Beneath the Frost and Empty Fields

It was the sort of winters night that made one forget that dawn existed. In fact, the darkness was so absolute, one might be forgiven for thinking that daylight was but the whisper of a forgotten dream, lost to the storm that smothered the mountainside in drifting snow and contrary winds. Wandering the hills since dusk, it lost itself among the empty fields, and by the time it reached Gurion’s door the night had grown colder than any he could remember.

The lonely glow of the cottage huddled against the press of the blizzard, a single warm breath in defiance of the winter mistress. Gurion stoked the coals in the fireplace, coaxing a little more heat from their glowing bones, in the hopes of warming his weary soul a little bit longer. He ran a gnarled hand through his wispy, white beard as he took stock of the remaining firewood.

“It could be a long night, little Spren,” he stroked the fur of the black cat, “Long indeed. I may just regret not gathering more logs this morning. But, should we need to-” he passed his hand slowly over the coals, letting his anima flow and the heat increased “-we can always cheat with a little magic.”

He rose slowly, every crack, pop and ache reminding just how old he really was, no matter how much he tried to persuade himself otherwise. Grasping his heavy woollen cloak tight about his shoulders, he set about lighting several candles to ward against the darkness, “No need to sit in the dark. But perhaps, a little story, maybe?”

The fireplace crackled and sparked but the little black cat was lost to whatever dreams cats dream, snug, still and basking in the warmth. Gurion sighed, “If only we could all be so easily content. However…”

He shuffled over to his bookshelf, crammed to bursting with volumes of grimoires, folk tales and archaic Script translations. After a moment’s consideration, gently, almost reverently, he extracted a small leatherbound tome, “Given the night out there, a story or two from Grinnell Geldart’s Winter Fables would be fitting.”

Gurion settled deeply into his favourite armchair, pulled his sheepskin blankets snugly around his wiry frame, and, after adjusting his spectacles, began perusing the various tales, “Hmmm. The Winter Paladin, perhaps? No… Maybe The Last Hearth? Spren?”

The cat remained a motionless ball of purring.

Gurion harrumphed, brow furrowed, “Thankless feline… No appreciation for literature… Ah, yes, here we go. This seems fitting. The Lost Children of Lirian.”

And then, just as the old man settled in to begin his tale, he heard the faintest whisper of a knock on the door.

Gurion paused, momentarily confused. He glanced towards the old oak door, wondering had he imagined the knock. It was just a faint tap after all. Maybe it was a branch, cast about by the wind. Yes. Yes, that was it. He peered over his spectacles at the sleeping cat, “Right, where were we?”

He huffed as he settled back in again, ruffled his blanket around him and laid his book on his lap.

And the knock whispered from the door once more.

Gurion paused again, but this time he was not confused. That really did sound like a knock on the door. But, it was almost midnight. By the Sacred Script, who would be out in this ghastly weather. He looked at Spren, who had lifted his head from between his paws and was staring intently at the door, all purring ceased, “Hmm. I agree. Let us take a gander.”

He closed the book and set it down on the mahogany table beside his armchair. Pulling aside his warm blankets, he hauled himself out of comfort, and shuffled towards the door. He turned the great iron key and lifted the cross bar with a grunt. Yes it was heavy, and yes he was old. But not so old he couldn’t open his own bloody door.

It swung open with a creak, a puddle of snow rushing to fill the vacated space of his floor. Gurion stood there, blinking curiously into the snowy night. There was no one there. He looked back at Spren, who approached the door, languidly stretching and moving to his own internal clock. Gurion rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the entrance.

“I don’t know Spren, maybe I was right the first time.” he cast around, looking for remnants of broken branches, or anything, really, that would explain the noise at the door. Unless, he really was losing the plot. No, no, he wasn’t so far gone yet that his hearing was playing tricks on him.

Spren snaked between his spindly legs and padded daintily outside. He sniffed around, curiously nudging the lump of slushy powder gathered at the door. Then, he became more insistent. The cat began digging, slowly at first, then furiously, mewling louder and louder. Ink and iron what was wrong...

“Oh pages above.”

Spren’s frantic digging had uncovered the most impossible thing the old man could have imagined. A child, wrapped in a green cloak, blazing red hair stark against the snow, like fire incarnate. Spren mewled louder and nipped at his leg. Oh yes, yes. Gurion shook his surprise like a tree shedding snowdrift, and, bending his knobbly knees, he scooped up the little mite and shouldered the door closed.

Despite her size she was a leaden weight in his arms. Shuffling toward the fireplace as quickly as his slippered old feet would take him, Gurion gently lay her down. Her skin was deathly pale, almost blue, cold beneath his fingers. Breathing was shallow, but mercifully present. Yes, yes, so far so good. Her clothes were stiff, rigid to the touch. Gurion frowned. The poor little mite must have been wandering through the storm for over an hour at least. Ink and iron.

“All right little one, let’s get you warmed up.”

Spren hovered around her head, like a black furry halo, as Gurion rubbed his palms together and let his anima flow. He visualised the Script for the warming spell and rested his hands over the child, letting the anima flow through them. His hands warmed, and slowly, steam rose from her clothes. They lost their rigidity and softened. Gradually, colour returned to her face.

Gurion grunted in satisfaction and quickly mounted three large logs on the fire, before ignoring his screaming knees and grabbing a fistful of blankets from the armchair. Gently, he cocooned the little one in a mountain of sheepskin. That ought to warm her considerably. But how on earth did she find herself way out here?

Spren watched her closely for a moment, before settling down beside the girl and allowing her to bask in the full flow of the fireplace. Gurion smiled and stroked his steadfast companion, “That’s my lad. You keep a good eye on her now.”

His knees popped as he rose and plopped himself down in his armchair, all thoughts of aches, pains and winter cold cast to the winds outside. It made little sense. Well, little logical sense at any rate. The nearest village was ten miles down the mountainside, and it was small enough that he knew all the children there, but this little one? No, she certainly was not local. A right little mystery this was, with no likely answers until she woke.

A strange sound stirred Gurion, and he realised he had dozed off. As he shifted his spindly frame in the armchair, he noticed three things. Firstly, the cantankerous winds had calmed, and the night had eased into a deep slumber. Secondly, the candles and the fireplace had guttered down to soft embers, casting his cottage in warm, comforting light. And lastly, a pair of brilliant, green eyes peered up at him from the puddle of sheepskin on the floor.

Ah, yes. The child.

Gurion leaned forward, allowing a small, reassuring smile to curl his lips, “Hello little one. Are you feeling all right?”

She stared at him so long he wondered if perhaps she hadn’t heard him. He inched forward a little more, about to repeat himself, when she nodded. Not vigorously or excitedly. Just a minute, affirming dip of the chin. Ah, good girl. Never trust a stranger. Even if you did knock on his door, heh.

“My name is Gurion. It’s ok, you are quite safe here," he kept his voice low, and soft, so as not to startle her, “And I believe you’ve made a friend. See?”

She turned her head slightly to see Spren sprawled next to her, purring contentedly, lost to his dreaming. A wisp of a smile touched her lips. Good. Yes, very good. Gurion smiled, “Spren here has lived with me a long time. And it takes a special kind of person for him to choose as a friend. Oftentimes, I wonder am I even his friend, or, does he just stay for the free meals.”

She giggled then. Music to his ears. Spren stirred, ears perking. He lifted his head, yawning a mewl and turned to stare at the girl, before resting his head on her shoulder, purring resumed.

“Little one, can you tell me your name?”

Those piercing green eyes bore into his, the giggle lost to the silence of the cottage. She did not answer immediately. He didn’t push, didn’t prod. Just allowed her the time she needed.

“Ranielle.”

It came out in a brittle whisper. Gurion nodded gently, letting her name fill the silence for a moment. There was a story here, and not one with a pleasant ending. He didn’t want to push, but... It may be necessary.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ranielle. You have a beautiful name. Do you know what it means?”

She shook her head, fiery curls framing her pale face and illuminating her eyes in the emberlight.

“It means child of the dawn. A truly beautiful name. I would bet my little library it was your mother who named you,” Gurion paused, gauging her reaction. She was young, but by the Script she was stoic. Not even a blink, “Did you get separated? Was she with you, outside?”

Ranielle nodded slowly, her mask cracking, tears forming in her eyes, “And Papa too.”

Gurion felt a pit open in his chest. This was not going to be good, but he knew he had to ask, “And where are they, Ranielle? What happened to your parents?”

Tears streamed from her eyes as sobs racked her little frame. She tried to sit up, but the heavy blankets made it difficult. Gurion leaned forward and drew them back slowly, just as Spren stirred. He rose from his slumber, and eased himself into her arms, where she held him tight and cried her beautiful little eyes out, before rasping a single, choking word.

“Monster.”

Gurion leaned back in his armchair. He pried no further, and allowed little Ranielle the space she needed to feel, to release, and hopefully, to feel safe. But it bothered him. That one word. Despite his old age, and modest magical ability, the mountainside had been kept safe under his watchful eye. A bear or two gently eased away here. A pack of wolves turned aside there. But the child was terribly specific in her choice of word.

He looked at her again. Small, slight, but intelligence burned behind those eyes. Eight, maybe nine summers old. Ten at a stretch if she was uncommonly small. Old enough to recognise a bear or a wolf. So, that led him back to that word. Monster. His spectacled gaze fell to the discarded book on the desk beside him, and a particular tale buried within. Dark, even by Geldart’s measure, but all tales are based in a grain of truth.

Saints of the Script, let it not be so.

Gurion rose, ignoring the pleas of his aching back, and set about gathering his heavy cloak about him. He was fumbling about for his wide brimmed, pointed hat, when suddenly the child was beside him, startling him, “Ink and iron my dear, you gave me a fright. One second now, where on earth is it...ah-” he pulled the large hat from a mess of cloaks by the door, “-here it is.”

He settled it upon his wispy head and retrieved his ironwood staff from its resting place by the door frame, “You shouldn’t be up and about just yet little one.”

“But where are you going?”

Gurion paused at this, not wanting to frighten the girl, but not wanting to instil false hope either, “I am just going to check around the cottage, and make sure everything is ok. Don’t fret, I won’t be but a jiffy. You hop back under the blankets there and curl up with Spren.”

She fixed him with a pointed look, as if to say I may be a child but I’m not an idiot. Despite her distress, Gurion chuckled quietly into his beard, his admiration for her only growing. But she went, despite any misgivings, and returned to the sheepskin puddle with the purring furball. Gurion pointed his staff at the fireplace and let his anima flow through the carved wood, elegant Script blooming to life along its length, and the fire roared back to life.

Ranielle jerked in surprise, and looked to him for reassurance. He offered a smile and a wink and then hurried out the door.

Outside, the air was crisp and sharp, but clear. The winds had died down, the storm traversed beyond his side of the mountain. Gathering his cloak about him, and renewing his flow of anima through the staff, Gurion touched a curl of Script on the ironwood, and a butterfly made of dreamlight materialised. It fluttered near his face before disappearing into the night.

Filled with purpose and dread, Gurion carved a path through the thick snow and followed the familiar. The sky above was a clear velvet ocean sewn with diamonds as he wrestled with the mountainside for what seemed hours, his already aching back now screaming for respite. Just another stretch, another hill, another snow drift. Surely, it could not be much farther. But, maybe he could stop, just for a minute.

Gasping for air, and leaning heavily on his staff, Gurion took in his surroundings. The familiar had led him almost completely down the mountain and a little to the east of the village. He saw it now, wings of dreamlight dancing in the distance. His heart leapt in his throat. It was flying in circles.

It had stopped.

Filled with renewed purpose, Gurion gritted his teeth against aging bones and struggled through the snow. He almost wished he hadn’t, for the scene he beheld upon reaching the familiar would haunt him for whatever days remained to him.

The overturned wagon caught the eye first, splintered and shattered, the axle torn from the wooden frame. Blood was spattered in the snow, and his eye followed its path to the eviscerated remains of Ranielle’s parents, along with their horse, at the front of the wagon. Gurion’s grip tightened on his staff, breath catching in his throat. Emotion strangled his chest, but he stilled it with an effort and approached the ruin.

As he neared, he saw the butterfly descend into the wagon and he was filled with a peculiar sensation. Two distinct anima. One was dark, like liquid filth, dirty oil mixed with water. The other was pure, clear and immense, a depth of anima rarely encountered. Gurion came around the side of the wagon, seized by his curiosity, to find shattered white carapace littered the immediate vicinity. Several segments of femur and tibia protruded from the fresh snow. A passage from the Winter Fables came unbidden to his lips, “And from the mighty storm of ice and wroth, there came the cold ones, the whispered wraiths of winter. The frost spiders. Behold, the most terrible of the winter weren.”

He sighed, suddenly feeling the weight of every one of his years. This certainly explained the presence of the corrupted anima. But what about the other, the pure one? He looked back towards the wagon and frowned. The wagon itself was blown apart from the inside. Surely not...it couldn’t be...no. Let’s just return home.

The sky was layered in shades of navy, warm gold straddling the horizon, as he pushed open the door of his cottage. He was weary beyond memory, every ache, every sore, and every bone numb. Usually numb is good, but this was the kind of numb that you felt acutely. Despite this, the knowledge Gurion returned with was a pain sharper and weighed heavier than any physical ailment.

The cottage was dark inside, the candles long since quenched, and the fireplace barely simmering. Blessedly, Ranielle was asleep, snug and safe in the sheepskins, Spren curled beneath her arm. He pricked his ears once, met Gurion’s eye, before returning to his slumber.

Gurion sank deep into his armchair, not bothering to shed his cloak or hat, as true weariness began to take him. He gazed long and hard at the little one as she slept, the image of the wagon fresh in his mind’s eye. The anima, so pure and innocent. And the sheer, bottomless enormity of it. Could it really be...

He groaned quietly as he leaned forward, his need to know greater than his pains. He stretched out his hand, holding it just above her head and opened himself to her anima. Without warning, an ocean of crystal clear magical energy enveloped him, easing his aches, filling him with pleasant warmth. Oh, oh my, by the Script child, but you are a wonder.

Gurion closed his anima and settled back into the armchair, his thoughts a knot of possibilities. Sleep tugged at his eyelids, heavy and insistent, but he gently fought the urge. He would watch over her until she woke. Sleep little child of the dawn, sleep, and fear no more.