By: Lydia Crow
The early morning light slipped through the thin netting at the window, the accompanying breeze breathing life into the curtains for a moment before everything was still once again.
She had wept again last night. Hands to her face, fingers dripping with crystals, she had knelt there, dignified in her everlasting grief and rocking quietly back on her heels. And weeping.
“The drumming. I can hear the hooves drumming.”
He would never grow accustomed to it, though they would forever be locked together by her suffering. More patient than Sigyn he sat, bowl in hand, atoning for the sins of his forefathers.
The sun was creeping round the room, lighting the empty corners and walls. She was sleeping now.
He walked to the plinth in the centre of the room and lifted down the jar, placing it carefully on the floor. Kneeling beside it he added her tears, one by one, to the others. When he was finished he sat there quietly for a moment watching them, listening to them. Once, he had been sure he’d heard the drumming too.
The sun had nearly reached the centre of the room. Rising, he lifted the jar of night and silver and returned it to its resting place.
He left the room, closing the door behind him. The wind sighed again, making the curtains dance.