Dance of the Will'o'wisp

With hope

May Collins' handwriting had always been to envy. It was italic and spiral and native and beautiful, something that looked so printed and carefully thought about. Bree had asked her mother once about how the writing was able to flow so smoothly, and her mother had replied with 'In tough times, one must take beauty in little things.'
Never had Bree found the print more beautiful than she did now. Aware of the prying eyes of her little brother, she ran her hand along the seal of the envelope before opening it with gentle fingers. Inside was a piece of cream paper, which Bree unfolded and set before her, nervously fidgeting with the corner.

'My dear children. If you are reading this, then it is too late for me. It may be also too late for your father. But it is not too late for you. You must be my eyes now, young ones, for I can not use my own, and you must be my heart, as mine no longer beats. You must trust me as you always have, and trust yourself, even though it may seem like an impossible thing to do. There is power in the world, greater than you and me, and there is power in us all, some more than others. These people, the ones who live in packs of men, the ones who camp in stations and eat takeaway food, are the best friends I have ever known. I trust them with you, and you must trust them now. I know you will not fail me. Fail us, myself and your father. Bree, you are the wisest girl I have ever know , and Birch will one day be just like you. Rowan is strange, and I know that you do not understand him just yet, but I know now that he is good in his heart, and if there is anyone left in the world for you to trust, it is him.
Father and I love you very much. I am sorry for everything.
I will see you again.
With gratitude for your life and hope for your future,
Mother.'

Bree stared at the letter for a long time, feeling her eyes burn with tears that would not fall, because falling was easy, and the easy way out was one that Bree never chose to take, because she always knew it would come hand in hand with dreadful consequences. Birch, beside her, was tugging at her sleeve, his voice high with excitement, clearly recognising his mothers handwriting, but all Bree could think about was her mother, with her beautiful brown hair and her eyes so filled with life and wonder, so gone from this world.
So gone.
There were eyes on her, she could sense them, dark, concerned eyes that belonged to Gwen, and curious but somber eyes that belonged to Harvey.
I trust them with you, and you must trust them now.
There is a sorrow in the world that no amount of healing can mend, and Bree knew that this was the dreaded sorrow, the grief that would never really go away, no matter how many times she told herself it would.
And Birch, her little brother. Would he mend? Would he come away from such sorrow with more courage than she could muster? Is grief like that easier on an infant?
The letter fell from her hands, drifting to the floor in silence, like the ghost of something that was no longer. There was a soft hum sounding in Bree Tellers ears, accompanied by the laughter of her mother, and the sound of her father's footsteps across the hallway, mixing together to make a noise of grief and fading into a mournful silence. Birch, realising something was wrong, darted to pick it up, and Bree couldn't help but think again that falling was easy, but the consequences would always be awful.
Without thinking, she took the letter gently from her brothers hands, watching his brow furrow with confusion through her blurred vision, and let the tears fall.
With gratitude for your life and hope for your future.

Bree read the letter to her brother.
                                 ~~~
Birch had not seemed to understand, at first, what the letter was about. He stood firmly, his black curls rumpled atop his head and his tiny eyebrows furrowing in the middle as Bree read on. His lips turned to the side, pinched in confusion, and when his sister finished, her fiddled with the hem of his shirt and looked at her pointedly.
"Did Papa write us a letter too?" Something in his voice made Bree look down at her feet and stifle a scream that she was sure was about to break through the barrier of strength she had built herself.
"No," she said. "Papa did not. He could not."
But how could you tell a boy barely more than a baby that his father was not coming home? That the spirals in the letter would be the last words he ever heard from his mother? There was no way. And there should not be a way, because it should never happen. How, she still did not know, but what she vowed to find herself to find out was just why it was they were taken from her, and to kill whoever had done it.
For now, she was to grieve.
How she would do that, she had no idea, but as realisation set in on the young boys face, and her arms reached out to wrap around his tiny body, her head nestling into his shoulder, she told herself that she would find a way to come from this tragic impossibility.
For Birch, and for her mother and father.
With hope.