"Grief wasn't painted with one color. It came in many different shades."
There had been great fog the day her father passed. A crisp and cool morning, with the sun just shedding its first light. It had been his favorite type of a day. He left behind a little cottage and a hollow tree.
When it happened, her Father had been lying on his cot, the mattress freshly stuffed with straw. Her mother never left her husband's and Satele was left with the responsibility of tending to their homestead. It was a major contrast to the traveling she had done for the past six years. Then her main concern had been training and lessons of the her people. Now it was comforting her grieving mother. Despite being agitated with the change, Satele had not complained once. She never was one to do so. Time had passed all to quickly before she heard an inhuman scream, a sound of terror that erupted from her mother's throat.
In an instant, she was at her father's bedside. The man, weak as he was, held his daughter's hand. He was pale and gaunt, murmuring words they could no longer comprehend. It was so different from the broad shouldered man who used to speak of the stars. Novak had taken his last breath.
Satele no longer had a father.
Part of her had died with himZ She would never admit it, but she did not know how to grieve. Her mother had wept for hours. Satele simply felt empty.
Satele prepared the grave, digging for twelve hours. In this time, she did not stop. The work was a distraction and she ignored the world around her. The only thing she focused on was the shovel. Each time it dipped into the earth was a step closer to admitting it was real. So she worked slowly, but efficiently. Her hands had bled, but she felt no pain. Only anger and loss.
After the moon rose and the air chilled, her mother forced her to come inside. She insisted Satele needed sleep and the work could continue in the morning. The dead couldn't walk.
But Satele did not sleep, she remained empty. Her thoughts occupied her time. She stared blankly into the darkness. Her cot felt hard against her back, like sleeping on stone; and it was far too quiet without her father's heavy breathing. Her room was at the opposite end of their cottage. Still she had been able hear it. But it was not longer there, only quietness. It wasn't long before the silence became deafening.
For one who enjoyed solitude, Satele found that she hated this silence. She was up in an instant. And she took her father's Hatchet and made way to the plot of land behind their house.
There an old hollow tree stood. It had been the castle of her youth. Her father would rest beneath it after a long day's work. He'd read to her as a child. It was there she first picked up a sword. The weapon had nearly been as large as she, a small girl at the time. Those days felt as if they were a lifetime ago.
She stood beneath it now, feet bare and eyes void of emotion. Novak's body lied on the cot where he had perished the previous morning. Yet, the tree still stood. Her father had died and the moon still rose. The birds still flew and the neighbors went on. The world had not spared a glance for her father.
Novak had bled for the innocent, fought for noble houses, fought off rapists and thieves. He had protected those who would never care to remember his name.
Satele's grip tightened on the handle of the hatchet, knuckles white with anger. She swung at the trunk. The blade cut into the wood with ease. Red flashed in her eyes and she repeated the motion. Over and over.
Her anger intensified with each swing. Chips of wood flew as she reeled the hatchet. The tree began to sway, losing its balance as the trunk was ebbed away. It felt as if she lost sense of what she was doing. At that moment, Satele did not feel human. Her movements become stronger and senseless. She pictured that tree to be death; a villain who stole the person dearest to her heart.
And she swung again—over and over.
The tree swayed once, losing the support that kept it grounded.
It hit the ground in a cloud of dust. Satele stared at it, her anger fading. The hatchet hung limply in her hand. Realization of what she had done set in. The harrowing emptiness she felt was replaced with sorrow.
She no longer had a mother.
Her mother awoke from the noise. She ran from the house to find Satele fall to her knees. The woman said nothing, understanding her daughter in the way only she could. Feyre went forth and wrapped her arms around Satele. She squeezed her eyes shut, a singling tear rolling down her cheek. And buried her head in the crook of her motherMs arm. They stayed like that until morning.
Satele did not know who let go first, only that the both of them stood. Her mother led her back into their cottage. She warmed the kettle, preparing a warm broth. She sat at the table and did not utter a word. Feyre offered the idea of using the wood from the tree to build a coffin. She spoke of the incoming harvest and the supplies they'd need to prepare for the colder months. But She did not mention Satele's actions.
After the two had eaten, Satele returned to her room. Sleep finally took her as exhaustion set in. It had been a dreamless slumber, quick and thorough. While she slept, a neighbor had come to express grievances. Her mother greeted them with a tight lipped smile. Others had come as well, offering empty words of comfort.
Satele awoke and returned to digging without a thought. She finished the hole by nightfall. Feyre had taken to preparing Novak's body. It was swaddled in old pelts, covered with certain oils to help with preservation.
They had buried Novak six days after his death.
In the months to come, others had caught wind of his death and grew interested in the land that her mother now controlled. There were offers to purchase it and she rejected every one. People saw opportunity for farming land. Feyre saw all he had left of a life now gone.
Satele saw nothing. She had been brought there by the old hollow tree, but it was gone and so was she.
She was gone.
There had been great fog the day she left. A crisp and cool morning, with the sun just shedding its first light. It had been her least favorite type of day. She left behind a little cottage and an unmarked grave.
