{(saturnalia)}
She smooths the mounds of soil with gentle, flower-petal palms, her skin as smooth as that of a peach, her complexion pale but her cheeks infused with a rosy tint. She smiles at the simple act of covering the seed, feeling the dampness of the water and inhaling the rich, earthy scent of the forest, of spontaneous growth and decay intermingled into a palpable, living (dying) thrum that pervades the air and seeps into her pores as surely as the oxygen that slips into her lungs.
She breathes.
Every year, she makes her annual trek to Viridian's sprawling maze of greenery, wrapped in a kimono and a thick cotton jacket to ward off the coat. Every year, her footsteps, as delicate as they are, still manage to leave tracks soft, rotting ground, strewn in old leaves and carcasses. The smell of death is as redolent as the smell of the trees and the wilting grass.
When she was but a girl no more than seven years old, her grandmother took her to this very spot, bearing with her a Bellossom, a Tangela, and a knife. Grandmother would stab into the two, and they would scream wailing death-cries not of animals, but of dying, screeching little children, shrieking like sirens even as their lifeblood flowed freely from open wounds until their voices quieted and there was only the crisp crackle of autumn and the mouldering aromas wafting around them like fog. Grandmother would clean her knife and then, taking her hand in a gnarled, old one, would pray.
Jasmine, wolfsbane, anise and clover. Ginger and ginseng, mint and basil. Grandmother put these all in cracked clay bowls with sticks of incense, and there they would burn in front of a rowan tree. With a little fan, she would urge the flames on, watching as the leaves and spices burned and turned into ash, her eyes aglow.
"The gods must be appeased," Grandmother told her. "Saturn, the god of harvests, is a generous deity. But he is hungry. And so, we must feed him."
Now, it is her turn.
The blade shines in the dying embers of evening light, silver and old but pristine. It slides in as easily as a stick into fresh clay, and when it is pulled out, it is scarlet and wet. The flowergirl screams that familiar death-scream, green limbs flailing, petaled tresses shuddering, as the red pours like holy wine from its chest. The wreath with all its frozen blue tangles is next, its call high and keening, mournful and lost.
"Hush, little ones," she murmurs, caressing them in their last throes. "Be still."
At last, their cries fade into echoing nothings, and she sets out the clay bowls. Jasmine, wolfsbane, anise, and all the traditional elements are added. Sticks of phoenixian ash. Incense, pungent and spicy-sweet, masking the smell of blood. She lights the contents inside and watches as the ingredients flare, then ultimately subside. Holding the two corpses over the jars, she squeezes, and crimson liquid trickles into the bowls, filling them to the brim and mingling with the burnt offerings still smoky and warm.
She sets it all in front of a rowan tree, gnarled and withering with wrinkle-lines and twisted branches, kneels, and bows, her hands clasped, her head bowed as though awaiting a priest's benediction.
Then, her lips move and she begins to chant her grandmother's mantras, the barest of smiles crossing her face.
