By The Moon's Blade

4. Grasshaven, About One Year Ago

Two weeks. Two weeks since those violet eyes sparkled for the last time. Two weeks since we buried her body deep within the ground behind our home. Away from the morbid air of the forest, where her body can rest safely. Sometimes I feel her presence emanating from the soil. I have nightmares where she's fighting for air, buried alive, and suffocating. I wake up in a cold sweat and run out to the back, pressing my ear to the earth. When I'm greeted with nothing but silence, only then can I go back to my bed.

My father isn't taking things any better, and maybe perhaps worse than I have. His eyes are sunken and dark circles ring the skin below. I don't think he's slept more than two hours a night since her death. And I don't think he's spoken more than a couple of sentences since then either. He spends most of his time fishing or sitting next to the fire in the middle of our village, watching the flames dance around, likely wishing he could be engulfed by them. I have a feeling that I'm the only reason he's sticking around on this plane of existence.

The service, if you could call it that, was peaceful. It was my father, myself, and a couple of others gathered around the back of the shack. They helped dig the hole and slowly lowered her body in with long pieces of fabric. We did our best to keep her passing somewhat private, especially given the brutality with which she was attacked. But, her absence was noted quickly, and many members of the village began offering condolences in passing. Some even tried to bring food and gifts, which all felt... insignificant.

And as much as I appreciate the gesture, that's really all it was. And no amount of homemade stew or handmade tunics would bring my mother back. So we accepted the gifts with a hesitant smile and let them pile up in her chair, an unfortunate mound of goods that will likely never be used.

But, our saving grace through this time has been Maroka, Grasshaven's elder. She was one of the few that we wanted to attend my mother's service, one of the only ones we trust with this kind of information. She provided my father and I with a shoulder to cry on and a listening ear, even if we've never ended up actually talking.

The morning after her death, we went to visit with Maroka. We both came in, shell-shocked and very obviously sobbing. She made us tea and brought us to the garden behind her small white-slatted shack. We sat in wooden chairs and I looked upon the sprawling harvest ahead. Small flowers in various shades of pinks and purples were dotted between suncarrot fronds and biteroot blossoms. Maroka made sure the village was stocked with plenty of hearty fruits and vegetables, but did not forget the beauty of what nature could offer.

Maroka sat calmly in her chair, white hair braided back, her wrinkled hands folded in her lap over the grey folds of her dress. She would occasionally pick up her tea from the table and take a quiet sip. She did not press until we were ready. Eventually, my father told her an abridged version of what really happened. The story he told — that my mother was attacked and killed by a wild animal while exploring the forest — was not a lie. But my father and I both agreed that the village didn't need to know about the crystal.

We spent so much time in those chairs, rocking slowly in silence after our story was over and the tea was gone. I knew that the moment we left was the moment we'd have to face our new reality. So we soaked in the hazy light of morning and the warm afternoon sun before finally leaving, with plans to dig a hole.

—

I'm on my seventh hunt in as many days, crouched behind a large log, watching a lone hare pass by my line of sight. I silently draw back my bow and let an arrow loose, the twang of the bowstring echoing in my ears. My arrow connects with my target, now buried directly in its heart. It goes down swiftly and I run towards it, still crouching as I move.

Once I get to the hare, I find that it's already dead, swift and hopefully painless. Unfortunately, I can't help but feel the weight of death crushing down on my shoulders, as I think back to the claws that delivered the final blow to my mother. I see the pool of blood below the hare's body and feel a pang of nausea ripple through me.