Several months pass with no word of his presence. No sign or hint of his voice, or the sight of his pale face and steady gaze. There was once a hope, a blind, maddening hope Nöelle had held on to. Supplying comfort, an unyielding strength fraying at the edges as the inhabitants of Terrastella prepared for the festival. A child’s hope waning in the dim light.
He would become a song, a patchwork of pieces eroding with the years. It scared her to think she might forget her father’s face – the low depth of his voice, the warmth it carried.
His smell.
She clawed her mind for recollections of bergamot and cedar wood, heavy metallic earth, and acrid coal. But could not pinpoint, with any degree of certainty, which of these in any combination might embody his shadow. No such cure to remedy the wound.
Anger prompted the delicate wreath in her possession. Held together by a base of thin, dead branches woven together. Wild flowers and late autumnal foliage decorated the exterior.
It was silly to think keeping busy would ease the unrest building behind her gaze. The work of procuring various makes of cloth, the gathering of materials, and the dying process took the majority of her time. At the end of the day leading up to the harvest, she sat under candlelight and worked on the wreath. Lost to the hour of the night, editing and adding various arrangements of flours and bramble. Attempting to create balance with the type of leaf and various stems of aging perennials and weeds.
That morning she stopped just short of the square. Locks of silver braided loosely – free strands lilting with the subtle push of air. As her eyes regarded the prized figurehead of Terrastellan worship, she released a tired sigh.
Not this again, she thought to herself. The people adored their god, Vespera. To show any dissent meant forfeiting a stake in the kingdom – or simply a home. She was confused by her arrival at the square, taking in the idol’s figure. Vespera’s jeweled eyes appeared sad from Noelle’s view. Though she thought she knew better, thinking, ‘Even gods burn.’
And their worlds died with them.
Despite her skepticism, she willed her limbs forward. Passing by the gaze of the guards nearby. It was early enough that the crowd was sparse. And perhaps, she could afford more time to observe this strange act of worship. Or perhaps this worship came about with confessions, or for hopes and dreams to be spat out and caught by some whirlwind – and heard, to some degree.
Or never heard.
Nöelle paused just ahead of the statue. She felt sick. The kind of soul sickness that burned your belly – that filled its edges with the uncertainty of the future. Or perhaps, it was the thick smell of scented oil bubbling up inside her head that made her feel dizzy.
She glanced briefly to those who had already placed objects at Vespera’s feet. Fresh fruit, homemade textiles, various bouquets strewn about… Whispers of their prayers made the air thick with expectations and perhaps – the harmony, shared by some.
The fae finally placed the wreath down.
“Can you save him?” She mumbled allowed.
“Bring him home.”
Noëlle
