OPEN | this winter brings all the cold to the yard

[northcliffpass]

𝕒 𝕨𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕣𝕪 𝕒𝕣𝕣𝕚𝕧𝕒𝕝

surprise!

I. Snow!

A mere week after the grisly discovery in the Deep Forest and the subsequent dispersal of the eerie spectral visitors, all Northcliff Pass residents wake one exceptionally frigid morning to find themselves buried under several feet of snow. It is of the light and fluffy variety--at least for now--which provides no shortage of entertainment for the village children, and means one is less likely to throw one's back out while trying to shovel it clear of doorways and the streets.

That is your first order of business, as it happens: free yourselves from your wintry entrapment. Or don't, if you've got enough food and drink squirrelled away in your tiny peasant house that you don't need to venture out into the elements. The world is your cold, shitty, socially stratified oyster; ditch your responsibilities, sleep in.

II. Fete! at ye olde tavern

All Souls' Day came and went, and nobody can really be blamed for forgetting about it what with the ghosts and the gloomy business of seeing to the bodies. All that aside the Hammer and Spoke seems especially welcoming that first wintry night, once all the snow shovelling is finished and the streets are clear enough for foot traffic again; lit lanterns glow warmly outside the door, and from within come the sounds of joyful music. Fiddles, whistles, a drum, and plenty of laughter; it seems the snow has stranded a troupe of minstrels in the village, which means at least two or three nights of great fun for village residents.

In truth it will take more than a few nights of drunk mischief to lift the pall cast across the village after the previous month's discoveries, but maybe that's why so many people gravitate to the light and levity and warmth of a party. After such a close call with so much death, it's good to remind oneself that there's joy in the world, too.

III. Cramped Quarters

The nights might be filled with good company, food, and drink, but during the day the village has to contend with another frustration: the roads in and out of Northcliff Pass are closed until the snow melts.

This is a common experience--in late December, January, and February. Not so much in November, when farmers are preparing to take their surplus harvest and livestock down the mountain to Cliffside, or when caravans with schedules to keep to are preparing to head east towards Woodsedge. (The only road clear in that direction is guaranteed to take them past Turn--something no one wants to risk.) Even a few late-season pilgrims have found themselves stuck between Gods' Reach at the summit of the mountain, and the creature comforts of Cliffside below.

There's nothing to be done for it, of course, except to endure the unusually crowded streets, the lack of vacancies at the tavern, and the occasional herd of sheep or goats picketed in very odd places.

Comments

[matkalainen]

"...You disappeared, and we thought -- I thought you were..."

Gently, Tuo says, "I know." A pause. "But you know I cannot ignore my calling."

There is no point in offering an apology, not when he knows that he would make the same choice again if he had to. Perhaps that is where the argument might arise: the necessity of the abandonment of everyone he loved, all he had left of Saaristomeri after the typhoon, based on a childhood dream. (It is more than just a dream, to him, and the typhoon Night's scathing rebuke of his inaction. He won't make that mistake again.)

He brings up the mug to drink from it once, then carefully sets it on the table. When he speaks again, his voice is carefully measured. "I thought it would be the kinder thing to do, to let you believe I had died of the sweating sickness with the other children. I believed I would be dead soon anyway." At last he looks up to meet Dain's eyes; his own are shadowed with resigned sadness. "But there is no kindness in hurting the ones you love. I deserve your anger, Anja, and if I have pushed you to this.." There he trails off and gestures, wordless, at the Shepherd's clothes that his friend wears.

[shepherddain]

For a short while, Dain only stares at Tuo. To be honest, he'd forgotten about the arguments they used to have regarding Tuo's calling. It all comes back in a rush, leaving him very nearly lightheaded, and his reaction turns out to be entirely the opposite of anger -- it's laughter.

Not mean laughter, or dismissive laughter. Quite the contrary, there's flashes in it of the Anja Tuo used to know, a young teenager full of gentle hope and optimism for the future, finding the unanticipated good in nearly any situation he encounters.

"Typerä Tuo," he manages at last, bright and fond, at odds with his words. "It wasn't. It's never the kinder thing, not to know what truly happened. But you're not the reason I became a Shepherd -- unless that would finally convince you that you don't have to do anything on your own."

[matkalainen]

The laughter, his old, mocking moniker so lovingly delivered--it startles tears back into Tuo's eyes, and he needs a moment as Dain speaks to look away, to fetch out a cloth to blot the tears away before they can fall.

Dain is right, of course. Perhaps that is what makes his heart ache so: knowing that he will do the unkind thing again, one day.

"Tell me the reason, then," he says at last, and reaches across the space between them to find his old friend's hand and clasp it firmly. That touch, and the earnestness of his gaze, communicate clearly what he doesn't say aloud: I missed you, too.

[shepherddain]

Living through the last decade has been an exercise in careful, constant restraint. Patience only takes you so far; more important is knowing when not to be patient, when to act and when to sabotage so action can't be taken. And yet, through all of that, Dain never once said out loud how he truly feels or what he truly believes, and though this is likely the safest place in all of Maireglenne to say it, habit forces him to take several seconds simply to unstick his throat.

Tuo's hand on his helps a great deal. Dain looks up into his friend's earnest eyes, and the unbidden smile that comes to his face makes it easier to answer.

"At first," he says, "it was because I thought I could change things, from the inside. The orphanage encouraged it, at the time -- training for the priesthood, I mean -- and I thought I'd be able to change some minds. It didn't really work, of course. I'm... it would take more than one person, to tackle a challenge like that. By the time I realised it, it was dangerous to turn back. I had to make a choice, and I chose this, because Shepherds are the ones who decide who lives and who dies. And --"

He pauses, his tongue once again betraying him, and drinks a little more of the tea.

"-- and at my last count, Tuo, I've rescued thirteen people."

[matkalainen]

Changing the minds and hearts of the Glennich--of course Anja would take on such an impossible task, and embrace it. Tuo's lips twist slightly at those words, likely betraying plenty of how he would have approached such an undertaking. But then:

"...and at my last count, Tuo, I've rescued thirteen people."

"Rescued," he repeats faintly, the implications of what his friend says sinking in. His eyes grow very wide. "You're saving witches from the pyre." Or the gallows--or the knife. The Shepherds have never been particularly picky in what means they use to commit murder.

[shepherddain]

Again, it takes Dain a moment to answer; but he nods. "Yes."

His heart's pounding, prepared for escape, after years of being trained into recognising confession as suicide. But there's relief somewhere in there too, and maybe that's what's responsible for his hands shaking. He's safe, here, or as safe as he can possibly be, and it's the recognition of safety that makes it clear to Dain how little he's had of it. If this weren't Tuo, he wouldn't know what to do next.

"Anonymously," he goes on, "where I can. It's not enough, it's never enough, but -- it's thirteen more people safe than there would be, if I wasn't trying."

[matkalainen]

"For the ones you rescued," Tuo counters gently, "it is more than enough. It is everything."

He can feel Dain's trembling where their hands touch; of course he would be terrified. Has he ever spoken these words aloud to anyone else in all the time he's lived this double life as both Shepherd and devotee to the Night? That's an assumption, of course; Tuo doesn't know whether Dain still believes, and won't ask where his friend's devotions lie.

He brings his other hand to cradle Dain's between his palms, smoothing a thumb across the ridges of his knuckles, and offers his friend's words back to him. "You're safe here," he promises him quietly. There are so few promises he can make, knowing what he knows of his own life and what lies ahead of him, but, nevertheless--"Right here, right now. You are safe with me, Anja."

[shepherddain]

Tuo's right, of course -- the people rescued, and their families, and their friends. Dain may be something of an idealistic masochist, but even he wouldn't have continued on this path if he didn't see real worth in it.

Still. It never feels like enough.

Then his own words are returned, and they make the situation real, and Dain couldn't prevent the tears falling if he wanted to. He's not even sure what he's weeping for. Family, childhood, unfulfilled promises of a life that never happened, the loneliness Tuo must have lived with, the knowledge that he can't simply come back here each evening and spend his time healing some of that pain. All of it. None of it.

"Dain," he manages, wiping his eyes with his other sleeve. "Not Anja. I go by Johannes Dain now." A smile. "It's one of the only changes I think I would make again."