This is the fifteenth chapter of the Fang & Bone serial; click here to visit the previous installment of Fang of Triseria. Please share your thoughts on the story in the comments, or visit the project hub for more information.
Corea burst into the hovel and began to pack. Time meant everything in these moments, and it especially meant hope. She’d tricked the Wolf, and the scarecrow man had actually suggested her brother may be alive, as she had hoped. He hadn’t booted her away as the Egg had over the past couple of days. The scarecrow, Erryl, hadn’t sadly shaken his head and written Garen off for dead, like everyone else.
Hope; she had forgotten what that felt like.
She knew it was a slim hope, but with those two roadmen, the search was the best possible chance she had of finding Garen. And Garen was smart. He was so smart. Garen was brave, too. He had a chance, and now she had a chance to help him.
She tried to avoid clattering and too much noise in the hovel as she packed. Grandma was resting quietly. She would ask Mr. Nathan to keep an eye out for her – she was his mother, after all. There was still stew from yesterday on the hearth, simmering over dying coals. He was welcome to some as he wished.
Corea darted back outside, brought in some branches she’d gathered recently, and tucked them into the embers. She paused, waiting for them to burn. She glanced at the mark of Helatros, God of Hearths, chiseled into one of the flat rocks that made up the hearth ring. After a few moments, the branches began to smoke and finally lit up. As she watched the branches alight, she realized some dried dung would also help. She tossed in a couple of the nearby chips and then wiped her hands on her morning gown.
She threw the gown off and over her head and grabbed at some breeches that had been Garen’s when he was smaller. She hiked them over her narrow hips and looped a corded belt tight around, just above her waist. She made her way to her small pile of clothes, throwing on an old linen shirt, one that belonged to Garen before her – like many things she wore. She tucked the shirt into the breeches and laced and tied the neck that exposed the thin wraps that made up her undergarments. Finally, she threw over a bluish-grey tunic she had received as a gift from Mr. Nathan for the Northwinds a year or two back. It was a little stiff and scratchy, but it was thick, and it was warm. She cinched it just above her waist with another belt – this one pounded leather. She balanced against one of the load-bearing pillars of the thin shack wall as she threw on her boots, tucking in the breeches
She hurriedly funneled what she could into a pack – the one that carried what few possessions Garen had managed to fit in upon the escape from the old town. She took what little food she could spare, a waterskin, and a small blanket. She stood, confident she had prepared adequately for what was ahead as she looked at the pack. But still, a girl needed a weapon.
She moved toward the hearth that made for the small kitchen and drew the sharpest knife she had from the small wooden tray that held the utensils. Corea held it aloft, studying it. Maybe a few inches shy of a foot, and only a little nicked in places. It will do, she thought.
As she tucked the knife into the space between her tunic and belt, she began to notice something. In all her flurry, there had not been a single familiar cough.
Silence.
Corea stopped, staring into the hearth. Tears began to well in her eyes as the silence roared and made her ears hurt. She was conscious of every noise but the one she expected – the one she’d known for two years, now. The pops and crackles from the branches only punctuated that terrible silence. A roaring void of still air from the small room where her grandma slept.
She approached the alcove. Each footfall seemingly echoed without the accompaniment of a rattling breath, a severe snore, or a sick whimper.
Corea paused at the simple door that gave the old woman her privacy. She gripped the handle, a simple leather loop, with trepidation. She stood there, the moment suspended in the absence of noise aside from a weak crackle of a fire a few feet away. She pulled open the door slightly, seeing the old woman’s frail body on her side, back to the hearth. She was still. Corea dared not open the door further and reached inside, not looking, gently resting her fingertips on her grandmother’s back. Her ribs were protruding, and the skin between each ridge was motionless.
That is when Corea knew that she and Garen were alone.
She fell back, letting go of the leather loop and landing on her rear with her back to the hearth. She began to sob. There was a crackle.
She glanced at the hearth, wiped away her tears, and slapped herself in the face. She sniffed and felt another tear roll down the ridge between her cheek and nostril. She slapped herself again.
Time was everything.
She moved to the hearth and folded her knees beneath her, kneeling, staring into the embers. She held her hands to the wall of warmth and began to pray.
Fire heart, Helatros, hear my prayer. I bend my knee before your hearth, your heart on Aurin, gifted to us from the heavens.
Your warmth fills our homes. The flames lick at and cook our food. In the cold, you shield us. In the darkness, you help us to see. In battle, you guide the fallen home.
Fire heart, you are the father of all homes and the keeper of order. We maintain our hearth in respect and as a plea that you will fill our home with life.
And when needed, you carry our dead into your everlasting warmth.
Her prayer concluded, she glanced one last time toward the thin door and rose to her feet. She would tell Mr. Nathan on the way out to meet the roadmen that his mother had died. She shut it.
She knelt at her bedroll and worked it into a tightened bundle, lashing it to her pack. She picked up her belongings, adjusted the straps on her shoulders, and approached the door into the wilderness ahead.
As she had just about left the vestiges of home, her first foot through the threshold, she looked to the hooks on the wall to her left. She threw a red cloak over her shoulders. It had belonged to her grandmother in life.
In death, it was a final token of love.
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