Chapter 59
Night owns the clearing.
Above, the moon hung swollen and pale, spilling silver light over the clearing where the pyre stood. The air was heavy with the mingled scents of pine, pain, and grief.
Lenora stepped forward slowly, every movent feeling both too fast and too slow. The world had gone strangely muffled for her—she could hear the distant chatter of birds in the forest, the crunch of earth under her boots, the faint rustle of wind through the pine branches—but it all seed far away, like she was underwater.
Her father lay before her, wrapped in white linen, the shape of his body still unmistakable beneath the shroud. She could see the slope of his shoulders, the length of his legs, the way his hands rested over his chest as though still in thought but he wasn’t in thought, he was gone.
She bent down, her hair falling like a curtain around her face, and pressed her lips gently to his forehead one last ti. The skin beneath was cool—no longer her father’s warmth, only the stillness of soone who had already gone.
Her throat tightened, but she did not cry. Not yet.
She straightened and stepped back.
The pack witch—known to everyone simply as Nana—moved forward with slow, deliberate steps.
The lines of her weathered face were deep, but her hands were steady as she sprinkled fine white powder onto Eamon’s forehead. She murmured sothing in the old tongue, the syllables thick and rolling like the echo of stones turning under water.
"Finally," Nana murmured, her voice so low it was almost part of the wind, "you can make your ho."
She stepped back, her expression unreadable, and began covering Eamon’s body fully with the white sheet.
Simone followed in Nana’s steps, her own breathing shallow in the cold air. She stayed close as the old witch stopped before the great tree at the edge of the clearing.
Without a word, Nana dipped her fingers into the pouch at her hip and pressed a pinch of fine white powder into the bark. The mark blood faintly under her touch—pale and shimring for the briefest heartbeat before settling back into the wood.
Lowering herself to the grass, Nana sat at the tree’s base, the weight of her years in every motion, but her posture still certain, still commanding.
She lifted her chin toward Lenora.
Lenora struck a match. The sound was small, almost fragile, against the vast quiet of the night. She tossed it onto the pyre, and the flas took hold at once, racing over the shroud that covered Eamon’s body.
She stepped back—too quickly—and her knees gave way. Caron was there in an instant, catching her, holding her close. But his own arms trembled; the strength in him was only the kind born from refusing to fall apart.
They sat on the ground in the deepening night, the fire’s glow the only light in the clearing. Shadows swayed across their faces, bending and stretching with every gust of wind that stirred the flas.
Lenora leaned into Caron’s side, her cheek pressed against the warmth of his shoulder. On her other side, Ronan sat with his knees drawn up, his fingers locked tightly around hers as though afraid she might slip away with the smoke. Caron’s arm remained firm around her, though his own breathing was shallow, each exhale unsteady.
The flas consud Eamon’s shrouded body, the fire’s hungry crackle breaking the heavy silence. The scent of pine mingled with the tallic tang of burnt ash, wrapping the mont in sothing ancient and unshakable.
One by one, they ca.
Pack mbers erged from the tree line—so alone, so guiding children forward by the hand, others leaning on kin for support. In each palm was an offering: a twig, a dried stem of grass, a folded leaf. They approached the pyre in silence, eyes lowered, and tossed their offering into the flas before bowing once and stepping away.
Mothers pressed their children close as they left. Fathers straightened their shoulders to mask their grief. Elders walked slowly, each step deliberate, as if placing their farewells in the earth itself.
It went on for hours. The fire never faltered,sparks rose from the fire into the starless sky, disappearing into the black as though joining so other realm.
Eventually, the rhythm slowed. The footsteps faded until the only ones left were the five of them—Lenora, Caron, and Ronan on the grass, Nana seated at the base of the old tree, Simone beside her.
The fire burned lower, flas giving way to deep orange embers. The pyre sagged inward, wood cracking and collapsing. When the last of the structure gave way, there was nothing left but the blackened skeleton of Eamon Maen.
Nana stood, her movents unhurried but certain. Her voice carried, low and even, across the clearing.
"It’s ti. Close your eyes, and don’t open them—no matter what you feel, or hear. The door is open."
Lenora obeyed instantly. She leaned against Caron’s shoulder, drawing strength from his warmth, her fingers seeking Ronan’s. He gripped her hand tightly, the kind of hold that said he wasn’t ready to let go of anything tonight—not her, and certainly not the man they were sending off.
Simone’s eyes fell shut too, but a soft click of Nana’s tongue stopped her.
"Not you. You’re learning. Co."
Simone rose, her legs unsteady, and followed Nana toward the remains. The air here felt different—thicker, charged, as if it carried weight she couldn’t na. The night itself seed to hold its breath.
Nana crouched before the skeletal fra, her hands moving with practiced care. She scooped a handful of fine ash, still warm, and lifted it to her lips.
"Goodbye, Eamon," she murmured, and blew.
The ash didn’t fall—it rose.
The rest followed: fragnts of bone, dust, embers—lifting in a slow spiral, as though drawn upward by a silent call. They drifted toward the tree Nana had marked earlier, the faint white powder glowing softly now, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Simone’s mouth fell open. She could only stare.
Then, movent.
From behind the glowing tree, soone peeked out.
"Hey, Nana."
The voice was warm, almost teasing, and the woman who stepped into view was breathtaking—a beauty that struck Simone in the chest, not for perfection alone, but because she looked so achingly familiar. An older Lenora. Softer around the edges, but with the sa proud posture, the sa eyes, hair, face and incredibly pale skin.
Nana’s breath caught—not sharply, but in the way of soone who had expected this and dreaded it all the sa.
"No, Thalia. You’re dead. Just get your mate and go." Her tone was half-scolding, half-weary, as if speaking to a stubborn child.
"Just a second," Thalia replied with a soft smile.
"No," Nana said again, this ti firm enough to end most argunts.
But Thalia’s expression shifted—mischief giving way to sothing raw, aching. "Please. Let just see my baby for a mont." Her voice cracked on the last word.
Nana closed her eyes and exhaled, shoulders sinking in quiet resignation. "...Fine."
A small, almost girlish giggle slipped from Thalia’s lips, though her eyes shimred with unshed tears. She stepped away from the tree, Eamon trailing just behind her.
He looked a little lost, his eyes adjusting to the world beyond the fire. But his steps steadied as Thalia’s hand found his, her thumb brushing over his knuckles as if reminding him he wasn’t alone anymore.
Simone watched as Thalia crossed first to Ronan, kneeling just enough to ruffle his hair. His brow furrowed faintly—eyes still closed—but so unconscious part of him leaned toward the touch. She pressed a kiss to his forehead.
She did the sa to Caron, lingering for a heartbeat longer, fingers resting against his jaw as though morizing his face.
And then she ca to Lenora.
Lenora’s head was still bowed against Caron’s shoulder, her hand clasped in Ronan’s, her eyes sealed shut in obedience to Nana’s warning. But at Thalia’s presence, her breathing caught just slightly—too faint to be conscious recognition, but there all the sa.
Thalia bent and pressed her lips to her daughter’s hairline, closing her eyes as if the gesture cost her sothing.
Simone’s throat tightened. She could almost feel the love radiating off the woman.
"Don’t worry," Nana said quietly from beside her, her voice gentler now. "They can’t hear or feel anything."
"What?" Simone asked, still watching.
"We’re in the spirit world," Nana replied as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
Simone blinked. "We what?"
Eamon stepped forward then, placing his hand firmly on Caron’s shoulder. There was weight in the gesture—responsibility being passed, without flourish or ceremony.
"It’s all in your hands now."
He looked at Lenora one last ti before intertwining his fingers with Thalia’s,and they walked toward the tree together, fingers laced.
"And then," Nana said, watching them go, "we close the gate. You don’t want unwanted creatures crossing over to our side."
She strode to the marked trunk, brushed her palm over the white powder, and the faint glow there died at once. The air stilled, and the mont was over.
Simone blinked, startled to realize the clearing was now bright with daylight.
Nana chuckled softly. "Ti moves differently between realms. Only monts for us, hours for them."
"It’s done," she added.
Lenora, Caron, and Ronan opened their eyes slowly, blinking as if waking from a deep dream.
"Rember," Nana said, her gaze sweeping over to Simone, "you do not speak of what you saw." Then she turned away, already leaving, the grass whispering beneath her steps.
Simone only nodded.
Lenora’s gaze went imdiately to her. "Did he et her?"
Simone could only nod again.
Lenora exhaled slowly, a deep release of sothing she’d been holding in for far too long.
It was a new day.
User Comments
0 comments from readers