The Flameweaver

From the snow-dappled, misty peaks of the Cearnian Ridge, soldiers gazed at a village below. Their breath came out in white clouds through dark wooden masks, their swords cool and heavy at their hips. The youngest of the battalion’s legs quaked with excitement as he caught a flicker of long golden hair, a woman as she moved along the edge of a nearby lake. His black greaves and pauldrons were ill-fitted on his waifish build, a phantom of the boy he’d once been. 

But he was from a land of phantoms, of ziggurats that jutted into the heavens and claimed them as their own. His pulse quickened at the thought of claiming that woman, that lake, that village.

It was a quiet day, the sun casting shades of orange and pink on the thatched roofs of Everthorn. Smoke billowed from chimneys of red brick as the townspeople stirred and families left to set up their market stalls. The surrounding lands were rich with resources, the hills rife with winecaps and heather. Sprawling community gardens dotted the village square, the colors of blooming fruit trees stark against the brown and gray homes.

Verona Winspear stood at the edge of Everthorn Lake and watched as the water glimmered and kissed the shore. She smiled to herself and thought of a fairy tale from her childhood, watching a small pebble get gently dragged into the water as the wave receded. The lake could scarcely resist the shore, just as the stone secretly yearned to be carried away and united with its brethren below. Sometimes she felt like a stone abandoned by the water. The lake was a quaint thing, hardly much to look at, but wars had been fought over these waters and stones. There was a heaviness that weighed down her heart, an emptiness that hollowed her veins when she thought too long about the birds that flew overhead.

She grinned as she stared at the thin fishing line that stretched from her father’s pole, heart pounding with excitement at the thought of a roasted bass dinner. There were never more than pan fish here–-glorified minnows, her father called them. But they filled their bellies, just the same. Her father had been teaching her the best netting and line techniques for the last few years. Soon, she would take charge of procuring food for the family.

She was steadily growing into womanhood. It was past time for her to take over some responsibilities- to contribute, before her family sought out a proper marriage prospect. Chuckling to herself, she tossed a rock into the water, ignoring her mother’s chiding glance. There were no decent men in Everthorn. No nobles to speak of, no knights in shining armor. Besides - who would seek marriage with a fishmonger? Sometimes, when the night sky was clear, she would count the stars and dream of vast cities and bazaars. Places far from the quiet peace of Everthorn. What would she do, if a man showed up from so far away and asked for her hand?

I would go with him, I think. For now, though, she was content to feel the caress of sunlight, warm on her hair and face. Content to watch the gilded water sparkle, the bright blue eyes of her mother as she sat on a nearby stone.

Forever. That’s how long she wanted these moments to last. Her mother, her father. Everyone together.

“Papa!” The line twitched. Her father, weaving a basket trap beside her, jumped to his feet.

“Looks like we got a bite!” Her father’s voice was always kind, always calm, despite the chaos that had swept up the village of Everthorn in recent months. None of the fear that permeated the rest of the townsfolk seemed to affect him. He was the bravest person she knew. Verona’s heart thumped in her chest. Could it be a bigger fish, for once? She pictured a bass, hanging and salted. That would be nice; it would feed them for several days. Her mouth nearly watered at the thought. Would they light a fire right there on the side of the lake, and roast it immediately? Hopefully they wouldn’t take it to market or trade it away to that strange tavern owner. The man was kind, with a gentle voice, but she wanted this fish to herself. Well, she would share it with her family, of course, but…

Her father pulled on the line and the breath rushed out of her, along with any illusion of a succulent fish dinner.

So much for a bass, she thought, as her father grimaced exaggeratedly at the small perch he’d reeled in. Beside him, Verona’s mother Lyra smiled brightly, a smile that could light up the entire village. She saw how everyone looked at her mother during the market hours. Mens’ eyes sparkled when they saw her, and their wives looked the other way as they bought her medicines and tinctures.

Lyra was a skilled herbalist, and a brilliant teacher. Verona was becoming almost as good at harvesting the proper herbs and edible plants as she was.

I’ll become an herbalist too, once my mother steps down from managing the stall. Herbalist fishmonger. The men would be clamoring to wed her within the year. Only in my dreams. Or nightmares.

“I hear it’s good luck if you spare the small ones,” Lyra’s voice, bright as a bell, sang. Verona nodded. The gods rewarded those who spared the small lives around them. It was how she’d been raised, despite the recent challenges in the area. Nearby townships were reporting violent raids, and the roads cutting across the woods to the Outlier of Cearn were becoming more dangerous by the day.

But not here. Not in Everthorn. Here, they were safe. Safe to fish and go to market forever.

Weren’t they?

“Yes, papa! Let it go! Then it will get bigger. Better eating.” Her father grinned, a toothy expression that reached his light green eyes- and gently tossed the perch back into the pond. Verona took her father’s finished woven trap from between his feet and placed it carefully in the shallows. Tomorrow, it would hopefully be full of panfish, juicy and delicious. They turned to leave, the fish lines tied over her father’s broad shoulders. Mother’s golden curls reflected the sunlight and bounced with her every step. Verona resisted the urge to pull on one of the ringlets as her mother stooped to inspect a tree root.

A dark cloud smothered the light as the wind shifted, and the peaceful quiet of the lakeshore morphed into a disaster. To either side of her family, branches snapped under the force of heavy footsteps. Her father’s eyes darted around, flaring wildly as he focused on the source of the noise.

It all happened quickly then. A strange, choking sound came from behind them-

Verona and her father turned around at the sickening noise.

“Mother!” Verona’s scream was hoarse, rending the air like a blade. Her mother’s mouth gaped, frozen in a surprised expression as drops of red carved a coppery trail down her chin.

“Verona, run!” Her father’s yell closed in around itself with a sick gurgling. The next moment, he crashed to the ground. The sound of tearing flesh echoed through the glenside and Verona turned to see the source of her father’s pain. A man, a black mask obscuring his features, pulled a sword from her father’s still-twitching body. To his very last moments her fathers eyes had been on her, vacant yet staring at something only he could see.

No. No. No. A searing heat enveloped her hands, as if her own blood desired to spill along with her father’s. Unable to move from where she stood, Verona stared at the river of red as it pooled underneath her father’s body. The masked soldier couldn’t have been much older than her, with his scrawny arms and the baggy armor. What would cause someone to do such a thing?

Her mother’s screams intensified behind her as she turned to run and hide in the thick forest brush. The screams died down eventually, as Verona stood in petrified fear. She couldn’t peel her eyes from the horrific scene, as her world came crashing down around her in a curtain of blood and masks.

Gone. Everyone, everything gone. Verona picked her way across her parents’ broken bodies, to where she knew Amona, her dear white mare, was tied to a low-hanging limb. Screams echoed across her village, her home, as one by one, her friends and neighbors lost all that mattered to them.

“Verona! Over here! Quickly!” Cried a husky male voice, followed by a warm calloused hand. She was thrust onto Amona’s back with a huff of protest from the mare, and together they galloped through the forest paths, further from Everthorn than she had ever dared to venture alone. A small party of survivors from the raids camped out, their eyes haunted and misty as the fog that billowed into the valley from the fires in their home.

No amount of folktales around a fire, no amount of sweets the adult survivors had managed to smuggle with them as they fled to safety could comfort her.

There would be no comfort, she decided, as she watched the embers flicker and dance in the bonfire. Only shades of crimson revenge, and nightmares in matching hues.

They returned days later to hardly more than a pile of smoking rubble. Her chest tightened, anger swelling as she laid eyes upon the bloodied streets and the lifeless bodies being loaded onto carts and added to the funeral pyre.

The smell. She had never smelled burning human flesh before.But the weeping, the sobbing of her community as they took stock of the death and destruction…that was far worse than any smell. The air was as heavy with mourning as the ground was slick with blood. Grasping Amona’s reins until her fingers blistered, she rode through the sullen, lonely streets of her home. Rage and agony churned in her gut. If only she’d had a sword. Or magic, like the fae. Perhaps then, she could have at least held them back, or distracted them so her mother could have gotten away. Biting back a sob, she worried at the forming sores on her hands, ignoring the sharp pain.

The communal gardens lie wasted, trampled. Carrots and potatoes -her father’s favorites- lie scattered about. The Cearnians hadn’t even bothered to steal produce. In those black wooden masks, they’d simply attacked, committed atrocities, and left. The Gods were cruel, if they allowed such things. Perhaps they didn’t exist, after all.

We spared that small fish, and got slaughtered in return. She felt something within her splinter, the rage giving in to a comforting apathy, until she was just …empty. Her beloved village of flowers and starlight had become hardly more than a hollow imitation of the Everythorn she’d known and loved. It was no more than a husk.

And so was she.