Chapter 10 Guardian of Her Grief #2
“There’s no need to thank me, human,” I say, the glow of my crystals shining in her eyes. “This is my duty as your mate.”
“Again with this nonsense.” With those words, she pushes me away, drops to the ground, and walks toward the stream. She doesn’t even pause to say, “Go home.”
“I am home,” I reply, following behind her. She doesn’t realize she is my home.
We walk in silence, and it’s clear I’ve crossed the line again. My mate doesn’t like being called a mate, that much I understand. But she is . . . Is it because of me? Am I unpleasant to her? She knows I won’t harm her. She’s no longer afraid when I’m near. So then, what is it?
“Your home is ávera. Go there.”
“Come with me.”
She turns to face me, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t need whatever fantasy you’ve got in your head. I’m not your mate, and you’re not mine. I have too much on my mind, and I must—”
“How did your mother die?” I ask. The grief feels fresh. Maybe that’s why she keeps denying me.
Her shoulders sag, and she looks away. “I don’t know.”
“Was she ill?”
“No.”
Such anger doesn’t come from the grief of losing someone after a long life. Perhaps my mate is mourning a mother who was taken from her by force.
I should help my mate heal. She needs me as a supportive male before she needs my cock. “Did your mother like any herbs?” I ask as I follow her.
She falls silent again.
I know little of human customs now, but history rarely changes.
Even centuries ago, humans spilled each other’s blood for the sake of pride.
For worshipping different gods. For daring to speak.
For being born on the wrong side of a wall.
They called it justice, or righteousness, but it was always blood.
Vólkins fight for dominance, but that’s how nature works. Wolves, lions—we are no different. But even wolves do not take a mother from her child. They never place pride above life.
We reach the waters, and I watch Noel approach the blue roses I grew for her. She kneels beside them, her fingers brushing against the petals. “These beautiful roses were my mother’s favorite,” she murmurs. “And now they’re mine as well.”
And mine.
“This flower is the rarest,” I say, watching her expression as I speak. “They never bloom without purpose.”
Her eyes lift to meet mine. “How do you know that about them?”
“These roses are very ancient,” I explain, crouching beside her. “They belong to only one bloodline in the human race, and we are taught about them from the time we are pups. Their history is rich and sacred.”
Noel’s lips part, her disbelief written across her face.
“In our culture,” I continue, “we bid farewell to the dead in a way that honors their spirit and their connection to the world. Let me show you.”
I move to gather materials, picking up pieces of wood and leaves.
“We create a circle, a small arrangement of things connected to the soul we honor. Flowers, herbs, and other elements that had meaning to them. It symbolizes the continuation of life, the cycle that never truly ends. It’s called svytyn prócha. ”
Noel watches me, then takes the branches in her hands. “I want to do it myself.”
“I’d like to honor your mother too.”
“Why do you care? You didn’t even know her. And don’t start with any ‘she’s my mate’s mother’ business.”
That is part of it, but also, “No mother would want to leave this world before her child.”
My mate lowers her gaze and lets me arrange the svytyn prócha.
I weave thin branches together to create the foundation for the boat.
Then, I gather moss and leaves, arranging them in a circle, leaving space in the middle.
Noel watches my every move, then gathers more leaves to fill the empty spots.
I notice that she avoids touching me, moving her wrists at unusual angles so she won’t brush against mine.
The svytyn prócha is usually the size of a large leaf, so we don’t take much from nature to honor the departing souls.
I watch my mate as she leans toward the roses.
There’s a tenderness in the way she handles the roses, carefully placing them at the center of the small farewell boat we’re crafting.
“When we say farewell to the dead,” I add, “we light a flame to guide them. In ávera, we often use wax with leaves, but here we’ll improvise.”
“Like a candle?”
“Humans call it that?” I smile as she nods. Her curiosity is adorable.
Together, we finish the small boat, weaving branches and leaves together, and placing the blue roses in a wreath around the edges. It’s simple, but beautiful, and as I kneel by the stream, I focus inward.
I form two small orbs of energy in my hands, rubbing them together until a small flame ignites in my palms. My Noel watches carefully as I guide the fire down to the tiny boat, and it catches quickly.
Noel leans forward, takes another rose in her hands, and lifts it to her lips.
I lower my head, and I hear her move to place the rose on the boat.
From the corner of my eye, I see her hands tremble as she releases the svytyn prócha into the water.
The boat drifts, carried by the current, the blue roses glowing against the dark surface.
“How beautiful,” I whisper, looking at her.
Tears glisten in her eyes, but there’s peace there too, a calm that wasn’t there before.
“It is,” she says. “Thank you, Theron.”
“It is my hono—”
She jerks her head toward me before I finish the sentence, drawing her brows in. “I did this for her.”