Bold charcoal lines slithered across the canvas of the huntress's blue gaze. Her fingers dipped into the inky mixture, then ran thick, twin nocturnal serpents under her blackberry-stained bottom lip and down her chin. Her framed eyes glinted with raw focus as she worked, fully immersed in the ancient custom meant to intensify deep forest vision, connecting her to the fire that bore the dark origin of this war paint and to the fierce spirit of the hunt.

The northern forest air hung heavy on her senses. Winter’s Daughter felt the towering pines sway ominously over her smoldering fire; every elder bole, limb and root preparing for the foretold century storm that would test their resolve. Her instincts screamed at her as she felt time condensing on the eve of a storm, urging her to move swiftly.

Locked between her prey – who had a two-day start heading northwest – and the imminent weather chaos – closing in southeast – she purposefully made every movement deliberate, clinging to predator rituals to hone her focus.

Cross-legged, she closed her gothic eyes and leaned into the smoke. Ghostly bluish gray wisps curled around the seams and fibers of her furs, leather, linen and hair, covertly obscuring her scent. She tucked the remaining chunk of charcoal back inside its worn elk-skin pouch, along with two smooth stones – one for slicing off a sliver of the rough, textured heart of a long-extinguished fire; the other, for grinding the black shard with a few droplets of water into a velvety paste.

Ribbons of complex copper braids filled her iron maidenhair. Tightly woven, the thin, sleek snakes migrated down the nape of her neck, freeing her ears and eyes from unwanted interference.

She wound soft leather leg wraps tightly around the contours of her muscular calves, carved from years carrying heavy loads on her resilient back.

Next, she stuffed a layer of fresh golden straw inside the supple hide of leather moccasins to cradle the soles of nomadic feet calloused from incalculable footfalls in unforgiving terrain. Gazing into the flames, she reached inside the recesses of her layered fur vest and linen tunic for a small wedge of weatherproofing elk tallow. Rhythmically, she waxed the pores of her silent treadwear, a quiet acknowledgment passed between her and the soft fire, recognition of a shared gratitude. She bowed in mute reverence, then allowed the elemental heat to flicker out, cocooning herself within the warmth of her faithful anorak.

Like a living entity, the fur parka affectionately embraced her shoulders. Intricately carved talisman’s sewn into the lining offered unspoken protection. It bore no hood, which may obstruct peripheral vision, allowing her senses to remain unencumbered, feeling the crisp air against her cheeks and listening intently to the expected sounds of rustling leaves, distant calls of wildlife, and the soft crunch of snow beneath her boots and kept her alert and acutely aware of any unexpected sounds of her prey.

The huntress unsheathed her seax, testing the sharpness of its slightly curved edge, crafted with her dual roles in mind, forged with a longer blade for combat and hunting. Hewn from the heartwood of an ancient yew, the handle had been skillfully shaped for her grip. Fine grain patterns naturally etched in the smooth wood told the story of the tree's growth and its journey through time, like the wrinkles on an elder’s weathered face.

She rose to her feet with the help of her proud oak spear tipped with copper, which bore the scars of countless tried and tested wild encounters. Standing tall, the weapon venerated the art of the hunt, a simple fang etched down its length for every successfully downed quarry. With an extension of her skill symbolized in each hand, Winter’s Daughter was ready.

But was her prey?

Grouse feathers beat delicately in the undergrowth, ruffling airily off to her right. She didn’t flinch.

Center breath.

Motionless peripheral check.

Strategic rapid eye scan.

Squirrel to the left, scrambling up white pine.

Center breath.

The huntress tilted her head backward, eyes focused on the evergreen canopy and dropped open her jaw – an ancestral practice passed down through countless generations to increase the flow of sound through the ear canal. The forest is not a silent place. Quiet, but not still. She closed her eyes, increasing auditory perception.

Creaking tree.

Mouse, forest floor, digging compacted snow out of its burrow.

Wind rustling branches, holding the last surviving autumn leaves.

She discerned and disregarded sounds swiftly, then with padfoot stealth, continued nimbly through the heavily forested terrain, ermine-weaving through tight spaces, swimming effortlessly through thick trees, every sense blooming with her surroundings. Her path twisted around a great oak and hungry eyes ignited on a scuff mark.

Heel print.

Toe drag.

Disturbed debris at tip.

Small buildup of snow on the alternate side of prey’s movement.

Prey changed direction.

Center breath.

Slow heartbeat.

Center breath.

Peripheral check.

Center breath.

Rapid eye scan.

Center breath.

She knelt. Studied the pattern of the strides, the rhythm of the tracks – he was missing a toe… or maybe two. Possibly a recent loss. Maybe from frostbite. It gave her prey a slight hobble.

The wind fell – silence.

Still as a tree.

Center breath.

The wind rose. She recalculated the stealthiest path, choosing soft, light snow, sidestepping to distribute her weight for less crunch, stayed low, reducing contact with branches and twigs and continued with near-silent footfalls.

Light was fading. Her moment was approaching – the thermal pause, occurring the last half hour before dark, when time seemingly slowed. She sensed it, following its process – the sun set, temperature dropped, air currents that had hung high in daylight, cooled and fell, the wind hushed as the forest held its breath, paused in silence and anticipation of night – this was her moment to absorb the pure opal and evergreen speckled-jeweled environment that she was so intimate with.

Center breath.

Tilt head.

Drop Jaw.

Close eyes.

Listen ~

Cracking ice.

Last birdsong note suspended, from the throat of a scarlet cardinal.

Gentle trickling of spring water into a creak.

Center breath.

Wildlife – silent, waiting for nightfall.

Wind – silent, as air drops its weight.

Listen.

Observe.

Hold.

A cutting gust slapped her cheek. The thermal pause nearing its end as darkness descended. A spider dared movement from a limb by her side. Dark threw its cloak over the land.

Listen.

Center breath.

Spider spins orb.

It’s coming – hold.

“Aaooo – yip, yip – aarooo …”

The haunting canid vocalizations resonated through the trees. A mournful coyote rollcall with cutting cries of distinction in every direction, sharing news from all corners of the forest, before embarking on their nocturnal prowling. Intently, she waited for the one – the beast aggravated by the presence of an intruder – the Seer Thief.

“Yip, yip, yip, aarooooo …”

Rapid, sharp staccato barks followed, aligned with another great, long howl far off to the north. She bowed in reverence in the direction of the discomforted animal, setting her course, embarking once first light blinked open its amber eye. A new moon tightly held the darkness in its grasp, rendering the sky completely devoid of its usual illumination. This night was not one for tracking, but one for rest. The thief was close and also couldn’t risk traversing the shrouded terrain.

The huntress laid out her leather pouches. Thirst clawed the back of her throat. She drank deeply from her skin bladder, then tore into dried pemmican, its sugary ground berries and flavored meat threw her taste buds into a frenzy, and she lashed inwardly at herself to slow down. Unfurling her thick animal hide, she buried herself within layers of warmth. Rest would be brief.

Could The Seer Thief sense the quivering threads of the forest, guiding her, as she bore down on him?

Emerald moss was recovering from a footstep depression. Crouched low, she watched the cushiony undergrowth restore itself and sought the game trail path the thief had left in his wake, leading to the river – prey to his own unyielding, insistent thirst.

Keen eyes scanned for any subtle imprints of his presence. Even in his evident desperation for water, he’d attempted stealth, yet the ground betrayed him. He’d moved from the shadow of the trees on his belly down to the river trying not to leave footprints. The huntress sensed his despair. She read the signs of despondency—hunger, weariness, thirst, impatience, recklessness—all quantifiable in measuring out the distances he could now cover.

The snare drew tighter.

The Seer’s ultimate destination was unknown, yet her intuition whispered he’d strive to vanish within the dense, unhurried expanse of the forest. She was close.

Center breath.

She hadn’t been this far north in many years.

Where was he heading?

Streams of cognition flowed, breaking through mental dams, her memory recalling the looming presence of an immense gorge drawing near. A steadfast, open plateau that offered speed – a tactical advantage at this point in the hunt, when her prey’s spirit was fatigued. She’d be able to run, with fleet of deerfoot, through the frozen ravine, then strategically flank him on the mountain’s ridge. But he’d see her.

Center breath.

Speed or stealth?

Think like prey ~

Predator to the south.

Earth rippling mountain range to the north, with possible shelter.

To the west, a vast impassable lake.

To the east, an empty frozen plain, devoid of food and shelter.

He was blocked on all sides. He had to be heading through the thinning forest to the ridge.

Decisively, she chose the swift route.

The gorge yawned wide. A frozen expression stretched open-jawed across the land, splitting the forest in two. Cold breath stirred up a pristine wisp of snow within this reservoir of light that stung eyes adjusted for forest vision. This would be a sprint to the finish.

Center breath.

Calm heart.

Run.

Efficiency became a mechanical art. Her graceful limbs moved with the precision of celestial rotation. Each step, a purposeful imprint on the pristine white canvas, propelled her forward. The snow offered a crisp rebound with every quick stride. Her breath created ephemeral clouds marking her rhythm. Winter’s Daughter navigated the twists and turns of the snowy gorge, leaving behind a trail of subtle impressions in the virgin snow.

The atmosphere held a pregnant hush before the first feathery snow crystals melted on impact with her charcoal painted eyes, marking the onset of the expected storm. A crisp chill tickled her nose, and the soft breath of winter caressed her blushed cheek. The cold deepened, hardening the snow, stinging her exerted lungs, and her rhythmic pounding footsteps began to crunch.

The rocky spine finish line was in her crosshairs. Her inner barometer registered a subtle drop in temperature. She’d make it to the ridge before the storm raged, but just barely. Determined, her pace quickened. Dashing towards the mountains, a sense of weightlessness washed over her, gliding effortlessly forward, but the gorge harbored a secret it longed to warn her of. As her left foot touched ground, the serene landscape unleashed a cataclysmic roar. Silent in its treachery, the ice dam relinquished its captive waters, setting forth a torrential cascade that shattered the tranquility.

A surge of frigid power swept the huntress’s feet from the icy ground, plunging her into a maelstrom of swift, unforgiving rising waters. Her firm, controlled body became a soft puppet to the whims of the free current and smashed her against jagged rocks. Her head and jaw bore the brunt of the collision against unyielding stone, rendering her unconscious as the waters receded, leaving the gorge in deceptive quietude. She lay battered against the rocks. The wounded earth the only witness to the clash between hunter and the unexpected deluge.

Or was there another witness, standing high on a cliff in the shadow of grandfather trees?

Blue eyes washed clean of charcoal lines painfully opened with confusion. A vulnerable sense of being prey sat uncomfortably on her chest, like the heavy proud paw of a hungry predator.

Struggling to focus through blurred vision, the huntress understood she was alive, but her senses felt deceived. Flares of light lit the dim cavern casting dancing shadows on the contours of the rocky walls. Her jaw was swathed in a tight linen wrapping. She couldn’t open her mouth. The rest of her body swaddled in folded furs made it difficult to move. She felt buried and lost in some unknown subterranean afterlife.

Center breath.

Calm heart.

Rapid eye scan.

Pain!

Every breath stung her lungs. Every blink or shift in pupils clawed at the inside of her head telling her to be still.

Center breath.

Peripheral check.

From the ceiling above her, thousands of delicate strands descended like radiant icicles, adorned with tiny orbs of golden-green light. Colonies of bioluminescent fungus gnats dangled and glowed suspended in midair.

Architects of the dark underbelly of the world.

She tilted her chin slightly to peer further, the pain excruciating, but for a moment, she absorbed as much detail as she could before the strain became unbearable. The cave floor shimmered in a mossy carpet of jade light, twinkling like a starry lichen sky. A millipede shuffled its many legs across the stem of a softly glowing nocturnal flower, its petals emitting the same eerie greenish-blue light as the insect.

“You’re awake!”

The disembodied baritone voice sent tendrils of fear down her spine, coiling around her heart. The darkness thickened, as if all the enchanting flowers had closed their light-bearing petals at the unexpected vocal intrusion.

Lying there, like a plucked, withering, winter rose unable to move, the depths of the murky void oppressively magnified her vulnerability.

She couldn’t breathe.

Footsteps were approaching.

A primal survival reflex violently awakened.

The Seer Thief leaned in, as he had countless times while nursing the sleeping wounded bird, studying her broken beauty, but now, he met with a taloned predator, brave eyes blazed and he realized too late that he’d come too close.

She launched up with a sudden skull strike, the force of which rippled through both prey and predator. The tightly bound furs yielded, raw pain seared her body, but adrenaline surged as well, fueling a precise sweep kick, targeting his mutilated, missing toe foot. Destabilized, she seized on his weakness, wrestled him onto his back, crushing a fungi bouquet, which released the scent of honey mushrooms into the air, as she slashed her claws across his face.

The effort exacted a heavy toll, paid for in droves of dizzy stars assaulting her senses. Feeling her muscles and mind fail her, she frantically tried to take flight, but her body rejected the action, she collapsed and passed out on top of him.

In the aftermath, the Seer was breathless. The fierce confrontation a failure on his part for not anticipating her spirited reaction to waking up inside the dark enclosure with the man she’d been hunting.

He lay there with the full weight of her body embracing his, feeling the moisture from the mushroom bouquet soaking through the back of his linen. Tenderly, he brushed strands of hair away from her sharp cheekbones, then wiped blood from his own face and whispered, “I won’t hurt you, wounded Starling.”

Furs floated loose over top of her so she could move freely with arms outside their layers. Her head was slightly elevated so she could see without lifting her broken jaw. This second awakening felt different, as if he'd tried to liberate the atmosphere of restraint and tension.

A small fire burned bright, providing vital heat and lowlight in the drafty cave. The muffled cries of pounding wind knocking on stone told her the blizzard had arrived.

A neatly stacked wood pile sat off to the side, organized from ready-to-use dried materials on top, to the almost useless unseasoned moldy-bark logs at the bottom. Winter blew its unconquerable breath down through cracks in the rock, challenging the small fire to a test of elements. Instinctually, she began calculating how long the wood supply would last in the biting chill. She didn’t like the answer.

Winter’s Daughter lay quietly so as not to alert the thief to her waking. The man stood with his back to her, engrossed in his work, drawing abstract symbols on the cave walls. A pinkish olm salamander undulated its lithe form through a shallow puddle situated atop a worn boulder and seemingly stopped a moment to see its own reflection in the water. The delicate creature was a symbol of fervent passion for her people. Revered as the embodiment of vitality – a living symbol of the life force. It was believed that to see one near a potential mate was a sign of a vibrant connection the two might share.

She shook the dreamy myth from her mind and focused on her surroundings, trying to learn what she could about this so-called Seer Thief that she’d been sent out by the elders to hunt down to reclaim the relic he’d stolen.

Beside him, on a waist-high rock, a piece of stretched leather held a palette of vibrant minerals and powdered pigments. The fabric bore deep stains from years of cradling colorful rocks and mixtures. She recognizes some – charcoal, iron and even blood, which she understood from creating her own camouflage, often using the blood of animals, or else her own, to thicken and strengthen the binding power of the paint to her skin. But there were other colors she didn’t know the source of, which indicated he’d come from afar – yellow, white, violet, even that glowing golden-green that lit the cave.

Rich blue veins of copper ran in a great slice along the rock wall. He filled the stone canvas with mysterious glyphs and figures. Scientific numbers and mathematical equations that spoke of a world beyond the field of vision. She tried to decipher their meaning, knit together the loose threads, break his code and unfurl his prophecy of poisoned petals.

Violent physics and metal gears that looked like future monsters in this lost prism cavern. She continued scanning the surroundings – scattered parchment, unbound tomes, and then, her eyes fell upon it – roots clutched the stolen relic.

The branching foot of an ancient tree had broken through the core of the cavern, which meant they were somewhere below the forest. The thief had rested the palm-sized disc on the wooden claw, its brass shined in the soft fire, mocking her for being so close, but yet, out of reach.

Thrashing winds from above buffeted the underground chamber, driving down eroded rocks outside the den and loosening bits of fragmented slivers of stone from the ceiling. Dust momentarily filled the air. The mysterious man’s attention broke. Before he turned, he sensed her watching him. A small, devilish smile painted his face.

This time, he chose his movements carefully.

Turning slowly, he faced her from across the space between them, allowing her time to take in his features. She’d spent her life tactically assessing prey, quickly analyzing their dispositions.

Tall, but hunched, from too much thought.

Stance uneven, favoring an injury.

Raven hair, tousled, framing olive face.

Rugged beard, yet freshly tracing sharp contours – he’d groomed recently.

Dark, penetrating eyes, umbre-pools hinting at wisdom, but also a dominant, untamed masculinity hidden in those orbs too, that she’d have to put down before long.

Cautiously he approached, picking up a waterskin along the way and knelt down beside her. The sound of the liquid sloshing inside near drove her mad with insatiable want, and she tried to speak but couldn’t open her mouth wide enough.

“Easy, Lady Silence. Easy. Like this.” He took a smooth, curved stone that sat beside her and poured a palm full of water into the bowled-out center. Supporting her head with a strong hand, he boosted her slightly higher, put the stone to her barely open lips and let the water flow inside her warm, waiting mouth. She needed more. Her thirst was ravenous. He repeated the steps until she was sated and the tight fringe of her angry eyes smoothed.

“I know you’re also hungry, little Starling, and I’ll feed you until your wings are mended.” He’d turned her pemmican into a liquid paste, and with his finger he rubbed it under her top lip, trying to cause the least amount of pressure on her mangling jaw.

Wind raged overhead, the relic shook within the quaking tree claw, catching her eye. He turned to look. “Oh yes, the relic,'' he turned back to face her. “You almost had me. I wonder what you would have done to me if that dam hadn’t broken.” He boldly contemplated her creamy, white cloud face, framed by hellfire cascades and two all-consuming vortex oceans. He took a deep breath, then picked up another morsel of food, placed his fingertip between her lips and allowed her to suck it off. He felt her tongue against his finger. This simple, unintentional natural act of her hungry mouth sent frisson coursing through his body, and he had to back away. His desire for creature comfort growing.

“Hopefully, I never have to find out.”

Polar gusts whistled through fracture cracks twisting down uncharted caverns, singing a bone-chilling lament, causing the fire’s flaming tongues to leap and sway. The Seer laid poorly seasoned wood on the fire, choking the freshened air with black smoke, waking Winter’s Daughter from fever dreams.

His supply of dried logs, snappy kindling and eager-to-ignite birchbark was dwindling. She wondered if he anticipated the length of the storm. Delicately, he plucked the palm-sized disc from its wooden claw pedestal and brought it over to the huntress for her to see up close.

“This shiny little orb is what all the fuss was about and why you’re lying here now, with a broken jaw, under my care.” He turned it in the flickering light. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? It's a sundial. And–it’s a compass. They serve different purposes. I’ve never heard of a combination of the two devices. Yet, here it is, and it's old. Really old. Older than your people. Older than the ice on this mountain.”

He showed her the intricate mechanisms, the shadow that fell when he tilted the gnomon in the firelight, the carved dial plate, the cardinal points, the movement of the needle. His eyes and voice brimming with passion for every detail.

“And here! Constellations masterfully detailed, with Polaris as the central guiding light. But there are other things, other additions, that I can’t explain. It has to do with time.” His attention drifted off for a long moment. “But I can’t work it out! I can’t work out where it came from! Why your people had it!” His frustration grew with the howling wind. He was at the wall again, studying his canvas of abstract symbols and pictograms, lost in his own fear of failure.

“Hhmmmmnnnn,” the wounded bird whimpered.

“My Darling Starling, I’m sorry. I can get … lost,’ he hesitated a moment, about to continue, and then said, “the world grows old, Starling. Its memory holds more and more secrets as it ages.” He placed the sundial compass in her hand. It felt polished and oddly warm, as if the sun had been beaming down on it. “I’d like to unlock its mysteries before it's all forgotten.” He toyed with the instrument as it sat in her palm.

“The history of civilizations is like that dam breaking in the gorge. They build up, and up, harden, as if the ice were impenetrable, but then the water breaks, great empires fall and are lost and dark periods begin again, like the one we're in now. My task is to see that memory is kept alive and passed down the ages for the next rebuild. This is my people's lineage. Wandering Seers. Storytellers.” His face tightened, creating furrowed paths etched all over his skin, each line searching for answers. “Let me tell you a story.”

“The Death of Zeus brought about the smashing of old mountain religions. Laelaps and the Teumessian Fox, whom the god had turned into stone and cast into stars, flickered in the sky, foretelling their release. Zeus’ grip on the constellations faded. Falling from his scooped, waning god hand high on Mount Olympus, the mineralized prisons softened, and beasts drifted down, slowly to earth, like autumn leaves.

“The night sky's light weakened. The curled fox fell at the feet of a defeated hero, alongside vain Cassiopeia and Aquila the lightning bearer, all partly decomposed. Leathery patches of black skin with tufts of fungus sprouted underneath, lifting its fur, and a thriving new religion was born for Thorned Vines to crown the world.

“The vines crept from the bent spine of the fox who could never be caught, and the greenery spread outward, entwining everything on the land. Stardust captured in the folds of the vine’s leaves was swept up in the wind, stirring the dust into a cloud that the people drew into their lungs. Vanity and ego were planted and bloomed in bloodstreams, and from there, emerged an idea that they were all conquerors of something.

“They only need ask themselves ~ if you knew you couldn't lose, what would you do?"

Joep had been inside his own mind for so long that he'd forgotten how good it felt to share thoughts and express ideas.

“That story can be told a thousand ways, in a thousand eras, accepted as fact or fiction, but either way, its meaning holds true. Conquest of your own destiny cannot be defeated.”

He took the relic from her hand and placed it back in the wooden claw, then wandered over to his bedroll adrift in unsettling thought and prepared for rest.

The fire struggled to heat the cold walls. Quietly, they listened to the wind force its way inside for an untold passage of time, their aching bones growing ever icier from the chill.

“Hhhmmmmnnn?” her sweet birdsong called to him from across the space. “Hhmnnnnn?” and somehow, he deciphered its meaning.

“My name?”

“Hmmm.”

“Joep.” He rose from his bedroll, withdrew the innermost fur and brought it over to the shivering bird. He laid it over her, tucking it underneath her legs and back, wrapping her in his body-heated blanket.

“Hmmm?”

“Another story?”

“Hmm.”

“Alright.” His face lit with the purpose of a grand orator.

 “Four robed ancestors stood atop a mountain peak. Flesh and blood giants. Cloaked creatures with an arm extended under heavy embroidered wools – one emerald, one sapphire, one desert rose, and one pearl – pointed the way with sweeping clarity towards each cardinal point …”

Winter’s wild bodhrán drummed relentlessly, beating its frosty tipper against their confined sheltered. Joep carefully moistened a soft linen cloth with water warmed over the fire. A large unsplit log threatened to smother the flames, but thunderous sets of roaring air waves flowing through the rocky tunnels kept it lit. He unbound her from layers of linen wraps, soft leathers and furs and bathed her wounds and recounted a legend.

“Goddess Sun, buried in a pit on the horizon, longed to be worshiped – a bonfire raging in the west lit the sky in pink and blue flames. A thousand-strong murder of crows played with fire, cutting through the inferno, each grasping a sun-forged seed with the tip of its sturdy beak. And they flew! …” Joep filled the shadowy underworld with bright, sweeping brush strokes painting Starling’s canvas mind “... darkening the sky with their obsidian wings! The embers rattled inside their black mandibles, shaken, disjointed – a burst of sound filled the land, clunking against the evolution of keratin – an ancient medicine rattle.” Joep massaged her sculpted body – calves, feet, thighs, forehead – cleansed her skin in rhythmic strokes of the cloth, every touch gentle and deliberate. As time passed, her vulnerability was slowly being washed away in the repeated ritual and her winces became less frequent.  

“... the world spun! The Murder opened their beaks in tandem, released the seeds earthbound to flood the world with soft-fire Goddess beauty,” Joep whispered the last few words, his breath caressing her inner ear, swirling like a sweet savory vortex into her cerebrum, causing gyration in the veins down, down, down, deep, into her low pelvic marrow to vibrate and swell with oceanic spasms.

The intimacy was palpable.

His hands moved with purpose, navigating the contours of her body, diluting her pain and the emotional traces of hardship from her angelic face.

The darkness ate away their sense of time. The mouth of the cave sealed off by the relentless onslaught of snow and ice amassed around the entrance, forming a formidable frost-silent barrier, entombing any trace of life inside. The glowing flora and fauna of bioluminescent light dimmed slightly, as if feeling exposed to some never-ending loop of frigid time the storm was vowing. The oxygen felt weak. Joep cut into the base layer of the wood pile, which only promised ashen fumes when laid within the bed of fire.

Otherworldly chalice-shaped flowers jeweled the walls in patches of iridescent blooms. The plants naturally collected fresh spring water that dripped steadily from the cathedral stone ceiling. Joep tipped a few stems, letting the little pools pour into a simple bowl he’d carried with him on his travels. He undressed to wash beside the low fire with his back turned to the one he called Starling. She could see prickles of chills ripple over his exposed skin from the cold. Making quick work of it, he cleansed with damp linen and smoke from the fire to purify his body. He curled forward to inspect how the skin around his missing toe was healing. It was black. He'd lose more, she knew, but he suffered in silence.

Her eyes traced the spiral of a hypnotic tattoo swirling over the surface of his back. A constellation to contemplate in daylight. It matched one of the abstract symbols he'd painted on the cave wall. The olm salamander appeared again, returning to the same mirror rock puddle. She observed its deliberate pace, while Joep turned to observe her. The soft creature curled itself, like his ink black coil.

“The eternal cycle, Darling Starling. Birth, growth, death, then stirred once more, spiraling, to begin again.”

“Hhhhhmmmm?” Softly trilling, Starling throat-sung her request. Joep understood her calls innately. He put the cloth down, rummaged through the wood to find the driest pieces in a desperate attempt to keep the cave warm, then hobbled over to her.

Two wounded birds struggling against the wind.

He sat close beside her, with his back turned so she could see his tattoo. She traced it with a feathery touch, round and round in circles with cold fingers, sending chills trembling over his body. She pressed both her hands against him, stealing his heat – becoming the thief.

He tucked her fingers under his arms, pressing them, bestowing her with his pyre of ever burning embers – a blazing hearth, offering lifesaving flames to warm herself beside. With as much pressure as she could exert, she turned him to face her. Her hands roamed over his chest stopping against his heart – its beat strong and turning feral at her touch. He tucked a loose hair behind her ear and recited an old legend.

“Two Pillars of Power divided the land.

One – Marching Metal; an armored army with golden hammers of chaos, charged with the power to smash empires.

The other – Pressured Marble; A vast, sacred city with fathomless depths of held knowledge, kept from the masses.

A great swath of land divided the two. A red desert sea turned green, drowned in the Throat Cutter – chains of emerald thorned vines stretched over the sand, fought over, epoch after epoch and richly fertilized with generations of decaying warriors, whose bodies lay wrapped within the curled deathbeds of enormous leaves, sprouting motley fungi crops, nourishing the vines which split the worlds in two.

Between the two Pillars of Power, the Dragon Tree flourished its many branching wings, fruit-teeth dripped with the lifeblood of heroes. Armored with thick scaled bark impervious to blade or flame, with fruit sweet enough for delicious battles to be fought over its juice for untold millennia, and roots ever erupting from the rubble of countless conquests to claim its power.

Legend told, the formidable tree’s seed was bred in the Gardens of the Gods, sown by the Mother of Vines herself, its boughs heavily laden with isosceles deep crimson fruit, speckled with horned Moon Maria.

To partake of the Dragon’s Fruit is to partake of the goddess in fruit form, to taste the blood rage of a hundred thousand warriors, which flows through her razored veined vines.

Feed her blood – that, which is most precious, or else, offer the Mother a river of thine enemies – to be granted a token of her favor. From the outstretched weaponized hand of the goddess herself, be granted connection with the thorned Throat Cutter chains.”

The dying fire took its last breath – the woodpile reduced to ashes.

It would be impossible to heat the space now.

“The Empire of Knowledge fell to Pyralis the Solar Lord, who scorched scholars, scribes and scrolls alike in great bonfires, consumed by heated paranoia that knowledge would fuel his downfall, believing ignorance was the ultimate form of control.

He commanded his armies to scour the land of intellect – censor, suppress, eliminate thought.”

Joep summoned heat from myth to keep Starling warm.

“On the fringe of the Empire, under towering Henge Trees, lay Copperhenge. The people, surrounded by Wild, lived in harmony with Wild, and were famed for their hunting skills, metallurgy, and also, for their secrecy. Their knowledge etched cryptically onto wooden spears tipped with forged copper could only be read by the Copperhenge people.

Each spear held a story intricately carved, depicting the wisdom of the elders, the legends of the land, the secrets of survival in Wild. Passed down from old weathered-hand to new smooth-hand, both a tool for the hunt and a vessel of knowledge, these spears carried the collective memory of the Henge.

Pyralis’ army struck.

The invaders bundled the knowledge spears like kindling, set them and the Henge Trees alight, removed the fertility of the Mothers, and bound the surviving Fathers and Sons, parading the scorched men back to the Solar Lord.

Atop Summit Sanctum, Pyralis stood before a grand marble altar and addressed his people.

‘Here lay the Milk and Honey Bones of the Fathers. While alive, The Scorched had rich cream poured over their skin, golden nectar slathered into their Wild hair, picked clean by a wriggling mass of insects and carrion for thirteen days under the beating fire of the Purging Sun.’

‘Remember this!’ Pyralis threatened. ‘No one can hide from the burning rays of the Solar Lord!’

The Procession of Sons ascended the snaking limestone steps. Their golden hammers, once an extension of their bravery, now a weighted tether to broken backs, were made to crush the bones of their fathers, turning their forebears to dust…”

He continued, while separating their belongings into what was essential for prolonged survival versus what could burn.

With Starling’s melodious birdsong invitation, he rolled up his furs and laid them out beside her, as close as he could get without causing her injured body discomfort. Heat rose up between them and with a deep, satisfied intake breath, she sighed.

"You’re rare, like the red-spotted salamander, my Darling Starling." The slightest curl of her lip smiled, and he continued his vivid telling of the great myth, while stroking her scarlet feathers until sleep overtook them.

Story became sustenance for their hunger ravaged stomachs, a distraction from the cold.

“The Apex Daughters had been hunting far north and upon their return, laden with their successes – elk, deer, boar, foraged mushrooms, herbs and edible plants, discovered the painful truth – their home scorched.

The Daughters wept softly for the sacred trees, grief wailed for their kin, howled vengeance for the knowledge lost in the Spear Fire and vowed retribution.

The Conquest of Copper Swords fell on the wiry frame of an unruly, headstrong Spearling, who to become High Maidenspear, needed to be tested, and led the Apex Daughter’s wrath onward, to retrieve the Bones of the Fathers.

The Spearling’s Marching Steel advanced into the desert sea, bonfire sun reflecting off their copper chests, ankles sinking under the weight of heavy armor, and halted by the Throat Cutter.

Elite Copperhelms marched with Spearling. Copper miners, their ancestors the first in the Age of Metals, tunneled downward, under the Throat Cutter, below the sea of sand turned to ironstone from the bloodletting of the corpse-strewn red-soaked land by the thorns.

Wielding metal against stone, they pressed into unknown depths, chipping away at stubborn rock, heaving the weight of the world over dusty confided shoulders. Grit in the air streaked their sweat toiling faces until they were met with a cellar door, deep in the cavernous abyss, leading to the Temple of Vapours.

In the belly of the underworld, a powerful oracle of untold age stood braced over a crack in the earth, cocooned in the goddesses' vines. Fumes from the core of the world rose around Lilith, who breathed in their heat. Her nose bled, eyes rolled back in her head, and she revealed a prophecy of doom.

‘The Dust of the Fathers choke the breath of their enemies. A void gulps and swallows unknown tombs. A daughter descendent from the heroines that feed the Dragon Tree a flood of nourishing blood shall live a thousand lives!’

‘Desecration of your Temple, High Maidenspear, come forth. Give that which is most precious.’

The Spearling cut the cardinal directions ~

Wrist North - arm stretched high, branching for North Star wisdom.

Palm West - hand pointed towards the final sunset of deprecated reign.

Thigh East - leg lifted, foot tucked for rebirth.

Ankle South - standing leg rooted to earth and fire.

~ Youthful, barbless vines coiled around Spearling’s Cardinal Pose and drank her Blood of Virgin sacrifice from open veins. Her fertility disavowed, and in its place, fully flowering to sire new reign.

‘Now rise, High Maidenspear!’ Lilith bellowed. ‘Feed your warriors Dragon Pearls. When day turns to night, The Mother of Vines grants her Thorned Chains.’”

Violent legends exposed blood visions in Starling’s imagination, wetting her tongue with the taste of metal. She’d been taught to curb that part of her imagination. Only be concerned with practical knowledge.

Joep’s stories widened the sphere in her mind, opening doors she’d never dared open before.

They were going to die. They both understood this. Joep leaned over Starling with the last morsel of thin pemmican on his fingertip and brushed it tenderly under her beguiling top lip. He studied the color, hungrily possessed by the hue of ripe cherries. He felt her tongue lick the sweetness from off his finger.

Center breath.

“You like the taste, darling?” his tone rutting with wild want.

He dragged his finger across her mouth – graceful arcs of temptation.

A sap-sweet, hardened amber was born into Starling’s pelvic space from the aching intensity in his gaze, wells of bottomless yearning.

She began sucking on the tip of his finger, inviting him deeper inside her warm world.

Center breath.

Love was the predator now, and they were both falling prey to its raw careless power.

Center breath.

She let out a little moan, asking to be released from bondage. Joep untied the bandage holding her jaw in place, gently holding her face in his hands checking to see how it was healing. Starling licked her lips, pulled his ear to her mouth, their skin meeting, their breaths and moans like a language, and she whispered, “Joep.”

His name from her angelic mouth was rapturous music, the p naturally pouting her lips.

Joep pressed her top lip between his, a charged connection electrified every cell, every sensory receptor, flooding their blood streams with oxytocin, immortally bonding their minds.

Starling’s spirit splintered into a thousand birds, each soaring towards one migratory destination – his mortal frame. Every line, every curve was traced by his mouth, accelerating her recovery as if mystically reborn, like a salamander regenerating a limb.

There was nothing his touch couldn’t fix.

“Tell me how it ends, Joep.” It was still painful for her to speak, but Starling tried to work her jaw from time to time to loosen it. Skin to skin, they shared their lifeblood heat.

“Demon Sand Angels erupted from layered debris of crumbled civilizations so large as to eclipse each other, with collapsing obelisks, monoliths and statues so tall as to touch the clouds.

The advancing Marching Metal force stopped to marvel at all those who had come before them and to ponder whose hands had molded such towering monuments.

At the center of this landscape of scars, the Dragon Tree breathed. Its many bloody hearts beat with sweetness. High Maiden Spear plucked a singularly striking fruit dripping from a high branch, resting it delicately in the palm of dragon-slaying hands. A plump fang glistening with the Goddess’s seductive sheen, promising a burst of raw bravery with every ravishing bite.

With a slight twist, she broke the flesh in half, clusters of fresh, pearl-white arillus jewels spilled over her cupped hands, bursting with rich battle-dreaming nectar. She felt its cool, smooth ripe body against her calloused fingertips, brought it to lips, teasing herself with a slow, savoring kiss, relishing this moment. Her tongue traced the intricate patterns over the succulent arils. Teeth sunk into the tender flesh.

A rush of silence.

A rush of sweet, metallic zest flooded her mouth.

A rush of fiery frisson coursed through her veins.

Juice dripped down her chin in a sinful cascade, enrapt by the decadent heart of the fruit, filled with warriors’ bloodlust – the pleasurable, and welcomed, urge to devour enemies like ripe fruit, indulgence with teeth and claw, wholly surrendering to the erotic allure of war.

Each warrior stepped up to eat a single seed. Their fortitude refreshed. With the weight of prophecy on her furrowed, storm cloud brow, High Maiden spear thundered her High Command.

‘I am the mystery of the Dragon Fruit made flesh! I am the Mother of Vines made mortal! I am your Queen Atmospheric! I hold the atmosphere! Valiantly rise, Demon Sand Angels, from the heat at the center of the earth. Rise in the air with blazing hammers! Mother of Vines, lend me your chains!’

From the mouth of the advancing beast spewed blood and dust.

Running through the killing field, the advancing conquerors used the razor-sharp vines to pull themselves across the blood moat, penetrating the other side of the Throat Cutter.

Golden Hammers smashed through the Pressured Marble, each blow resonating with the fury of a hundred thousand warriors past.

High Maiden spear commanded the chains with lethal precision.

Vines whipped through the air, stirring winds that turned day to night. The Dust of the Fathers released, choked their enemies, blocked out the sun and The Battle of the Dust Devils stormed with crushed bone vengeance.

A river of blood slithered from Summit Sanctum to the Dragon Tree. High Maiden Spear ascended the serpent steps caked in desert sand sweat, the guts of her enemies, and wrapped in blood-frenzied vines. She faced Pyralis, silently commanding a single thorn to extinguish the fire behind the Sun Lord's eyes.”

“It’s an old story, Starling. Told a thousand times.”

She traced the spiraled ink on Joep’s back.

“If I could travel to these forgotten times, truly see firsthand what was occurring, I’d be a more useful tool for knowledge preservation.” He picked up the Noculus which now sat beside the bed on a small fur and held it up under the dim bioluminescent light. “When humanity is ready to rebuild, I could give them tools of mathematics, science, architecture, myth, poetry – story. And instead of starting brand new, we can start where we left off and rebuild our houses stronger than before. I want to take what knowledge is bestowed inside my mind from this time and into another. We're in the dark now, Starling, but soon, light will return.”

Huddled together under body-warmed furs, they woke nose to nose, creating shared clouds of breath between them and felt Overlord Winter pinch their cheeks.

They’d recklessly fallen into a deep pit of love.

Given endless time, they'd use each other's rocky spines to climb out, break each other's broken-hearted backs, then fall back down, again and again and again.

But in this sliver of time, no matter what was to come, these moments, buried in love's deepest grave, would sustain them.

“We don’t have much time, Starling. I’m going to tell you, my story.” Joep’s face was lit in the golden-emerald hues of the cave. He pressed his forehead to hers and whispered his tale in a dark, low voice. “I come from the east. I’m known as a Knowledge Bearer. I collect ideas, legends, observe new landscapes, study texts and bring my learning back to my people.

“I found myself in a great library. A library as big as a mountain, capped with as many unique pieces of parchment as there are snowflakes, and what I discovered there among myths was embedded a truth about the flow of time – a river with endless ways to flow.

“This river led me to your people, to the Noculus and to you, an Apex Daughter. I shouldn’t have stolen it from your elders but finding that it existed was like finding you! I couldn’t leave it behind! Do you understand?”

She drank every word, captivated by this man, who had, in another time, been her quarry and wouldn't trade this moment in the cold, wrapped in his shivering wings for all the days of sunlight promised in eternity.

His stories ate her pain.

He was warm hive honey, feeding her sunshine, while lost in polar night.

“Starling, we aren’t going to die here, but you have to trust me – implicitly.”

The storm of the century raged. Joep sat up and pulled the stems of two chalice-shaped purple flowers from out of the cave wall. He nestled back down on the furs. She climbed into his lap facing him, wrapping her long legs around his waist and pulled the furs over their heads. He pulled her hips as close as possible; the fleshy skin of her exposed inner thighs slaughtered the cold.

Each held a chalice radiating with life, lighting up their little fur tent creating their very own milky, starry, cosmic sea. He brought the cupped flower to her dry, asymmetrical lips, let her sip from his cup, their stomachs lurching in desperation for food.

The Noculus lay open in their interlocked lap, with mechanisms set. She bit his lip, and he gave her a naughty wink only the work of the devil could be hiding behind. They plucked the petals one by one, a game of divination, feeding each other the hallucinatory plants, peering into each other's sweeping souls – ancient, yet, brilliantly brimming with new life possibilities.

Geometric tunnels formed warm pathways for them to walk through, and they fell, into a swirling dream, of a different time, an aromatic scent trail of smoky nuts and sweet honey, guiding them, to a timber-framed labyrinthine farmhouse, beckoning, by and by.