Fyglia

III ~ Chill of Dawn

 

                    My eyelids opened. They flickered back and forth absorbing the sight of my surroundings. I slid upwards and placed a hand on my head, brushing the long, raven strands out from my face. For a moment, I had forgotten where I was, but once I met the sight of a white gown clinging from my shoulders, I remembered.

                      After what seemed like many days of traveling, I numbly walked through the thick blanket of snow that laid out for miles and miles. The sky was a royal blue and the sun did not rise. I began to consider the idea that I was between Nirvana and the world. And I was scared to death, for whoever had dwelled in this entity could never escape.

                  This is my punishment, I had told myself with clenched teeth. Those nights were cold and horrid, I felt truly trapped as I had during the winters of my treachery. Then, within the fortnight of my travels, the wind picked up and a short blizzard blew from all around. Once it died down, my feet felt grass instead of cold ice, with leaves sprouting between my toes.

                  I trudged on, my body weak and heavy, until I spotted a road that led me into this town. I had grown scared again. I had roamed where humans dwelled. Humans. Why would a Fyglia, a deity, a goddess, be afraid of mere humans?

                   Humans have the gift to exert their power through many ways, especially in their storytelling. They pass their stories down throughout their generations and thus the original stories become transformed by embellishment or continuation. I wondered if they had made me as atrocious as I was. I wondered if humans were as bitter as they were known to be. I remember thinking to myself as my teeth chattered, Would I be chased out from this town or even put to death?

                 Elongating my arms, I stretched and rose up from the small bed. The woman who took me in led me to this small room last night, changing me into this nightgown and feeding me something she called porridge. I remember the hot broth flowing down my throat and warming my frigid insides.

               The wooden floorboards beneath me creaked eerily as I tip-toed towards a looking glass that leaned on the wall in the corner of the room. I stared at my reflection. I met a frail girl, with sunken cheeks and dark bags under her brown eyes. Her collarbones stuck out so distinctly and made me wince. I turned to the side and she did as well, our long, black locks traveling down or backs. She looked parched and much paler and thinner than usual.

                 She skinned her teeth just as I had, revealing off-white colored teeth.

                 Turning away, I went to leave the small room to give the woman my thanks.                                                                                      

                 I entered a dark corridor with three doors leading to other rooms in the dwelling, but was attracted to the familiar smell of hot porridge. The whiffs of the potent smell of oats wafted into my nostrils. I headed to the end of the hallway where it came from and once I turned the corner I was greeted by a yellow glow of light.

                I descended down the stairs before me and followed the smell, inhaling and approached the door where the yellow glow of light resonated. Finding the handle, I flung the door open and walked in.

               Before me, a large man with a dirtied apron waltzed around the kitchen as he hummed, his back towards me. I watched as he grabbed the handles of a black cauldron and bent his knees as he slid it on the wood of a fireplace. The fire cackled as he pulled a spoon from within his apron and hummed as he dipped the spoon in the big pot.