Curse Of Blood: Gods & Monsters

Chapter III (part II) - Aila

Aila retained only a threadbare impression of her mother's vague countenance, for she had been but a child herself when that lady had passed into the otherworld at the birth of her youngest, and last born, Eirik. The entire family had been inconsolable then, but Elfa most of all; her grandmother had not borne the loss of her only daughter with aught but severe melancholy and had ever since then declined into extreme frailty — the soundness of her mind forever, and irreversibly, degenerated.

It had thus fallen on Aila to mind her younger siblings, and it was she that rallied enough to assume the helm of domestic duties abandoned by a mourning grandmother and grieving father. Seven years had lapsed since then, but she could not recall that her mother's flesh had ever looked so purpled and waxy, nor her lips appeared so dun-like, as was the case with Inga's. It had been exactly a full day since she had found her sister's cold and wasted body.

Only grey suffused those once vibrant cheeks; the deadly nightshade berries, wholly deserving of their moniker, had effectively stripped Inga of all but the sallow vacancy of death.

Why did you do it, Inga! Why not come to me! I would have helped you.

Even her hair had lost its vitality, and was now devoid of the warmth of life, save a slight rustle now and then affected by the wind. It was at present contained beneath a diaphanous, white linen veil, but Aila could well see that, instead of the bright scarlet hue that used to infuse each strand, the locks were now much attenuated in death. She had always loved her sisters hair, bequeathed to both Inga and Orvar by their mother.

Inga's burial gown was of a fine vermillion wool decorated at the neck, hem and cuffs with a lozenge, twill pattern. Her delicate hands were positioned tranquilly over her concave belly, a sprig of heather beneath her white fingers placed there by Aila for protection, so as to cleanse her sister's spirit. Beside the young girl's corpse, her family had placed all her worldly possessions — her comb, her jewelry, and whatever other desiderata she might need for the next realm... wherever that might be.

Where did the souls of the lost and lorn go? Those afflicted by some oppressive malaise of the mind, desponding enough to seek death at their own hands. Aila shifted her dimmed, brimming eyes towards the rest of the throng that had gathered on the burial field, and considered those that stood nearby. Some appeared lost in their own contemplations as they distractedly tendered their voices to the dirge that echoed throughout the meadow, the early morning fog encroaching steadily from the sea.

It was not those few closest friends, their expressions awash with sorrow, that stabbed at her heart. Nay, 'twas the rest of the villagers' present — their expressions cleaved viciously at Aila's breast, for their lineaments were replete with an execratory coldness that seemed to reflect around the better part of those assembled.

How dare they judge her! But Aila knew that there was nothing she might say in her sister's defense. Suicide was, after all, held in highest contempt and her sister's grave, as well as her memory, would forever be deemed an ignominious one.

Would that you had thrown yourself into the ravine instead, Inga; and left them all in doubt of your sad expiry. I might then have convinced them you'd unwittingly fallen...

Aila wiped at her eyes and searched her brothers' faces, hoping that what they themselves felt was not determined by those that stood beside and all around them. Eirik was the easier of the two to fathom, inasmuch as he had ever worn his emotions on his aspect, and there she saw what must plainly be writ across her own features — an all consuming heartache. But Orvar's features were far more adversely arranged; his face bespoke only his resentment.