Work Text:
Every sunrise, Yolanda wakes up to the chirping of birds and the feeling of fresh dew on her face. Every sunrise, her heart pounds in her chest and fire flashes in her eyes. The sun here never gets so bright as to burn flesh off bones, but eternity can never be so short that one forgets.
Eventually, the snifflings of Lucy bring her back to this dense forest. The flames clear from her vision and the heat on her chest is replaced with the feeling of a cool, minty salve. She places a hand on her student’s shoulder and holds in her own sobs.
Lucy wakes and curls into the nearest shadow. Not hard, the way these old growth trees stretch into the sky.
Squirrels chase each other through their branches. She sees nests pressed into the bark. Yolanda has climbed those sturdy trunks, reaching for the windy skies of her Lady. No matter how high she goes, there’s always another branch to grab onto.
There aren’t seasons here. Hard to have those when there aren’t days.
But some nights are colder than others. And some sunrises are warmer than the last.
Snow often dusts the land, heavy on the canopy above. No matter how far they walk, chasing deeper and deeper snow drifts, Lucy will never journey into the frozen tundra of her goddess.
As the sky slowly brightens, Yolanda gathers berries from endlessly fruiting bushes and mushrooms from the vast fungal network below.
A pair of chipmunks skitter past and, briefly, Yolanda considers trying to catch one. The thought flits away just as quickly though. Lucy is a vegetarian. Yolanda is too, she supposes.
“Good morning,” she says quietly to her student, showing the foraged breakfast in her palms.
Lucy smiles sadly and doesn’t say anything. She rarely does.
Instead, they walk together to the nearest stream. There’s always a nearest stream in this forest. Water churns as it skips over a log in the creek, bubbles and leaves collecting at the sides. Further upstream, the water runs smooth. Clear enough to see small fish dart along the bottom, flat stones holding their shadows.
Yolanda washes and Lucy carefully places the meal in a cloth bag they found early on in this eternity. They don’t need to eat, they never grow hungry. But ritual is important. Days are lonely and community is meant to make them full. They eat by the stream, listening to the sounds of a single leaf skittering over the brambles of the forest. Watching spiderwebs slowly dance in the wind. Feeling the warmth of the sunrise against their unbroken skin.
They drink from the cool stream, water so refreshing it almost tastes real. As its chill spreads through her body, Yolanda can almost pretend she is corporeal once more.
Lucy shivers beside her, the briefest rays of sun already disappearing under the horizon. There isn't day to night here so much as there is twilight to dusk to witching hour to sunrise.
In the last bits of real light, they begin to walk. Following the stream deeper into the forest because there is always deeper in this forest. This sunset, the stream meets the larger river they’ve walked along many twilights before this one. A tributary, a sacrifice.
They walk for what could be minutes or years and the river widens out farther than Yolanda’s seen it before. As it does, the water becomes shallow and the rushing sounds slow. There are patches of ice along the shore and the sky above is fully visible, the first stars peaking out.
She feels tears along her cheeks and when she looks, Lucy is crying as well.
This isn’t their afterlife. They aren’t meant to be here. But this goddess of nighttime, of doubt, of a hand to hold tries each night to make this forest a little bit more like home.
The sheets of ice. The open sky. If Yolanda strains her ears, she can hear the songs of praise for Akadi in the wind. If Yolanda presses her feet against the ground, she can feel the drumbeats of giant footfalls moving in a worshipful dance.
At the edge of the river, wind rushes through the trees behind them so hard it sounds like a waterfall. It buffets her back and for a moment, it feels like flying.
A flock of ducks floats down the river. Branches snap as a fox runs over them. Strips of bark are scattered along the shore.
She knows that someday, she and Lucy won't be the only ones here. That someday, hopefully a long, long time from now, the Saint of Doubt will join them in this endless twilight.
Kristen, who opened the door to this forest. Who pulled them from the bone breaking pressure and white hot rage of another orphaned afterlife. Kristen, whose name echoes through these woods. There are etchings of her face, of her staff, of her book in the dead trees that decompose on the forest floor.
A premonition or a memory, Yolanda doesn’t know.
The sky darkens further, starlight stretching toward them. Lucy reaches for Yolanda’s hand and Yolanda pulls the child into a hug.
“Let’s find a place to rest,” Yolanda suggests when she trusts that her voice won’t turn to sobs.
Lucy nods and lets go, wiping tears from her eyes.
They leave the frosty shore, delving back into the trees. There is always light enough to see, even with no moon to reflect the sun in the sky.
Throughout the forest, there are remnants of another afterlife.
Rotting trees with loose roots and peaceful faces. Small gatherings of shiny stones in feyish groves. Crumbling cottages built with the strength of a centaur. Stone tablets with elvish writings carved into them. Long gashes in tree bark made by a single horn.
No souls remain and a deep sorrow permeates these woods.
Rats scamper out ahead of them and Yolanda wonders how many more sunrises will pass before a true worshiper of Doubt will join them in these lands.
Winds are cold and people are made to warm each other. Night is long and that is why they keep the fire lit.
Lucy and Yolanda are not meant to be alone in these woods.
Frogs croak in distant muddy pools, woodpeckers knock against budding trees. Moss stretches up along stones, fungus pushes out of fallen logs.
They never tire in this place, but when they decide to stop walking, there’s always a clearing just ahead. Broken branches and logs clumped in the center of the exposed dirt, flint and steel stacked next to each other.
Yolanda lights the fire while Lucy searches for fallen nuts and wild asparagus at the edges of the clearing.
Steam rises from the wet firewood and Yolanda leans against the mossy ground, allowing the warmth to spread through her once again.
No matter which way the wind blows, smoke never gets in her eyes. No matter how long she lays here, she always wake at first light.
She thinks if she stays here long enough, and she expects to be here for eternity so long as a wind portal doesn't yawn open in these woods, that she’ll see the whole cycle of the forest. Brush fire to regrowth and then to old growth again.
She thinks if she stays here long enough, she will see thousands of campfires like this one sending smoke up through the trees.
She thinks a miracle has happened and that a miracle is yet to come. She thinks the trees will give way to a glacier and the skies will reveal stair-like clouds.
She thinks the Saint of Doubt will come to this land and make right what has been corrupted.
Yolanda stares out into the darkness and feels a hand in her own. She looks down, and it isn’t Lucy’s.