Bard declined the offer of the soldiers carrying us to the cell, claiming that his pride would not allow a huge figure to hurl him over its shoulder and trot away. The very image made me giggle until eventually the small sounds grew into a full-blown laughter. He played hurt and offended for some time, but eventually cracked and also began laughing. It was beyond strange that minutes after a battle, in which many lost their lives and even more got injured, we find something even remotely funny. But it's inevitable for the human brain to seek something to distance itself with when Death and pain brood close by; laugher as being the complete opposite often sneaks in and makes you doubt your sanity.

Either way by the time we reach the cell, which turns out to be a lot further in the outskirts than I recall, both of us have composed and walk in comfortable silence. As soon as the ruins get outlined on the background of the now completely inky horizon, Ice soldiers jump from their hiding places and near us. Keeping a respectful distance from Bard, they come to stand next to me, awaiting orders. Moments later a huge white blotch emerges from the shadows on top of the hill. Fenrir's tail is held high in alert and his ears are pricked, but as soon as he realises it's us, his body loses that rigidness and he sits down.

For the next few minutes I leave Bard with the kids and instead take a sit next to the Great Dire wolf. The silence that settles between us is as comfortable as it can get, knowing that we just lived through yet another horrendous battle. My violet eyes more than often stray towards the small group a few feet away, and despite my best attempts to tell myself it's concern for their health that makes my chest spasm painfully, truth is that longing for something even remotely similar has me loosing focus on the surrounding scenery.

Catching myself glimpsing at Bard for the tenth time, I mentally curse for my boldness and lack of a decent stealth, before my attention shifts to the wolf. His huge head rests on his paws as he seems to be either asleep or at least collecting the last remains of his power.

As if sensing my eyes on him, he prays open one eye and the strikingly green iris zeros on me, the vertical pupil thinning out. All of a sudden his body goes rigid, as if a severe spasm of pain shoots through his trained muscles, before easing down, ears flat against his head once again. Raising an eyebrow his way I intend to ask him what has him all jumpy, but the wolf beats me to it.

"I'm tired."

The simplicity of this revelation strikes me as not only exceptionally odd, as pigs will fly before he admits any signs of fatigue, but also highly alarming, for the same reason. Dire wolves were known for their almost inexhaustible amount of energy – they could go days without eating, resting or even sleeping. No one has been heard of seeing a Great wolf being anywhere near tired – it has always been a matter of pride and honour not to show lassitude. Until now, it seems.

"You said it as if you're dying." the humour, despite slightly dark, makes me chuckle and shake my head.

The fact that a snarky remark doesn't follow sends my rather lagging senses overboard. My head snaps his way in worrying speed and my eyes widen drastically, even painfully. The Great White Beast is lying on the ground as if he wishes nothing more but to sink into it, become one with the grass and soil. Ears flapped back, tail tucked close and head laid low, Fenrir resembles a killed animal that found solace in Death. When his eye peeks at me once again, I note that the usual green, so iridescent and illuminating, is now dulled, holding a grey hue to it. The pupil has returned to its normal thin size, but the unnaturally of it still leaves uneasiness in me.

"This is the part where you tell me to go burry my head in the ground and search for my brain, as I may have dropped it somewhere." helpfully adding, I bet against all hope he'll say something crappy that'll make me snap at him.

"There's no point in making this harder than it already is, Isis." if the whole 'I'm so tired with your childish behaviour' tone didn't set my wheels spinning, then the fact that he used my name definitely gets my full attention.

The resignation sets quickly. Too fast even. I want to say something, to rebut, to even shout and accuse him of being the worst liar, of making the most inappropriate jokes at times like these. The words are bubbling in the back of my throat and would have come seeping out if it wasn't for the way he looks at me. With warmth and a peaceful acceptance of his fate. Bile rises in my mouth and sooner rather than later I find myself choking back tears. Closing my eyes and breathing in deeply, I successfully chase back the sorrow that sweeps me off of my feet. Instead of fretting, I look at the wolf, this time with different, more analysing eyes. The wounds on his face and ear are still bleeding, tinting the fur in a grotesque red hue. The gash that runs from his muzzle down his front most probably is also seeping open, as the ground underneath him holds a darker shade of brown, as if something has been absorbed into it. The sickening feeling in the pits of my stomach worsens when I take notice of the wounds on his back – some are mere scratched, barely grazed skin; others are holes from which a wicked weapon, poisoned most definitely, has been dug out. There are numerous cuts and slashes down his legs and sides, making me wonder not only how blind I have been not to notice this when I first came, but also how much blood he has lost. Many question come forward, but I swallow them. 'What point asking how long he has been fighting before he came to me? Or what befall him when he arrived here? When did he arrive?' shaking my head and chasing away those worries, my eyes glue to the horizon.

"How long until…" I choke on the word 'die' as I had my fill of death for a few lives ahead already. I want no more, yet it's been served to my feet once again.

"Not much. But enough." his once growly voice has now died out to a rasp. A dying rasp.

Knowing that my face has paled and the air around me has chilled, I fight back any further emotion wreckage, thus a weather disturbance I may involuntarily cause. It's bad enough we are overlooking a valley covered in corpses, no need to add more dramatic tune to it. A small whimper sneaks past my lips, as if to refute my false claim of being composed.

"Don't dare go all teary on me, Ice Witch. I still have it in me to bite your head off if you do." the harsh comment makes a small laugh bubble in me, but it dies out too soon, choked by the lump in my throat.

"Can I do something to ease your pain?" what's left of my confident voice is a pitiful excuse of a shaky whisper.

"Nay. When time comes, I want to leave this cursed world with as much pride and honour as possible."

It's a rare gift to find amusement in your own demise, but Fenrir does it. Even in a moment like this, after a day like this one, he has it in him to throw some sparks in the otherwise out-of-this-world conversation.

A few more seconds pass in silence as the wind plays with the locks of my auburn hair, tossing them around and carrying away the wretched scent of death and gore. The sky is already acquiring an inky tint, the sun and its warmth long gone. Another whiff of cool air sprees past us, picking up dead leaves and small specks of dust and carrying them far away.

I feel numb to the core. The realisation that Fenrir's going to die and I can't do anything about it shackles me to the ground and brings back awful memories from the past about a town engulfed in flames and people screaming at the top of their lungs; then further back to the village I grew up into, the same that a few months after my flee got raided and flattened with the ground.

"I have a story to tell, witch, so would you be so kind and grace me with your faltering attention?" Quickly pulling me out of my own miniature version of hell, Fenrir moves his bulk with unease.

Nodding in confirmation, I glance over my shoulder and check on Bard and his family. By some luck, or having felt my distress, his head rises in the same moment and our eyes meet. Obviously noting my paleness and the distressed look on my face, awfully masked by the small quivering smile, his eyebrow furrow in worry. About to stand up and come near, I shake my head slightly and nod towards the city, urging him to take the kids and go back. His emerald jewels glimmer and flash, as he obviously has no desire to leave me behind, yet the silent plea, carried by the wind to his keen ears has him clenching his jaw in resignation. With a stiff nod and a last glance at the white beast next to me, the bowman and his children stand up and walk down the hill. My eyes dart to the ice soldiers close by, the same two that had stayed here while the battle raged in Dale, and sending the command through the link we share, they quickly stride after the departing family. 'Family.' the word leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

"You look exactly like her you know. Save for the eyes – hers were warm amber." Fenrir's voice draws my attention back to him.

Instead of penetrating awareness, I find him in a state of ease that has his body morphing into a bulk of snow sprayed with red paint rather than an athletic killer machine. It seems that in the span of a few seconds the once great hunter has degraded to an animal that got caught in a dead-trap. My heart makes a leap and then clenches with a painful tug.

"Who?"

"Your mother, Doriallin." the mildness with which he speaks the name I haven't heard in centuries doesn't slip past me, neither does the implication that somewhere back in time there was a period in which he not only saw my mother, but obviously knew her.

Tensing at this new bit of information, my whole being recoils – I want to hear none of it. My mother died giving birth to me, alone in a cottage somewhere in Rohan. There was no loving husband to cradle me or sooth her in her last hours. No friend to ease her dying wheezes. She died with me in her arms, an infant that repulsed people the second they looked at it. The sole image of that part of my past has my insides clenching and bile once again rises to my throat. Wanting nothing more but to open my mouth and tell him off, ask him to speak of something else, or better yet – not speak at all, I somehow opt for none. My tinted lips stay sealed as the wind chases the leaves around us, sending goosebumps running up and down my spine. Or maybe that's the effect this topic has on me.

"How do you know her?" the harsh question makes me wince mentally, but on the outside I prove that my nickname, Ice Witch, is not given by the lack of a better collocation of words.

The drop of temperature, the howl of the blizzard and the fact that I ooze iciness make Fenrir's fur stand up. Eyeing me with a look that speaks of how childish I react, I return his glare with one of my own.

"Don't fret like a toddler. I have no ill to say of her." his sighs.

The sound comes out as a weak hush of wind and has me gritting my teeth.

"I'd wish you don't speak of her at all. Those are times long passed, buried in the veils of time. Do not disturb them."

Silence drops around us like a thick cloak, sucking away the remains of good will. The subject of my parenthood is not to be approached. Period. Yet the wolf seems to be keen on telling me a story that I obviously have no interest in listening, or so I make it look. His sharp mind and calculating eyes know better. Under the layers of coldness, frost and apartness, there's this little girl who never came to know the gentle touch of a mother, the reassuring embrace of a father and the loving circle of relatives. Now her interest is pricked as every slice of information feeds her desire to find herself in a labyrinth of stone walls, erected to protect her, me, from the ones that will do us harm.

"I was there the night you were born." throwing the bomb light-handedly like that has me sucking in breath sharply, the whooshing sound coming out slightly comical.

I'd have opened my mouth and told him off, probably even left, wasn't it for the fact that for once I am raided speechless. Having barely seconds' worth of time to process this, Fenrir continues in a steady, low voice, filled with warmth like he's returning to those moments long past with the sense of not only pride but also happiness.

"It was a small cottage somewhere in Rohan. Doriallin had chosen it for its seclude location as well as to ensure no one would enter and try to harm you. A storm was raging outside that night – a blizzard that hurled troops of snow left and right, as if they were hay." the distant tune in his voice carries the weight of the years that have passed since then. "She was a woman with spirit, your mother – a fire soul that knew no limits or restrictions for those she loved. You took that recklessness from her; she never knew when to draw the line, to step back and let events unfold as they should. People's misery made her sad and reluctant to do anything else but aid them."

Another cold gust of wind sweeps past us, picking up the loose strands of my hair and twirling them around. The longing I sense in Fenrir's voice makes me want to question him, to urge him to keep on speaking, yet the woman knows better than to let herself be led by the curiosity of the child, so I press my lips tightly together and continue gazing ahead, not really seeing anything.

"I know not who your father is or how he came to meet your mother, but the one thing I'm sure of is that she knew she was loved, even when he was not there to help her. Her irrevocable faith and devotion to him, to a Wizard, made her stray away from the lands of men. A woman carrying an offspring such as you was condemned and avoided. Doriallin tried to pretend it didn't bother her, that people's animosity and coldness had no effect on her. I was there by the time her pregnancy became evident and saw how she was treated." a growl sounds in the silence, and I can't be entirely sure who it came from.

The very though that my mother became an outcast because of her love for a man who the society knew nothing of and thus shunned makes me want to hit something. Hard.

"She loved you enough to know birthing you into her hometown would lead to your inevitable death. So she fled. I found her some time later, hiding in an abandoned hut in a forest. She didn't ask of me to help her, or chase away those who had ill intentions. Her caring nature prevented Doriallin from having even a streak of resentment towards those who turned their backs to her. No, she was too good for such low acts."

"I stayed until it was evident you wanted to see the world. Your mother was ecstatic, yet worried. The thought of someone sneaking in and hurting you made her weary and jumpy. So I guarded the door as she and two of her closest friends that came to help stayed inside. You gave your mother a run for her money, though. It was hours by the time she stopped screaming."

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I can clearly envision the act unfolding before my eyes, prompted by Fenrir's words.

"I entered once I sensed it was appropriate." here he frowns, as if the memory disturbs, even angers him in a way. "You were huddled in you mothers hands, your little red and slimy face resting on her breast. You didn't cry out even once, only blinked your big lilac eyes at her. The eeriness in the room was so thick that the women who helped her bring you into this world stepped away, as if both of you were sick. They said it was a bad sign when the baby doesn't cry; that it was sick or possessed by an evil spirit. The superstitious twats looked as if they were about to flee, the sheer sight of you making them question their loyalty. I could smell the stench of their fear as it was clogging them like a veil."

"Doriallin called me to her. She was also unsettled by your lack of response and by something in your eyes. When I rose to stare down at you, hoping my looks would set you off and you'd finally cry, I saw what had your mother's never judging eyes glassed over with concern. For a new-born infant, still red and squishy, you had the intelligent spark of a soul that has seen a lot more that acceptable. An old soul, she said."

His abrupt stop makes me claw at the ground. Prejudice be damned, my whole being is now zeroed on Fenrir and the story as I can imagine the room, the reaction and the smell as if I was there. The sickening twist in my lower stomach and the realisation that soon enough he'll say my mother passed away are still flowing below the barrier of awareness.

What he said it true – back in the lands of the Rohan it's a bad omen if the baby doesn't cry out seconds after it takes its first breath of air. A fable says it's because a demon has stolen its soul and now lives in the frail shell, surely one day to cause great disdain to those around it.

"You giggled. At the sight of me, once your peculiar eyes zeroed on mine, you laughed and the twinkle in those lilac discs of yours made your mother's eyes water. The hags fled right that instant, murmuring stuff."

The sign of laughter is even worse than the lack of response. While the silence stands for something bad living in you, the giggle represents death. Those who are born with a smile on their mouth are believed to be people sick, with minds littered by thoughts carrying the stamp of hell. Spawns of the Devil, they call them, bearers of Death and Ruin. Back in my mind a story I once heard surfaces, making the blood drain from my face – a woman had given birth to twins, a miraculous event known to be a sign of fertility and the god's good will. The throwback? The one cried out immediately upon breathing in the gulps of life while the other smiled, thus the latter meeting its immediate death despite the mother's wails for mercy. Clawing my way out of that memory, I shiver and unconsciously wrap my hands closer around my middle. 'A child meant to never walk the earth. A Death bearer.' Gulping as an awful realisation settles in, I almost jump out of my skin as a low growl vibrates in the air. Stealing a look at the wolf, I note he seems like he's frowning at me, the jade of his eyes now holding a shadowy glace to it.

"She loved you, Isis. Even when the realisation of what your jingle of bells meant, she kept you close to her heaving chest until her very last breath."

The wind whooshes in the crown of the trees, carrying our way the distant sound of human speech. The hum of life reaches us even here, on this distant scrape of land, where history unfolds itself in a way I never knew it would. For as long as I have been walking the lands, I knew my past would remain a black blotch and nothing more – a mother that came from nowhere and died, a father whose name stays a mystery, and no knowledge of any other relatives. Now, as I gaze up at the welkin and spot the round fat moon, I can't help the small snort that skips me.

"Why tell me this now? You have known me for more than I imagined, yet you decide to tell me the story of my past now, when it no longer holds any significance to me? What good will it do?"

"Your past moulds your future. A soul without a story to tell, is a soul lost. And I never told you because you weren't ready back then."

"And how come I bear any readiness now?"

"Now you want to have a future." Fenrir's head nods towards Dale. "With them. But in order to have a chance, you must amend with your past. And what past is there to settle, if you have no knowledge of it? You were born with the stamp of Death on you, Isis. All the stars and even the weather showcased your lack of any code for life whatsoever. And yet here you are – outliving your bad fortune, washing it away with blood, tears and sweat. The Old Laws have pardoned you of your birth destiny by now."

"The Old Laws pardon no one." the low mutter gets suffocated by yet another howl of the wind as it picks up speed and brings along certain chilliness.

"The good deeds you have accomplished are by what your soul shall be measured, child. Bear that in mind when your star begins to flicker and die out." the wise advice dies out seconds later as the Great wolf lays his head over his paws and seems to have drifted asleep.

The only indicator of his awareness is the slight twitch on his ears as he picks up sounds that are far too distant for me. A comfortable silence settles in as my mind wonders around, various questions irked forward by the claims of the wolf. Do I really have no future, unless I lay to rest the past? Do I even want a future? My gaze unintentionally gets drawn by Dale's lights and despite being impossible, I search for a certain male's outlines. 'What has gotten to my head to believe a man shall ever want someone like me? Claimer of Death…'

"What happened after that? How did I end up across of Rohan?" the question slips past my chapped lips, as the curiosity that's been awaken is still not seated.

"I hid you in the only place you wouldn't be frowned upon – Glaciem. The frost folk took you in with a sense of compassion, which grew into devoted love and adoration as soon as your abilities piped up."

The earliest memories that stayed engraved in the back of my vast memory are exactly from that period – when I was still young compared to now, yet old back then, and skipped across the snow-covered hills like a deer. It was a life free of any worry, trouble or fear. I believed myself invincible as my powers had just bloomed. How naïve I had been to believe magic solves all problems and riddles. A lesson toughly learned was the moment I faced the other world – where I once again became the freak, the other. My looks and character, my speech even was what set the normal, mundane people, off. They saw me as a probable trouble, a lone rider whose eyes only lingered on the shiny things. 'Maybe their fear was a sense of self-preservation – they sensed the bad omen I carried along.' the bitter thought leaves a bad taste in my mouth as all the hateful looks I have received throughout the years come back flooding my mind.

"You loved her, didn't you? My mother?"

His uncharacteristically green eyes glance at me, a silent warning not to broach this topic flaking in them like flames. A call for deaf ears, that is.

"You speak with such fondness of her, with such passion that it doesn't take great knowledge to figure it out."

There's no accusation in my tone, no disgust or even cold ignorance – there's just the understanding of another leaving being whose heart has been captured by the one it can never have. We share a look of acknowledgement before Fenrir once again closes his eyes and lays his head down. My hand on its own ends up buried into the fur, as my fingers tread through the hairs with gentle strokes. The moon, up until now hidden behind the clouds, now peeks at us, its cold iridescent shine colouring the snow with milky hues. 'The snow, covered with the blood of so many creatures. I have come to survive so many battles in my existence. And for what? What did I learn? What did I achieve? No greatness awaits me here, and no pardon in the afterlife. I have been destined to be no one, a confider of death and frost. A witch in the true sense of the word.' a sad smile pulls at my lips as another cold whiff of the wind tugs at my hair.

The moment Fenrir's heart stops, the space around us freezes for a painfully silent second. Everything becomes eerily still, awaiting the beast to reawaken and chase away the shadows with its fierce growl. He doesn't. He won't. The soul has departed the body, leaving it a battered shell amidst other shells. In-between a heartbeat, the second passes and time resume its natural course. It all appears the same, yet it's not. 'Or maybe I have changed?' my eyes finally stop on Fenrir's cooling form. He looks at peace, finally. The burden of a world in which he's unwanted, unappreciated and feared, where he's utterly alone in the saddest sense of the word has finally eased off his shoulders. He's free, at last. The last Dire wolf has passed to the afterlife.

The sky, mostly clear and steady seconds ago, now suddenly gets covered with black, heavy with raindrops clouds. It takes them a single whiff of the wind to open, and water pours down in cold showers, washing away the blood, dirt and horror left over after the battle. My hands come to stand on my sides as I watch the red rivers run down the slope, and as they trail down and mix with the rest, a song sung in a time long gone comes to mind. 'A fitting finale to tonging's slaughter.'

Where rivers run red

flowers will bloom

as the last of the Great

finds his doom.

The sky will drizzle

and the wind will howl

as sword and fangs

shall be no more.

Mourn him not, brothers of Old

as the once fierce and mighty

he seeks not your call…

Tears stream down my face and mix with the rain. I no longer know what I mourn – my fate, sealed the second I opened my eyes and saw the world; my past, filled with horror after horror; the present, filled with havoc and death far beyond my control; or the future and its unknown unfolding. Who will die tomorrow? Or in a year's time? Who shall be the next to breathe in the poisonous evaporation that seem to be clogging the air around me?

There's nothing I can do to stop the flow now – the tears, gathered with years on end, now come rushing out, robbing me of any power or sanity left. Shaking by something far stronger than the coldness, I bend in half and allow the grief to finally find its release. I can't hold it back any longer. I shan't.

As the sky cries with me, mourning the dead and purifying the land; just like the day of my birth, the day I got injured by the Orc attack and many other occasions, now the weather responds to my turmoil. The wind picks up speed and makes the trees bow down with respect for the fallen; picking up the dust and leaves, it carries the message of forgone havoc further away to unknown lands.

A desperate, petty scream rips from my chest as I throw my head back and shout at the skies. In the distance a thunder responds before its light splits the black welkin. There's no moon now to show the way. It seems it has stolen the hope with it as well.

Crestfallen, I slump back on the ground and close my eyes. Frost picks at my body like a thin layer of new skin, covering me in a protecting embrace. I'm wrecked beyond repair, drowning with no one to hear my screams. It has all came to an end. A full circle. I'm reborn through his death. Forgiven by the Old by his voice and purified by the rain, the tears of the fallen.

"I shan't fall in their steps, Wholly Mother, as ice never creases the fire twice. Be my guide now, as I have been a blind servant to the wrong Faith. Call back your demons and restrain your hounds, as I shan't fall back in their steps." reciting the Old Vow of Pledging, my low whispers get swallowed by the revolting of the sky.

The Mother has heard my plea. A thunder far away strikes before it dies out, never to appear again. And she has responded.

My eyes open and I gaze at the infinite blackness of the welkin. 'Tonight we mourn those who lost their lives. Tomorrow we will build for those who have been left behind to wallow.' The new resolve breathes in a new breathe of life in my breast and I sit up, making the ice shell that has enveloped me in a moment of resignation crack and crumble. 'I shall not fall twice to despair. I will amend my past, will live my present and anticipate my future.'

"The Frost Witch fell tonight. It's time for the Evocatrix to wake up again." the crackle that comes from the sky resembles a hearty laughter.

I have Vowed.