A Faithful Memory

What the Guide Sees

Far to the north, where the snows fell continuously all year, stood a castle inhabited by a solitary woman. She wandered the halls and visited the library, cooked small meals for herself and kept house in the few rooms she actually occupied; the rest were falling into dilapidation. Often she wished there was any spet of company, but the only person who knew anything about her was the most capricious being inhabiting the skies, and he had no reason to help her.

Weeks, or was it months, ago she had watched him fly away after giving her news of the Angel of Death and his family. He had assured her of his watchfulness and of her coming role in the realigning of Death and Life. And now he was gone again. The woman wrapped her red cloak about her more securely, stepped to the window and pressed her palm to the glass, staring in the direction he had flown.

To fit her role, she must be prepared. Bo, who went by that name alone, quitted the window and returned into the shadows of her home. Slowly, she walked along carpeted passageways and staircases she usually left alone and came to the room where her preparations were to commence. In her tallest tower, in the topmost chamber, stood the bookshelves and cupboards containing the tomes and trinkets connecting Bo with the realm of death. She searched for a few moments, running her fingers past the spines of each book, until she came to one bound in yellow leather with red lettering. She pulled it out and went to the cupboard.

From here Bo took a crow's skull, a collection of feathers, a dusty bottle of thick, dark red liquid, and a whole stack of papers. These she spread on the rug covering the floor, and she sat down among them with the book in her hand, ready to begin. The wind outside subsided from a whistling wail to a barely audible muttering and moaning.

Bo opened the book. It was the first time she had ever done so, and she began the reading with interest. It told of the coming of the Angel, Philza, of his bond with the Lady Kristin, who presided over the passage between life and death. It told of the coming and creation of the Blood gods, of their downfall and their slaughter, until only one remained. The meeting between these two, the Angel and the surviving Blood god, was portrayed, as was their growing friendship. They were friends for a long, long time, through the arrival of Kristin in mortal form, through the birth of her son by Philza and the adoption of two others, the Enderman hybrid Ranboo and the avian child Kai. Kristin died and returned to her realm, and the children grew. They made friends with another family, and all was well.

But Technoblade, the Blood god, had his problems and they would never really leave him alone. So Bo read about how the Voices in his head began to awaken and provoke him to violence, about how he found a victim in the form of Quackity, a conniving duck hybrid child, who did harm to the family and sought to turn the son of Philza and Kristin against him. But Wilbur resisted the boy's words, and Technoblade got his vengeance, afterwards disappearing into the very snows she now lived in.

Bo put the book down. The writings ended here, for no more had happened. In order to embrace her role, now she must see what would come next. So she began her ritual.

The bird feathers were spread all about her, the crow's skull in front of her with its beak facing the cold north. One of the feathers was a quill, and this Bo took up. She uncorked the bottle of liquid and placed the quill inside. The pages went on her lap and all was complete. Bo closed her eyes, letting out a slow breath. She had to let this next bit take its time.

For a while, all she heard was the sound of her own breathing and the wind swirling about the walls outside her castle. She focused on the smells of dust and old paper, on thickened blood and the sharp scent of cold stone. Gradually, the sounds and smells began to blend into a new sense, one holding both qualities in it. Bo did not move a muscle. The rumbling in her ears smelled like fresh-dug dirt, the smell of freshly spilled blood sounded like a cry of pain.