Disclaimer: this story will feature heavy and graphic themes including death, blood sacrifices, mental issues, general violence and maybe sexual themes. I won't be putting any triggers before the chapters: so please, be careful and take care of your health first!
POPIÓŁ
(n.) ash
The cobblestones where Asya Schreave burned were still black with soot. The air was heavy with the smell of burned flesh, the stench of incinerated hair and coagulated blood almost stifling.
A young woman in a white dress was crouching beside the stain, a wet rag in her hand. Her long blonde hair touched the ground, its ends painted black. She looked like a ghost, sitting like that; a blur of light against neverending darkness.
She was so engrossed in her work that she never saw Illarion Schreave standing just a few meters behind her. That was fine. She was still new, still inexperienced. She'd learn.
Illarion knew Kaja Margowska would make sure she'd learn.
He turned around and slowly walked away from the stain of soot and ash, his throat full of smoke; the stench of burned flesh, incinerated hair and coagulated blood – of Asya, kochana Asya – was everywhere, sharp and acrid on the tongue, penetrating the clothes with greatest ease. It was hard to breathe – or maybe it was just Illarion that couldn't take air into his lungs.
The air inside the palace walls was crisp – a welcome change. Illarion stood there for a moment, his back against the door, forcing his lungs to work: breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in.
He had to find Żywia – promised her to come down to her after the fire… after Asya… after.
Breathe out.
He straightened up and fixed his clothes – he couldn't stand before Żywia looking disheveled. A Schreave was always cool and collected; his appearance, at least that he could control.
This wasn't the first Schreave burial he witnessed; couldn't possibly be the last. There was no reason for him to react so violently.
But Asya was the best of them; she left a nasty whole behind, big and decaying, the ends blackened with poison. He could still see her everywhere – standing in the corner of the main hall, golden hair cascading down her shoulders; could still hear her pearly laughter, her whole body shaking with its force. Asya was the best of them, and no one could even measure.
Breathe in.
His legs moved on their own accord.
Illarion was aware that he passed another woman – her face too blurry to identify her, her voice quiet. He didn't return her courtesy, didn't even look her way; he just walked, ahead and ahead, further and further away from the courtyard, and cobblestones black with soot, and the smoke smelling of burning flesh, and incinerated hair, and Asya, Asya, Asya.
He ran down the stairs, to the tunnels underneath the palace, and loudly opened the door at the end of the corridor.
Żywia didn't even turn around when he walked in.
The place she chose for her sanctuary was small – the ceiling hardly high enough for a grown person to stand straight. The walls of the room were wet with dew, glimmering delicately in the candlelight. In the back stood an altar – right beside a small pool full of crystal clear water, shining with its own, cold light. There was something in the air here – cool and electrifying, almost tangible, but not palpable enough.
Żywia smiled at him lightly, emptily; there was a metal cage lying by her naked feet, a small bird inside it flapping its wings frantically.
She didn't say a word – just turned back around, towards the altar, with that smile on her face. In a bowl in front of her was a fern leaf and something black – a small, shapeless object, dark with ash, almost as if someone burned it…
Illarion looked away sharply; Marzanna was watching him from the altar, her painted eyes judging; behind him, Asya laughed, the sound alone music to his ears.
The bird was chirping loudly now – Żywia was holding it in her hands, her grip tight. There was something terrifying in how calm her face was as she held it up – none of her beauty marred by a scowl, or fear, or disgust. She was like a blank page: devoid of any and all emotions.
She snapped the bird's head in one swift motion.
The chirping stopped.
She held a knife in her hand – a ceremonial knife, symbols carved into its handle barely visible in low light – and she cut the bird in half, dark blood slowly dripping from her fingers.
The air cracked with invisible energy when the first drop of blood touched the burned bone; almost vibrated when Żywia crushed everything in the bowl together, until nothing left but ash, and soot, and wet, shapeless mass.
It was hard to breathe again – but unlike before, there was no smell clutching Illarion's lungs, just this pure, undiluted energy. It was all around him, hugging him from all sides; it was coming in waves from the altar, from the water pool beside it, from Żywia herself.
She smeared her hands with black mass from the bowl, covered her fingers in it – and then she turned around and with that same, calm smile she approached him.
"Breathe" she reminded him lightly, laughter visible in her eyes. But her dark hands were reaching for his face, and the black on her fingers was still warm, and the faintest smell of blood reached Illarion's nostrils.
Asya was laughing behind him, smiling at him from the corner, whispering into his ear: You'll be alright, kochanie, you'll do just fine without me there.
Żywia's deep brown eyes almost seemed grey, grey and bigger, rounder, framed by thick, golden lashes; warm, and laughing, and alive.
Illarion was so lost in the vision of a ghost he didn't even close his eyes when freezing cold water poured down his face. The air stopped vibrating, that almost tangible, not palpable enough energy no longer there. Suddenly, he was able to breathe again, no trace of black mass on his cheeks, where Żywia touched him earlier.
Breathe in.
Marzanna was still looking at him from her portrait – but there was something warm there, something so unlike the goddess of winter' usual demeanor. Maybe she was sending a message; maybe the touch of Asya's fingers he still felt on his skin was her letter from beyond the grave.
"You should rest, Larya. Mirusha can take over tomorrow, inform the press."
Żywia was right – she was always right, Illarion has learned over the years, wise beyond her years – but he didn't feel like resting. Didn't think he'd be able to fall asleep.
"So we're doing it" he stated more than asked; he knew the answer to that question all too well. He knew it was necessary – there were too few left, they needed to strengthen their family – but it felt wrong.
So soon after Asya…
"You know we have to." Żywia approached him again; this time, when she smiled, he could see the emotion behind it. She was right, she was always right, and Illarion found himself hating her for it.
He just wished they could wait.
But Żywia was smiling her warmest smile – such a rare sight – and she kissed him on the cheek; her lips barely touched his skin, but the spark of energy that followed was stronger than ever.
"Don't worry, Lariosha" she said and tucked away the lone strand of golden hair behind his ear. "She blessed you; her essence will forever live in you."
Asya was no longer laughing.
kochana – loved, dear
kochanie – my love, my dear