from the bodies of his family piled high like cords of firewood, he ran into the ice and snow and cold. He runs into Her arms.

Time passes and a young boy wrestles in the snow with a older man, a splintered bow and shattered ax littering the ice around them. The older man bleeds from an arrow ruining his left eye and the young boys face is marred from cheek to cheek by an horizontal ax wound that nearby bisects his nose. The boy is dying, he knows it in his bones, the cold bites deep into his flesh and he cant breath through his ruined nose and broken jaw. The older warrior is trying to squeeze the life from him, two hands wrapped around his throat. The boy does the only think he can, with his last breath, he screams into the cold void of death. A raw, ragged, primal scream, the last sound of despite life flinging it’s self into the frozen void.
The storm churns around them, and She watches on.

Rosto awakes from his nap, still nestled in the crook of the branch he had found a hour before, bow across his lap, and arrow knocked. The snow piled up on his skin and cloths not bothering him as he takes stock of what awoke him form his nightmare. Below him, a stag moves in the snow, silent as stalking cat. Rosto draws the nock to his cheek, sights down the shaft, and exhales a heatless breath.

Sticks and String, Ice and Cold, Simple things that separate the living from the dead.

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The Darkness of Death

The Eparch is dying” Lord Hyutyr let out when he entered the tavern.
“WHAT?!” I took off sprinting into the woods, following behind Mother Superior Solace and a few others, including the good doctor Heimir, rushing to Elias’s aid.
My breath left me, I don’t know if it was the shock of the news or the distance and speed I was running but by the time I reached Elias, My head was pulsing, my sides splitting, my legs cramping. I looked to the others at the scene.
“What happened?”
“Hollow Song. They got him. He’s dying”
With that last word, I was left completely breathless as a frenzy of panic set in.
“No, no, no, I can’t save him then, I haven’t learned what I need to, maybe if I-” A pair of strong weathered hands grabbed me by the collar and before me Lord Knutt stared me in the eyes.
“Vernon, not Erasmus, just breathe. Do what you need to do and be there for him. Emotions will come later”
A warm calm washed over me as he let me go. One I had not felt in a long time. I fell to my knees next to Elias and reached for his hand. It dashed and darted as he tried to get the good doctor to stop his ministrations.

Elias spoke his peace to both me and Solace. I felt my vision darkening as he spoke, as the words grew distant. Finally, Solace looked up to the good doctor and spoke, which brought me back to the moment.

“Heimir, Stop.”
“WHAT?!” Heimir exclaimed with a look of shock and disbelief.
“It’s okay… Let him go.” I put a hand on his shoulder, which was quickly ripped away from me as he backed away.
Finally, his thrashing stopped.
“I’m so proud of you both. Lead these people well. Good…bye.” His breath left him, his muscles relaxed, and his hand slipped from my hand. I fell backward into the soft grass behind me. My vision darkened again as I stared at the ground in front of me. I had failed. I couldn’t protect this man of god from the grasp of death. All my efforts and the knowledge I had gained in the past months were not enough. Shame seeped into my mind as once again a voice pierced the darkness

“Vernon, are you alright? Can you stand?” The Voice of the Tempest extended his hand. I stared for a moment and took it. My legs were tree trunks as I stumbled upright, leaning on the kindly skald with sister solace on my other side. The blood returned to my limbs as we moved back out of the forest. Slowly I was able to support myself again to walk, and speak once again.

“Thank you for that. I feel I would’ve been sitting there a while would you have not had said something” I said to him. I looked ahead and saw the good knight Knutt carrying the body we were to bury shortly. My mind blurred. I moved with what felt like practiced actions. They buried him and I gave him a proper funeral. When I was done speaking the rites, I stepped away from the group gathered and kneeled. Again I felt that darkness creep back. This time not blinding, or hindering, just…dark. I heard my name again and snapped back to reality.

“Would you like some time, Brother?” It was the Voice again.
“Uhm, yes please” They left me alone with the darkness, with my emotions. I sat. The doubt seeped in again; The doubt, the shame, the anger. I failed. How was I supposed to lead these people I met not more than 6 months ago? I let them down. I let this good man of God down. I was weak. I chose this life and this is what I get for it. I felt the tears streaming from my unblinking eyes. I clenched them and felt the sting of the cold winter air. I wiped the tears away with my hand and stared.

“Please, guide me on this new path. What is the best thing I can do for these people?” I placed my tear soaked hand on the freshly laid soil and prayed.

“Do your best, Vernon. Learn what you can, lead these people with that knowledge” I heard in my head.

My face was soaked, my eyes red. I stayed just a bit longer to clean myself up a bit. I stood and returned to the people. The people who I would help, heal, and lead. The people who would support me when I needed it, and I would support in turn.