Dust

Carefully, Mila pulled the tray of petite bones from the coals. The heat seeped through the grimy rag she was using and singed her hands. The fire offered a gentle crackle of apology and continued to blanket the home in warm comfort, pushing the winter air back outside. She felt guilty that this luxury did not extend into the lowest recesses of her home. Yet she did not have time to bask in this apparent serenity. She had to finish her work with full haste. Bones were only brittle enough to grind while they were hot--the surface would harden again if left to cool.

There was no solace in making a living in Nartesk. Being so far north, Mila and her son, Rodik, were isolated by its forest and an endless winter. Nature only permitted a few months where the weather did not wander into the negatives. Now was the only time in which Nartesk's animals returned to the land or awoke from their prolonged slumber, if they woke at all. Animals she needed for the medicine.

For over thirty years, Mila hunted in these icy woods, creating the medicine from the pulverized bones of its animals. For a brief time, she and Rodik had peace. That is, until the plague arrived. Then Mila herself was hunted and pursued by the Reeves. Tranquility was stolen from her by the Kingdom's need for her medicine. Now, she only had her son and the constant fear.

They are near

Mila caught sight of the etched warning, white against her brick wall, and felt a stabbing pain in her chest. "Shit, shit," she swore under her breath, trying to remain calm. She brushed the stray strands of chestnut hair out of her face and deposited the tiny bones into her bowl. Taking the pestle in hand, she frantically committed herself to grinding the small traces of bone that were left. The medicine had to be completed before the Reeves returned. With uncertain yet rigid arrangements, a member of the Reeves would be on its way to plunder away whatever medicine she could procure.

She imposed her will and concentration onto the fine particles that collected in the bottom of the mortar. Akin to a wand, her life flowed through her into the fine powder. Her vision darkened in the corners and she felt herself hollow out from the inside, the effort constricting her already frail frame. Her hands mirrored her body as the skin shriveled and shrunk. She was expiring. Despite the heat, Mila began to feel her skin prickle, but she did not risk abandoning her work to don clothes. When creating the medicine, she always did without to ensure that as much of herself traveled through the pestle and into the crushed bone dust.

A sharp, scraping noise startled Mila and broke her concentration. Knowing what it was, she tried her best to avoid looking at anything besides her work. This is ridiculous, she resolved. She would not be made a prisoner in her own home. With determination, her gaze ventured over to the wall and she gasped. What had once been one small sentence had now escalated to a collage of words. They were heavily chiseled into the brick, leaving dusty imprints of the same warning.

They are near They are near They are near

They are near They are near

They are near They are nearing...

Mila screeched in frustration and hurled her pestle at the wall in defiance. The instrument bounced back with a tiny cloud of dust and clamored to the floor. When the messages first started to appear, she thought it was the Reeves that sent them to her. But all too often, the Reeves seemed to take delight in catching her off guard. The warnings were of little help anyway. When are they coming? She demanded, though she knew she would not receive an answer.

Collecting her nerves, she carefully crept to the wall and snatched the pestle back. She scurried back to her table and returned to her work. Again, she stared down at the miniscule amount of dust at the bottom of the mortar. I do not have enough, she finally accepted. No amount of will could manifest more bones. Frustrated, she wiped away the silent tears that had begun streaming down her face.