[ For @sarai ]

A witch child had killed her.

Isolde stood before Rowan’s pyre with a torch in her hand. Her face was painted with black streaks of mourning, her body adorned with hides and animal bones. The priestess spoke in the ancient tongue, moving seamlessly between chanted verses and bursts of song. Isolde’s eyes were closed as she held the torch aloft and called to the dark heavens. At a point, her gathered daughters would join her in the familiar chorus of their ancestors. Their voices would rise in volume and fervor until the chanting reached a pinnacle and ceased to silence.

Only one sound could be heard. The squalling of a newborn baby; Rowan’s Nevermerean daughter.

Isolde opened her eyes. Her jaw tensed, cheekbones cut by shadows from the torch. Without another word, the priestess stepped forward and bent down to look into Rowan’s face.

An angry brand sat in the center of her chest. Isolde’s daughter, Zemirah, had put it there, dragging her out in the middle of the night and marking her as a woman who carried Nevermere’s child in her belly. Isolde reached out an affectionate hand on Rowan’s cheek. The look was one of genuine love and endless sorrow.

The babe cried out again.

Isolde stepped down and held her torch to the pyre. The kindling caught, and before long the foul stench of Rowan’s burning body filled the air. Isolde sang, alone this time, a mournful winding song that carried with the smoke up to the heavens.

Eventually, Isolde’s song ceased. The flames lept higher, and Rowan’s body could be seen no more. The priestess turned her back on the pyre and looked out over her daughters. She stepped forward, expecting the two acolytes who were part of the ceremony to follow behind her in procession. Isolde slowed as she encountered the babe, held in Rowan’s blood-sister’s arms, still squalling, red face and dark hair illuminated by the flames.

“Get that thing out of my sight.” Isolde hissed before continuing on into the sanctum. There, the acolytes were welcome to disperse, and mostly they did. Isolde just stood there, stuck. Frozen in the middle of the room.