The Wolf, The Doe and The Mage

The Mage

My boots dragged in the snow, leaving a trail of prints behind me. Inside them my feet clunked about, giving me blisters and making it difficult to walk. But I trudged on, scouring the undergrowth for the signature purple glow of the shining mushhroom. A bramble tendril caught on my boots and I fell, landing on the cold earth with a thud. I gazed in frustration at my feet. But the sight of my boots - his boots - made my heart warm with memory. I got up and continued on, pushing my goggles up and out of my face. I was quite far away from my house, near the base of the mountain, where the shinglewood grew thickest and sheltered the ground with its evergreen needles, and the leafless maple branches clattered and swayed overhead. The soft blue glow of dawn filtered through the clouds and bathed the land in its weak winter light. I breathed in the scent of needles and dew, and the air was cold and damp on my face. The sound of early rising birds and chilly wind filled me.
The snap of a twig echoed around the cliffs.
I stopped in my tracks and turned around in a heartbeat, staring at the bushes with one hand on the hilt of my hunting knife. A pair of deep golden eyes stared out of the undergrowth, the unmistakable gaze of a wolf. Before I had the change to do anything, the eyes vanished and the crunch of quick footsteps sounded as the wolf fled. I stared at the bush for a few seconds longer, pondering on the occurrence, before continuing on my search, my heart still pumping from the scare.

I closed the door behind me as I entered my house. I emptied my pockets of the few mushrooms I had managed to collect, sighing at the small collection.
"What did I expect?" I said aloud, "It's winter, after all."
A glint of light caught my eye. The picture frame. I walked over to it and gazed at it longingly. It was of me, Mum and Dad, all together. Dad had painted it; he was amazing at painting. I smiled as I remembered Mum telling him off for taking some of her herbs to make green paint. She couldn't be angry at him once she saw the piece though; it was so beautiful, so life-like. Her chestnut skin and dotted freckles, his long, luscious white hair and wide smile, my dark blue eyes and childish features, all perfectly echoing reality. I was so young, I thought. Only eight when the picture was painted, only eleven when they...
I blinked away the tears in my eyes and moved away. But my feet took me to their room, up the stairs and down the corridor to the place where they used to sleep. I gazed around the room, the bed covers still as they were, the mahogany drawers still neatly packed, with a layer of dust coating them. I pulled open the draw on my mother's side. There was two idems within: a dusty, brown book with the runic symbol for sky in dazzling silver on the front, and an auburn red ribbon. Both were my mother's. I handled the ribbon, running its slippery length through my fingers. I smiled as I remembered it whirling in the wind above her head in a neat bow. She always tied her hair into a little ponytail. She complained about how it was just too long for her to be able work effectively with it down, but short enough not to form a proper ponytail, instead just a little rabbit-tail of hair near the top of her head. I always though it suited her, that it completed her portrait. I replaced the ribbon, fighting back tears. I picked up the book and wiped the layer of dust that coated it's leather cover. I opened it and flicked through the book to page 49, my favourite page. I had read it nearly every day for three years, and knew the words almost off my heart. Within was my mother's handwriting; a diary entry from nearly four years ago. It read this:
Day thirteen of the Cold Season;
I went out to collect some herbs for my latest project - Aiken is looking after the little one - and I ran into a wandering doe. She seemed lost, and I was pitiful of her. I do love deer, don't you know. I blessed her with a spell of Grace, so that she forever was loved and forever ran swift through the forest. I know that she cannot be around forever, but I hope that her offspring will be there to continue on her legacy in her place. I hope that my child will continue my work once I'm gone; maybe she'll even read this very diary entry. If she does, I should tell her this: Rune, you are strong, powerful, and capable of continuing on my research and more. Do not get caught up in grief once I've left this world, remember that life and loss can live in harmony together. And, Rune, please, never forget me.
Love, Willow Gemi, your loving Mother and friend.
Tears rolled down my cheeks as I read the passage.
"Get it together, Rune." I spoke to myself, wiping the tears, "You should be over this by now."
But I wasn't. I would never be.

I gazed down at my boots; my Dad's boots. They didn't fit me - Mum had made them so they perfectly fit his feet. That didn't stop me from wearing them though, to remember him. Mum had taught me everything she knew about magecraft, but it wasnt enough. Three years. Three years since they had died, and ever since then I had been researching necromancy, the form of magic used to raise the dead. Scanning her old books for information of the subject, and when I was done with them, stealing from the library of the native village ten miles from here. I knew it was wrong, and I knew my parents wouldn't have wanted me to keep on grieving after so much time, but I just couldn't live without their presence. And I was nearly there, too - the knowledge at my fingertips, all the spells and potion recipes memorized. It was only experiance that I needed now.
But wait, I told myself. Wait until Spring comes. Then you are ready.
Then you can see them again.