31st of Winter, 513 AV
Traveler's Row - Sigrun's Apartment
All that was left of the morning hung upon the floorboards and the bedsheets that the faint sunlight had managed to touch. A subtle measure of heat permeated from the wood and cotton, an effect that left a scent so commonplace that Sigrun registered none of it. She smacked her lips and sighed softly, eyelashes brushing against her flattened pillow as her legs rubbed against the stiff mattress, searching for more warmth. But the winter air scolded her, it's influence leaking through her window, reminding her that fall was finally over. A slow wagging tail patted against a cold, bare leg, and a wet snout pressed itself upon a rising and falling stomach.
A series of images, memories, sights and sounds propagated behind the young woman's eyelids, producing a performance unlike any other. Dreams, after all, had become her defense against the empty days that pervaded every season past Spring. Things happened. People happened. Her only escape from the truth was sleep.
Sleep. Every afternoon upon rousing she would tell herself it was a comfort and not a sickening escape, a comfort that soothed the regression she experienced in the early Summer, when the past returned to haunt her.
"I thought it was going be just the two of us," she thought she had said on one occasion, whilst working at the Flower Stand with Atta Sabot. All Atta had done was pat her on the back and smile sweetly. It was never enough for her. Through the years all Sigrun had had before the old woman was Snowe, and while he became every reason for her to continue on living, he was never quite enough.
And that truth was never clear to her until she received that little red poppy from the kindly old woman whose silver hair and characteristic wrinkles made her hope to be seeing an image of her aged mother, all worn out from raising children, looking triumphant to have seen her grown up so well. So well, she had hoped, so well, she had thought. Even with the encouragement of Atta, Sigrun was left with a void where her mother's validation was meant to lie in. Upon coming home after receiving that flower, Sigrun found herself speaking to Snowe and finding slight frustration in hearing no response.
"It's just you and me against the world," she had told him, while he was young and strong and her eyes were still raw from the tears wrought from countless losses and deaths. He was all that was left of the only world she knew; a family that, in spite of all its kinks, was the reason she yearned and thirsted for both knowledge and adventure, for life in its purest essence.
She could feel it drain out of her with every day she cared for her sickly brother. It dripped every single time she found herself too tired or too busy to meet with Francis, to even hold a conversation with him. It spilled every time she gazed upon their flimsy cot and remembered: her father was not coming home, and her mother was never again going to breathe. Briefly her mind recalls the night they had fought, and the rain that had nearly smashed her roof to shreds drowning out the screams and eventually, the confession that she had no idea how to accept. It was all too distant to even reimagine in color.
Snowe yawned, his paws stretching upward until they pressed against Sigrun's bosom. The young woman grumbled and pulled herself away slightly until the Inganu had to adjust himself in order to have his head resting upon her lap again, his hind legs splayed alongside her bent knees. She was so used to having him sleeping next to her that most of his jerks and movements did nothing to wake her.
Memories fade after a couple a bit of a while, and then disappear completely into the headspace of forget after a year or so. But no memory escapes the iron grip of a woman who dwells.
"Today is the last day," of dwelling upon the past, of standing idle within the present. Sigrun told her unconscious self this as she sat upon a wooden chair alongside her brother, still living and breathing, still bright-eyed. Younger, less shaken, she watched silently the wake of her grandfather go by. Her cousin Dahlia spoke. Sigmund coughed.
She woke up to the unfamiliar sensation of moisture between her thighs.
Eyes wide open, the young woman looked down to see what she has expected from herself: blood. What she did not expect was see it coming from Snowe's mouth.
Today was the last day.
She moved after a beat. Nothing she saw before her registered as quickly as what would be expected. "Snowe?" it was a question, blurted in time with the Inganu's wet cough and soft whimper, in time with Sigrun's upwards jolt and frantic breathing. The old dog looked up weakly, eyes pleading for forgiveness. "I'm sorry, I have to leave too," he said silently.
Sigrun wiped the trickle of blood from the side of his chin. The canine inched closer until he was curled up on her lap, his head resting upon her hands, mirroring the first time she'd ever held him. His fur was nearly silver from age, and she has never noticed.
The tear came next. The sniffles. Snowe was still warm to the touch and yet Sigrun was freezing, shivering. "I'm sorry," she cried her words out. They fell like fluid. "I said it was just going to be you and me," she held him tighter, he looked towards her. After her regression it became her and no one else; it became months of internalization. All the care that she had made to feed him, take him out, sleep next to him, and simply be with him was not enough. She had become emotionally distant.
And then all at once she had been brought back to life, given more humanity, at the sight of losing her best friend.
"I'm sorry," she kept sobbing. It was time, not her own neglect, that was sending him off, but she felt responsible. She knew it; she knew it was no ailment, no complication; just his clock slowly ceasing to tick. She thought of all the time she had wasted being busy with old wounds that she didn't notice how much she had forgotten to smile for him, to say more, to do more than what was expected of her care. She had stopped noticing how much he had slowed down, how much he had aged over the years and how the past few months have been his turning point; she had simply forgotten his mortality.
"I'm so sorry."
Snowe blinked up at her, almost smilingly. "Nothing is your fault," she had hoped he had said, "It was a great adventure."
He was always immortal to her. Supernatural. Her hero.
Sigrun smiled. Snowe nuzzled into her chest. "Thank you," she said softly, her hand caressing his gray head, "for everything."
"I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you."
They wouldn't have been anywhere without each other. Sigrun gently rocked back and forth, cradling the canine as if he were a puppy once more. She held him tighter.
"You have no idea," her voice trembled. She herself trembled when she realized that all along it was the winter that chilled her, not simply the revelation that something alive was slipping away in her arms. She couldn't find the words to explain to him how much he meant to her how much the hours of having him close to her were the only solace she shared with her waking existence. Words were not her forte in this department.
But Snowe knew. She told herself that he knew. Every morning they had spent in their youth running, tiring each other out, laughing. Every afternoon by the pier, the smell of fish permeating throughout the salty air as they watched, gleefully, what they could of the fishermen, what they could of her father. Every evening drenched in the warmth of their hearth, and the cold evenings after her father had left, after her brother had perished, were the moments he'd helped her the most. They were the moments she'd loved him the most.
Snowe looked up at her one last time. "Thank you," he said with his eyes, seemingly, "for the joy, for the everything." The connection between a dog and his master needed few words. Sigrun smiled brightly. "I love you, Snowe, so much," she said steadily. The child in her returned, and with eyes streaming with tears she embraced him as their gazes finally broke away from one an other. "Please don't ever forget it."
Snowe closed his eyes. The tears continued to fall. The silence was heavy upon her shoulders. Her blood ran cold just as she felt him go limp in her arms.
Sigrun loosened her hold on the canine and watched him quietly, almost expecting him to wake up and look at her with an enthusiastic smile. All those days they had spent together ended all in one moment, one second. His chest did no rise and fall. He was gone.
The young blonde rose from the bed and frantically put on her clothing. The tears came at full force then, causing her to cry loudly amidst putting on her belt and sheathed cutlass. Her blouse was quickly soiled as she tucked her dark pants into her boot. Turning away from her chair, Sigrun made for her coat by the table but stalled for a moment to watch Snowe's lifeless form by the bed. Her hand raked across the thick fabric of her coat, picking it up slowly as she maintained her gaze. With enough effort it was easy to imagine that the Inganu was merely sleeping, the faint white light from the window giving life and highlight to his pale fur. She walked over to him slowly, finding reality in the stillness of his chest, of the silence by his nostrils upon the bedsheets.
Gone. Sigrun picked him up and held him close in her arms, cradling him like a child. After a brief pause, she gathered herself and made for the door. Outside she walked quickly, in a determined fashion, looking as if there was nothing to her situation, down into the Nettle District and then through the gates. A burial was in order. She ignored the bite of the cold and the early beginnings of snow.
Snow. She chuckled, finding irony in the situation. Snow was coming just as Snowe had left.
Once she was well out of the sight of the guards by the citadel gates she ran, sprinted, off towards the trees that introduced the edge of the Wildlands.
Gone.
Traveler's Row - Sigrun's Apartment
All that was left of the morning hung upon the floorboards and the bedsheets that the faint sunlight had managed to touch. A subtle measure of heat permeated from the wood and cotton, an effect that left a scent so commonplace that Sigrun registered none of it. She smacked her lips and sighed softly, eyelashes brushing against her flattened pillow as her legs rubbed against the stiff mattress, searching for more warmth. But the winter air scolded her, it's influence leaking through her window, reminding her that fall was finally over. A slow wagging tail patted against a cold, bare leg, and a wet snout pressed itself upon a rising and falling stomach.
A series of images, memories, sights and sounds propagated behind the young woman's eyelids, producing a performance unlike any other. Dreams, after all, had become her defense against the empty days that pervaded every season past Spring. Things happened. People happened. Her only escape from the truth was sleep.
Sleep. Every afternoon upon rousing she would tell herself it was a comfort and not a sickening escape, a comfort that soothed the regression she experienced in the early Summer, when the past returned to haunt her.
"I thought it was going be just the two of us," she thought she had said on one occasion, whilst working at the Flower Stand with Atta Sabot. All Atta had done was pat her on the back and smile sweetly. It was never enough for her. Through the years all Sigrun had had before the old woman was Snowe, and while he became every reason for her to continue on living, he was never quite enough.
And that truth was never clear to her until she received that little red poppy from the kindly old woman whose silver hair and characteristic wrinkles made her hope to be seeing an image of her aged mother, all worn out from raising children, looking triumphant to have seen her grown up so well. So well, she had hoped, so well, she had thought. Even with the encouragement of Atta, Sigrun was left with a void where her mother's validation was meant to lie in. Upon coming home after receiving that flower, Sigrun found herself speaking to Snowe and finding slight frustration in hearing no response.
"It's just you and me against the world," she had told him, while he was young and strong and her eyes were still raw from the tears wrought from countless losses and deaths. He was all that was left of the only world she knew; a family that, in spite of all its kinks, was the reason she yearned and thirsted for both knowledge and adventure, for life in its purest essence.
She could feel it drain out of her with every day she cared for her sickly brother. It dripped every single time she found herself too tired or too busy to meet with Francis, to even hold a conversation with him. It spilled every time she gazed upon their flimsy cot and remembered: her father was not coming home, and her mother was never again going to breathe. Briefly her mind recalls the night they had fought, and the rain that had nearly smashed her roof to shreds drowning out the screams and eventually, the confession that she had no idea how to accept. It was all too distant to even reimagine in color.
Snowe yawned, his paws stretching upward until they pressed against Sigrun's bosom. The young woman grumbled and pulled herself away slightly until the Inganu had to adjust himself in order to have his head resting upon her lap again, his hind legs splayed alongside her bent knees. She was so used to having him sleeping next to her that most of his jerks and movements did nothing to wake her.
Memories fade after a couple a bit of a while, and then disappear completely into the headspace of forget after a year or so. But no memory escapes the iron grip of a woman who dwells.
"Today is the last day," of dwelling upon the past, of standing idle within the present. Sigrun told her unconscious self this as she sat upon a wooden chair alongside her brother, still living and breathing, still bright-eyed. Younger, less shaken, she watched silently the wake of her grandfather go by. Her cousin Dahlia spoke. Sigmund coughed.
She woke up to the unfamiliar sensation of moisture between her thighs.
Eyes wide open, the young woman looked down to see what she has expected from herself: blood. What she did not expect was see it coming from Snowe's mouth.
Today was the last day.
She moved after a beat. Nothing she saw before her registered as quickly as what would be expected. "Snowe?" it was a question, blurted in time with the Inganu's wet cough and soft whimper, in time with Sigrun's upwards jolt and frantic breathing. The old dog looked up weakly, eyes pleading for forgiveness. "I'm sorry, I have to leave too," he said silently.
Sigrun wiped the trickle of blood from the side of his chin. The canine inched closer until he was curled up on her lap, his head resting upon her hands, mirroring the first time she'd ever held him. His fur was nearly silver from age, and she has never noticed.
The tear came next. The sniffles. Snowe was still warm to the touch and yet Sigrun was freezing, shivering. "I'm sorry," she cried her words out. They fell like fluid. "I said it was just going to be you and me," she held him tighter, he looked towards her. After her regression it became her and no one else; it became months of internalization. All the care that she had made to feed him, take him out, sleep next to him, and simply be with him was not enough. She had become emotionally distant.
And then all at once she had been brought back to life, given more humanity, at the sight of losing her best friend.
"I'm sorry," she kept sobbing. It was time, not her own neglect, that was sending him off, but she felt responsible. She knew it; she knew it was no ailment, no complication; just his clock slowly ceasing to tick. She thought of all the time she had wasted being busy with old wounds that she didn't notice how much she had forgotten to smile for him, to say more, to do more than what was expected of her care. She had stopped noticing how much he had slowed down, how much he had aged over the years and how the past few months have been his turning point; she had simply forgotten his mortality.
"I'm so sorry."
Snowe blinked up at her, almost smilingly. "Nothing is your fault," she had hoped he had said, "It was a great adventure."
He was always immortal to her. Supernatural. Her hero.
Sigrun smiled. Snowe nuzzled into her chest. "Thank you," she said softly, her hand caressing his gray head, "for everything."
"I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you."
They wouldn't have been anywhere without each other. Sigrun gently rocked back and forth, cradling the canine as if he were a puppy once more. She held him tighter.
"You have no idea," her voice trembled. She herself trembled when she realized that all along it was the winter that chilled her, not simply the revelation that something alive was slipping away in her arms. She couldn't find the words to explain to him how much he meant to her how much the hours of having him close to her were the only solace she shared with her waking existence. Words were not her forte in this department.
But Snowe knew. She told herself that he knew. Every morning they had spent in their youth running, tiring each other out, laughing. Every afternoon by the pier, the smell of fish permeating throughout the salty air as they watched, gleefully, what they could of the fishermen, what they could of her father. Every evening drenched in the warmth of their hearth, and the cold evenings after her father had left, after her brother had perished, were the moments he'd helped her the most. They were the moments she'd loved him the most.
Snowe looked up at her one last time. "Thank you," he said with his eyes, seemingly, "for the joy, for the everything." The connection between a dog and his master needed few words. Sigrun smiled brightly. "I love you, Snowe, so much," she said steadily. The child in her returned, and with eyes streaming with tears she embraced him as their gazes finally broke away from one an other. "Please don't ever forget it."
Snowe closed his eyes. The tears continued to fall. The silence was heavy upon her shoulders. Her blood ran cold just as she felt him go limp in her arms.
Sigrun loosened her hold on the canine and watched him quietly, almost expecting him to wake up and look at her with an enthusiastic smile. All those days they had spent together ended all in one moment, one second. His chest did no rise and fall. He was gone.
The young blonde rose from the bed and frantically put on her clothing. The tears came at full force then, causing her to cry loudly amidst putting on her belt and sheathed cutlass. Her blouse was quickly soiled as she tucked her dark pants into her boot. Turning away from her chair, Sigrun made for her coat by the table but stalled for a moment to watch Snowe's lifeless form by the bed. Her hand raked across the thick fabric of her coat, picking it up slowly as she maintained her gaze. With enough effort it was easy to imagine that the Inganu was merely sleeping, the faint white light from the window giving life and highlight to his pale fur. She walked over to him slowly, finding reality in the stillness of his chest, of the silence by his nostrils upon the bedsheets.
Gone. Sigrun picked him up and held him close in her arms, cradling him like a child. After a brief pause, she gathered herself and made for the door. Outside she walked quickly, in a determined fashion, looking as if there was nothing to her situation, down into the Nettle District and then through the gates. A burial was in order. She ignored the bite of the cold and the early beginnings of snow.
Snow. She chuckled, finding irony in the situation. Snow was coming just as Snowe had left.
Once she was well out of the sight of the guards by the citadel gates she ran, sprinted, off towards the trees that introduced the edge of the Wildlands.
Gone.
