Kharris Dawndancer-Blacksong

That Time of Year

The sky was clear blue and the clouds were sailing across the sky. She watched them for hours while the biting scent of the pines filled her lungs and the grass cushioned her rest. There was smoke coming from the cabin nearby; Asarel was cooking for supper and giving her space. Kieran and Coire were out hunting.

She'd been here, like every year, tasting the Hinterlands and letting herself feel things she didn't let out except at this time of year.  This year she'd brought him a small bow and a quiver of arrows, along with the other offerings. Rowan would have been eleven years old, tomorrow. There were a burst of poppies to cut the smell of sap and bring some color to the hilltop. But every year it was the same, the wet-stone smell of the grave marker stayed with her, no matter what perfumes or oils or flowers she brought. It was the smell of desolation. It was the scent that brought grief and that deep hollowness of spirit. Sometimes, she thought she heard the far off echo of a voice, sure it wasn't Asarel and knowing it wasn't Kieran. The siren song of the voice made her shiver and she turned over, shutting her eyes and laying her head on her arms. Rowan would have had his father's voice, she was sure of it. The cadences and pitch recalled young Iloam. She wasn't sure if it was something her mind was fabricating from the threads of memory, or if Rowan's spirit had come close enough. It wasn't comfortable, but when was motherhood ever comfortable?

It had been jarring, arriving in the Hinterlands, and presenting face to the Howling Owl's festival. Seeing Aelberyn and later Iloam, playful and supportive of Saeil, of course. She had hoped she seemed pleasant and warm enough to Saeil; he didn't know. But Kharris knew where she was going, after the party. Knowing had kept her out later than she'd meant. She had wanted to give her greetings and then quietly leave before the melancholy made her masks slip. But her feet had kept carrying her farther away. She had taken the distraction. Yet, even distracted with music and crowds, Kharris had been emotionally exhausted when she'd left. The bard she'd sat with in the performances had been nice again, but when he left, she decided she couldn't put it off any longer. Her heart wasn't in the dance, for once. She had needed to leave.

So here she was, mourning her son, deep in the forests of the Hinterlands where her soul was quiet but anguished. She would stay here, until Asarel or Kieran convinced her to come inside.