Moonlight bled through the shivering trees, and Chase felt the same breeze which passed through them lightly whisk her nape as she walked the forest path. She, too, shivered, pulling the collar of her worn tunic closer, though it offered little solace against the encroaching chill. She didn’t want to think too much right now—not of Llana’s clipped words, nor the sensation of emptiness which settled in her heart. So she didn’t, allowing instead the rhythmic, crisp crunching of the snow under her boots to play out a cyclical flood in her thoughts. The simple cadence slowly trying to fill the vast, indifferent silence.
Strangely, the deepening darkness of the forest path didn’t bother her as she moved further into it's maw. If anything, she felt an odd sense of belonging -a kinship with the shifting shadows that danced between the skeletal branches of the looming trees. It was much like the quiet understanding she felt for the resilient herbs in Llana’s shed. She often wondered if the stubborn plants which sprouted through forest's frozen soil ever questioned why it had been here -in this dark and gloomy place- that they had happened to be born.
In the distance, a singular, warm orange glow suddenly cut into the peaceful gloom, its light silhouetting the jagged edges of the tree line ahead. The village. Chase felt a familiar prickle of exposure as she neared the light, the narrow path ending abruptly at the forest’s edge.
There, holding the source of the glow—a brass oil lantern—stood Elder Souan. He was an old man, his head and face entirely devoid of hair, save for the fine, silver whiskers of his brows that caught the light well. He wore a plain red robe, similar to that of the Village Chief’s, though Elder Souan’s was far less adorned, and faded with age. A constellation of moles dotted his weathered face, and as he spotted her, his skin folded into a network of loose, kindly pouches as he smiled. It wasn’t an uncomfortable sight; rather, it was something Chase had been hoping to see past the weathered branches behind her.
“Oh my, child,” he said, his voice a gentle rumble. He tipped the lantern slightly as she approached, the brass handle cupped securely in his mittened palm. “You made all that way in pure darkness? You are certainly a brave one.” Chase had been told oil lamps were a rare luxury here, a privilege afforded only to the Village Chief and his closest associates, like Elder Souan and Usra, who, she’d learned, served as some sort of advisor for the Chief. It was apparently a well-known fact that the rest of the village made do with the flickering, uncertain light of candles.
Before Chase could form a reply to the old man, a softer, yet far more boisterous voice called out. “Chase! Oh my little Rose!”
With little forewarning, Chase found herself enveloped in a full frontal assault, her arms pinned to her sides as Usra wrapped two surprisingly strong arms around her torso in a crushing hug. Usra had taken to calling her ‘little Rose’ ever since Chase had healed her son; the name, like her affection, was earnest, if a little overwhelming.
“That damn Llana made you walk the path all alone!?” Usra exclaimed, her words practically vibrating against Chase. “At this hour –and without a lamp at that!” Her face was close, and Chase could feel the dampness of her own cheeks as Usra’s indignant words spat into the cold air. Chase recalled how Usra’s demeanor towards her had shifted so dramatically after the healing, her initial caution replaced by this effusive, almost smothering affection. It was Usra who had first suggested Chase stay with her family while the Chief arranged for the new shed to be built, and Usra who had diligently tended to her during the disorienting days she’d spent unconscious after the golden light had faded.
“N-no, I just… I forgot to bring it, is all,” Chase managed, her voice slightly muffled against Usra’s shoulder as she gently tried to extract herself from the embrace. “I’m sorry for keeping you both out in the cold.” Finally free, she offered a small, respectful bow towards Elder Souan. “I lost the path for a moment.”
“Night paths can wander, child. There is no harm in that,” Elder Souan answered, his smile appearing warmer than the lamp-light gilding his weathered face. "So long as you arrive safely, as you have. We were beginning to worry." He added, his voice softening with a note of genuine concern.
He then gently urged them, “Let us hurry on to the village then. The night grows colder.”
The three of them began to walk, Usra’s arm now linked firmly through Chase’s, guiding her towards the distant, sparse pinpricks of light that marked the shacks and huts of Eiat Deta. Above, the full moon hung like a polished silver coin in the clear, starlit sky, its brilliance making the village below appear almost swallowed by the vast, surrounding darkness. Only the Village Chief's larger house, perched on the far side of the settlement, emitted a low, warm glow from its shuttered windows, a solitary point of steadfast light in the surrounding abyss.
As they drew nearer, Chase’s eyes traced the low stone wall that loosely encircled the village. It was clearly old, damaged and crumbling in several places, a forgotten sentinel. She’d been told Eiat Deta was nearly a hundred years old, and the weathered, unkempt structures of its foundation certainly attested to that, showing little sign of recent repair or attention. Her gaze drifted towards the other, more distant edge of the village, where the large, dark silhouette of a half-constructed oak wood house stood starkly against the moonlit snow. The Village Chief had insisted her new home be built there, a place he’d claimed would 'distinguish her position.' Looking at it now, so removed from the other dwellings, Chase only felt a fresh wave of alienation. A small, fleeting comfort came from the thought that Llana, too, lived similarly isolated, her shed nestled away from the main cluster of villagers.
They reached the modest, open area that served as the village center, where several packed-snow paths diverged. Elder Souan nodded towards Usra and Chase. "I have some business to attend to with the Chief," he said, his gaze shifting towards the distant, warmly lit house. As he spoke, Chase caught a faint, almost imperceptible flicker of an unreadable emotion cross Usra's face before it was quickly smoothed away. Though she didn't understand its source, she felt it wasn't her place to inquire.
With a curt nod to Elder Souan, Usra turned, gently tugging Chase down the opposite path. It wasn’t more than a few seconds later, once the Elder was out of earshot, that Usra’s focus snapped back to her. “Are you sure about Llana, little Rose? If she is working you too hard, I can give her a good whooping, you know! That darn woman is like a robot sometimes -she may be a herbalist but she knows nothing about caring for a delicate flower!” Usra’s arm snaked around Chase’s shoulder again, attempting to pull her into another enveloping hug. Chase, anticipating the move, managed to deftly avoid the gesture before being fully captured, a small, apologetic smile never quite reaching her lips as they continued towards Usra's home.
The short walk to Usra’s home was filled with more of her effusive chatter, words Chase mostly nodded along to, her mind still struggling to avoid playing over Llana’s parting words every chance it had. When they finally arrived at a modest, snow-dusted hut, a little larger than most but appearing just as weathered. Upon reaching the door, Usra raised a hand and delivered three curt knocks against the oak wood. Chase remembered Llana mentioning this was a common practice among the nobles of the capital, a peculiar formality the Village Chief had decided was required to be adopted by those of higher standing within the Village as well. She mentioned something about it being a sign of respect, though Chase didn’t quite understand what the number of knocks one used could possibly have to do with respect.
It wasn’t long before the door crudely swung open from the other side, the heavy oak rectangle giving way to reveal a towering figure. A round-bellied man, Galvin, stood unevenly, his surprisingly toned shoulders a stark, almost comical contrast to the soft, fat-filled orifices that seemed to constitute the rest of his body. He wore a dirtied gray tunic, its collar hanging low enough to provide a broad – and most definitely unnecessary – view of his unkempt, hairy chest beneath. A clear, strong-smelling liquid, reeking of alcohol, trickled from the corner of his open mouth as his beard, already tinged with an orange hue from previous spills, caught the fresh dribble. “I Thold Yhou Befhore,” he slurred, his voice thick and indistinct, “Dhon’t dho all zhat fhormal nohnsense.” It appeared that he, too, shared Chase’s lack of concern for the ritual. Though she found no solace in it.
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“Oh, darling, are you drunk again!?” Usra’s voice held a note of scolding, yet her actions were anything but. She reached out, her hand gently caressing his cheek as she deftly maneuvered the large man away from the doorway. With a subtle gesture, she indicated for Chase to enter the space she’d made behind him.
“OFH CHOURSE I HAM!” Galvin bellied out with an almost guttural roar, his breath reeking. “Whaff’s whrong whiffat? I dhon’t deserhve a dhrink afther workhing hardh alll dhay?” And although a piercing knot of fear tightened in Chase’s chest at the sound, Usra appeared as calm and collected as ever, still coddling the giant. “No no, sweetie. I understand. How’s our little warrior doing? Still sleeping soundly?” she asked, her voice softening as she glanced towards another room, before turning back to Galvin. “Let me fix you up dinner. How about that?”
Galvin grunted, a flicker of something akin to pride in his bloodshot eyes. “Shleepin’ like a log. Healthy as an ox, that one. Gonna be big an’ shtrong, jus’ like his pa. No, even shtronger!” He then allowed Usra to quickly pull him further into the house, away from the door, upon which Chase slipped inside the small home, a little hesitant.
The first sight to greet her was the utter disarray of the kitchen, which stood directly across from the door behind her. A large cauldron, appearing to have once been filled with some kind of stew, now had its contents strewn out in large, greasy blotches across the wooden counter and the packed-earth floor around it. Chase couldn’t quite bear the sight of the half-cooked boar carcass, or rather, the small, mangled pieces of it, that seemed to be flung across the room. The smell alone, a cloying mix of stale meat and spilled alcohol, filled her with a sort of nausea that almost made her gasp in surprise when Usra, seemingly unfazed, nonchalantly began to gather up the mess, as if it were only natural.
Galvin soon groaned out once more --something about being forced to cook himself in Usra's absence, but Usra only shushed him gently as she guided him to a rickety wooden chair at the dinner table, opposite where Chase now stood. Reluctantly, Chase allowed Usra to push her, too, down onto one of the other chairs. Upon the center of the table sat another of the coveted oil lamps, its flame casting a warm, flickering orange glow across the scene as Usra got to work, efficiently packing the spilled contents back into the cauldron as best she could.
She surely wasn’t going to make her eat that, right? Chase thought, a fresh wave of unease washing over her as she witnessed the stew’s reconstitution.
But something else quickly took her more immediate attention. A low, guttural growl erupted from the man in front of her. "So yer finallhy home now, ay?" Galvin said, his bloodshot eyes starting on Chase’s face but quickly, unpleasantly, trailing down towards the rest of her body. “Mhaking mhe whait soo long fer ya… How arhe yew gonnah aphologize fer it?” he added in a sickeningly wet tone, a string of saliva spewing onto the table below as he leaned forward. Chase found herself losing the appetite she never even quite had to begin with. She cringed inwardly at the sight, her gaze flicking up to Usra, who was now stirring the cauldron, her back partly to them.
“I… umm… Usra,” Chase began, her voice quiet but firm, seizing the moment as Usra finished with the stew and turned as if to check on the baby, “I think I’m going to just go to bed… I already ate a lot at the shed, so…” Her legs were already carrying her well out of her chair and towards the back of the small hut as she spoke.
Usra, now halfway to the other room, paused and turned, an almost apologetic gaze meeting hers. “Are you sure? Despite the mess, I assure you It won't be more than another few minutes."
That's the problem Chase thought, but didn't give voice to the words that played out in her head. "No, really. I had more than enough." Chase in turn assured her.
"Well, I suppose then even Llana is good for something then… Sleep well little rose.” She accepted the excuse quite readily, her mind clearly set on checking the well-being of her son as she continued towards the other room.
“HEH! Lhittle rhose… What’sth stho spechial abouth…” Galvin's words trailed off into a gurgle as he appeared to finally pass out, his head thudding onto the table into a puddle of his own saliva. Chase didn’t stop to get a better look at the uncouth sight, quickly moving down the short, narrow hallway towards the back end of the home. There, she came across a dark wooden door, using the key Usra had given her to open it before firmly locking it shut behind her once she had gotten to the other side.
Chase heaved a small sigh of relief upon meeting the silent darkness of her temporary living quarters. It was a spare room in Usra’s home, one that had previously been used, or rather, designated, as her husband’s carpentry space. But after boldly proclaiming how he’d train his skills there for many months, the room had instead ended up unused for years, providing a perfect, if somewhat dusty, empty space for Usra to set up a small, rough-hewn bed and a rickety wardrobe for Chase to use as a ‘room’ – despite how barren and cramped it appeared in contrast to what she vaguely believed a ‘bedroom’ should actually be. It was enough, however, for a place where she could sleep at night. Especially given that she didn’t actually need to.
Even she knew it was strange, this lack of need for sleep. It was the same with her hunger and thirst; the sensations were muted, distant echoes of what she knew others truly felt. And what even she felt was something she ought to have been familiar with. She could still eat and drink, taste the food on her tongue. But her hunger and thirst were always feigned, she feigned her exhaustion too. All to avoid the suspicious gazes, the ire that would surely follow if they knew. Each feigned act was another thin layer added to the wall separating her from them, another reminder of her inherent, unsettling difference.
Making her way to the far wall, she opened the old wardrobe pushed up against it, removing her work tunic and boots, the scent of Llana's herbs still clinging faintly to them. Usra had given her a simple nightgown to wear, a coarse, linen thing that was quite itchy in places, but it was at least better than the tunic, now covered in dirt and grime from the days of work at the shed. At the thought of clothes, Chase’s head turned toward the shadowed corner of the room. She made her way almost cautiously toward it, spotting the familiar rings of that floorboard. Kneeling, she carefully pried it up, the loose floorboard giving way easily under her strain to reveal the bundled garments underneath. There, lying in the cold, almost wet mud below, were the clothes she'd been wearing when she first awoke on the mountaintop: sturdy, dark brown boots lined on the inside with a soft, white fur that appeared far too luxurious compared to any she'd seen in the village, their brown laces hanging loose at their sides, yet somehow unsullied by grime; thick black leggings that seemed both incredibly durable and surprisingly flexible; a rich blue scarf, its underside flanked with the same pristine white fur as the boots; and finally, a heavy blue coat, also lined with the soft fur, though its outer texture was rougher, more resilient. Despite being hidden in the damp, mud-riddled space beneath the floor for days now, they all still looked pristine, the strange, dark fabrics unblemished, the intricate stitching intact. Another mystery, another piece of herself she couldn't comprehend. She’d hidden them away as soon as Usra had returned them to her – after Usra had nursed her back to health. She was afraid that their inexplicable condition, their strange quality, would only cause people to see her as even more strange, more of an other. She carefully placed the floorboard back, the soft thud echoing the quiet beat of her own unease.
A large, wooden barrel filled with icy water stood in another corner. Taking a deep breath, she drew herself to it. As she dipped her hands in, the cold bit at her skin. Reluctantly, she took ahold of the large ladle resting on the barrel's rim before pouring it over her shoulders, the water carrying the sweat and grime down the rest of her body to a small, crudely carved drain in the floor. Shivering a little as she dried herself with a rough spun cloth, she was compelled to once more look over her skin. Indeed, it was just as it was the day before. Not so much as a blemish, not a single bruise on her hands or arms, despite the nicks and scrapes she was sure she’d acquired while working in Llana's garden that day. Her skin was entirely devoid of fault. It was odd how they’d so easily, so completely, disappear before she'd even had the chance to grow used to them. This, too, was just another strange trait, another wall barring her from familiarity. It was strange, but, it almost hurt more than the scars themselves to have the proof of her efforts erased from her skin.
Putting on the itchy gown along with some simple undergarments, Chase finally lay down on the narrow bed. Staring up at the sliver of moon visible through the small, grimy window above her. The moon appeared to reflect her solitude as it peered back down at her from the otherwise empty sky above. It was then, in the heavy silence, that she heard them: the distinct, rhythmic grunts of exertion.
Getting up, she padded softly to the window, her eyes peering out into the small, snow-cleared patch behind Usra's home. There she saw him, Tetsu, just beyond his own home which lay directly behind Usra's. He lopped his heavy practice sword with a precise intensity, each swing a focused movement as he tensed his muscles to stabilize it's path. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead despite the freezing air, catching the glare of the moonlight above. She watched him for a long moment, a strange mix of awe and remembrance filling her. Roan often called him a ‘training freak,’ and perhaps he was. But Chase didn’t see it as Roan did. There was something admirable in his dedication.
As if sensing her gaze, Tetsu’s head suddenly turned, his wide, dull-gray eyes locking onto hers. He stopped his movement awkwardly, the sword held mid-swing, a surprised, almost startled expression on his face as she continued to blankly stare back at him.
