Folsleine Ferfal

Mud squelches under bare feet and, the new sun begins to peak over a small wooden chapel. The purples and blues of the night begin to retreat back to their cloudy and desolate abode; a new day is here at long last. Rays of light break through a heavy wood, casting their golden glow on a far secluded hamlet. Little beams of sunlight creep into each house and humble establishment, dancing and mixing with the falling orange leaves of autumn. The quaintness of a new day, the happiness of the tall grass where children of the town do play.

A young man, not but twenty summers old, tends to chickens housed not far from his family’s house. Today was the first time he had to bundle, the fledgling cold of autumn had finally arrived. His fingers, reaching to collect eggs while feeling the stinging frost of the coming winter.

The season is still warm enough to see persons gathered outside; washing clothes, preparing supper and talking to their neighbors. Families eye the young man as he walks on a trail clear through a row of small cabins constructed only in the past few years. Men carrying pales of murky water walk by, nearly crashing into the boy as he travels back home

The young man makes his way to the door of the house, his breath muffled by a long knitted scarf as he sighs in relief. As his cloth wrapped hand reaches for the door, he hears a voice close behind him.

“Fen?”

Startled and perturbed, Fen jolts around. He is faced by his sister: Inka. Her long blond hair and pale skin lay uncovered even in the cold of autumn. Fen did not expect her to be outside so early in the day, especially given the weather. She cracks a slight smile as she glances into Fen’s vibrant blue eyes, nearly concealed under his messy brown hair glowing as light reflects off it in just the right way.

Inka gently takes the basket of eggs out of Fen’s hand before they both walk inside.

“You seem tired, did you get enough sleep last night?” Inka asks as they enter.

Fen neglects to respond, his eyelids heavy and his feet dragging.

The siblings walk in on their mother in the midst of starting a fire, hoping to prepare oats for the morning.

Inka and Fen sit down and Fen unwraps his scarf, feeling the warm air hitting his neck is a relief to his tired bones. Fens Mother joins the pair at their dining table, inspecting the eggs that had been harvested.

“Fewer than the last batch they laid, do the chickens seem healthy? I fear the cold may be getting to them.”

She turns to Fen, sitting glassy eyed at the end of the table, staring off into the distance. Almost in his own world, Fen stares at a building plainly visible from outside a window. Its long pointed roof eclipses the sun, turning into a silhouette, a void behind its vast shining abyss. His eyes travel down seeing a man enter, dressed in brown and white robes and carrying a white scroll in his right hand. His feet traveled through the brush as he approached small wooden steps. The door slightly shaking behind him as he disappeared into the Chapel.

Fen felt the back of a hand on his cheek, he jumps a bit before noticing his mother, Olga staring at him, a mix of worry and anger in her expression. He gently removes her hand from his face. She gets up and takes off his jacket for him, no longer focused on the Chapel. He feels the heat of the fire, and the smell of oats mingling with the sizzle of eggs; he slumps a bit, involuntarily slouching forward. His movements slow, his head bobs, his mind begins to wander, slowly coming to a drift.

Awoken by the cry of a bird, Fen finds himself in a grove of tall trees, they stretch impossibly tall until they reach the clouds above. Bugs glow like candles to illuminate a stone covered path which feels warm to his bare feet. Traveling along the small road; plants and fungi twist and contort to clear his way, as if they were great friends he had known for a lifetime. With each step he grows more comforted, thrusted more into a soft ecstasy of belonging. Staring up at the night sky, the moon radiates its light in a star-like pattern; the sky appears a deep violet; astral waves flow around the towering trees, being stirred and disturbed as if they were alive. His gaze brought back to earth, Fen notices the bugs are gone;, left in darkness were it not for the hint of glow coming from the nebulas above. The path continues on in the dark and Fen continues on, not afraid of what lies in the darkness.

The rock made road slowly begins to crumble and end. Before Fen can realise, he is left in wild forest with nothing to guide him. Small twigs crack under his weight, and small needles pierce his unclothed skin. He wanders on, the landscape unknown but his heart still grounded to the scape. Not determined or afraid, in a surreal state of adventure around a senseless wood. His hands move branches aside, feeling small berries drop onto his body from above.

A light snap rings out throughout the dingy area. Fen freezes on the tip of his toes, as if he was a statue trapped in an elegant but compromising position. He turns his head to the source of the snap, and ever so faintly behind the dark wall of shadows, he can see it.

The faint outline of a stag stands still, awaiting some kind of move from Fen. The two’s bodies lay dormant, as if they are both trapped in time, waiting for the other to break them free.

The image of the stag becomes more clear to fen, as if its very presence is illuminating its surroundings, its soul a source of light itself. The red of berries starts to show again as the dark pulls back to reveal moss on trees, plainly visible in the light of the moon. As the creature’s hooves come into view, and the first inches of fur meet Fen’s eyes, his pupils spread wide to take it all in; the faint wind moving the fur on the animals legs, and its slight twitches on the uneven floor of the wood.

Its fluffy tail comes into view, a small ray of light shows its wonderful spotted white and brown hide. The stag’s breath becomes louder, its chest contracting with sustained huffs into the forest’s moist warm air. The pale glow creeps to its neck, the small white dots fade as its slim silhouette begins to take form. The shadows lurch back further, the head of the beast finally about to take form. As the black just begins to disappear, fen waiting is almost fearful yet contained anticipation, a small drop of liquid is heard all throughout the forest.

Fen jolts awake, his eyes meeting Inka, who sits across from him, carving a small block of wood with a knife. A plate of porridge is placed beside him by his mother, topped with a glistening fried egg. Fen slowly eats his breakfast while watching the fire, launching embers as it pops and whines. Becoming entranced by its glow.

Yet again he is snapped out of his trance, this time by the firm directions of his mother, who instructs him to bring feed to the chicken coop once he finishes his oats.

Fen yet again barges outside, neglecting to take his overgarments for what will be a short journey. As he walks to the coop, the grey of morning begins to set in; the golden sun has faded, and the drab reality begins to rear in all its might. The tan thatch of roofs he passes, losing their bright yellow day by day; the flowers beginning to wilt and fade from the newly arrived cold. It’s as if the world has lost its heat, the heat of its soul.

A woman hangs soaked trousers on a clothesline outside, silty grey dripping down onto the grass below. As she catches the sight of the passing Fen, her demeanor shifts, becoming closed, her face forming into a mix of sternness and worry before turning away from him.

Fen arrives back at the coop, slowly scattering grain throughout the area as the chickens start to gobble and pick at it. His stiff hands digging into the cold seed, his fingers swimming through the coarse pile.

When he finishes dispersing the feed, he lifts his head up. Ready to walk back to his house and once again give rest to the crackling fire. But, on the hill a man catches his eye. The same monk he had witnessed enter the chapel before standing outside, staring in his direction. The man seemed fixed, almost trapped, as if he was captivated by the chickens, or possibly Fen himself.

The monk looked to be young, only three or four years older than Fen. He seemed gaunt, his bones protruded beneath his linen robes, flowing down to his ankles, his face partly obscured by a draping hood, in stark contrast to the rest of the village. Fen struggled to remember the monk’s name, he seemed to blend into the rest of the congregation that had taken up residence not long ago. He chuckled a bit, imaging them as ghouls, for in a sense they were, behaving like mindless drones, always numbingly immersed in their study, seeming almost alien and uncaring to the folk around.

Fen locked eyes with the man, who haphazardly made haste down the hill and away from sight, presumably to gather his morning meal at the bakery. Without warning, Fen heard his name shouted.

“Fen!”

He turned around, the chicken feed nearly slipping out of his grasp, beginning to slow and lose grip. Inka, she always had a habit of distracting him and catching him off guard, though it never bothered him. She ran towards him, her dress waved in the brisk wind, the ghostly white accented with pale reds and yellows. She was waving something at him, a small object in her hand, one he could not make out from a distance.

She made her way up to him, bumping into him from her excitement. In her hands she held a small wooden figurine, a short and stout man with a long flowing beard, wearing a helmet which covered most of his upper face. Fen placed the feed on the ground and took the sculpt into his hands. Inka had always had a knack for wood carving, and she was quite the wonder with a knife.

“Its been some time since I’ve made you one, huh?” she said, turning red in slight embarrassment.

She continued “I miss it, i used to be a lot better, i feel as if ive lost that artistic side of myself”

“I remember when I used to make you cute toys when you were little. Warriors and beasts, you seemed so enchanted by them, I liked that.”

Fen stared into the figure’s eyes, filling him with an unfamiliar sense, yet a calm and comforting one.

Inka brushes up against Fen, slightly laying her head on his shoulder, looking up into his eyes.

“Well , do you like it?”

“I do” he whispers back.

Fen gasps the figure tightly, its mass feeling good in his hands, its grooves conforming to his grip in just the right ways it was made for him after all.

A wash of gentle warmness comes over him, and he embraces Inka. Their hearts beating in tandem, weathering the frigid cool of the outside. Each feels the soft skin of the other; Inka smelling of lily and cinnamon; Fen of yew, the same as the figurine, which has seemed to complement his aura.

As inka feels her face against Fen’s hair, she senses an offputting presence. From the top of a hill, shrouded by stained glass, the outline of a figure peaks through the chapel window. Face obscured by saintly imagery, but still all the more off putting. Inka feels as if she is being observed, almost stalked. Her eyes lock on the window as a wave of feeling comes over her; remaining calm while feeling entrapped by whomever lurks behind, uneasy at the eire of this distant man.

Inka and Fen cease their hug. Starring into the ethereal eyes of one another. Fen once again draws his attention down at the figurine, feeling the sharp indents and carving marks under the tips of his fingers. A tear nearly came to his eye, staring into the flowing grain of the yew, infused with

passion and care. He pays no mind to Inka’s distracted gaze, for he focuses instead on her beautiful craft for a time, becoming lost in its marvel and juvenile wonder. The day seems to fade as he continues to be confined by the carvings splendor. He is not phased even by the sharp tug he feels at his hand, begrudgingly being led back home; he has become entranced by the lovely art of the past.

***

The figurine sits atop a dark shelf, illuminated only slightly by the strong fire below. Inka lay fast asleep on a loft above, only feet away from Olga, her limbs aching from a hard day full of chores. As she falls asleep the fire dies down to embers, consuming the cabin in a dim blue hue.

Fen pears above at the ceiling, his vision consumed by the blackness of night. Unable to drift off as Inka and Olga have. His bed rests at the ground floor of the abode, lonely, space unfilled by some kind of absence. Fen lifts himself up, coming to a slouch on his bed. His stare funneled out the window and into the dusk beyond.

The green of the woodland beyond turned black, and the sky rains down its ocean like glow onto the hamlet. The streets left barren; the chapel morphed into a ghastly shadowed monolith, now eclipsing the full moon which has unveiled itself after many weeks. The stars dance above, Fen becoming captivated by their formations, as if he could see them moving and transforming in new ways.

The night is so foreign, yet oddly comforting to the boy; a sense of being weaned and taken care of by the harsh environment, too often fearmongered by those who surround him. Fen survived the house, his eyes passing his half eaten porridge, now being picked at by flies. His eyes fell on the wood figure, only its base being visible due to the shining moon. He once again places it in his hands, intently looking at it before placing it in his pocket, its weight in his clothing reminding him of Inka’s care.

Fen slowly crept his way into the night, a pale ghast now unleashed onto the area, a slinky shroud making his way throughout the underbrush. It’s as if the night mutates him into another being, still partly human in form, but spiritually beyond humanity: a newly formed predator. His eyes begin to acclimate to the new environment as he lurches around houses and in between trees. His light feet drifting past the dwellings of his slumbering neighbours.

Fen makes his way to the edge of the forest that encompasses his small village, staring into the dense black abyss of branches. He stood not too far from the chapel, taking refuge behind it, for one could easily see him upon the hill if it was not there. He imagines the bushes and twigs moving aside, forming a path for him to venture forth into the unknown, a new experience under the dingy cloak. But alas, nothing is so simple, and he must trudge into the unknown, as nature is a cruel but fair mistress, and will not make things easy for her children. Fen’s pounding heart begins to slow, coming to a calm rhythm as he begins to take the first step into the vast woodland.

His feet sway forward. Just as the soul of his moccasin is about to firmly plant on the boundary on the wood, a hand grabs his wrist, fingernails digging into his skin. Fen pulls away with all his strength, the stressful beating of his heart returning. The force in which he pulled away left deep scratch marks in his flesh, and he was thrown to the ground. As he sat up on the ground in a panic, he laid eyes upon the entity which had grabbed him.

Above him stood a monk of the chapel, his back slightly bunched over. He stood like a rat, obscured by the shadow of the building. He lunged at Fen, but he was able to push him aside with his remaining vigor. Fen stood up in a frenzy, assessing what he must do next. The monk’s scornful expression at being pushed fueled his flight, inching backwards towards the protection of the woodland. In the commotion, Inka’s carving had been launched out of his pocket and away from him. As the monk picked himself up, he noticed the toy, snatching it before Fen could react.

Fen continued, being sucked back toward the unknown, toward an escape. The monk clutched what had become newly dear to him, but in panic he fell into the leafy foliage, nature’s shield against the mad monk.

He lunged through the forest, hurriedly stomping through wet mud, nearly entrapping him in its grasp. Outstretched branches cut and bash his face, but in his adrenaline filled flight he did not notice. Leaves rustled and birds flew off at the commotion caused by his running; clothes ripped and teared on jagged bark, as if making a web of cloth.

A raven perches on a far tree, it stands as if it were made of stone, unfazed by the frantic chase of Fen. Its eyes golden, dilating at the sight of the young man, his emotion peaked, heart filled with an emotion he has never felt before. Fen notices the silvery shine of its feathers from far, slowly briefly to take in the splendor of the beast. The raven’s wings outstretch, each feather its own unexplainable microsum of energy. Fen comes to a standstill, the raven like a wall that stops him fleeing. The two stare at one another, imposing and powerfully. Fen feels as if he is in the presence of a created being.

The great black bird takes flight into the sky, a flying daimon against the ghostly moon. It launches itself at Fen, catapulting near to his face in a flurry of warrior-like passion. Its talons dig deep into his chest, causing him to wraith in pain for only a few moments, but which to him feel as if they have given him a lifetime of experience, experience through blood spurting pain and anguish.

Fen rips the raven off him, taking off in a random direction. He runs, blood gushing down his body with every step, his blouse covered in a deep blackish red. Bright greens become stained by dripping and spurting blood; his mind devoid of any thought, simply focused on animalistic survival.

Fen continues to venture deeper into the night’s violent mystery, he notices the ground slowly begin to shift in texture. The dirt becoming hallowed, powerful in a sense. The deep brush begins to think and die out. Trees start to spread out, though the deep roof of the forest stays ever present. Fens movements begin to slow, he begins to notice every bruise and blister on his body; becoming everpresent in himself.

As he stumbles forth, the trees fully fade, leaves no longer covering the path. A massive clearing unfolds. A rich plain of grass and flowers. He slowly steps onto the sight, the ground. raised slightly beneath his tired body. His mind is filled with wonder and intrigue; his mind is filled with a distant feeling, a memory almost, but one he can not properly decode. His soft hands run along the grass and weeds as he sways through the area, his legs pushing past lush flowers whose colour bleaches through the dark blue cascade.

The center of the small enclosure grows near, and in the distance, Fens ears are hit with unearly moans and whales. High pitched cries grow nearer as he encloses the area. Nearly unearthly in sound, but still somewhat familiar to his ears. The noises pierce down, with each growing more dire by every passing second.

At last, he sees it: a stag. The stag sits on its side, its fur matted and grey, peeling off its hide. Gooey red and purple blood drips from open wounds; bones still covered in bits of flesh become plainly visible to the eye. Small parts of entrails can be seen leaking out, covering the grass below in a clear sheen. Its legs slightly twitch with each desperate howl, though it can not stand.

The creature’s face is fearful. Fen begins to stare deeply into its eyes; but the stag does not stare back, for it is blind, its eyes are glazed over in a cloudy white. Its whimpers grow ever softer with Fen’s presence, although it is still a ghastly sight, the likes of which he is not used to in his quant life.

At the feet of the stag body stands a massive wooden pillar, it stretches up to the sky, towering over the area. Cut into the pillar are strange symbols; geometric and waving glyphs alike, mingling in the sky over warriors and beast on the battlefield. Half dead men roam a barren landscape holding glaives, shattered armour beneath them.

Fen runs the tips of his fingers along the grooves of the monolith. It smells of pine, the pillar is made from a great yew tree. As his hands continue to explore, blood smears onto long forgotten symbols. Fens hands tingle ever so slightly, it feels as if the pillar is vibrating his soul, anointing him with some unspeakable essence. The towering object almost begins to speak, regailing Fen in a deafeningly quiet language that has been lost since antiquity. A relic of millennia past; of a dead race: thy Irminsul.

His vision falls back down to the stag, now on its last breaths of life. Fen places his hand on his neck, hits disheveled fur running through his fingers. The stags heavy breathing leaving Fen’s face cold and wet. Their blood mingles together; he can feel the pumping of its heart slowly die down in its grasp. It lays its head on the lap of Fen, looking up at him, as if it would see despite its blindness. The frantic darting of its eyes now ceases, as it takes one final look into the night sky. The stag’s mangled body goes cold in fens arms; the shuffle of its legs come to a halt, and it lies still under the shadow of the Irminsul. He lays with the stag on him for quite some time, nurturing the fallen body of the dear. Fen is not left in fear, nor disgust, but calmness, of quaint self reflection, humbled by the death of the beast.

Its body slowly starts to decompose in the ground, rapidly its fur and organs wither away. Fen lays his hand on the stag’s stomach, feeling the warmness fade, deconstructing itself back into the earth. Slowly, his hand sinks itself into the stomach of the stag, feeling its wet endtrails bless his skin; writhing like a warm inside the stag, in death it becomes a new world for him to explore. Further inside the carcass he reaches, until he is elbow deep in blood and guts; the body pulsates more and more vigorously as he plunders its holy insides.

At last, he rips something out of the decomposing body of the stag. Cold to the touch, Fen holds a bronze medallion to the sky. It glares off the light of the moon in an alien way; enchanted with the fluids of death. A small metal ring gives birth to seven angled arms, converging in the center to make a discus. In its middle, a strange sigil made up of straight and curved lines can be seen, arranged in a puzzling passion. Small droplets of blood run along the grooves of the sigil; they drip on the ground below, onto the bone of the deer, which has become one with the earth once again.

The cool wind renders Fen’s arm numb, the thick blood feeling icy on his outstretched arm, however he continues to hold up the medallion. The moon peaks through its gaps, as if they were perfectly made for one another, and for him. Its shining bronze is now covered in a dark crimson colour. It coalesces with the starry sky and deep craters of Luna. It engulfs his vision, his eyes filled with tales of another world, with ancient symbols and stories of dead long passes. Covered in the fruits of his own suffering, he is home.

***

Fen crawled his way out of the forest, returning to his hamlet. He did not rush, or fight the woods, but gently traversed their vast and labyrinthian walls. He was still caked in the residue of the night. His clothing torn and his skin rough from the night before. In his left hand he held the medallion, the cold metal stinging, the coagulated blood binding it to his palm.

The sun was just peaking over the horizon, engulfing the hamlet in a dim pinkish hue, giving life to the browns and whites of the small wooden houses that remained asleep in the new day. He started intently at the sun, running his hand through his hair while walking towards his house; gen was unsure what he was going to do, how to explain his transformed and ghastly state, but he did not care. Fens small journey had ignited a new change in his psyche, one which detached from the judgment of towns order, their scorn and vitriol at his secluded nature.

The wooden floor boards creaked inside his family home, making sure to step gracefully so as not to awake his sister. He saw dust in the air whirling, visible from sunbeams that burst through the cracks and holes of the walls. One wouldn’t be amiss to assume he is an intruder, a foreign being trying to cause harm; in a way, he may be.

Olga sat in a back corner; she was obscured by the still dim atmosphere, though Fen could feel her presence. She stood up, slowly shuffling forward; tears pooled in her red eyes, creeping down her cheek, dripping onto blouse. She moved toward Fen, who sat eerily still by the doorway; he did not move or shift in his stance, remaining eternally still.

She stared into his eyes. Words did not need to be exchanged, the feelings flowed through them, and they spoke to one another, not in words, but in a higher state of communication, restless and uncanny.

Taking his hand, caked in blood and dusted with dirt, she held it to her cheek, the warmness coursed through Fen, his mothers soft skin like a protective barrier between him and all the woes. She ran her hand along the talon marks left in his upper chest, still open and red. She rubbed the tattered cloth of his that covered his body as she ran her other hand through his hair. The two looked into each other’s eyes, each covered in a film of tears, his ethereal blue irises like the cosmos beyond, one could truly be trapped in his soul.

The moment lasted what felt like millennia, a tide of emotion nearly rocking them over in their embrace. Their hearts beat in tandem; Fen leaves handprints and stains on Olga’s garments, but she does not care, all she is focused on at the moment is her child.

She sits Fen on his bed, placing a gentle kiss upon his forehead. She sits beside him, and slowly guides his head onto her lap. She brushes her hand along the length of his body, caressing his sore bones. Fen’s grip on his medallion loosens, and his eyes begin to wane under the sweet love of his mother. He begins to wonder to sleep, enchanted by her empathy. She puts her hand on his cheek, now soft and supple, no longer bruised and battered. She gently whispers to him, Fen only hearing a small few words before he succumbs.

“My dear, come to me, let go of all that gives you strife. My love, my child…”

***

Inka notices a gathering of folk around the town. She jolts through, hushed but stern voices fill the air; it’s not often she sees such a grouping, due to the solitary nature of the village. As she pushes through the crowd she can feel tensions growing in the air. A great worry has befell all those who dwell here.

Villagers hurriedly gather around the stone well at the center of town. A bouquet of heads peer down the long shaft, its walls bone dry. At the bottom its small pool of murky water, grey and grimy to the eye, and of a horrid stench to the smell. The crowd is met with shock and distress; women begin to cry and men cause an uproar, no one is sure what will become of this predicament, and just who might have to suffer.

From a far the congregation watches the newly blossoming chaos, the town’s priest stands between them, an anchoring force. Shouts and pleads can be heard. The well was the town’s only reliable source of water, and with the coming frost things will only stand to get more dire. Some try to offer solutions, while most sit in dismay and defeat, as if surrendering themselves to the unpredictability of nature, all while the monks stoically watch from above.

Slowly the crowd turns their attention to the priest, making their way to his living. The frenzied mob begin to march, and soon start pleading for any kind of solution. The divine wisdom of the priest is all they can hope will give some solace in this time. Some fall to their knees; others half heartedly pray. Though trying to keep their composure, the paranoia of the unknown has started to set in, and they begin to helplessly beg for a sign of God.

All the priest offers them in the moment are words of comfort; empty attempts to sooth their stress and make them docile once more. He tries to court the crowd, but their incessant worry gets the better of him, and he retreated inside the chapel, the monks following suit, only offering telling glances at the mass.

Inka did not go with the townsfolk, but instead remained at the well. Unlike the rest she was calm and collected, and did not fear the unknown, at least not as much as those who had pushed their qualms onto the priest. She continued to look to the bottom, the now milky water shifting slightly. Little specs of white and black became visible, and swam around the small pool of the infected stone. She wondered what exactly had become of the water, and if this was something truly accidental.

As she continued to pear, something caught her eye. In the silty depths she notices an object begin to surface. Slowly it rises to the crest of the water, peaking through the top. It begins to bob and sway as Inka finally begins to make out what it truly is. She sees the object: the carving she made for Fen not but a day ago, tossed aside into the dirty well. A mix of sadness and confusion comes over her; she wondered how it could have ended up there. A feeling of calmness washed over her, an intuitive sense that this was not fens doing.

The carving starred back at Inka, the wood becoming stained by the blacks and greys of the water. The warrior steadfast, unwavering; caught in a state of duty and decay.

***

Fen awoke to the morning sun, and the bustle outside. His wounds throbbed, but they did not hurt. He saw them as a kind of trophy, merks of a true life. The mud and sweat from the night before was gone, miraculously he had been cleaned. He turned over to his bedside table, where the bronze medallion lay, reflecting the orange and blues of the day. Fen ran his fingers over the object as he lifted himself up, greeting the new day. He places the medallion on his belt, its weight feels good upon him. As he stared out of the window once again, he felt a strong beating in his chest. He was being called back to where he once tread.

Ogla lay asleep not far from him; she had expended much of her emotional energy last night, though it was all worth it to her in the end. As she slumbered, Fen stepped outside; those who had left their homes for the morning looked distressed, as if the drop of a pin would cause them to go into a bloody rampage. They eyed the young lad, but despite his wounds and still battered appearance, he was at peace, truly one with his will.

He slowly strode through the village, as if he was in his own world. His glowing skin and features in stark contrast to the almost green and lifeless faces of those around him, their eyes sunken, huddled in fear and vitriol. He continued to walk, each step reinvigorating him any more, until he was full of his confidence, of what he could achieve.

Again, Fen lay at the border of the forest, but this time he was not fleeing, he was not afraid, not shielding himself from the unknown, from the hidden forces of life. His arms outstretched, taking it all in, embracing her with all the passion he may muster.

From a far, Inka notices Fen on the cusp of the trees. She watches him slowly step in, beginning to disappear into the foliage. She wonders what he might be doing, where he is going, and with the same intuitive sense that came to her at the well, she knew something was off, but still it was collected and calm. Nevertheless, she still followed Fen into the woods, feeling a need to accompany her brother in whatever he might do, and wherever his heart may take him. As he loses himself in nature follows close behind, trailing him, making sure her little brother is safe.

***

Inka pulls her way through cracking branches; pine needles scrape her skin as she continues along. She only catches quick glimpses of Fen in the distance, who seems to glide through the forest with ease, nothing in his way, as if he were an animal who had been living here all his life.

As Fen grows further away, Inka grows tired, the forest seeming so vast, she is just a small speck within its massive fold, a varied galaxy of strange creatures and feelings one could never begin to describe with words. The leaves fall onto her head, covering her in a coat of oranges and yellows, contrasting well with the light of the place.

She begins to lose sight of Fen in the shrubbery, eventually he disappears completely. Inka grows worried and slightly disoriented, she turns around to find herself deep in the woods, no way of finding her way back to the mundane safety of the village. She decides to rest on a rock for the time being, hoping Fen may rear his head.

Staring up at the sky, inka ponders about her family and about the place she lives. She thinks of all the sweet times she shared with her brother in the past, now seeming fading memories. She thought upon the predicament early at the well, how rapid and unthoughtful the townsfolk were, as if they were beasts, though to call them beasts would be doing a disservice to the true Fae that inhabited these woods.

For a moment she becomes lost in her own mind, as visions of her family fill her thoughts. Soon they morph into memories of her past, of ancestors long gone, ways of life destroyed and plundered. She remembers acts of worship, but not in the same manner as those of her village, but of a more primal essence. Priestesses draped gather round, they dance, bearing sharps knives and chalices which blood flows into. They feast and celebrate, singing and chanting in front of stone idols. The sun sets as the festivities grow wilder in the night…

Soon, her mind shifts. Inka becomes fully engulfed in her thoughts, transported inward. She sees Fen, standing naked in a lush grove. The day slowly shifts to a bright night where stars glow bright, appearing massive in the sky above. Fen stands before a dark shrouded pillar; he holds up the small medallion to the sky, looking up at the. It shattered at his gaze, flowing into the artifact as he chants, but - his mouth does not move. Flowers start to wilt all around, Inka picks one up, gently running her finger across its petals as it dies.

An indescribable darkness begins to surround Fen and the ghostly monolith, his outstretched arm eaten away by shadows. Inka’s heart begins to vigorously pound in her chest, until she is unable to move, watching Fen from the ground. With every beat she grows weaker; slowly her hands reach up, she starts to dig into her chest. Her nails move past organs and tissue, writhing like worms inside her ribcage. Slowly she retrieves it and her heart beats in front of her eyes. She stands once again, her hands bloodied and beaten, holding the organ, still pounding violently. The heart sits for some time, its throbbing hypnotizing her, as if calling her name out to the world beyond. It slowly starts to turn a purplish hue, then to a lifeless grey, then block. It oozes in her hands as it falls apart, dripping onto the floor. Where blood and acid falls, new flowers begin to sprout, glowing an ethereal pink, their petals unfurling, in beautiful contrast to the dark beyond.She turns back to Fen, but he is gone, and in his wake lies only one thing.

The skeleton of a raven sits in the grass, bits of flesh still adorn its pale bones. Inka can almost see its wings flutter on the ground, as if trying to escape. Above the Raven, adorning the abyssal monument hangs a set of antlers, they too are draped with a small amount of skin, dripping unto the skeleton below. Inka looks at them, and as she does in the distance she hears cries and whines, as if an injured animal is not far.

The cries grow closer, her vision entrapped by the antlers before her. They slowly start to melt, dripping black onto the ground, creating a hole which begins to eat the forest around it, slowly sucking all of life and its joys into a singularity. Inka begins to struggle, the void tears her apart, sawing her in half under its reality bending sorcery. Her torso begins to be tripped in two as she trashes away, eventually feeding the abyss beneath her in unholy sacrament.

***

Inka awakes in a flurry of emotions. Her arms and legs are stretched out on the ground in a star-like pattern. She faces upward, observing the sunset, though it feels like no time has passed since the morning till now. She grips her chest in panic, but her heart still remains inside. She hurriedly stands, the forest still surrounding her. Worried her absence may cause distress, she takes off, hoping to find the village.

As she walks, she feels the ground lightly pulse under her, so a small and insignificant one who does not possess an acute awareness of the world would likely fail to acknowledge. She sifts through the trees, her heart sporadic, lunging in between states of surreal calmness and intense strain. She is nearly out of breath as she gets a feeling of familiarity in the distance.

Inka steps out of the forest to the waning sun, disappearing into the abyss under the world. Shadows and light copulate on thatch roofs as the day comes to an end. The sun seemed hollow, as if something dwelt inside its fiery walls.

Her feat grazed the ground and she slowly made her way throughout the village. Her eyes slowly survey the area, their veins bulging in anticipation, to catch a glimpse of someone she may recognize. As she looked around the town, she ran her hands along old wood houses, cold to the touch despite the sunlight that danced upon them. She made her way to the paths of the manlet; there were no marks in the dirt, no footsteps or signs of life, it was all neatly padded and clean.

She looked into houses. To her bewilderment, not a single house had any occupants. Cutlery low strewn about, as if someone had to leave in a hurry. Curtains laid tattered and open, as if something had ripped its way inside. No signs of life were apparent, no notes telling of a trip, not even the animals they had kept as pets and stock were about.

Inka turned, coming face to face with her own house, it felt alien, imposing a sense of fear over her. She ran inside, nearly busting down the door in her wake. Inside she found… nothing. Her mother was nowhere to be seen. Supper did not lay on the table as it usually did; her sweet whistles did not bless the air. The room was a crypt, silent and foreboding. Fen too was nowhere to be found, a fact which continued to eat at Inka’s soul, for she had abandoned her brother in the trees. Her eyes began to swell as tears dribbled down her face, she could not bear to see this place anymore. It felt so alone, devoid of the life she once gave it.

Her solemn feet tread outside, the sun growing deeper in the sky as her tears fell to earth. She came upon the well which the folk once gathered around, its stone was no comfort to her as it once was . She peered into the well once again, expecting its walls to travel downward for what seemed like eternity. However, to Inka’s shock, the well was full, the grimy grey water that had just occupied it only a morning earlier had run clear. It appeared as a crystal, a web of points all converged to make a lush clear ocean. Inka’s mind spun, she became disoriented; where did this water come from? And why was nobody here to enjoy its fruits?

She cupped her hands, as if to drink from the well, nearly spilling over and drowning the nearby grass. As her hands dunked into the well, they stung in agony. Inka quickly withdrew, staring at her now bloodied hands, the water somehow cutting them, with millions of small gashes now adorning her psalm. Inka stumbled back and away, running in the opposite direction of the well. She tripped and fell over her own feet as she ran. She did not have a goal, she was lost in her own mind, struggling to put together the horrid pieces of what had unfolded around her very world.

As she ran, a cloud of mist blocked her path, a wall blocking her escape. Inka fell to her knees, she gripped the grass with her stinging hands, their fibers rubbing into her wounds. She knelt in awe, completely broken by what lay before her.

Every so slowly, the clouds of mist parted, fading into the damp and cold air. Inka feasted her eyes on what stood before her, what was guarded by the arms of the misty fog. Where the chapel once stood, an icon to the light of the heavens, the Irminsul now towered. Its black shadows began to stretch far, covering the town in an eerie darkness. Strangely, Inka was filled with a warm feeling; the same comfort she had felt at her once sacred town now transplanted into this sight. Her hands no longer stung, instead they felt fuzzy and protected, as if embracing someone she held so dear.

As she walked toward the Irminsul, the ground beat beneath her, as if her frantic heart from before had been given to the earth. Her vision clouded, she felt dizzy under the black light that now engulfed the town, breaking down its old and withered structures. She fell once again, the pounding of the ground now in her ear, a soothing lullaby that remained in tune since the wake of the universe.

The beating grew louder, eventually becoming all she could hear. The ground began to squirm beneath her as she continued to listen intently. It whispered, it called out her name in an orgasmic mixture of ecstasy and agony, or melding into one, beyond the opposing sides of feeling. She became hypnotized by the shifting ground, it replaced her every thought, her fear; her every joy and happiness, consuming her in this new and warm feeling. Her heart began to beat in tandem with the supple ground, becoming one in this new world.

Inka thrust her fingers into the ground, beginning to dig, but it was not soft she found. She clawed through the earth as a bloody liquid spurted and spat, covering her body. Still she dug, eternally focused, desiring to be one with this new earth, a new beginning, a new age.

At last she finished, coming face to face with the culmination of her work. Waves crashed over her, Inka’s body becoming impossibly warm, her clothing burned off her. All that left standing was her unfettered self, her skin bare and bloodied for the world. She stood above, looking down into the new pit that would give life to the world.

It starred back, in a loving and tearful glance. A bright blue eye blinked, staring longingly at Inka, its pupils wide, taking her in her beauty. Trapped in silence, a bond never broken, a love unwavering, even in transformation.

Inka knelt one final time, coming face to face with the ever so familiar eye. Slowly she started to rot. Flesh fell from bone, her hair falling off her scalp. Organs failed and became reunited with the goddess of earth. Nothing remained, not even bone. She was one with the eye, her flesh fertilising a new start, a new family… a new Aeon.