Open Parthelion

[Ronja]

The mountain air whistled, trying at the garments with icy fingers, tugging and twisting. Her hands were caught at her shoulders against it, lest she lose the wrap about them. It was a simple shawl for now, almost blending in with the rest of her muted habit, stripped from her colours as she was out here.

Away from home. From what and who she knew. Essentially exiled.

- And how long will that be, Mother?
- I trust that to Providence.
- And in practice?
- Practical, hmh, Sister?

Irony. She should’ve staid silent then — It was bound to be longer than had she not spoken. There wasn’t a way Mother Caskin hadn’t known for how long she was sending anyone away, no matter their transgressions. Hers had never been great, but suppose things— tally up? Limits to compassion and all.

She scrunched up her face, huffing out a visible breath into the gust. The sun was hanging low, barely above the horizon, surrounded by a haze of a looming winter. A bright, prismatic halo circled it, two additional suns shining at its the edges. Sundogs. A triptych of light, one that she’d never seen before. It was rather beautiful, all things considered.

Did it mean something? Guess she could assign it whatever she wanted, since—

“ Sister Ronja? “

With the wind in her ears she had not heard another approach, as such flinching to attention. A fellow sister in her vibrant teal palla stared back at her, eyes wide at her furious expression that she often donned when startled. With how quietly everyone tread here, in their warmer felt shoes, that had been often.

“ Sorry that I should’ve so crept up on you. Again. “ It was with a chuckle as Sister Ilana came abreast, realizing that her countenance softened instantly at the sight of her. That one friend that Ronja, vown to silence for the duration of this lesson, had managed to make up here. For her dark eyes she’d appeared much like a doe to Sister Ilana, she’d been told, had it not been for her wolfish grins and a weasel’s cunning. She imagined these must’ve been charming qualities to her Sister, who’d sought her out whenever she could only a month after she’d arrived.

It’d been several now. She’d stopped counting, if only for Sister Ilana had made her swear. It’ll be easier — to not think of it, for it’ll just remind you of the approaching winter. The prospect of being stuck up here for the rest of the year thenon. The banks of snow piled on, they’d said, almost as far as to bar the doors closed. Sometimes it had, Sister Ilana would remember in a laugh. A joyful chime of a sound.

It was not the not counting that’d made it easier. At this point, she didn’t care so much anymore. If only she could’ve told her that— with her words as she had with her looks. So many of them. She tried to smile, stealing a glance sidelong and catching Sister Ilana’s profile as she squinted at the Sun. The blaze eternal, warming their faces.

“ That’s for you. I think. “
Ronja watched Sister Ilana point out at the atmospheric anomaly, letting her confusion show on her face. It made her Sister smile wider, baring teeth.

“ You’ll be going home. I rea— ahem— “ She paused to cough, muffling it in the fold of her palla. “ I read it on Mother’s correspondence, earlier. “ Though there was joy in her voice, it wasn’t devoid of regret. As Ronja turned to stare at her in disbelief, she realized her Sister’s eyes had welled up. It was the worst of sights.

Swiftly her hands left where they’d clutched at her arms, pulling her Sister into a hug. Close, finally touching so completely. Sister Ilana didn’t protest, huffing out a sorrowful laugh — it would’ve been wrong to not be glad for what was to happen, but clutch tight she did still.

“ It’ll be today, I believe. What better than three Suns to light your way, no? “

She pulled away in an exhale, only far enough to plant her forehead against hers. Sister Ilana’s palms sought her cheeks, cradling her face. Suppose she could’ve spoken by now, but there was— Too much. And having gone silent for so long, she was much too afraid to have her first and last words to her be but the croaks of a toad. She’d not have herself be remembered as that. So she just nod.

“ But fear not. You’ll not be going alone. There is— someone. A traveler, or— “ Sister Ilana spoke a little uncertainly, glancing back at where the little ridgeways path led to the monastery. Where one would be waiting later today, and her little pack pony with all her belongings. She figured she’d be going by foot, as was custom.

Suppose she’d have more than the rocks to train her voice on, then. She’d rather die than let it sound coarse by the time she was back at her home monastery, under Mother Caskin’s watch.

And what a watch it would be, from hereon. She was sure of it.

For good measure, she held onto Sister Ilana for a moment longer, tighter.

 

[Vilen Blackhart]

The sun was high and cold that day. All brilliance and no warmth. Birds unseen sang their high fwee-thwee's in the air. Something low and ground-rooting responded back with a deep-throated call. The mountain meadow was neither in bloom nor in dearth, still and green before the fall of the first frost.

A man walked down the stony path. Wrapped round his shoulders was a once-red shawl, now washed coral, its faded threads bearing the marks of many suns past. Behind the man walked a creature of similar stride, save for a tail that brushed the heather and huckleberries as it swayed.

"Up ahead," said the man to the young devahni. He pointed to the curve of rock walls up ahead, signs of the hands that cut and stacked stone against the rugged mountain cliffs. And beyond that, a stony courtyard, towers and alcoves, plenty of places designed for silent contemplation. "Our passager is waiting at the monastery."

"That monastery?"As if there was another, so high and remote in the mountains. "Why didn't you tell me were were babysitting a Sister?"

"Now now, Vilen, if I had, would you have followed me all the way up this mountain?"

Vilen grumbled, too low and too frustrated to be decipherable.

"Come along now," the old man said. He hurried his pace, setting his boot down upon the first step of many, carved narrow into the rock. "It's best to stay on the Sister's good side. After all, nobody else bottles honey like theirs. It's the mountain flowers, I think."

"Are they even going to let us in?"

"They'll let you in."

---

Vilen had pulled his long hair back, tried to drag the tangles out of it and put it in a more modest tail. Alone, he crossed the shadow of the monastery's archway. A stony courtyard met him, splashes of alpine green growing in deep garden troughs.

"Uhm, good day." He cleared his throat, though it did nothing for the gravel there. "Can I come in--?"

 

[Ronja]

Though the yards had quieted with the cold, yet some remained to tend the gardens and whatever it dared offer this late in the year, before chill properly settled into the earth. The steady rustle of garments and leaves stilled in an instant to the call, one perking their head up from behind stems of tall herbs, wide-eyed like some startled critter.

The sight of the stranger quickly eased the tension from her, visible in the fall of her shoulders as she sat up straighter, though she was no less clueless for it.

“ Oh. Well, um— “ The girl breathed out belatedly, her stare taking flight to whichever door lead to the courtyard, all of them closed. She made to rise from her task swiftly then, easing the gloves out of her hands as she rounded the leafless rosebushes.

“ I suppose it depends on, uh— what fo— ah, drat— “ She cursed, yanking at the hem of her garb where it’d caught in the shrub, flapped away by a wanton mountain gust.

“ What for. Is someone expecting you? “

 

[Vilen Blackhart]

“ What for. Is someone expecting you? “

Curse that old man, to not give Vilen a name before sending him on this tiresome errand. He was quick enough to recover, clasping his hands together and bobbing his head in a slight bow.

"Expecting me, I am not sure of that," he responded with a meek smile — slight enough not to show the sharper canines. "But we've been sent by Mother Caskin, to see one of her charges down the mountain safely. Myself and Ser Rheinen, I mean. The Ser's further down the road. He didn't want to disturb anyone's contemplations with his presence."

There were some things that Vilen hated more than the cold, but he couldn't think of any one of them right now. When gusts pushed fresh cold through the courtyard, he tugged his cloak tighter round himself. His tail, woefully exposed, curved to wrap itself around a leg.

"Could you at least put me some place out of the wind?"

 

[Ronja]

She arrived before the stranger, understanding in the nod she elicit as they stood, eye to eye. Just as they did his cloak, the winds would tug at the lighter hues of a novice upon her figure, urging her to pocket her garden gloves and tuck her hands away into her broad sleeves.

Her own thoughtlessness dawned upon her in the next second, eyebrows shooting up towards her cowl as she made to hassle past him, reanimated in a jolt as if personally visited upon by a hot poker.

“ Why, but yes! Of course, please—“ The beads about her wrists and belt clicked as she motioned him to follow, hurrying through an archway and then, the conjoining yard. Though the broad door to the kitchens took some pushing, she managed it open in a grunt and kept it open against the draft that’d rather it be closed. It hadn’t been but a generous second, before already an irritated voice rasped from before the cooking fires.

“ Have you a stick up your arse? The heat is escaping— “
“ We’ve a visitor, Sister. Or, well— “ The novice smiled and glanced at the stranger. “ Not really a visitor, more a— “
“ To the point, Milla. Please. “
“ They've come to fetch Mother Caskin’s charge, apparently. Know you of it? “
“ Yes. “

Wooden ladle played a low bong bong on the edge of a cast iron pot, until finally the present Sister turned to face them. Her face was as expressive as an old headstone, hard and riddled with grooves from both age and the unforgiving weather. The novice stood stock still as the elder Sister appraised the two of them.

“ Go and let Sister Ronja know, Milla. She ought be ready by now. “ She ordered the novice, watching as the girl left in a voiceless nod and bend of the knees. The Sister’s head tilted imperiously as her eye fell upon the stranger with new weight, as if she meant to pin him down with it.

“ You’ll wait here. Sit down. “ She continued, indicating the three stools that lay stacked in a nook next to the firepit. Her shoes huffed lightly on the stone floor as she begun shuffling away, reaching for a covered basket set about one of the tables limning the room.

“ Have you eaten? “

 

[Vilen Blackhart]

The young sister hurried past him, and Vilen feared that he may have committed some unseen sin against the girl. The feeling didn't go away as he slipped through the held door. Hopping on the last step to keep his tail from being clipped, as the the wind saw it closed quick behind the two of them.

Milla introduced him earnestly, but poorly, and then was dismissed.

"Should I go with--?" Vilen glanced after the retreating girl.

“ You’ll wait here. Sit down. “

He knew that look the old woman leveled at him. It meant he was allowed but not welcome, here only by the grace of a higher power. Ah, but how could he complain, when the fire was going and the seat offered was so near the heat. He yielded with a bow of the head, and folded himself into the nook.

“ Have you eaten? “

"Not yet today," Vilen replied. A single swish of his tail gave tell to the lie. He'd broken dawn with dried meat and berries, regular fare. But a deva on the road never turned down an offered meal.

 

[Ronja]

The old woman’s attention fell away from the stranger, expressionless, at the reply. Her hands slipped past a square of linen and into the basket, producing a breadroll. And another, before she put both on the table, readjusted the cover and reached up on the shelves for a bowl.

“ You are quite small. Like Milla. “ She remarked, wood clacking and clicking as a whittled spoon was put in the bowl that then became filled, modestly lest any overflow, with pottage from the pot she’d been tending. A waft of herbs, overpowered by thyme. Carrots, parsnips, onion and turnips, a bit of leeks, main body a mix of oats and barley. The grains were bound to be a little chewy yet, this much she knew of having stirred and tried it a minute ago.

“ She was an orphan, come from a small fishing village at the coast. “ That one doesn’t exist anymore. From a tiny earthenware bowl on the table, she sprinkled salt on the thick soup and positioned one of the breadrolls into the side of it. Bowl in one hand and the remaining small loaf in the other, she then turned to approach.

“ What is your name? “

With some impatience, she less offered and more shoved the food in the stranger’s hands.

 

[Vilen Blackhart]

Two rolls. Red eyes tracked the woman's weathered hands as the golden-topped treasures were set down on the counter. Then came the stew in murky yellow slosh against the sides of the wood bowl. No meat. Vilen could tell from the smell of the bowl clattered before him, even spiced strongly as it was.

The mention of Mila had him missing the girl he'd only just met. He liked her big eyes and nervous cantor.

"Funny coincidence, so am I," Vilen responded. "You meet a lot of orphans in your line of work?"

Yes, both bread rolls made it into his claws! The pottage was bypassed altogether as Vilen sank his teeth first into the unsoaked rolled. Yeast filled his nostrils, light and savory at the same time. Roughly milled and undersalted, but fresh nonetheless.

"Ỽ͎i͎l͎e͎m͎," he said with a mouth still full. Swallowed, and started over. "Vilen of the Blackhart. Like the deer, not the other heart." He tapped his chest with a claw. "My troupe were herders."

No herd left anymore. Vilen remained unbothered through the grim topic. He tore a bit of bread off, smooshed a divot into its soft surface with his thumb, and scooped up the pottage with it. He felt the steamy spell of soup banishing the cold from his body. If the old woman ever tried putting rabbit in the pot, it would make for a half-decent meal.

He remembered to chew all the way through everything, this time. "What happened to Milla's fishing village?"