THE DREAMER'S LAMENT

01. XVI

The temple's canals smelled saccharine, thick with the taste of honey laced with a hint of ice.

The girl looked up from the syrupy silver water that flowed through the narrow canals and spilled into a large moat, deep and wide enough to drown a person. Drawing a shaky breath, she crossed the wooden drawbridge, the heels of her leather boots clacking hollowly on the slab of oak.

She passed under the gateway, arched high in a webbing of white roses. The walls were pale-grey, like snow under a rolling cloud. Murals of clouds and idol-gods, stone-guardians and lidded-gazed maidens portrayed on the pillars made her fists clench. The incandescent lamps burned fulgent, despite dawn's fingers already grasping the edge of the world. A coterie of maundering vestals rushed past her, not noting how strange it was for a girl as young as her to wander in a church at first of daylight.

The praying hall was empty, save for a lithe figure in the middle of it all. He sat, legs folded beneath him, as his hands were raised in fervent prayer. The flickering candles scored scarlet into the darkness. The girl flicked her wrist in the direction of her shoes, and instantly, her footfalls fell in perfect silence. She did not break step, not as the pungent scent of snow bee blood burbling in small kindled pots washed her lungs as she crossed the threshold to the praying hall.

The girl did not come here to pray.

No, she did not need an idol to save her or to look after her.

The figure – the man – pivoted round in his place on the mat, abandoning his prayer to the god-idol Baduil. The shadows that swathed him were not on his side. He could not perceive who was approaching, so he wondered aloud, "Sister Anska?"

The girl shoved her hand forward. Porcelain and stone idols shattered to the floor, a million helpless little things, with no magic, no real power to piece them together. A loud thud. The crack of bones, the wheezing of breath.

The man was slammed into the wall.

The candles ignited brighter, illuminating the room, enough for both of them to see each other.

The man's face was of terror.

"You fractured my family to shards." Her voice cracked. Hoarse with tears. "Mama Annistyn, Papa Frigdan, Mama, Aunt Inaya... Uncle Jantzen."

Fire roared, reflected the rage and pain in her eyes. Recognition at the names held dear in her heart lit his wide-eyed stare; the man shuddered.

"It's your turn to suffer," spat Kodiak Snow.

Once upon a time...

His voice was soothing, despite the breaths that came difficult for him.

There was a bear cub, who lived in a wood where everything could evanesce to smoke and wind. Her family, was lost the same way, when they took a stroll for berries near the forest pool. The roar that was chased by a deathly hush, was not of thunder or of another predator. It was man-made, and it rang still in the air, ensnared by the claws of the wood.

His breath hitched at this part. Blood gurgled from his wound, and Kodiak was helpless, helpless, helpless.

The bear cub knew the settlement of the hunters who'd killed her family, so she prowled after it. The hunters were drinking kvas by the fire and roasted over its flames was the bear cub's little brother. Grief and fury rent through her; she attacked. Two men's blood dripped from her paws. One last living cowered against the tents. In the flames and in the blood, she saw nothing but her agony. But then she looked into the last hunter's eyes, shining tears, and saw not a bear, yet a human with murder in her stare. She staggered back, stunned. Forgive me, suddenly said the hunter. He extinguished the fire, and sliced his knife through the binds knotting her brother. Forgive me, he said again.

Uncle Jantzen coughed. His eyes began to dull and glass. And yet, his voice raspy and his breathing clipped, he continued.

The bear cub forgave him, not because the hunter freed her brother from binds, rather because she realized. Forgiveness was not an easy thing to give. The good could hate, and the good could kill. They all stood in a grey world. It was only a matter of hope – that people could change, could dream a better world.

Both human and bear buried their friends and family under a berry brush.

And then her uncle's fingers loosened from her hands.

Kodiak blinked the knife-edged tears from her eyes. Her hands trembled at her sides, resisting the urge to wipe her vision clear. She would not look so weak.

"You may be a holy man, but your heart is fleshed of hatred." She took in a deep, quivering breath. The dark fire in her heart quietened, so did the candles' burn soften. The horror melted from the monk's face.

All that was left in her was pain for those who did not see what she had seen. The bear and the hunter's story palpitated in her chest. "I cannot forgive what you have done, nor can I forget," she said earnestly. She knelt down. "But I do not feel any anger, for instead I feel sorry for you. That you had to live with hatred and fear in your heart. I am sorry for all the things you went through. I am sorry, and I hope you may be healed."

The wicks on the candles curled. Smoke wisped through the room. Darkness veiled the monk, and when he opened his eyes, the girl was gone, dawn had flushed the sky lambent, and everything seemed to have never been this brighter.