Aurotone

I

"You do know we cannot let anyone find out."
"Of course."
"Seriously. Secrecy is of upmost importance."
"Stop using big words, I understand."
"If they were to ever discover this- well - you know the danger we are already in."
"Yes, I do. Now calm down and keep digging. We'll have much bigger problems if someone finds the body."

FOUR WEEKS BEFORE AURATONE

Ingrid Atonam is alone. She enjoys these simple moments of solace, kept away from the township. Staring straight up she can see the bright blue sky dotted with scarce clouds. Their formations are ever-changing. She takes refuge in their variety and differentiations. One second they are shaped like a pot and the next, a cat. They are wild and unpredictable.
She prefers the meadow because of its solitude. As far as she's aware, no one else knows of its existence. Tucked away in a dark corner of the Forever Woods lay this bright splash of colour. A good piece of land occupied only by wild flowers.
Ingrid tries to come here daily, even if for just a minute. She supposes it is her own form of meditation; an output for all of the uncertainty the town is facing. The taxes have risen and Ingrid's mother was already struggling.
She tries not to think of it.
The meadow means relaxation, not contemplation.
Ingrids hair is flayed about on the ground, spiralling off into the mass of flowers. Her back feels the soft dirt beneath it. She takes notice to her breaths, the gentle rise and fall of her stomach. In. Out.
Birds rest peacefully on nearby trees. Some chirp but most remain quiet. Ingrid likes it that way. She feels lucky to be one of the only human beings granted permission to observe silent birds. When she's in the village she always hears a chirp before she sees a bird. But here, she finds her eyes straining to find a creature resting in its nest.
"Suppose I should trek to the next town, Mother?" Ingrid had asked the night before.
Ingrids mother had become rather quiet of late. She preferred to be seen as a kept woman even though Ingrids father had been dead longer than Ingrid had been alive. The village had accepted her mothers grief and suitors had respected her decision to remain single. Yet Ingrids mother was still judged.
By Ingrid.
"No, my precious," her mother had replied, "an unwed woman should be privy to her own househome. We will uncover a way to save the hut, do not fret."
Ingrid had snorted and left to her room before an argument could start.
She tried not to think about it.
The garden was for relaxing.
She let her eyes slowly close.

"INGRID! HELP ME!"
She looks around her. The fire engulfs the house, flames consuming every ounce of normality. His whole house. His entire life. His children.
Ingrid is kneeling in front of the fire place: the epicentre of the inferno. She can feel the flames teasingly lick at her face. Her kneecaps are hot, she thinks they might be melting off but she doesn't want to look down. She doesn't want to take her eyes off of-
The wall behind her crumbles. The house is falling apart.
"INGRID! PLEASE, SAVE ME!"
He's almost louder than the fire. The roar of the flame does almost nothing to drown him out.
"INGRID! PLEASE!"
Ingrids eyes drift off. She allows herself to just feel the heat. Revel in it. Should she run? Should she try to escape?
No.
She can control herself. She can save herself. She needs to relax.
The garden is a good place for relaxation.
The garden...

Ingrid opens her eyes.
The birds aren't chirping.
The sun is gone.
The meadow is gone.
She's standing in Town Square, the light of the moon illuminating the buildings. These 'black-outs' have been happening more regularly. Are the premonitions? Her mother used to tell her stories of how her grandmother was a witch. Burned at the stake for her 'crimes'. Ingrid chalks it up to her being too smart for her own good: smarter than the men, dare she say. Women used to get trialed for anything concerning brains. Brains were designed for men. That's the story. Nowadays, burnings are more scarce.
The question remains; is Ingrid psychic?
Who is crying out to her?
Whose house is burning?
Why isn't she running?
She can still feel the heat against her knees and her legs are cramped up like she has been kneeling.
Perhaps she's gone crazy. Perhaps she's turning into her mother. Gods forbid she turns into her mother.
The town is empty.
Ingrid takes note of how peaceful and quiete the Square is. In almost a months time these streets will be full of dancing, music, drinking and visitors. Auratone is the highlight of the year and Ingrids younger sister has almost finished sewing Ingrids dress.
Ingrid relishes the quiet.
Then she leaves for her house.

^

Elliot Fredrickh grabs two lemons.
"Ah, my boy, something sour you desire?" Shopkeeper Yidel asks.
"It's a roasted hen tonight," Elliot replies.
Shopkeeper Yidel smiles fondly at the young boy; "A celebration, I assume?"
Elliot pushes a lock of his mud brown hair out of his ocean blue eyes.
"Yessir," he answers, "my youngest brother - Soîr - turns from a tyke into a boy. He's five today."
"Ah! Joy to you and your family!" Yidel quickly reaches for an empty crate and makes quick work of filling it with strawberries.
"Joy to you and yours," Elliot replies. "Father was adamant to keep celebrations less so, but Mother insisted."
Yidel handed Elliot the box; "A gift," he explained, "for youngster Soîr. Blessed be and praises upon you."
"Sir Yidel," Elliot begins, "Preacher is not here. There is no need for so many formalities. But thank you and peace be with you on this day."
"MY BOY! Your brother becomes a man on this fine day! I expect your young girlfriend to join in the celebrations?"
Elliot smiles.
"No no," he says, "Ingrid is busy: she has her own household to take care of."
Yidel laughs.
"What of your best friend?" Yidel asks, returning his gaze to the fruit in front of him. His hand slides over a green apple and he picks it up; biting into it intensely.
Elliot shifts uncomfortably at the topic.
"Wyatt is busy, unfortunately." Elliot answers.
Yidel swallows his apple: "Shame. Whats he doing?"
"He's gone to the next village over," Elliot starts, "his family are searching for some rare item. Regarding Aurotone."
"Well, I'll miss seeing him around. You two are always so lovely to watch. Your childhood shenanigans remind me of how me and the man you call Preacher used ta' sneak about, making mischief for ourselves. You two differ in that you are pleasant to be around."
Elliot grabs his things.
"Thank you, for that...in-depth analysis." He reaches into his pocket. "How much do I owe you?"
"For Master Soîr," Yidel encourages, "I won't take a penny from you on such a joyous occasion."

TWO WEEKS AFTER AURATONE

"There's a body," the Preacher calls out towards the restless crowd, "a dead body."