Chapter 2 #2
I grab two plates, piling them half full of rice in preparation. I’d like to eat only fish tonight, skipping the grains altogether, but I don’t know how long it will be until we can get more.
“You take the bigger piece.” I switch plates when Father slides the larger portion onto my plate.
“You’ve been out all day in the cold. You need the energy.”
“I’ll be fine,” I assure him. “You need the nourishment.”
I can tell he wants to argue, so I slide my fork into the fish and take a bite before he can say another word. It practically melts on my tongue, confirming this isn’t from any shore in Alyssium. Callum definitely brought it back from the Ley Court for us.
The fish is soft and flaky. It reminds me of butter, which I’ve only had the pleasure of tasting once when the Crown spoiled the village with special gifts at the end of an unusually unforgiving winter.
Butter. Turkeys. Apples.
So many things that can’t grow or survive in Alyssium, but we got a taste of them all.
Just once.
Closing my eyes, I imagine the fish is coated in the warm, melted butter. I savor the flavor of anything more than plain, tasteless grain. Father warns me that an imagination only leads to dangerous disappointment, but often it’s the only way I survive the long, cold winter nights.
“Hopefully the storm breaks before dawn.” I push my plain rice around. “The market is tomorrow. The Guard is desperate for new weapons, and we almost have enough coin to buy new shingles.”
Father glances out the snow-covered window. “The snow settled early, so the storm should pass by morning. If not, I’ll sell the blades at the market next week to make up the difference.”
Before I was born, Father was a guard at the prison.
But after losing my mother, he chose something less dangerous for my sake.
He had already been training with Pier, the town’s bladesmith, and after Pier died, he took over his post. Now, Father is the only one in the village with the skills to craft swords, daggers, and arrows so durable that even the Guard is desperate to get their hands on them.
Between the coin I make tending to the dead, and the coin from selling Father’s blades, we are able to maintain our small home without suffering the pinch of starvation during especially long winter months. And when there is extra, we help those struggling most around us.
I clear the plates, my gaze drifting to the sword that hangs on our mantel.
Father crafted it as a wedding gift for my mother.
He said she’d often watch him work. That she fell in love with his talent for shaping weapons long before she fell for him.
He said that the day she died, a single vein ripped down the middle.
It cracked like the spirit of the island did from losing her.
Since I never knew her, the sword hangs as a memorial to her over the fireplace. Long gone but resilient.
The fire dulls to a slow crackle as night settles. Father’s cough sends him to bed early, so I sit by the window and watch the pyre still burning bright in the distance. A plume of black smoke twists with falling snow.
On the breeze, I swear I hear Alyssium exhale, releasing the souls we’ve lost over this past turn of the moon. I close my eyes and send a well-wish to the gods for their spirits. For no more starvation. No more cold.
“Do you think it’s peaceful?”
“Death?” the island whispers.
“Yes.”
“It’s probably better than whatever this is.”
“And what is this?” I don’t know why I’m asking, or why I continue having a conversation with myself, but it’s better than nothing at all sometimes.
“A gods-cursed, long night.”
“Are you lonely?”
“Never. Always. Loneliness is no longer relevant.”
“Why?”
“Because soon it won’t matter.”
Opening my eyes, I watch the smoke curl long into the night.
Until the wind quiets and the snow thickens.
Until I’m fighting exhaustion. Curling my knees to my chest, I wait until the pyre can no longer be seen glowing against the snowy night.
Until the smoke is nothing more than a whisper in the wind.
When the smoke finally thins, I pull out a stack of papers and write down everything I remember from tonight.
The shade of the young Fae’s auburn hair.
How fragile the brittle needles felt in my hands.
I write of the smoke, haunted by the stench of death.
Maybe no one is left to remember those who were lost today.
War swallows towns whole on the main continent.
Their families, friends, and enemies may be long gone.
But if that’s the case, then I’ll remember them.
Even if they are nothing more than a footnote in a human girl’s journal.
Not many in the village know how to write or read, but Father always stressed the importance when it’s so easy for stories to be twisted and changed through the centuries. He wanted me to understand the history of our realm as much as possible, and to be able to tell stories of my own.
After all, so little is known about the humans in Lyrichia. Much less those in the Mortal Realm. The Fae don’t bother documenting anything about us.
So I do.
Every night, I write in my journals. Ramblings of our village and what happens here.
Only once I’ve filled three sheets of paper front and back do I finally settle.
But just as I’m about to rest my head on my pillow, movement in the street catches my attention. A figure wearing a white tunic and pants nearly blends into the snow.
No Crown insignia. No armor.
It’s not a guard.
For a moment, I wonder if it’s a human daft enough to brave the freezing night.
But as the figure pauses and turns, I quickly duck so they don’t catch me staring. Because they were not human, as evidenced by the pointed tips of their ears. Which means they can only be one thing.
Rebels.