Gold streaks of early morning sunlight peeked through the leaves of the trees, warmed the dewy grass on the ground. The flowers stood in a glade, their stems and petals gently swaying in waves of yellows and pinks and blues. Brown, weathered hands touched the petals, absorbed their warmth. The owner of the hands sighed contentedly and pulled at a stem, brought the flower to her nose, inhaled its sweet scent.
Quietly she observed the rustling of the leaves and the quick, wary scuttling of small creatures. The colors, the warmth, the forest brimming with life: the work of her talented daughter. She smiled, though her joy waned quickly.
Indeed, even as the sun's early brightness caressed the forest to wakefulness, a deep, indefatigable cold began to take root. The chill sank slowly into her flesh as well; it was only her strength as the Lady of Harvest that kept her from freezing in place. Soon, the flowers' vibrant colors drained, their once-green stems turning brown and dead. A path of decay cut through the green of the glade: methodic, sure footsteps walking swiftly through the Land of the Living.
Death's Master moved through shadows of the trees, unseen though not unnoticed; the piercing cold and decay heralded his arrival.
The Lady wrapped her wool blanket tightly around herself, but the biting air did not abate.
"Brother," she said, struggling against the cold, "remove your helm so that I may see you." Metal crashed against the ground, dropped carelessly and landing heavily. Even so, she could not see him clearly, for he had obscured himself in darkness and did not yet wish to be seen. As she reached back into the halls of her memory, she found that she could not remember what he looked like. Perhaps he had always been darkness incarnate. Or perhaps he had been fully subsumed into the power of his realm…
At that thought, the Lady released a quick breath. For the first time since the war, she felt fear grip her heart, though this fear was not for her own fate, but for that of her daughter's.
A sharp noise emanated from him, loud and all-encompassing. He was speaking to her, she knew. Yet his words sounded like the very earth before her was being rent asunder. She could not understand him.
"Brother, please!" She looked at the dark figure in front of her—obstinate, unforgiving, frigid—and she cried out.
And, soon as he had come, he was gone. The warmth returned, the decay subsided. Strong hands gripped her shoulders.
"He cannot make himself understood in the Land of the Living anymore, dear sister." His voice rumbled through her like thunder. She turned to him, pressed her face into his broad chest, and wept.
"He will come for her soon. Is that what will become of my daughter?" She grasped at his shoulders.
"Perhaps. But perhaps not. It is different on the mountain. He is different."
She looked up into his eyes, gray inscrutable storm clouds, and she vowed that she would not allow her daughter to become a dark shade of her former self.