Iron pot containing shreds of venison and drowned bones. Winter howls through the trees and claws at my door. Rattles and knocks and snarls like a carrion beast with teeth bared, protruding at dangerous angles. It begs for food. Both the beast and my own stomach. I look down into the pot much closer this time. Inspecting. The reflection of my unkempt likeness floats blandly on the oily broth. You look like shit, Vikar. Feel as weak as the bones in this fucking stew. Born from my prolonged hunger, a low and long rumble roils within my gut. Hand reaches for a ladle, without my conscious permission, to its hook behind the stove. Sudden ripples of broth splash the edges of the pot. For a moment the image of my face becomes a warped, greasy abomination. A roach. Sneaky bastard bug. Ladle hand smashes the pot across the room. Rotten smears and decomposing chunks of stew now decorate the wall and floor of my kitchen. I drop the ladle and turn away, telling my gut to eat itself or nothing at all. It protests. I walk to the chair by the central fireplace. My calloused barefeet heavy and clumsy on the rough wooden planks. Skin of my instep pale and chalky, tendons as high as mountains, toenails yellow and cracking. My tongue tastes stale and slicks across hairy teeth. I spit into the fire and snort as the muck hisses within the cleansing flames.
Often I sit here and allow myself to fall under a fiery hypnosis. The flames blur to form a curtain of autumnal layers, dense yet they dance together in sweet synchronicity. After a while, a long while, after my body has been thoroughly bathed in dry heat, the curtain is at once drawn. It is not an action or motion that I could ever witness, instead I just happen to notice. Curtain closed, curtain drawn. Now I'm beyond the fire. Within a deeper space of perception that is wrapped in color yet far darker than black. Another long while. Reality becomes a conical path from my own two weeping eyes to a miniscule pin-prick point that hangs bleeding in the heart of the blackest black. Everything that consumes me condenses into that point. As small as nothing, heavier than everything. Crooked smile splits my face. I realize the absurdity of my maddening trance. I blink a dozen rehydrating blinks and the illusion dissolves.
Rub the sweat from my palms across my faded robe. Chest flat, too boney for a man who should be in his prime. I feel like a corpse. Skin a thousand worms, crawling. I stand too fast and my chair topples backwards with a clack that quakes within my chest and I instinctively back against the wall. Calm the fuck down. The howl of winter returns to my ear as I scan the room and watch shadows play hide and seek in every corner. Set chair upright and walk down the hall to the wine cabinet. Stock is running low. I've drank more merlot than water in the past weeks...months? My warm hands wrap around the cool bottle of thick precious fluid. Cork removed, bitten between my teeth. More fuel for the curtain of flames. I hear the sizzle of charred cork as I stumble about my living space. One large room, shaped in an L. Kitchen and pantry, lounge, fireplace. The hall extends from fireplace down to my bedroom. Our bedroom. Staircase branches off within the hall stretching up to...another empty bedroom. His room. Large mouthful of tangy crisp wine. And another, purple streams flow through my beard. I haven't been upstairs in days. Could even be as long as a fortnight. Wine. That's as far as I care to go.
If and when I’m able to sleep, it’s here in the lounge on the small chaise. Close to the fire. Closer to the front doorway. Always with a poker lying beside me. We keep each other safe. Bitter swallow, warmth now radiates outward and my vision starts to fatigue. The arched wooden door. Gaze right through the fucking thing. Hallucinating. No, remembering. Men with torches and swords and the four banners and the four sigils of the Lords. Horde of men as dense as the pinewood forest in which the howl of winter dwells. Though the horde is far louder. Terrifyingly loud. Only their hunger outmatches their volume. Ravenous. Slavering. They chant and scream their sick purpose and demand I stand aside and submit to the will of the Lords. But I didn’t. I never would. Yes, for other reasons within my beliefs but not for any that would harm my family. Radiant image of her sunbathing on the beaches of my mind. Eyes wet, drops fall. The horde chanting NIVLYRA...NIVLYRA...NIVLYRA… Consciousness returns in time to witness my failure. Blood stains my teeth and soaks my hair. One eye too painful to open. One hand in chains locked to the horse mount. The ravenous horde, a single glowing mass of one hundred torchlights, now a carriage for my innocent wife. Her screams tear free, carried within the maw of the howl of winter, brought before me as a hunting dog brings a carcass. And until the winter's sun of end year rises, the howl of winter whispers and sings to me tales only of death.
I find myself strangling the wine bottle as I pull away from that dark memory. Empty the jug, gasp for air as I turn and render it to green shards in the fireplace. The shatter of glass satisfies my anger. I miss you, Niv. I want you… need you here with me. I’m losing my grip on reality and my mind hurts more each day. I’m so sorry I let them take you. They killed our son and took you and I couldn’t stop them. I tried to fight but… I failed you, both of you. Fucking bastards, I’ll kill them. Hopeless. That wouldn’t bring my family back. My stomach turned. Layers of disgust and wine and sorrow burying me alive. The hour is late. Fire simmers to a few lonesome tongues and pillars of grey smoke escape to the floo. The poker and the chaise lounge. I collapse, a drunken half-human sandbag, onto my new bed as it creaks in protest. Why the fuck didn’t you fix that ages ago? Another nagging chore on an endless list. Everything is falling apart and I can’t fix any of it. Shut up, fool. You should burn this house down and build another, smaller home across the village and far away. Start anew and cleanse yourself. Or stay for one more dream while it burns away everything. No more chores. No more fucking meaningless terrestrial bullshit. You could be with them again, Vikar. No, you’re too weak and cowardly to kill yourself. You hopeless fool. Gentle sobs and crackles of a dying fire, my constant and eternal lullaby.
I don’t remember waking. The howl especially hungry today. I hear the tamaracs groan and complain from beyond my walls beneath a layer of internal hungover static. A stew of nausea inducing hums, akin to a swarm of biting insects or water at a rolling boil. It clogs my mind and interferes with even the simplest of bodily functions. I shamble to the basin and drink several dozen glorious gulps. I wash my chapped and aging face, scrub the dried wine from my thick beard. Reach for a cloth, no chance it’s clean, and dry the water from my skin. Blow the contents of my nose into the rag as I shamble back to the fireplace. Eyes so dry they sting and burn, don’t see the poker in the middle of the floor as my foot catches under the hook and I fall, snot rag waves like I beg for surrender. Shoulder contacts the hardwood, pain quakes across my torso and neck. Son of a pig fucker. I curse and grab my bruising arm, my other hand seizes the poker as I wind and hurl it down the hall towards our old bedroom. I thought you were on my side, asshole. Fuck you. I sit on my bed, breath out of control. The even present creak. I suppress it back to a normal pattern after several moments. The howl cheers as if in delight and pulls the strings of marionette tree limbs to clap for their seasoned entertainment. Fuck you, too.
I beg the cacophony inside my skull to stop. It replies in painful echoes, an excruciating emptiness. What would my father think of me. His only child reduced to a sad coward. And weak, both in spirit and in body. A total disappointment and utter failure. He at least saw me try. He saw me continue the family woodcraft business, meet a lovely woman, build a home of our own together. I was once a proud man with ironclad goals and dreams and a business that was more than averagely successful. My father died with that image in his heart. He wouldn’t have tolerated his son being so helplessly broken. The shame would have been cauterized through disownment. And he never met his grandson. One in a very short list of things I’m proud of. His grandson, my beautiful boy, both the most valuable gift I’ve ever received and the catalyst of my downfall. For village-wide panic. For the Lords’ merciless betrayal. For the capture and imprisonment of my sweet Niv. I could never even think of blaming this on my boy. Instead, I blame their fear. I blame those who would sooner destroy than offer a chance to love. Those ignorant murderous pieces of…
Intrusive rapping upon my front door. Hands search for the poker, but I remember I sent it away for being bad. Shit! Another cluster of knocks, more insistent, this time accompanied by the jingling of metal. I stand, feel cornered, clear my throat and speak.
Who’s out there. Go away you’re trespassing. My voice unable to instill any sense of intimidation. After a short pause. I’m armed. I’m warning you…
“It’s me. And the wind is biting. Let me in, Vikar. Today is the day, my friend.” No… Not today. Already? I tried to convince myself he was wrong, that he made a mistake. I wasn’t ready. Not that I ever would be. I crept to the door and unfastened the heavy locks. A heavy sigh and the door swung open. Wrapped in furs and leather and a heavy cloak, speckled and encircled by wisps of fresh snow, stood Jankeh, the village undertaker. Taller than myself by an inch or two, far more well-built. An ox of a man, with a thick black beard and a scar from jaw to neck that grew no hair. I imagined him hurling me as far as I hurled the poker down my hall. I didn’t want to find out if he could. For as stout as Jankeh seemed at first notice, he wore an expression of deep compassion and warmth. The perfect man to put the dead to rest. He shook the snow from his furs and strode within my home. My first guest in...years. “
I thought you said you were armed.”
“I am, well, I was. It’s just down the hall a ways.” Rubbing the sore bruise on my shoulder.
“Could’ve killed you by now, Vikar. Never make a bluff that you can’t back up.” Jankeh hung his cloak and several furs on hooks beside the fire as I coughed and stood vulnerably hunched over. “Relax, friend. I’m here to help. Like we talked about. It’s been a full segment since your boy passed. May he rest peacefully.”
“You could kill me, I’d welcome it. And thank you.”
“That’s not my job. Though it’d seem easier that way, wouldn’t it? No, no, my job is far more complicated. But I’m good at what I do, Vikar. Let me help ease you through this period of grief.” I felt paralyzed. Mouth dry and tongue seemingly twice as big.
“You’re early I’m not ready I…”
“No one ever is. But you need to find strength. For them. You need to pull yourself from this darkness and be their hope. Both in this world and the next. Today marks the moment where you decide to show your family that your love for them is eternal and unbreakable.” Tears flooded from my eyes. I made no effort to choke them back. Collapsing into a chair, images of my son, my wife. A mosaic of emotions blossoming in my mind. Jankeh was right. But how could I bury my own flesh and blood? It wasn’t fucking fair.
“Ok. I’ll listen and do as you say.” I didn’t sound as weak as moments before. Inklings of courage crawling back to me.