Her breath comes in ragged gasps as magma heats up in small fireballs at her fingertips. She can't keep this up much longer, and Arian's wind has faded to a slight breeze that won't even lift up the ends of her hair. And then she hears something, small and quiet over the sounds Arian's breeze is making. Frowning, she gestures for him to stop, putting her finger to her lips. He either doesn't see her or isn't listening.
Frustrated, she summons up one last stream of water, which she sends at his hands. "Arian! Stop!" She yells, and the pitiful breeze ceases.
Now that it's quieter, she can hear the chanting. It sounds like the Old Language, but none of the adults can speak nor move. Confused, Nimue looks down the line of children, oldest to youngest. Surely it is one of the older ones. A young one is not capable of such magic and mastery of the Old Language.
But none are moving their mouths. Her gaze continues, until she reaches the end of the line. She almost turns back, but then she sees it. Freya's eyes are closed, her shackled hands up to the sky. But that's not what stuns her. The three year old's mouth is moving, her little voice speaking to the heavens. Nimue's own eyes close, reciting the words along with her. She knows what the girl is doing, but why and how is beyond her.
Isleh-he manishcal. Isleh-he manishcal
Hibei itli achtuensee
Maurish maurish en ta she ke
Isleh-he manishcal. Isleh-he manishcal
Menah tue lae
Here Nimue pauses. Who is Freya calling? And then it dawns on her, and she feels as if she could rush over and hug Freya right now, only she doesn't want to mess things up before they happen.
"CIRCE!" Freya yells, wind strong enough to pick Nimue up and carry her across the country spewing from her fingertips.
YOU ARE READING
Water and Wind
FantasyEvery year, in the old log cabin in the heart of the woods, a face appears at the window. A haunted face, illuminated by the light of the moon with the backdrop of the dark forest. It is the same story each year, the same cabin, woman, circumstances...
