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He could smell it before he ever saw her. There was something darkly wounded inside of her, like an offal pit that had only been half-buried before the project was abandoned. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone out here and he liked it that way. His solitude was important to his work and vital to him. The mist was thick on the ground and blinded him to her exact location but when the moon came out from behind the clouds, he saw her.
Huddled against the trunk of the pine, she shivered, a small bundle of black rags and flesh. Frost was a glittering cloak of stars over her trembling form and her feet lay bare to the cold and wind. When she coughed, he could hear death’s gleeful fingers creeping up from her lungs. She was dead and her body didn’t know it yet. There was nothing he could do for her but offer a quick end. If that was what she wished.
Stepping into the clearing, he was prepared for the fear, the screaming, the pleas. Instead, she looked at him, wide, sightless eyes, white as the moon and just as ageless. Her face was creased into a thousand ripples of time and her thin, tired arms reached for him. “Take me home,” she said softly to him and his heart tripped.
“You do not know me, you cannot see me,” he told her softly, grief welling up inside of him for her. To die alone like this…
“I know the gentle step of the end and I know it is my time,” the old woman told him. “I have lived well and I come here because I wanted the spirit that lives in this wood to take me back to the good and the green.”
“You are sick,” he said, approaching softly, mist whirling around his legs. She continued to hold her arms out to him and nodded slowly. Her shivering slowed, and the rags fell back from her arms. So thin, so frail, he thought with dismay. “You came here to die.”
“I came here to replenish the woods that fed my family, gave me wood for my home and my hearth, provided shelter and a hiding space when the invaders came.” Her arms were shaking with the effort of holding them open and out. “I birthed my son in these woods, and I buried my sister, my daughter and my second son here. These woods are my mother. Like any good child, I wish to ensure that my mother is cared for when I am no longer here.”
“Where is your son? Why has he left his mother like this?” he asked her, a slow path to anger kindling.
“I bade him farewell and kissed him and his children. They have my blessing and they have honored my last wish. A better son could not exist,” the crone told him proudly. While he couldn’t understand it, he had no history with his own mother and could not speak to what that love might look like.
“Why not end yourself once you came here? Why choose to freeze to death?” He stopped a pace in front of her and crouched down. Her hands were still out to him, although slowly lowering as she couldn’t support them any longer. He hesitated. She didn’t know he was a monster and he was loath to terrify her.
This close he could not mistake the reek of sickness on her, or the sad pleading in her open arms. Still, there was an eagerness in her worn flesh that entranced him and revolted him. He could tell her that death was not an end. Sometimes, it could be a living hell.
“I was not waiting to freeze,” she said calmly, arms finally falling but hands staying palm up and extended to him. “I was waiting for you. I didn’t want to die before saying thank you, before offering my flesh to you. The spirit that lives in this wood is a gentle one, protective, kind and wise. You can only be him. Take my bones and build mountains. Take my heart and grow wildflowers. Take my blood and let the rivers flow. Give my death meaning.”
“I am not sure I believe that death has meaning,” he told her honestly, kneeling. Her face was so distraught that he regretted speaking. She was dying, he did not have to take her comfort.
“Mine would have meaning to me, if you would accept it. Is that not enough?” she asked him, one tear falling as her voice faltered.
He looked at her face, those open, weathered hands; the white eyes that reflected the moonlight and he smiled so she could hear it in his voice. “It is enough. You are enough. I swear that the wildflowers will bloom with you in their leaves.”
“Thank you, thank you,” she inhaled deeply and struggled to her knees. When she pitched forward, unsteady, he put out his hand and she shuddered when his claws scraped over her. Cursing himself, he started to draw away. “No, please don’t leave. Don’t leave me to die from cold here. I am ready now. Please embrace me; please take me home. I trust you.”
It had been centuries since he had ever been this close to anyone and perhaps even longer since he had held anyone. As much as he is afraid of it, he felt something inside unfurl. “Are you sure? I don’t want to frighten you.”
“I am prepared for pain.” The elderly body hacked in a railing cough before continuing with a gasp. “That does not matter to me, only the meaning. I need to know I have given you something. If you need my flesh, take it. If you need my blood, take it. If you need my soul, take it.” She leaned out; arms open again. He took her arm and lead it to his shoulder.
Wonder bloomed on her face as she padded his armored shoulder, and she smiled. “You are a warrior. You are the protector of the forest!” She leaned into him and placed her other hand on his other shoulder. Kneeling, facing each other, she looked at him with sightless eyes and smiled the happiness of one who knows everything is right in the world. “Embrace me and know that this is everything I want. Thank you for accepting my offering.”
Under the half moon, in the gentle caress of the mist, and pine scent on the wind, the old woman clung to the vampire and whispered into his hair. “Take what you need.”
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"Fjarskanistan," Amiina
(Truly stunning piece by Icelandic string quartet)