"Does the moon look down on what she does to us and wonder if she is cursed, too?"— from the tainted Olorian poet Thadeus the Younger

~~~

Briar awoke to heavy booted footfalls. It took a bleary moment to gather her bearings and remember where she was.

Rook's cabin. In his bed.

Her body gave fierce protest as she sat up. Every muscle and bone felt severely bruised, the stiffness of her spine unparalleled. Her head was full of wool. She could have slept for another day. Or another week.

But she knew she needed to get fresh blood to her injuries or she would only feel worse.

I never want to turn into a werewolf again, she thought bitterly.

Briar got out out of bed with a faint moan., rubbing her eyes with the heels of her bandaged hands. Yellow pus had seeped through the gauze and left it crusty.

Rook was already fully dressed in his winter layers as he stuffed things into a waxed canvas pack. 

"Morning," he said without looking at her.

"Hello." She reached for her woolen layers and pulled them over her head. "Is the storm over, then? Can we leave now?"

"We can leave."  Rook carefully wrapped his pine tree mug in some linen before placing it in his pack.

Briar doctored her knuckles and feet, wrapping them with fresh bandage, then took a dose of Sybil's tonic. Silence swelled between them. "How did you sleep?" she asked, trying to fill it.

"Fine," he said with a shrug. Briar knew he hadn't slept fine. She'd woken multiple times to him murmuring while he tossed and turned. "You?" he asked at length.

In her dreams, Briar had been traveling through a frosty valley at the colorless first light of a winter's morning. She walked for hours, face chapped from the cold, waiting for the warmth of the sun, but it never rose. A dark presence lurked on all sides of her, hovering behind the mountains like the sun did, but it also never clambered over the peaks to greet her.

"Fine, too," was all she said.

Briar pulled on her mittens, now dry and toasty warm from hanging by the fire for so long. "Ready to go then?"

Rook nodded and hefted his pack over one shoulder. He handed her a piece of bread smothered in butter and some thin slices of cheese. "Eat this first," he said. "It's going to be a long way down. Slow going with all the new snow."

"Thanks." Briar took a bite. "But you don't have to leave if you weren't planning on it. I can head down by myself."

"I have to go. Something's come up."

"Meaning?"

"Nyxia has agreed to strike a deal."

Heart fluttering, Briar beamed. "Really? Well, that's wonderful."

Maybe I won't have to turn into a werewolf again after all, she thought.

"Something's odd about it, though. She was indecisive about it..." He set his eyes on her. "Until she saw you."

Briar nearly choked on the bread. "Why?"

"She wouldn't say. All I know is that she'll agree to the bargain if I bring you with me."

Expression slack, Briar blinked, remembering Gyda's cryptic words about a dark entity once more. "I've no idea what a deity would want with me."

"I guess you'll find out, if you still want to come..." His tone suggested he wasn't fond of the idea. "Could be dangerous, though. I don't know what to expect."

Briar's head reeled. Her thoughts went back to the lady in black hovering behind her eyelids, clearly wanting to speak with her. "No risk could outweigh staying a werewolf for the rest of my life," she murmured. "I'll go."

"You will?"

"A little danger involving monsters and an ancient deity sounds more exciting than rotting up here and splitting firewood."

"Can't blame you there." Rook ran a hand across his jaw, eyes darting away in thought. "Once we get down the trail I'll make a plan to try and find her. Sven used to be an acolyte of the Amity. Maybe he'd have some leads to find their fallen saint."

"Sounds good to me," Briar said and devoured the last of her bread.

They wasted no more time. Rook opened the door for her and she was greeted by a stream of snow bright light. She went first, her boots sifting through deep snow like white sand. The first slivers of sunbeams cascaded down from the highest mountain peak, setting the quiet blanket of snow into a vast sea of ice diamonds. Blue spruce and fir trees were clad in white winter dresses, their strong bows curtsying low under the weight of the snow. An expanse of another mountain lake sprawled out, its crisp cobalt waters hidden under icy layers where fresh deer tracks had made a steady pattern through the shroud. The morning sky was an impossible blue, clear and bright, a canvas for the far-off white ridges, their sunny faces eclipsing the deep shadows cast behind them. An exquisite beauty existed up here that had been lost in the thick white of the storm the day before.

The hairs in Briar's nose froze as she breathed in, the sharp cold reaching to the deepest parts of her chest.

"I'll lead the way and pack the snow for you. Follow my path," Rook said, adjusting his pack higher on his shoulders as he easily surpassed Briar with his long strides. She did as he said. Snow gathered in the spaces between her legs and boots, making her stockings wet and her skin numb.

Soon she heard the sound of Rook popping a tin, then the rustle of dried leaves as he packed a pipe. The sweet smell of chokecherry smoke drifted to her soon after. As he lead the way down the mountain path, he puffed away in silence.

Briar wished she had her own pipe, but she'd left it at Sybil's house.

Once the trail began to dip downward, Rook began walking sideways, packing the snow under each step a couple times. Mirroring him, Briar leaned hard into the hill and inched her way down.

It was a grueling process. Before long, her knees ached and the skin on her face felt oddly tight from the dry, icy wind. No words passed between the two as they concentrated on not slipping. Briar noticed a streak of gray flutter in the tops of the evergreens. Looking closer, she noticed a bird with a long gray tail peering at her from a nearby branch. He tilted his pale head at her and let out a three-toned whistle. "I've never seen that kind of bird before," she said, pointing to it when Rook turned his head.

"Whiskey jack," he said. "You'll only find them high up. There will be two more around here somewhere. They always travel in threes." He paused and Briar noticed a hint of softness stealing over his features. "My favorite bird."

She craned her neck and searched the snowy tree tops for more. Sure enough, another flitted down from its hiding place. It landed on a lower branch to look at her, loosing a dusting of snow over her face. Smiling, she blinked away the snow sting as another whiskey jack warbled from the top of the tree.

"Hello," Briar said to them.

She glanced down the path and saw that Rook was already out of sight. She hurried to catch up with him again.

~~~

Though the altitude was lower, Darkholm had also received plenty of snow. It lined the thatched ridgepoles, the stoops and pathways already shoveled.

Something felt off.

Curtains were pulled close and no one was out in the street. It was the same as when Briar had left, only now the air of the town was weighted, holding a strained hush, all knuckle-white and baited breath.

Briar glanced up at Rook. Concern knit his brow. He sensed it too.

As they made their way down the road, Briar began to hear the harsh scraping of ice. Far off, the lanky figure of Jack could be seen shoveling walkways. He worked slowly, and alone.When he caught sight of the two of them, he straightened and leaned on his shovel, waiting.

Rook picked up his pace. Briar followed him at a bit of a distance.

"Jack? What's happened?" Rook asked once they reached him.

Jack thinned his lips, the dark circles under his eyes stark against the olive of his skin, his slim shoulders slumped. "It's bad, Rook. Maelona was attacked by something last night. Not sure what. She hasn't been able to speak."

Rook cursed under his breath. "How is she?"

"Sybil says she won't survive much longer. She's with her now, doing her best to make her comfortable."

"Maelona is practically a child," Rook said.

"Sybil would appreciate it if you went to see her now," Jack said. "She isn't doing very well. You know... with it all."

Rook gave a single nod. "Of course." He worked his jaw, his eyes looking somewhere over Briar's head. She thought she saw a sheen of tears, but it could have just been from the bite of the wind. "Of course I will."

With a fleeting glance at Briar, Rook left without another word, heading towards a house on the opposite side of the road.

Briar looked at Jack. "Do you have another shovel?"

~~~

I can't do this again.

Rook pushed the thought from his mind as he walked to Rue's door. He had to bury his feelings. Crumple them up tight and toss them away. He had no choice.

He did his best to brace himself for what awaited him, but nothing could have prepared him for the grisly sight. Nothing ever could.

A cot had been pulled close to the fire where Maelona's mother, Rue, crouched and cried. A young woman laid on top of the blankets, sprawled in puddles of her own blood. It dripped thick from her neck and seeped up from a wound across her stomach. She was covered in balled up towels, all sopped with deep crimson.

Don't look at the blood, Rook reminded himself as his vision started to spot with black. Don't look at the red.

The room stank of soiled, sweaty sheets and the sharp tang of metal. It stank of death. He knew the smell well.

Every fiber of Rook's being recoiled at the smells, the sight, all of it. Some wounded inner part of him told him to run, to protect himself from being ripped open again. From being reminded of what he'd lost.

Sybil stood at the table, bent over a basin of bright red water. He bounced his eyes away from it.

Keep your composure.

Sybil's face was drawn and gray, her blood stained hair almost completely pulled out from her braid. When she saw Rook, her mouth twisted and she straightened. Wiping her hands on her apron, she nearly barreled into him before she pulled him back out the door.

"Syb," Rook said, putting his hands on her shoulders.

She wrung her hands in distress, tears staining her flushed cheek under her good eye. "It's really bad, Rook." Her voice raised a pitch higher and her chin quivered as she tried to hold back new tears. "I can't even stitch her up because there's hardly any... hardly any flesh left to stitch." She swallowed hard. "I can't do this, Rook. Not again. I can't—"

"I know." Rook swallowed the lump in his own throat as he wrapped his arms around Sybil's shoulders and pulled her to his chest. "No matter what happens to her, it's not your fault."

"I said the same thing to you years ago and you never believed it," Sybil cried. "You still don't. So why should I?"

"This is much different," Rook returned, his voice hoarser than usual. "And Maelona isn't the first to pass on since Cerridwen. We've done this before. Death is part of life up here. Won't serve us to be weak in the face of it."

Sybil gulped back a trembling sob. "But every time I look at Maelona, I see... I see Cerri. She's the same age she was. I can't keep myself composed."

Rook squeezed her shoulder, suppressed tears making the middle of his skull ache. "You can. I know you can. You're stronger than I am, Sybil."

Sybil drew away from him, swiping at her tears. "No, I'm not. Not really. I just pretend."

"Then we'll both pretend and trick ourselves into being strong. Come on." He opened the door a crack and waited. Sybil took a deep breath and nodded, squaring her shoulders, and they went back in.

Rue lifted a distraught face as the door closed behind them. "Wizard..." she cried brokenly. "Please. Save my daughter."

Rook crossed the floor to Rue, his gaze skirting Maelona as he did so. He took the older woman's hand and she clung to his like a vice. "Rue, I am so sorry."

"Can't you do anything for her?" Rue pleaded, fresh tears falling. "Anything at all?"

Rook reluctantly dragged his eyes to the girl on the bed. Her skin had taken on a blue tinge. Beads of sweat lined her forehead and upper lip. Judging by all the blood staining her bandages, rags, and the sheets of her bed, it was a miracle she had any left. She didn't flinch. She didn't thrash or murmur. She simply lied there on death's brink, veined eyelids closed and pale mouth parted, her brown hair crusted with her own blood.

Rook struggled against his failing vision. The merciless hands of the past trying to pull him under. He needed to keep his head above the water.

"Her wounds are too extensive, Rue," Rook managed to say. "The magic can close wounds in a way, but not without tremendous pain. Maelona is too injured, and has lost too much blood. I wouldn't want to bring her more suffering without cause."

"So she isn't going to pull through," Rue cried, resting her head on Maelona's bed in defeat. Her shoulders shook with bitter sobs. "My only child. My sweet daughter."

Rook swallowed his tears, feeling helpless as he still held the woman's hand. What good was he as an arcane if he couldn't even save his friends? What good was he at all?

Sybil took her place at a stool by Maelona's head. Eyes shining with tears, she dipped a rag in a bucket of clean water and started to dab at the girl's forehead.

With a lurch of his stomach, Rook's vision went red as blood and he found himself in the deep throes of the past. Maelona was Cerridwen. Her slight body, torn up, was limp in his arms. The corner of her mouth had been slashed longer, climbing the side of her face like a jagged trail of blood. Her hazel eyes peered up to the heavens. Still. Glassy. Unseeing.

Dead.

"Rook." Sybil's steadying voice cut through the memory, snapping him back to the present moment, pulling him up for breath before he drowned. The whole of his body was covered in a film of cold sweat. His breath was frantic and shallow. Rue, still sobbing, hadn't noticed, but Sybil's eyes were set on him evenly. Go, she mouthed to him.

Rook cleared his throat. "The gods be with you, Rue.

Rue was not consoled. She wept into her daughter's shoulder, clutching her nearly lifeless body.

He'd been in that position before. As far as he felt, he still was.

It was a miracle that Rook's legs bore him in a straight line out of the house and back onto the street. He saw Jack and the princess shoveling snow in the corner of his eye, but he walked swiftly away, just barely resisting the urge to run. The past hovered around him, thick and clinging like the scent of death in Rue's house.

Once in his own cabin, Rook began combing the shelves. He lifted loose floorboards. He knelt and checked the dusty space under his cot. He checked anywhere and everywhere where he might have kept a rogue bottle stashed. His thoughts were frantic. Irrational. Moving too fast.

He just needed a little drink. Just a swig. Just enough to take the edge off, to stop him from plunging into the dark. To stop the past from hunting him down.

More memories surfaced, these much older than those of Cerridwen. His father, beaten to a pulp in the back of a grimy tavern. His father's yellow nailed fingers stealing all of Rook's hard earned coin to spend it on drink. Rook's swollen lip and black eye from his father's harsh fist. His father's slurred words to him— You think you're so good. You think you're so much better than me. But, mark my words, you're going to be just like me someday. You're going to be the same good for nothing drunk that I am.

Giving a growl of frustration, Rook stopped his search. He fell to his knees. Willed himself to calm down. To think clearly.

I am not my father, he reminded himself. I am an arcane. I have a mind forged from iron and I am an orderer of chaos.

~~~

Briar came from her room the next morning to see Jack making breakfast and Sybil sitting pale at the table. Her hair was mussed, still pulled in yesterday's braid, blood still staining the strands that had fallen free around her face. Her nose was red and a mottled rash marked the skin under her good eye from crying. The mug of coffee at her elbow was still full and no longer steaming.

"Maelona passed," Jack said to Briar in a quiet tone as he stirred the porridge that he was certainly burning. "We'll be taking another day in memory of her, and to prepare for the funeral rites once the sun sets."

"What a terrible thing," Briar said. "Poor girl."

Sybil sat stock still, staring unblinking at a spot on the table. Jack cast her a look of worry as he took the porridge pot off the hearth hook.

Briar's eyes wandered to the painting of Cerridwen in the corner. All of this must have conjured up painful memories for Sybil.

"You're free to do what you will today," Jack said. His demeanor was different today. Less intimidating. The slump of his shoulders and sallowness of his face suggested how defeated he felt.

Feeling like an intruder, Briar grabbed her warmer layers and slipped outside. She spent the morning walking, reflecting on the events of the past few days that had left her severely whiplashed. Her talisman being stolen. Nearly drowning at the clammy hands of a merrow. Undergoing a painful transformation into a monster. Getting caught in a snowstorm. Staying the night with Rook. Learning, for some reason, that a divine being was interested in her.

She wondered when Rook would be ready to set out, knowing that Maelona's death would likely stall them for awhile. But once they left, where would they go? How did one find the place where a god had been buried alive?

On her way back through the town, she resisted the urge to go knock on Rook's door. She found herself wanting to talk to him like they had in his cabin, which hardly made sense because he was disagreeable and awkward. Memories of his rolled up sleeves and the woodsmoke scent of his bed rose to the front of her mind, unbidden, and she stubbornly pushed them away.

~~~

Once the sun went down, the parting rites began. Rook held a burning torch as he led the way through the street, followed by Maelona's mother. Jack, Sybil, and two others Briar didn't know carried the girl's body on a stretcher. The blood had been sponged off her tanned face, her broken body had been wrapped, and dried yellow balsam flowers had been placed like stars in her brushed chestnut hair.

The whole town made a slow procession to a pyre on the shores of the lake. An old woman with snow-white braids sang a mourning song in the Vlaskafell tongue. The haunting, drawn-out notes were sung like a weep, wavering and poignant with sorrow. It resounded deep in Briar's chest and ached there.

Maelona was carefully laid over the pyre and Sybil anointed her brow with oil.Rook stood rigid and austere as he faced the half-moon of gathered people. "We send Maelona onward," he said in a strong voice. "May her spirit find safe passage. May she light upon kinder lands."

And then he brought his torch to the pyre and it ignited in a burst of flames. The old woman began to sing again, louder this time.

All eyes were glassy with tears, but no one cried openly. Not even Rue. The people of Darkholm watched the fire like they were carved from stone, the light of the flames licking across their stoic faces.

As the fire caught Maelona's body, Briar shut her eyes tight, focusing on the gentle lilt of the lake's waves rather than the whoosh of the flames.

~~~

Rook didn't speak with Briar for days. It left her wondering if he was fed up with her. Had he changed his mind about taking her with him? She had lots of time to mull possibilities over, as Jack promptly put her back to work, this time shoveling endless snow. She also helped Sybil make tallow candles in the evenings as the town needed a large supply with the lengthening of the mountain nights.

Though Briar hadn't spoken to Rook, she saw him plenty from afar. The snowstorm had blown the flimsy tool shed over and he helped Jack and a few other men raise a new one. From what Briar could tell he worked harder than even Jack. He started earlier and stayed later than the rest, often stripped down to his thin shirt from the heat of exertion despite the mountain winter. The men seemed to enjoy his company, and Briar caught Rook grinning on more than one occasion. It seemed so foreign to his countenance. She found herself wishing she could make him grin like that. This wish, of course, annoyed her. He was the man responsible for getting her tainted, for losing her crown, and getting her banished.

Briar's inner voice of reason would always swoop in at these times to tell her that it was Leith's fault, not Rook's, that she was here. The stubborn part of her always brushed this reason aside.

She also saw Rook conversing with Sven one morning, from where Sven sat painting on his porch. With a stack of the man's paintings under his arm, Rook appeared to be in a solemn conversation with him. Briar hoped they were talking about Nyxia's whereabouts.

Finally, on the eighth night since they came down from the cabin, Rook sought her out. She was sitting on her bed, practicing knitting as Sybil had instructed. She kept dropping the tiny stitches somehow, causing gaping holes in the useless rectangle.

A knock came at her window. She opened the shutter to see Rook's face and her stomach dipped.

"I have a plan and I'm ready now," Rook said, wasting no time on pleasantries. "Can you be ready to leave in the morning?"

A tight knot unraveled in Briar's stomach. "Of course," she said, doing her best to tamper down the excitement she felt. "I hardly have anything to pack anyway."

"Good." His eyes wandered beyond her, taking in the details of the room. The light from her lantern highlighted the misting over of his eyes. His gaze became distant. Melancholy. Then he snapped to, eyes sharpening and fixing on her again. "Alright," he said. "See you first thing."

"Sounds good," Briar returned.

She listened to Rook's retreating footsteps crunch through the snow before she pulled the shutters closed. Smiling to herself, she settled back against her pillow and tossed aside the knitting. She wouldn't need to learn anymore.

If all went well, she'd never have to return to Darkholm again.

She blew out the lantern, pulled the blanket to her chin, and stared up at the dark ceiling. For a moment, she couldn't feel the pain in her spine or the sting of her wounds. She ran her fingers across the scarred bumps on her palm.

I'm going to get my life back.

Briar held Orla's icon to her lips and breathed a prayer of thanks.