HBHM (hiatus)

seventeen

i don't remember the tears; i only remember the pain

| de' dea gil

The chilly wind tickled her ankles and wrists, and Evarose balled her hands into fists as they passed by a landscape of dying trees: branches thin as bones, trucks gray and brittle, leaves fading into a lifeless shade of yellow or orange with black spots.

It had been a while since she’d experience the start of harsh winds, cold death and bitter nature, but all she could focus on was what it meant. Each day it got colder and darker—and each day time was ticking away.

Behind her, Aselia leaned on Casimir, her cheeks pressed against his shoulder blades, her arms around his waist. The prince himself could hardly care; with eyes half shut, Silver’s reins loosely tangled between his fingers, he looked ready to fall off the saddle. Leroy was much more attentive, enjoying the scenery, though he did look slightly bored.

Well, Evarose though, amused, at least they aren’t awake enough to start counting the trees and hills and rocks.

And yet, it was sort of funny, actually. She never even knew these people weeks ago—wouldn’t even dare to approach them—and now they were going to be in each other’s company for the next few weeks. She wouldn’t deny that she hadn’t imagined herself on this journey at all, but for some strange reason she wouldn’t take it back.

Maybe they were starting to grow on her.

She turned back to the trail, a sudden sense of dread seeping into her blood. She knew the landscape well; she’d visited the village once. A large mob of angry men and women chased her out; they didn’t take too kindly with bloody, destructive strangers.

At the moment she wasn’t as bloody or as destructive as she had been, but it still terrified her at the thought that those villagers would recognize her.

Her eyes caught sight of a boulder in the shape of a peach, curved but not completely round. This was the landmark of the town, and it symbolized something sinister in a way that felt familiar, recognizable, but Evarose could not quite remember what it was, exactly. The trees shrunk and thinned to reveal a small village, its colors so dull that it matched the leaves and the ground.

Evarose bowed her head, letting her hood fall to hide her face. She felt calmer—safer—like that.

The village was rather miserable, as if it’d been born silent with sorrow and the people who lived in it carried the same fate. The houses were empty, since most of the villagers had gathered in the square in a crowd of black veils and murmured prayers.

They jerked their heads up when the horses neighed softly, miserable, accusing eyes watching them. Evarose took in a sharp breath, avoiding their gazes as she climbed off Frostila. Leroy followed after her, and together they approached them.

One of them—the villager who had taken the girl’s body—spoke something to the crowd, strange syllables of another language slurring into an accented voice. It sent tingles all over Evarose’s skin, though that mostly had to do with the easy translation that came to her.

When she realized that it wasn’t her, a creepy, unshakeable feeling followed after. And it didn’t help that all of them were focused solely on her, burning through her skin.

Then, from the side, separated from the crowd was a woman. She took a step forward, well in her late twenties but skin rough and spotted like an old woman, like something was eating her from the inside. Her face was miserable, hair pulled back, red eyes rimmed with sad, sad tears. Her petite hands shook over her chest, and she pressed her lips firmly.