A song stirs in the quickened rhythm of her heart, harmonizing with the wind's rush and the crunch of snow beneath her steps.
Her breath unfurls like smoke in the frosty air, her thoughts dissolving into the grey and white hush around her.
She has come too far.
She turns, fingers curling into the damp veil of her shawl as she traces the path back home through the scattered footprints.
Only to find the footprints swallowed by fog and drifting snow after just a few steps.
Worry tightens her chest as she looks around, the fog swallowing the forest beyond into pale shadows of snow-laden pines and branches long stripped of life.
What has she done?
She shivers as a frosty wind curls through her hair beneath the veil, the cold seeping into her bones.
She grits her teeth against the chattering and crouches, lifting her skirt to reach for the knife hidden in her boot.
She carefully carves an arrow into the bark, deep enough to trace if the forest turns her around again.
Her husband's caution echoes in her mind as her fingers pick at a rough fragment of bark: no matter what, keep a weapon close.
If he's searching for her, she hopes it will lead him to her sooner, but the snow keeps thickening.
She keeps moving, carving arrows into the bark, her skirt's hem growing heavy and wet as the snow deepens around her ankles.
Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six arrow marks later,
breath breaking, she presses her palm against the rough bark of a sycamore.
Her lips tremble, tears blurring her vision as she stares at the jagged curve of an arrow she has crossed not once, but twice.
She can't be this helpless,
she left home without a crumb of bread or a drop of water. Now hunger gnaws at her stomach, thirst tearing at her strength.
Her fingers graze her abdomen.
She can't afford to be this careless, not while she's carrying a child.
So she wanders through the forest with a prayer in her heart, even as dizziness blurs her vision, hunger and the sickness of first-trimester buckling her trembling legs.
It was meant to be a restful day before the sermons and travels resumed,
a day well spent with her husband and son in the warmth of their cottage.
But she has to ruin everything, burdening her husband with yet another needless worry. One that could have been spared if she'd had the sense not to lose herself over some small inconvenience.
She blinks against the sting of gathering tears, guilt and anger folding into the horror of being trapped alone in the forest's maze.
She knows why some believers disapprove of her as a prophetess and a preacher, but they refuse to see the truth behind who she is.
Or trust God in why He chose her to lead them. She fears that even if the Door is found, it will not open until all their hearts are aligned with God,
seventy thousand believers, and more.
And if their disgust is what keeps the believers from trusting in God's plan…
She shudders to imagine what will happen if it's too late, if Miraeth burns before the Door can fully open.
No. She believes in her Father. It will all be alright. He will make it so.
Relief washes over Neva in waves as an old cottage comes into view, smoke coiling from its chimney.
A flicker of hope after what seemed like an unending maze of white and grey forest.
Drawing in deep, steady breaths to calm her racing heart, she pushes off the trunk and moves toward a time-worn well.
A wooden arc crowns the stone well, a bucket suspended from a hook, the wheel bound in ropes coiled many times.
Her mouth is parched, the thirst clawing at her as if it might kill her.
As her hand closes around the rope, numbness flooding her frozen fingers,
she can only hope the well's owner wouldn't mind her taking a few sips.
Her mouth hardens, the slick rope slipping in her grip as she heaves the bucket up and sets it on the well's rim. Her breath rushes out, water dripping down the stones.
With trembling hands, she gathers the freezing water and lifts it to her lips, first testing its scent and hue.
Finding nothing amiss, she drinks until her chest eases. The cold both blesses and bites, consecrating her from within as she breathes an invocation to Adonai.
"And who do I find here…?"
The stranger's voice follows, the bucket falling with a heavy thunk into the water as Neva turns, knife drawn.
A figure stands mere steps away, its cloak shifting to reveal a wrinkled,
ghostly face, eyes dark and bottomless as the ocean's void.
"I see thee now..." Her mouth twists into a foul grin, teeth black and decayed.
Neva steps back, heart quickening.
"Tarry, child!" the crone hisses.
Neva's grip tightens on the knife.
"I mean thee no ill," the crone says. "Yet thou hast drunk of my well, and the debt thou owest me shall be paid."
Neva shifts her weight, the forest dissolving into grey and blue, everything beyond obscured by the clawing talons of the leafless trees. "Name your price."
"Thou art famished," the crone murmurs. "It serves thee naught to trudge on so, bearing the babe within…"
A pit opens within Neva as the crone's gaze fixes on her belly, delight glinting in those endless black eyes. "Even if thy son's heart beats strong and true."
Neva swallows, pulling the shawl over her stomach.
"Tarry with me for three days and three nights," the witch croons, her jagged nails sliding from bony fingers as they curl toward Neva. "And I shall offer thee yet another bargain, one to aid thee in thy need."
Neva's throat tightens. "No."
The crone cocks her head, face composed. "It may be too late ere regret finds thee," she says.
"One of thy children is fated to lose their life."
Neva's breath catches.
"Don't come closer." She draws her dagger on the crone as she steps closer.
The witch does not stop, eyes darkening.
"Don't. Come. Closer." Neva forces her grip steady on the knife as the witch advances anyway.
"Such strong hearts." The witch's eyes burn with warped hunger as she curls her jagged claws.
Neva tries to step back, but a tremor of panic seizes her as her body locks in place.
Her breath thickens as the witch lifts her chin with a cold nail,
tracing down her throat…
down her chest with deliberate menace.
The witch—she has done something.
She tries to move, her fingers, her lungs, anything at all.
Bile rises in her throat as the foul stench of blood
and rotting flesh from the witch's mouth.
Her pulse roars in her ears as the nail presses into her chest.
Time slows as she feels the sting of nail tear through fabric and into her skin.
The witch's breath grows heavier, heavier.
Almost a sacred peace wraps around her at the thought of surrendering to the deathly silence gripping the world.
The witch lunges with a snarl—
A flicker of her soul's truth breaks through the witch's illusion.
Her dagger rises, piercing the witch's grey palm with an eerie squelch.
Warm blood splatters across her face.
The witch howls in pain as Neva stumbles back, gasping.
Run!
She breaks into a desperate run.
Her knees lock, and she drops into the snow with a sharp yelp.
Grey and blue spins around Neva as the witch looms above her like a wraith.
No… no… no… no… Father—
The witch bares her teeth, and Neva's breath catches as she lunges.
"Witch, remove thyself from her presence!" The command crashes through the air.
The witch freezes.
Neva blinks through tears and snow as Jeriah approaches, glowing amber against the gloom.
Terror fractures the witch's expression.
Neva remains utterly still as blood drips from the witch's trembling claws above her throat.
In a heartbeat, the witch's shadow vanishes into the forest.
A smile softens Jeriah's seraphic face as he extends his hand. "Let me bring you home."
"You came for me." Her fingers still shaking, she takes his hand.
She pushes to her feet with his help.
As she wipes the sickly blood from her face with her shawl,
warmth encloses her, dry clothes embracing her, the wound in her chest closing.
"Come," Jeriah says, his hand warm around hers.
She sighs deeply, utterly grateful for the Lord's mercy and Jeriah's divine presence in the dark pall of the ghostly forest.
"I have come bearing a message," Jeriah says as they thread a few paces through the snow.
Neva lifts her gaze to Jeriah's face. "What?"
"Your final steps in teaching must conclude before spring wakes the trees to life." His gaze traces the skeletal branches, now appearing far less menacing than before.
She inclines her head gently. "Before He opens the Door through me?"
"Yes." Jeriah meets her eyes.
She drops her gaze to the snow. "Could I bring my son along?" Her heart aches for her son's suffering, for the way both she and his father are often absent, and for the way some of the believers treat him...
"Your faith is your own to guard," Jeriah says.
Neva nods, another question stirring in her heart when Jeriah says, "I have also come to warn you of the plague that ravages the lands beyond Miraeth."
A familiar weight settles in her chest.
Their tenuous link to the world beyond is so rare now, and she wonders if her aunt and uncle are safe. Whether in Erriador or back home. "It reached here... the plague?"
"Yes," Jeriah says. "But trust that all is cured through the Lord."
He stops to look at her with assurance.
She offers him a small smile.
"You are home."
Indeed, the muffled clatter of footsteps and the forest's wild commotion are carried on the whooshing wind.
And voices carry her name as the soft glow of lanterns paints the snow in amber along the long shadows of the trees.
A search party has come for her.
She's been gone so long that her poor husband must be worried sick.
Yet it surprises her little that the forest, which had ensnared her in endless turns now lies already behind her in the Angel's presence.
"Thank you," she whispers, her smile slow and full as she eases back.
Jeriah inclines his head, golden light soft along his features.
"Have a safe journey home." She steps back, raising a hand in farewell.
Jeriah lets out a quiet laugh. "You too."
"Angel!"
Her husband's voice comes with the wind, threaded through falling snow, tugging at the most tender part of her heart.
"Rhett..." she breathes.
"Angel!" he calls again over the others' voices.
"Rhett!" she cries, gathering her skirts as she struggles through the snow now rising to her calves.
He's almost here… almost here…
breaking through the darkness that swallows her way home. "I'm here! I'm here!"
A command cuts through the air, silencing all voices but hers.
She parts her lips to call again, when lantern light shines straight at her, obscuring the silhouettes beyond.
"We found the prophetess!" a voice cries, and the words ripple outward, passing from mouth to mouth.
As footsteps rush toward her, she catches the light flash over the arrow she carved into the trunk.
She feels him before she sees him.
As she sways through the snow, a tall, familiar silhouette draws near.
And as amber light breathes life back into eyes worn hollow by worry, the weight of the day breaks through her body in a sharp sob.
"Angel," Rhett breathes, rushing toward her as she stands trembling.
Her knees begin to give way as the flashlight falls into the snow.
Relief rushes out of her in a gasp as strong arms wrap around her,
crushing her to his chest.
His heart pounds hard and fast against her as her fists clutch at his damp jacket.
She shivers in relief and gratitude as his warmth and familiar cedar scent melts her, a sob breaking as she presses closer.
He presses a kiss into the crown of her head, his arms holding her so tightly as though he never intends to let go.
"Are you hurt?" A swallow follows his words.
She shakes her head against him. "No…no."
His hands tighten around her arms as he eases back, his worried eyes scanning her face and lower. "I smell blood on you."
"It's nothing," she whispers. "I'm fine..."
"How did this even happen?" He frowns.
Warmth creeps up her cheeks. "I... I got lost."
He meets her gaze, his eyes darkening with a weight deeper than mere worry.
"I'm so—so angry at you right now," he admits, jaw twitching with restrained fury.
"I—I'm sorry." Warm tears slip down her cheeks.
He simply stares at her. "Let's go home."
A soft gasp escapes her as he sweeps her off her feet, lifting her into a bridal carry.
Her arms instinctively tighten around his neck as he carries her through the snow.
"Get the flashlight," he says to the guard.
The man with the long brown beard nods and moves ahead to retrieve it.
"They said a witch lives in the forest," he says, his voice low, not quite soft.
She winces at the memory of her encounter with the witch, the smell of blood and rot clinging to that grinning mouth.
She buries her face in the crook of his neck as the guards' voices mingle with the crunch of many footsteps in the snow.
She'll tell him all about it later, the witch, Jeriah's arrival, the messages, once they're home, safe and sound.
For now,
she just wants to melt into him, offering her warmth as a balm for his troubled heart.