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 Posted: Tue Nov 24, 2020 4:49 pm
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Faolchú looked up at the star glimmering high in the sky. It was a guiding light to this ancient and sacred place, and in the darkness it shone brighter than all the others. Together with the moon it illuminated the small altar before him. Others had begun to leave their gifts already, and though the night was young, bountiful offerings of flowers and feathers already lay on the stone. Clearly, other soquili had faith in the star. Faolchú took the moment of solitude to sort through his thoughts and mull over the offering while he still had time to himself. He was not a superstitious sort. Only when he was a young colt had he wished on stars, and none of those wishes had come true. Naive as he had been back when he was younger -- more innocent, sheltered -- he never believed in miracles, but that was what he was now asking for. And this time the price of his wish was high.
In the dim moonlight Silmacil glimmered dangerously at his side, its silver blade still sharp. Unlike Sercemacil, his own sword, Silmacil was angular and flawless. Faolchú had taken incredibly good care of the sword, and over time it had only grown more precious to him. It had belonged to his sister before she had vanished, overnight, without a trace. His elder brother, Casimir, aggressively crushed rumors that she had been abducted, sending out rangers and trackers to search for her, but he couldn't manage to contain the whspers that one of their family had been slain.
No one ever found her. Their poor mother, Sacrifera, was driven to despair at having lost one of her children, and as Faolchú had watched she wept and cursed their family's fate.
Slowly the moons turned into seasons, and as the seasons passed one into another life slowly began to return to normal. No one had ever seen his sister again, and in his heart Faolchú knew the most likely outcome but he refused to believe it. Casimir knew more about their missing sister than he let on -- of this, Faolchú was sure -- but he refused to speak of it, even now, whether out of sorrow or something else. But to this day, Faolchú still held onto that small glimmer of hope.
Faolchú looked down at the sword again. When he began his journey, he had taken Silmacil with him in remembrance of what he lost and as a reminder -- a memory -- of what he left behind. But now, he considered giving it up to the star: a precious heirloom, forged in silver and blood during a time of war, a part of his family and a part of his memory, his one memento of his sister. It was a worthy sacrifice.
Shaking off a feeling of dread, Faolchú used his fangs to unclip the sword and gently lay it down. With the aid of his feet and wolf claws, he removed some of the burgundy roses and decorative black feathers entwined in his pelt and carefully tied them to Silmacil's hilt, pulling the cord tight with his teeth. Then he carried the sword over to the stone altar and laid it down in the center.
"Please bring her back to me," he said into the empty, cool night air, and he imagined that his prayer rose up to the sky, following the light of the star. The sword glimmered among the other offerings, lustrous in the contrast of red roses and black pinions. "We miss her terribly." Faolchú bowed his head in reverence, then turned and glided off into the shadows of the forest, hoping he did not surrender his only token of his sibling all for naught.
Faolchú Word Count: 624
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