Yana hadn’t sought out the gossip herself; the whispers had filled the halls as soon as she closed the library’s door behind her. Her eyes grazed across the tapestries adorning the walls, unable to recognize the images and symbols woven into them for she was too focused on eavesdropping.
It’s back, and it’s changed.
She wasn’t sure what it was, but each step towards the exit was met with a new tidbit of information, and the hag was eager to sink her teeth into them.
Do you remember the island to the East? The one that sank to the ocean floor?
Yes, and I heard it has fairies!
A dozen questions immediately took flight, battering at the insides of her skull like a flock of frightened birds: What else lies East? When did the island sink? How did it sink? What was it like? How deep is the ocean? What are fairies like? and last but not least, could they really be telling the truth?
Her brow furrowed. The witch had never heard of such phenomena, and she doubted the integrity of such a rumor, despite having no former experience with this island herself. Instinct told her to ignore the excited murmurs of an unknown source, but she didn’t know anyone else well enough to verify this information. She was apprehensive about the fairies, but she wrestled her suspicions into submission; this was something she would have to see for herself.
The girl’s incessant desire to study the world has completely over-ridden her common sense; she couldn’t have picked a better season to abandon the temperate comforts of her swamp than Winter. Misty breath envelopes the witch as she pushes through the snow, making note of the number of tracks that funnel from the mainland towards the bridge. A popular place. A cool gust of wind slaps hair across her vision and she lifts her head to clear it, tracking her gaze across the bridge. It is not the threat of a confrontation that makes her hesitate (a reasonable response that any grumpy swamp hermit should have) but the snow-covered island – and the dark stone beneath it.
Her breath melts the snow when she touches her nose to the ground, a series of coughs erupting at its cool touch. It appears to be the same material that the Obelisk is constructed of. Obsidian. The frozen air seems to want to tear out her lungs and she tries to suppress a hack. She is unsuccessful, and Yana closes grey eyes as dry, bellowing breaths erupt from her maw. When they open, a small, dark figure with a mask the color of dying embers is seated at the far end of the stone causeway.
The girl wonders if the thunderous volume of her heartbeat might be enough to cause the bridge to crumble, but the figure nor the stones nor the snow starts to stir as she stands stock still, wondering, waiting, for something to force her into action, but nothing comes. The shadowy figure continues to sit, cross-legged and with its head cocked, as if imploring Yana to follow it.
She leans her bony frame into the wind, trying to ignore the resistance of her frozen limbs incited by the chill whilst weighing her options.
A bone-chilling trip home to a court she is no longer familiar with, but that promises safety-
Or a lead that can bring her closer to the origins of the monument.
The witch bites her lip, reflecting on her aunt’s favorite phrase that she substituted for a proper explanation whenever her niece would question her – and especially when she caught the girl eavesdropping,
Curiosity kills you quicker.
And, ever the defiant child, Yana would silently reply,
Then may my death be swift.
Yana follows the sprite-like creature, filled with a stubborn resolve to seek answers to questions she is not even sure she knows how to ask.
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