HOW THE SHADOWS FEAST
xii. where flowers bloom from blood

the eleventh night

❅          ❅          ❅

NEVER HAD SASKIA SEEN A DEATH AS HORRIBLE AND BEAUTIFUL AT ONCE.

The stag sank to his white knees and lowered his head to the ground, as if tired of constantly wearing the golden crown of antlers. From his heart and mouth sprung a red river that sanguined the snow—and truly, it birthed small equally crimson flowers breaking through the frozen ground.

"By the Bright Mother, what—" Silvan stood there in the moonlight, weapons drawn and eyes widened at this scenery.

Anyan was the first to shake the numbness from himself, approaching the dying stag to commit yet another crime by plucking one of the flowers and shoving the crimson petals between his lips, in the hope it could heal his curse.

Saskia felt her heart tremble. The hot gun slipped from her fingers.

Her own fate caught up to her right then and there, an invisible fist closing around Saskia's chest, slowly and painfully quenching the life in her body. When she gasped for air all that filled her lungs was fire scorching her throat and laying inside her ribs like hot embers.

It was nothing that came unexpected, however, Saskia would not have thought for it to happen that fast.

Too fast, in the end, for her to even get close to her goal. Didn't the prophecy say she would pluck the flower? Well, perhaps owls telling the future on a midwinter midnight could be mistaken or simply not trusted.

The frozen snow scratched her hands, as they frantically searched there for something that would hold her back on this earth. But it was useless. While the endless heavens watched, hell ate her alive.

It burned away any desire to fight, breathe, or even live. To die truly cursed it is, then, suffering pains infernal.

Somewhere, at parts that did not even feel like her body anymore, she sensed hands clutching her ... and holding her back. From this touch a cold spread, appeasing her seething flesh and soul where the invisible flames had caught. Then there was the faintest brush against her lips, breathing winter into her lungs.

With a sensation that might as well have been death, the soul that was so violently ripped from its body rushed back into place.

When Saskia awoke, she was trembling, freezing in Anyan's arms. As it seemed this soulmate, despite being a heartless devil and liar had chosen to save her soul, instead of tearing it to pieces. And more so, it was a god's call to the one who was born in his name.

"Why did you ...?" her voice was barely audible, raspy like icy scratching over stone.

"You had my word. Now go, save your fawn."

Swallowing hard, she battled her way through the calf-high snow to the dying animal as fast as she could. Now there was only one thing that mattered: Being faster than death just long enough. For whatever Anyan had done, it would not save her forever.

Painfully clumsily she plucked one of the flowers and wanted to run. However, she felt herself turning back and softly pressing it against the stag's nose, so its lazy tongue would lick it up and heal its wounds.

The animal's glassy eyes met hers, sending a shiver down Saskia's spine.
"Please forgive me, Bright Mother ..." she whispered, even though she had long lost the hope for true redemption. Not suffering alone was all she could still wish for.

With something like a prayer on her lips, she turned to the last flower. Another hand was faster than hers, violently ripping it from the frozen ground where it just had grown and bloomed.

Saskia looked at Silvan with surprise and found only the shadows in his eyes that had taken root in him. Not so much those of demonic possession but men's old greed for power.

"Don't—" Saskia whispered.

"Spare me the laments of a cursed girl engaging with demons," he answered, swung himself on Polnoch's back, and spurred her. With him, Saskia saw her hope disappear into the night.

Next to her, Anyan was already waiting on his Rusa, hand reaching out for her. "He won't be faster than us," he simply said, and Saskia did not dare to doubt that when she allowed him to help her mount the mare.

"We don't even know where he's going ..."

Anyan spurred Rusa, giving Saskia the slightest of smiles from over his shoulder. "Where the shadows won't find him."

Some sacred grounds ...

And on the horse that had drowned, they chased right after him, the night and all her dead at their back who came with their weapons and hell-breathing beasts to hunt down their felonious target.

Saskia wondered if they both were prey now, too or the head of the hunting party.

Before the snow had melted, she had found a soulmate in a devil with no heart, crawled into the jaw of a wolf, and plucked a flower from Zlatorog's blood. Now she was beyond prophecy, and there was nothing to hold onto anymore.

The first rays of dawn began to soak the clear sky in red—a gory scenery fitting the bloody deed they had done, and were perhaps yet to do. It painted even the white walls of the little sanctuary red that came into sight as though the halidom wanted to stand as a warning for every murderer setting foot into it.

Saskia dreaded the thought that punishment could await her exactly there when she had almost reached her aim. To Silvan, it seemed to promise salvation for he drove Polnoch on even faster to reach the sanctuary and bath in a holy light that would wash the sins from him.

Polnoch was fast—but not faster than the Wild Hunt, not faster than divine punishment could be. The closer the cracking whips came the more panic seized her, and Saskia feared for the mare to stumble and break a leg.

Before that could have happened, a bullet pierced Silvan's chest. It did not look like the deadly strike of a weapon but more like something not quite real slipping through his body, drenching him from life and freezing the prince in time.

The infernal pains that had tortured herself just a moment ago, came to swallow him whole. Saskia barely realized that the scream that rang out in the night was her own.

Silvan's hands clenched the reins once more, then flagged and he slid down Polnoch's flank to land in the snow—just inches in front of the holy ground that would've saved him. Thus far shall you come, and no farther.

"We don't have time. Get the flower," Anyan demanded and Saskia knew he was right.

Saskia fell more from Rusa's back than gliding, feeling the thump as her feet hit the ground in every bone. But no matter how weak they were, she forced them on to run and bend again before Silvan.

Afar, the hungry hounds were howling for the flesh, blood, and bone of the fallen Prince of Wolves. Yet, the crow was the first to feast.

A sensation cold as death ripped through Saskia's body when her hand touched his. In his eyes, she could still see the barest hint of life, mixed with feelings impossible to read. Anger? Regret? Silvan's lips parted, searching for a voice lost already.

"Don't worry, my lord," Saskia whispered, "I won't weep. There is no use in shedding tears over a cursed boy."

Whatever it was when she snatched the flower from the moribund man's fingers she felt the softest pang of guilt.

Silvan von Winterthal was a cruel man, and himself to blame for his end. Still, she could not feel any satisfaction. The revenge she had found sweet days ago tasted bitter and metallic now like his blood that had not been shed.

"We will meet him again soon," Anyan said, and Saskia swallowed hard. Perhaps this night, these woods had found themselves a new eternal hunter.

"May the Bright Mother light your path," she murmured before she left the prince to the beasts.

Not wasting another second to think, to fear, she stormed into the sanctuary where a few lonely blessed candles lit the bodies of Rogdai, Vitus, and Katinka. So much death. But only one of those—perhaps—could be undone.

In front of Katinka, she fell to her knees which gave way beneath her all too willingly. Despite knowing there was hardly the right time for this, she felt her hands shake and her heart scream in pain.

Go on!, she reminded herself and with a trembling fingers forced the flower between Katinka's icy lips. Minutes trickled away thick and slow like bitter honey. Nothing happened.

"What is wrong?"

"I don't know," Anyan answered.

"You are a god, Jarnik. A god of the darkness. This," Saskia vaguely pointed to the corpse, "is what you should know about best."

"How—?"

"Jerica."

Somehow, the name strung a chord within him, turning his face into his so demonic, yet so human face, and made his jaw set. It took Saskia a few instants to recognize this expression so out of place carved into the features of a demon. Guilt.

"I freed her."

At that, Anyan allowed himself to show a kind of relief not suitable for a devil like him. However, as all his true emotions it lasted just a heartbeat until his chains tightened again.
"So, she told you—"

"That I am your tribute? Yes. This was all you needed me for, right? The desetnitsa born under your sign. Luckily, you didn't even have to set out and find me somewhere you could not go. I came here so you could break your damned curse," Saskia snarled.

This was the thing about gods: They could be reached in prayer and with offerings, but a pact with them—especially with a banished one like him—was almost as terrible as one made with a demon. For they, living in their own spheres, could not care less what happened to the humans they used for their means.

Her mind raced. Perhaps Anyan—or the demon, or Jarnik, whatever to call him—had known from the beginning that this was hopeless. What better to take advantage of than a foolish human's hopes?

A sigh, deep and heavy, a moan from the underworld itself, escaped Anyan's lungs. "I do not know what to do. It did not work with me as well. Yes, I am freer than before, but I still feel the chains of the Wild Hunt. Perhaps there is no breaking curses and no changing nature."

No. No. No.

Saskia pressed her forehead against Katinka's cold hand, tears streaming down her face. It was always the innocent who were hurt the most, and the wicked—her—who outlived them. I should have died there in the snow, killed by a beast, or the prophecy, or both. I should have ... Bright Mother, this is not fair.

More real than ever Anyan's hands closed around hers, opening them and placing something soft on her palms.

"What is this?" Saskia sobbed.

"Madness," he said. "Trying the same thing once more and against all odds, hoping this time it could end differently."

Blurred with tears, her eyes could barely make out the shape of the little flower. A rose of the winter mountains. A rose sprung from blood.

It had to be the last one—and the last fragile chance before Katinka's death was truly sealed as well as Saskia's own. Outside, she could hear the Wild Hunt ravage, not sure if Jarnik would be able to tame it or if the riders would turn against their master for slaying Zlatorog again.

Her voice was merely a breath. "Thank you ..."

Nothing left to lose, Saskia thought, shoving the flower in Katinka's mouth and sealing it shut with her calloused hand as if sealing a silent pact with it as well.

First, there was nothing again. Then the shadows breathed and with them, Katinka.

For Saskia, it was time to die now.

❅

The hand that closed around hers was weak and cool. As if death had yet not left the body entirely but still lingered there, a slowly dying shadow.

"Saskia?" Katinka asked, confused and gentle, not knowing that this name did not deserve to be spoken with such affection. Not to the blade that had spilled her blood. "What happened?"

"Everything will be alright this time. I promise." Lips pressed together, Saskia forced herself to break away from Katinka's presence that became too unbearable and too tempting. If she allowed herself to linger in it—guilt and happiness fighting in her almost bursting chest—Saskia knew she would again destroy this fragile life.

Death, Saskia did not want to bring upon her again, and her forgiveness she did not deserve.

Thus, she hurried towards the door that would have been a joke to any true raider, but with Perhta's protection was enough to hold back the Hunt. Why, Saskia did not quite understand as the Bright Mother would have had any right to deny her this shelter—nay, punish her like she did Anyan before.

But her strike did not come.

"What is going on?" Katinka asked again. "Saskia!"

If I go out there, she will not forgive herself ...

Slowly, Saskia risked to turn around, although she felt like meeting her sister's gaze once more would tear her to pieces. "I lied to you. The one breaking the rules ... it was me. I did not trust you, and that cost your life. And now ... now I have found a soulmate in a devil with no heart, crawled into a wolf's jaw, and plucked the flower from Zlatorog's blood to save you."

She expected Katinka to scream at her or simply pray at the mention of something this sacrilegious. However, after an endless silence neither of them dared to break, she sighed the words Saskia feared with painful honesty: "I forgive you. I should have trusted you more, too."

Outside, the Wild Hunt raged, but there was not the ghost of fear written on Katinka's face as she got up. "Now, if the blessing of a cursed Daughter of Perhta who should be dead is of any worth ..."

Saskia shook her head in defiance, fresh tears burning in her eyes. Not this as well. I deserve to be punished for this ...

"May the Bright Mother bless you both and forgive you your wrongs. You did it for a wretched Daughter of hers," Katinka spoke.

Perhaps it was this prayer heard, Saskia's meek attempt to save Zlatorog herself, or that no greater punishment could await them, but when they finally dared to leave the sanctuary, the Wild Hunt just bowed in front of their master.

Saskia thought to see Rogdai and Silvan among them—ghostly riders yet to wait for redemption, not even Jarnik had earned himself entirely. Not free, but his chains loosened just enough that he could gaze upon freedom from afar, he would taste it once in a year.

The hunter god he would stay, followed by his horde of the dead to lead them through the lands in winter.

"I wish—" Saskia said but fell silent again, at a loss of words that did not exist to express what wanted to be said.

He shrugged off the grief that lingered in his voice. "There is no changing nature. We cannot be more than we are."

He has tricked you, she tried to remind herself. Yes, there always had been truth in Anyan's words: He might not be the only one to blame for Rogdai's and Katinka's deaths. In his mouth, however, truth and lie danced hand in hand on the small line between loyalty and betrayal.

The innocence Anyan loved to claim for himself stood a parody of it. In the end, he had lured Katinka out like a sheep to the butcher and had watched as he used Saskia as his knife.

But still, this felt wrong. For Anyan had become more than he was. More than a demon, a god in frozen chains, a devil with no heart, and an endless hunter desperate for his bullet to savor the flesh and bone of his victim.

"I will see you," she said. "Wherever we meet."

Saskia swung herself on Polnoch's back and helped Katinka to follow her example. One hunting party they had survived, but there was yet another that would find their master dead and Anyan and herself gone and would draw conclusions rather unfavorable for them. Better to have a head start.

"Would you run as fast as you can for me?" the desetnitsa breathed into the wind.

I am not faster than the night and her dead, I fear, Polnoch answered snorting.

A soft smile tugged at the corners of Saskia's lips. "Do not worry. We just need to outrun humans tonight."

This, I can try.

"What about you, srnitsa?" Anyan asked. "I made a promise to you, too."

"My curse gone ..." Katinka murmured. That was how he seduced her to leave the convent? Of course, he knows to feed our hopes and fears like his hounds ... Or perhaps, it was a sincere kind of kinship between cursed ones.

"Can you do that?" Katinka asked and then, the next moment she shook her head, firmly, and already spoke before he could answer. "No, don't tell me. It's better not to know. But perhaps if we meet in the future, I will ask you again."

For the last time, Saskia looked at Schwarzhain: A snow-covered village with its grand convent and fortress to rule and protect it. Together with the bleeding dawn, the smell of fire, ash, and death seemed to hang over it. New light would wash it away, eventually, but for now, it made Saskia and Katinka shiver.

"I was never good at farewells," the desetnitsa said, looking down to Anyan who stood beside his Rusa, the everlasting smile back on his face.

"We will see each other soon enough again, vranka. I will find you where a wolf dies."

"Then I assume we will meet where the crows come to feast." Unsuccessfully, she tried to return the smile, feeling her chest tighten around her heart.

"If I had a heart I could have loved you," he said.

Saskia drew a shaky breath, eyes fixated on the rising sun, in which light the Wild Hunt faded.

"If I had none, perhaps I could have, too."

❅

With the moon glowing even brighter than the sun, night became almost day. Those were the times when the Winter Mountains truly looked as beautiful as they were dangerous. It must have been what the gods saw. Tonight, Katinka and Saskia were allowed to gaze upon it.

Polnoch beneath them snorted and whatever she would have said was now left unheard until the next Wolf Nights. However, Saskia thought to understand anyway. To carry the weight of two people became tiresome.

Except for the elderly woman they had just encountered, no one crossed their paths. Naturally, she had stared at them with utter confusion in her honey-brown eyes as though they were some ghosts or winter spirits and beneath her coat, seemed to shiver.

"Are you cold?" Saskia had asked politely, realizing her mistake too late. In the tales that was the question the winter king would ask lost wanderers in the snow.

Tugging her scarf tighter around her head and the grey strands peeking out from beneath, the stranger had watched them warily. "No, Gosudarynya, I am pleasantly warm."

"What's the next village?"

"Lasow," the woman had answered, and whatever she had wanted to add was cut off by a younger voice calling for her. "Oy babushka, I thought I had lost you."

Then the wind swept only fragments of their conversation to the girls while the old woman and her granddaughter vanished.

"What took you so long with the offerings?"

"There were two women. Perhaps some wanderers out of their minds. Perhaps winter spirits."

"Spirits?"

"It would not have been the first time ..."

Then, their voices were gone and the forests fell silent again with the pertinacity of deathly winter.

"Where do we go now?" Katinka asked, holding onto Saskia to shield herself from the cold wind.

This question she had not dared to ask herself out of fear that even thinking about the future would destroy the path to her immediately. It was too hopeful. There had been only the prophecy to hold onto and what lay beyond was impossible.

Of course, no way led back to the convent, and to her family, Saskia had no desire to go. Not anymore. Thus, to the two cursed girls, the entire world lay at their feet to be discovered.

They could go to the sea—in her own lands in the north where it was cold and calm or to the one in the south of Morotenya where it was black and wild. They could ride through endless forests or the steppe where the grass was equally infinite as the sky.
For now, Lasow would do.

At their route through the trees stood a young woman as if awaiting something. Perhaps the granddaughter wanting to catch a glimpse at those "spirits" as well? But as Polnoch drew closer, Saskia realized she was wearing nothing but a dangerously thin dress and no shoes, limping through the snow with bare feet.

Saskia's mouth already opened to speak, but the stranger cut her off, pointing smilingly down into the woods before vanishing. For an instant, she held her breath, watching the woman disperse in the moonlight.

"Wherever midnight takes us," Saskia answered, finally.

Katinka Goldhirsch and Saskia Vrana were supposed to be dead. Yet, they lived.

Here we are! Twelve chapters fitting the twelve nights--and even a little hint at last year's novella at the end. Who might that babushka be? ;)

This was for sure an experience. I'll be honest ... Most of my stories demand to be written. This one detested it.

In my mind, this idea worked--and I thought I had everything to sit down and get the (digital) ink flowing. But boy, oh boy was I wrong. I can barely explain how much of a fight this was with sometimes each word I typed fighting back with claws and teeth. HTSF felt like pushing through a huge nasty writer's block.

Was it worth it? I don't know honestly. I know this is far from perfect yet and would have deserved more time and words to make my point clearer, enhance the prose and worldbuilding, and weave in all my various inspirations more neatly. I did not have that at the moment.

Still, I hope this was readable :'D

Let me know your final thoughts and how this year's ONC experience was for you!

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