FUNERAL HOME
chapter one — sun bleached flies
( 'if it's meant to be, it will be' )

THE INCESSANT BUZZ had ceased days ago, leaving the most suffocating of silences in its wake. Isolde could not tell how long she had been sat by the window, eyes unmoving upon the small black specks upon the sill. Once dancing morbid circles around her grandmother's body upon the coffee table, the flies had now come to rest upon the frame of weathered wood, no longer fuelled by the thick stench of death.

Hilde had been gone for five months — almost half a year since the apparition gifted her granddaughter the curse of death. Autumn had given way to winter, and winter to early spring. Marigold leaves beneath tangerine skies had melted into an unending expanse of greys and browns, dousing the landscape in an acrid sepia wash. Darkness grew with the waning sun, luring the shadows out of their caverns, for Winter plays host to a playground for the dead.

Isolde had come to despise this wretched season, a yearning for spring dancing upon her lips. Each and every night since Hilde first appeared beside the well, the maiden's nights were plagued by those that once were, tasking her with making amends for what the had not said or done during life.

After Hilde came Breca. An elderly man who had passed long ago during Isolde's infancy, Breca seemed to embody all that the Mark once had been. Even in death, his weathered face seemed to project his past into the daylight; each line and crevice that wove across his skin mapping out each moment of the life he once led, a life of open landscapes and galloping steeds.

The spirit's request for the girl had been a simple one. Even in death the ways of the Horselords ran deep, meandering through the bloodstream like some impenetrable crimson ichor, and Breca, before at last moving on to the Great Plains above, yearned to meet his steed one last time. In the dead of night when any and all light seemed impossible, Isolde led the apparition into the village stables. And there, under the warm glow of the flickering lanterns, Isolde of Rohan bore witness to a final farewell between man and steed — a palimpsest of tears both shed and unshed by both man and animal alike.

At last Breca could transcend into the next life, his dying wish fulfilled by Isolde's curse.

And so, from that moment, each night shrouded by indigo skies, the fair maiden of death was visited by another spirit, each apparition yearning for something far greater than the last. Even the flies lying dead upon the windowsill, bleached from the sun and tingling with annihilation could not be swept away by Isolde's incessant cleaning.

She was trapped in the jaws of slaughter, yet no one seemed to want to pry her free.

With a heavy sigh, Isolde at last wrenched herself free from her stagnated state beside the window. Dragging her feet to the other room of their small cottage, Isolde found herself straining her neck from one side to the other, attempting to shake off the stiffness that had situated itself into her troubled bones. The family home was a rather meagre affair; a nondescript building devoid of any colour, save for the bouquet of crisp, white Simbelmynë her youngest sister, Astrid, had brought home the day before — a gift from an admirer no doubt.

     Isolde could not recall the last time she had an admirer.

     Making her way to the front door, the maiden felt a familiar ache begin to settle within the pit of her stomach, her chest tightening at the sensation and palms growing thick with sweat.

This was always how it began.

"Mama." She called, her voice strained. Yet there was no answer — a typical response as of late. "Mama, I am going for an evening walk. I promise I'll be home before the midnight patrol." And without another word, Isolde staggered out of the door and towards the outskirts of the village, clutching the stomach that stung like a knife's edge.

Despite the half moon hanging gently from the velvet sky, thick rolling clouds blanketed the landscape in a darkness deep enough to conceal Isolde's clumsy hurrying towards Fangorn Forest. It started like this every night, and today was no different.

     At the edge of the wood, Isolde came to a stop, her fingers digging into to sharp spot upon her stomach. All seemed to hold still — here the landscape remained unchanged, like a woven tapestry hung within the village hall. These wooded lands were not welcoming to mankind. "Well, well, well!" A sudden wheezing voice chortled from behind the girl. "Hilde told me you had an aptitude for being late, I did not think you would be quite this bad!"

     A yelp of surprise escaped Isolde's lips, the maiden whirling around at lightning speed to face her unknown assailant. The maiden was met by a sight that had become typical as of late. A man, translucent and glowing, hovering slightly above the hard-packed earth. "Oh..." Isolde began, unsure how to address the man. "I apologise... I— I can never tell when the apparitions are going to appear to me. I have yet to learn how to control this gift."

     "Indeed." The spirit nodded, drifting closer towards the woman. "I am told mediumship is a rather complex mystic art to perfect. But alas, allow me to introduce myself—"

     "I know who you are." Isolde cut in abruptly. "Your name is Wiglaf. You used to buy the produce from my Grandmother's fields when I was a little girl."

     "Indeed I did. You have a bright memory, my girl." Wiglaf smiled, a kind warmth spreading over his opalescent complexion. "I understand Hilde has tasked you with carrying out the wishes of the deceased. Might I be lucky enough to take advantage of your gift?"

Isolde nodded gently, ignoring the tired ache of her heart. "It would be immoral to grant you one last wish. What is it you yearn for?"

     Wiglaf stood silent for a moment, iridescent eyes downcast in deep thought. Isolde thought this lapse of decisiveness rather odd. All the spirits that had yet made her acquaintance named their undead hearts' desires instantly. Dreams from beyond the grave seemed so natural, however this man, this transparent vestige of a warrior the world once knew, remained unsure of himself. "I thought I would know of what I long for." Wiglaf muttered, breaking the thick silence with his gruff tone. "But now that I stand here, I feel that nothing I choose with be truly fulfilling."

     "You don't have to decide right away." Isolde replied, her tone gentle as she approached the apparition. "Perhaps if you returned during tomorrow's evensong? I am sure you will have decided by then."

Wiglaf gave a small nod of recognition. "Perhaps. Although I do not think I am ready to return to the realm of spirits just yet. There the air is thick and stagnant, unlike the unending plains of the Riddermark. If I were mortal for just one more day, I would spend it running free across the landscape. Flying beneath the winking stars."

"Then go."

"I beg your pardon, my dear? I do not seem to understand what you mean."

Isolde smiled up at the spirit, eyes sparkling beneath the moonlight. "You long to fly free across the plains of Rohan, so why don't you? If it is truly your heart's desire, come daybreak you will transcend into the next life having fulfilled all that you left undone, if not, you will return tomorrow having learned of what you truly want. Either way, you will soon pass on to where your ancestors reside."

Wiglaf hovered silently, an unreadable glint shining in his translucent irises. "My dear girl, your brillince is wasted upon a life such as this one. Your mind belongs to the land of the elves, not a village such as this."

Isolde averted her eyes towards the ground, a bashful rouge playing upon her cheekbones.

"If tonight is my night, I shall tell your ancestors of all that you do with this gift of yours." Wiglaf smiled. "I now bid you farewell, my journey across the motherland is calling — I cannot ignore my mistress any longer. Goodbye, my dear girl."

Isolde simply bowed her head in respectful reply, lifting her eyes from beneath her lashes to catch a glimpse of a bright streak of light shooting out across the hills and towards the horizon. Like a shooting star across the great canvas above. "Goodbye." She muttered, before bending down to the ground and tugging a lonely Simbelmynë from the hard-packed earth.

     Carefully winding the stem around her fingers, Isolde found her mind beginning to wander. In that moment, the clean, white petals, hardy enough to survive the unforgiving Rohirric winds, seemed akin to Wiglaf himself. Sturdy yet delicate, dazzling in a plethora of iridescent shades of white and grey, beneath the light of the timid half moon the flower and the spirit appeared one in the same — one acting as an extension of the other. Isolde could not help but smile to herself, perhaps she would keep this flower, pressing it carefully into the family book to preserve the memory. A reminder that her grandmother's curse was not, in fact, as wretched as she once believed it to be.

With a small sigh, Isolde carefully placed the Simbelmynë into the pocket of her pinafore, the ever mounting darkness, the moon disappearing behind a cloud, reminding her that it was the time for her to return home, her duty seemingly fulfilled. Dusting off her dress — not that her mother would notice the state of her clothing, for she never noticed much these days — Isolde turned away from the forest edge, the night air tangling her hair before her eyes.

"It's rather late to be picking flowers, don't you think?" A curt voice quipped, eliciting a shriek of surprise to spring from Isolde's throat, her flower flying from it's pocket home and drifting to the ground like lonely feather. "It is not safe for a fair maiden of Rohan to be wandering these parts alone, especially under the cover of dark."

Yanking her hair from her line of sight, Isolde's gaze was met with the face of a man likely no more than a handful of namedays older than herself. Even in the darkness she could tell this man was of a higher social standing than she. With thick waves of tan hair falling in ribbons beside his ears, and a sharp angular jaw held taut by the clench of his teeth, Isolde could not deny that even the darkness could not hide his noble status. Beside the man, his horse stood proudly. It was a magnificent thing, a dark chestnut stallion splashed with flashes of crisp white carrying the colours of Edoras upon his back. The horse's reigns were clutched tightly in the man's left hand, although Isolde was sure the steed would stand proudly beside him regardless.

     With a glare, Isolde found her tongue to become barbed, sharp words of defence spilling from her lips in an instant. "I am no fair maiden, Horselord, and therefore you need not worry for me. Spare your fear for some princess who did not spend her youth a tending to these fields after nightfall."

     The man held out an apologetic hand as he moved closer towards her. "I meant no offence, My Lady. I was merely wondering why you spend these sleeping hours out in the wilderness. At this hour these outer lands are rife with Orcs..." a smirk tugged at the corners of the man's lips. "Or perhaps you are a spy, after all a pretty little thing like you would be most unsuspecting."

Isolde's glare deepened. "Such accusatory words from a man such as you. Do you speak like this to all the women you sneak up on?"

"Not all." The man's smirk grew into a teasing grin, a teasing glimmer appearing in the corner of his irises. "Just the pretty ones I find loitering at the edge of Fangorn Forest."

     Isolde found herself trying to suppress a smile, willing every muscle in her body to maintain her cool exterior despite the man's smooth vocabulary

     Men never usually thought of her as pretty — that was a joy reserved for her younger sisters.

    "You are too bold for your own good, Sir." Isolde lifted her chin in indignation. "Perhaps your time amongst your Éored has rendered you ungentlemanly. In the future you might consider some lessons in grace and dacorum to match your noble exterior. Now, if you would be so kind, I must return home to my family — my time must be wasted upon them, not on one such as you."

Without another word, Isolde sharply turned on her heel, hurrying back down the hoof-beaten road that led back towards her village home. She did not dare to glance back at the Horselord from whence she was fleeing, simply willing only her feet to keep moving one in front of the other and her mind to ignore the rugged handsomeness of his face.

"But, miss! I apologise! I did not mean to cause you offence! Your flower—" The man called as he watched the red-headed maiden's retreating figure disappear into the inky shades of night. If she heard him, she did not halt. The man let out a small sigh, picking up Simbelmynë from its place upon the ground and gently rolling the stem l between his thumb and forefinger. "What kind of woman leaves only a flower in her wake? Hm, Brego?"

A small whinny escaped the horse's mouth, as if shrugging in ambivalence.

The rider carefully pocketed the flower, making sure not to crush it under the weight of his armour. "It is no matter. Whatever strange woman she may be, I care not."

Brego did not appear convinced.

"Come on boy, let us return to our men." And with a fond pat upon the horse's flank, the man began to trudge back to his distant encampment, Brego's reigns clutched tightly within his hands, and the maiden's missing flower weighing heavy within his pocket.

A keepsake, he thought. One to remember her by.

( amelia speaks! )

first chapter! everybody cheered!
i'm really not sure how i feel about
this — i haven't written for the
tolkien-verse in so long, but i hope
you enjoyed regardless!

i don't currently have an updating
schedule, however, it's spring break
and i only have one exam after
the summer term begins before
i finish my first year of uni, so
updates should hopefully be much
more frequent than previously!

big love!