Poisonous arrow

Prologue

Spring of 613 a.V. (after Vangulen)

She still could see it. A picture so vivid in her mind that made her tremble with fear. The sounds, the howling and screaming, her own cries of terror. The full moon, illuminating the gloomy grass of the back garden, filling it with hazy, silver beams of moonlight. The red blood, the vacant stare. Her face.

These past three months had been a nightmare. Each time she closed her eyes, each time she let the darkness cloak around her, all the images came back again. Every single feeling and sensation. She could barely sleep, hardly eat. The food, once a delicious piece of meat melting in her mouth, full of spices and flavour, was now a hard slice of bark as tasteful as ashes. It was normal, she told herself every time she felt like dying, the pain so intense it didn't let her breathe. Not even four months had gone by since it all had happened. Not enough time to get better, to start healing. Sometimes she wondered if she would ever recover from the grief, the sorrow. She doubted it.

Her father, despite trying hard to hide it, was devastated too. She could see it in the way his shoulders sank when he thought nobody was watching, the forced smiles, the mournful quietness that surrounded the house. The deep bags under his eyes. He wasn't resting well either.

He was busier than ever too. Lost in the woods for days, hunting and grieving alone. Of course, he didn't share any of those feelings with her, but Lyssaria knew her father well enough to guess that his bow and arrows, the silence of the forest and the embrace of the tree's foliage, were the only comfort he could find, the sole way of letting go of the pain and suffering for a few moments.

Nevertheless, in spite of his burning anguish, he still managed to find time for his only daughter, the joy of his life. She was so small, so young, yet so strong for a thirteen year old girl. He didn't know how she was capable of holding up, enduring incidents that none child nor adult should ever have to face. Even so, she had survived. He had promised himself to never let her experience an agony like that ever again.

He hadn't allowed himself to think that maybe that wasn't up to him.

***

Peace. Calmness. The meadow was immersed in quietude, the singing of the birds the only sound in the grassland, the scent of cowslips —faintly fruity and dill-like— dragged by the wind. The blazing midday sun was so bright that forced Lyssaria to squint her eyes. Such a calm place compared to her agitated inner. A cloudless blue sky returned her gaze from where she laid down in the fur blanket, its rich brown color a deep contrast to the green, high grass and the yellow petals of the cowslips. Her aunt was kneeling beside her, occupied pulling out the delicacies they had brought from the village. If only Lyssaria was able to stomach any of her aunt's desserts. Those she used to love so much.

The fresh breeze provided a respite from the unusual and burning heat of May. A sweet caress in her sweaty skin. The chip of the sparrows became louder, the smell of flowers and pine stronger. More intense. Lyssaria closed her eyes, overwhelmed. Such a beautiful day. A day so perfect that it wasn't fair. Not when her life had become hell.

A mistake. Closing her eyes had been a mistake. The blackness swallowed her up. Her high-pitched yells echoed in her ears again. Gleaming orange eyes were staring at her once more, full of hunger and malice. A glint of cruel and death promise in their pupils. Her heart started racing, her body trembling. She opened her eyes abruptly and sat on the blanket grabbing her knees, disorientated for an instance. Her hazel eyes filled in the serene landscape around her. The rolling green hills in front of her, the mysterious forest of Half on the left. She couldn't breathe, couldn't move. The heat was too much, the memories too unbearable. She was dead, gone forever, and Lyssaria couldn't stand it, couldn't accept it. She tried to inhale and exhale like her father had taught her. Tried and failed. Hot and salty tears rolled down her cheeks, the meadow now a blur in front of her.

In and out. In and out. The phrase became a prayer in her mind. A steady rock in the middle of the tempest. In and out. In and out. Howls, howls, so many howlings...

"Breathe, honey, breathe". Suddenly, Lyssaria felt a hand on her back. A calloused and comforting contact that bit by bit brought her back to reality.

"It doesn't leave", Lyssaria managed to stammer, her hands still shaking. The distress, the flashes, the demons, she wanted to add, unsuccessfully.

"I know, sweetheart", Margaret whispered, stroking her back softly. The glow in her aunt's eyes, her hazel eyes, told her that she indeed understood. That she was suffering too, also hunted by ghosts, even though she didn't show it often. Not when someone had to remain strong to prevent them from being hauled by a wave of melancholy and despair that would sink them forever.

Her aunt dragged her closer to her chest, her warmth welcoming despite the heat. With the other hand she started caressing Lyssaria's light brown hair, the girl sobbing and weeping meanwhile, attempting to shut down the noises and colors of her memories. Searching for peace in the flowered, round hills she could discern behind the protection of her aunt's body.

All of a sudden, a figure appeared in her field of vision. Lyssaria, out of the corner of her eye, observed her father walking fast, coming from the forest, carrying a big bag on his back. She opened her mouth to ask, but her aunt's response came faster. "He is just hawling away some preys for clients", she said lightly. But Lyssaria noticed her face had paled, her eyes widened. She decided not to push the matter, even though she could glimpse the lie in her aunt's words.

Instead of turning left, in the direction of the village, her father forged ahead south, towards the river Tug, the natural border between the lands of Half and the desert of Kahar. Yet again, Lyssaria chose not to look further into it. There had to be a good reason if both her aunt and father were behaving so strangely. She moved away from her aunt in slow motion, wiping away her tears with the sleeve of her cotton shirt. Her aunt picked up the flower decorating her hair, a white lily, squashed after the hug. The woman started to fix it, not really staring at the blossom, her mind far away from there.

"Alright, Lys", she said with an unnatural cherish tone a few seconds after, placing the bloom on her hair once again. Then, she squeezed her shoulders with affection. "Want some blueberry cupcakes?" she inquired, her smile wobbly. Still, Lyssaria perceived her aunt's efforts behind her forced good mood. The attempt of spending a nice picnic day in the meadow. Of pretending nothing was wrong. The desire to forget and feign there was still happiness and hope in the world. So she decided to play along. For her aunt. And for her. For any slight chance of a future free of nightmares.

She smiled faintly, grabbed the purple cupcake her aunt was extending to her and took a small bite. The sweet taste of the blueberries exploded in her mouth. And somehow that taste, along with the pleasant sunlight, the flower scented gusts of wind and the babble of her aunt, made her feel that the abyss inside of her wasn't as deep and endless as before.

Somehow, she dared to hope one day she would be able to laugh again.