a hill revived three times

They find her washed up on the riverbank, and call her a spirit, a daughter of Menuo. Her hair is white, beautiful, and while the language barrier is nigh unbreakable they remain friendly and do their best to cater to her needs. The village is small but lively, with a horizon of the sea to the north and framed otherwise by forest. It's chilly with light snowfall, but the women provide her with skins and a fire. The men offer her a drink that warms and tastes like honey. They make gestures at the sky, outlining a large circle before pointing to her hair. They speak of the moon, pour their drinks into clay pots shaped like crescents, offer bread and animal parts to a masculine totem they've created out of clay.

They seem to be preparing for something.

Nearly three days have passed. He is boyishly handsome, with strong shoulders and soft eyes. The older women seem excited when he approaches Mirajane, but he's never too pushy despite their urging. He brings her wreathes of flowers, a dress his mother made for her, a necklace of amber and sea shells. Sometimes his younger sister will accompany him, trying her best to chatter Mirajane's ear off, pulling her this way and that. If she attempts to leave they will let her, but insist that someone soon coming will be able to help. They draw her star calendars in the earth, point to what was presumably that specific day and then to something less than a week away.  

It's like a dream. Who knows where the instruments came from, but they're played joyously. A huge fire is lit, and a strange ash is thrown in that makes it change colors. Evening draws nearer, and the fire more brilliant. It is fed the roasted game and beer they dine on along with fresh branches. Oranges are peeled and set into recognizable and not-so-recognizable shapes on platters, served with cool water from the nearest river. He comes to her one last time, hand outstretched; he points to the people dancing around the fire, giggling and perhaps a little drunk, but very happy.  He seems sober enough himself, and his eyes ask shyly if she would join him. 

Voices. Their source remains undetermined by the casual observer, highlighted only by flashes of light, familiar smells,  silhouettes and--at times--distinct memories that were easily associated with each being. This place doesn’t feel real; maybe you ate something you weren’t supposed to.

“Well, the creature isn’t mine, and those to the North won’t claim it.” a shadow, a thief in the night, suddenly the sound of a creaking house. There’s an irked cackling that follows, ominous and drawing forth a childish fear of the dark. 

 “Quiet, Rugutis. It makes mentions of a ‘Hive’--Bubilas?” The smell of beasts, old hay, a figure carrying a massive, horned creature over its shoulder. 

“I’ve already cleared that up. None of the Mothers know it. Have you asked the East?” warmth, buzzing, the taste of honey. Its voice is soft but regal, charming respect from those who hear. Home. 

“They say it must come from some cave called Hades in the warmer South. I must admit, it looks like one of Giltine’s servants-”

                                                       “SILENCE!” lightning; being pulled apart by wind, ships crashing into waves. This voice is unmistakably masculine, and becomes the most demanding, clear presence in the void. A goat trots past, headbutting whatever part if you it can reach before disappearing. 

There is a period of quiet after the squabbling begrudgingly fades; storm clouds open, and suddenly light pours forth. It mutes all else. You’re left with a fire before you, crackling and alive with color. Looking elsewhere results in discomfort and even blindness, as everything beyond has become white. 

A newborn’s screams. Arrogance, feeling lost. ‘Why does one exist?’  

                                                      “What say you, then?”

The fire flickers, host to the only voice present now.

“You are no human, and no ember of mine. You are allowed one last plea; I will decide then what is to be done with you.”