by A figure walked through the entrance to the grave yard, the black hooded cloak over its form billowing in the harsh wind. The blue of twilight had started to sweep across the snow, and it gave an unreal look to everything. The young girl noticed none of this, however.
She came to a stop beside a slight rise in the snow, her dark brown eyes lingering on the spot where a headstone had never been put. Another harsh gush of wind blew her hood back, revealing the emotionless face of Karma Black.
Her arms were wrapped around a ordinate pot, her hold gentle, loving, and even a bit hesitant. Slowly, she sank to the ground next to the grave of her mother, carefully setting the pot on the soft bed of snow.
Her bare hands were already numb when she began to brush away the snow, the cold already embedded in her heart. After a few slow minutes, she'd uncovered a small patch of grass, the green's contrast with the cold white of the rest of the world bringing a cold moistness to her eyes.
Her fingers strove to penetrate the frozen ground, her hands getting cut and bruised by the hard-packed dirt.
She felt none of it.
An hour later, she held the ordinate pot once more, dismayed by the cold distance of the clay. It was completely devoid of any warmth. So was she.
Her breath swirled in the air above her head, and her cloak spread around her. The stone faces of angels looked down at her, disapproving. This was no place for a half-breed.
Not a live one.
Placing a cold-lipped kiss to the side of the pot, she gently placed it into the hole, pressing down so it sunk into the small tunnel she'd dug. It wasn't six feet down, but an arms length would have to suffice. It was all she could manage.
Her fingers were unsteady as she pressed the dirt back into its place, trembling as she patted down the dirt.
It was less than a mound.
Her hands fumbled inside her cloak, and carefully she placed the small stone, barely a hands breath long on the snow, right next to her mothers.
She sat back, not able to look at the word carved into the stone, nor at the mound of brown dirt surrounded by a patch of green grass. It hurt.
The only heat left in her body ran down her cheeks, leaving a burning trail that dripped down and melted snow.
Two hours later, the figure left again, the hood of her cloak pulled low over her face. The stone kept swimming before her eyes, floating on the tears she could no longer shed. She could still see the one word as it was carved over the cold grey stone.
Brother.
She came to a stop beside a slight rise in the snow, her dark brown eyes lingering on the spot where a headstone had never been put. Another harsh gush of wind blew her hood back, revealing the emotionless face of Karma Black.
Her arms were wrapped around a ordinate pot, her hold gentle, loving, and even a bit hesitant. Slowly, she sank to the ground next to the grave of her mother, carefully setting the pot on the soft bed of snow.
Her bare hands were already numb when she began to brush away the snow, the cold already embedded in her heart. After a few slow minutes, she'd uncovered a small patch of grass, the green's contrast with the cold white of the rest of the world bringing a cold moistness to her eyes.
Her fingers strove to penetrate the frozen ground, her hands getting cut and bruised by the hard-packed dirt.
She felt none of it.
An hour later, she held the ordinate pot once more, dismayed by the cold distance of the clay. It was completely devoid of any warmth. So was she.
Her breath swirled in the air above her head, and her cloak spread around her. The stone faces of angels looked down at her, disapproving. This was no place for a half-breed.
Not a live one.
Placing a cold-lipped kiss to the side of the pot, she gently placed it into the hole, pressing down so it sunk into the small tunnel she'd dug. It wasn't six feet down, but an arms length would have to suffice. It was all she could manage.
Her fingers were unsteady as she pressed the dirt back into its place, trembling as she patted down the dirt.
It was less than a mound.
Her hands fumbled inside her cloak, and carefully she placed the small stone, barely a hands breath long on the snow, right next to her mothers.
She sat back, not able to look at the word carved into the stone, nor at the mound of brown dirt surrounded by a patch of green grass. It hurt.
The only heat left in her body ran down her cheeks, leaving a burning trail that dripped down and melted snow.
Two hours later, the figure left again, the hood of her cloak pulled low over her face. The stone kept swimming before her eyes, floating on the tears she could no longer shed. She could still see the one word as it was carved over the cold grey stone.
Brother.
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