It was five weeks to the day since Soren had buried her father. Five weeks since she had stood in front of all his peers and spouted whatever sappy stories she could muster while her grief threatened to swallow her whole. She had smiled and nodded while they had expressed their condolences, shying away awkwardly when they had embraced her. Enara had given her sympathetic looks from across the room as the thirty-fifth attendant had held on for longer than was necessary.
Never in her life had so many people said, “I’m sorry for your loss,” like the words actually meant something. She had been glad to have had her friends by her side. If not for them, she would have let the panic take over and resorted to sucking face with a paper bag for the rest of the evening. She had just wanted it to be over so she could lament in peace. And lament she had.
When the last of the mourners had said their goodbyes, she’d requested to have a moment alone.
“No problem, hon. We will go wait by the entrance.” Enara linked arms with Baz, and then they walked down the narrow path toward the gate of Vreburn’s town cemetery.
Soren watched them go, waiting to say her piece until they were out of sight. Then she picked up a handful of earth that was damp and cool between her fingers. It had rained that morning, and the ground was still soft under her boots.
She sprinkled the dirt over the coffin that had already been lowered into the ground as tears sprung to her eyes. She had held them in throughout the whole ceremony, not wanting to break down in front of everyone. She hated other people seeing her cry and did not want their pity.
She looked down at the coffin spray, the irises marred with dirt. The whole scene was unsettling. Images of her father’s injured body flashed through her mind, making her stomach churn. She shook them away and took in a steadying breath.
“I’m going to miss you, Dad.” She choked on the words as the charcoal under her eyes made small, black rivers down her cheeks. “It’s not fair. I don’t know how to do this without you.” She wiped her eyes, grabbing the tissue from the pocket of her dress that Baz had offered her during the service. “Who would do this to you?” she whispered, a million questions running through her mind. She used the cloth to wipe the remaining dirt from her hand before stuffing it back into her pocket. “I love you tons.” She sniffled. “And I promise I’ll make you proud.” She looked down at the coffin, another wave of grief threatening to pull her under. She wished she could hug him one last time.
She steeled herself, knowing if she allowed the panic to set in, she would likely do something reckless. Squeezing her eyes shut, she pushed the wave away and swallowed back the lump that had built up in her throat. Then she turned on her heel, refusing to look at the hole in the ground, and went to find her friends, leaving a trail of boot prints in her wake.
* * *
The first few days had been unimaginably hard. It was the little things you didn’t think about when someone passed away. She could feel the emptiness of him everywhere she looked. His jacket still hung on the rusty hook beside the front door. His bed sheets still slept in. She never understood why he hadn’t made it before he’d left.
She’d spent her days sitting in silence, staring at his drawing room door, not having the courage to enter it. At night, she would go to The Crow’s Nest to drown her sorrows. After she was well and truly intoxicated, she would find comfort in the arms of whatever lucky bastard she had brought home that night. Grief was a cruel mistress. A deadly companion.
Everyone grieved in different ways. Soren went dark, pushing away her friends’ attempts to make her feel better.
“A few home-cooked meals aren’t going to bring him back!” she’d yelled when Baz had shown up with more food that his mothers had prepared.
“Soren, you need to eat,” Enara had jumped in, defending him.
“What I need is a stiff drink,” she shot back, pushing past them.
“Don’t you think you have been going out too much?” Enara asked, concern ripe on her face.
“You are not my mother! If you hadn’t noticed, I don’t have one of those, either!”
Enara stepped back, the words feeling like a slap to the face.
“That’s what I thought.” Soren turned, not wanting to see the hurt she had caused. “And don’t even think of coming after me.” She stomped away, leaving her friends standing at the door, mouth’s hanging open in shock.
They had left her alone after that.
Enara walked on eggshells around the house, trying to stay out of her way to let her grieve how she saw fit. Soren knew she would feel terrible later for treating them so badly but, right now, she didn’t care.
On the first morning of the fifth week, Enara had finally had enough. She barged into Soren’s bedroom, unbothered by the naked man in her bed. “You,” she said, throwing trousers at the doe-eyed boy, “get out.”
Soren had never seen such surprise run across someone’s face as he quickly gathered his things and, with an awkward, “Um … thanks for last night,” was out the door.
“You have exactly ten minutes to get your shit together before I come in here with the water bucket.”
“Ugh,” Soren groaned. “Can I at least have a tonic for my hangover before you start giving orders?”
Enara rolled her eyes and responded with a curt, “No. Now get your ass out of bed.”
No less than ten minutes and forty-seven seconds later, Soren was dressed and out the door. She couldn’t be too mad at Enara. She had known this was coming, and she couldn’t keep this up forever. She was going to have to tuck her tail between her legs and apologize at some point.
She breathed in the morning air. The rising sun had just settled itself amongst the trees. It warmed her cheeks as she looked back at the home she shared with Enara … and once her father.
They wouldn’t consider themselves rich by any means, but they were well off. Her father’s archeological finds were usually donated to the Vreburn Institute of Archaeology, but every now and then, he would auction off an item or two. Soren was constantly disgusted by how much wealthy people were willing to spend on an old clay pot or a crusted piece of parchment.
It wasn’t that she didn’t have an understanding of her father’s work. In fact, it was quite the opposite. She wanted the items to be appreciated for their history, not used as a display of status. Soren was happy with what they had and knew she was more fortunate than most.
They had a decent-sized property, and the rustic home was nothing to scoff at. It was made entirely of spruce logs, stacked in row upon row, with a large, geometric window in the center. The entrance was flanked by large stone pillars on either side, holding up the gabled roof. The chimney mirrored the stone, and the front door was painted a misty teal that reminded Soren of the river a few miles west, where her father had taught her how to fish.
She loved this home. They had finished the build seven years prior, and Enara had moved in three years later after a final, devastating blow from her abusive father. Soren had been overjoyed to have her companion just down the hall. At night, they would slip out while her father slept and lay under the stars, talking about their recent love interests. During the warm summer days, they would lounge on woven blankets, drinking loxberry tea in the shade of the large red oak trees. Those trees were massive and surrounded the entire property. Her father would join them out back, swinging his axe by the firepit to add to his never-ending stockpile of fuel. She had so many good memories here.
A friendly voice drifted from behind her. “I see someone had a good night.” Baztien sauntered over, giving her a wry smile, his auburn hair still tousled from last night’s sleep. He gave her a once-over and smirked.
“Fuck off, man,” Soren replied, shoving him playfully.
“Hey now! I got a rude awakening this morning, too!”
Soren grinned.
“Enara practically gave me a heart attack, creeping outside my window. I’m pretty sure she was trying to see if I sleep naked.”
“Gross.” Soren screwed up her face in mock disgust.
“Come on; you know you want this,” Baz said, attempting to gyrate his hips. However, he tripped over an unseen root and landed hard in the dirt.
Soren burst into a fit of laughter, slapping her knees. It felt good. She couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed like that.
Baz stuck out his tongue as he stood up, wiping the dust from his pants.
“Okay, you two,” Enara chimed in, exiting the front doorway. “I am calling a family meeting.”
Soren and Baz looked at each other and groaned.
“We have things to do, in light of recent events. Case in point: Soren traipsing herself all over town. I think it’s time we, meaning you”—she eyed Soren—“need to get your shit together.”
Soren looked down, clasping her hands together in embarrassment.
“Not to mention, the curators have been up my ass about a few items in your father’s collection that they desperately want.” Enara had started volunteering at the institute years ago to avoid spending time at home, but she stayed because she enjoyed it. Cataloguing things in a quiet dusty room gave her peace. Soren never understood why. She avoided paperwork at all costs. She was more of a hands-on type of girl.
She sighed, knowing her friend was right. “I know I have to stop putting it off …” A solemn look passed over her features. She shook it off, saying, “But if we’re doing this, I am going to require about ten doses of tonic for my raging headache and a carriage load of depression snacks.”
Baz chuckled. “This day is getting better already.”
* * *
After a quick visit to the local market and a few necessary herbal remedies later, the trio got to work. Soren had apologized on the way to town for her recent behavior, and her infractions were quickly forgotten. She was happy to be back in their good graces and walked a little lighter on the way home.
It didn’t take long to pack away Tarak Nightsong’s possessions. He had been a simple man. Apart from a few archeological finds from his personal collection, he hadn’t needed much. Soren always appreciated her father’s love for the mundane. The simplest things had brought him the most joy. “All I need is the light of the moon, and the stars will lead my heart home,” he’d said as they had watched the remnants of the fire die down.
She smiled at the memory, letting it warm the parts of her heart that were still frosted with sorrow. They had spent countless nights staring at the night sky, studying the constellations.
“I think we’re almost done,” Enara said, bringing over one last crate from the reading nook.
Soren’s mind returned to the present.
“Baz just finished packing up the artifacts for the institute. Did you want to double-check them?”
She shook her head. “No, I already set aside the ones I want to keep for myself, plus a few that would do well at auction.” It pained her to think of giving anything of her father’s away, but she couldn’t hold on to it all forever.
Enara shifted the box up to adjust her grip. “Okay then, that’s everything out here. The only room left is the—”
“Drawing room,” Soren said quietly.
Enara put a hand on her arm. “We can do it another day, if you’re not ready. It’s okay.”
Soren squared her shoulders and gave her a small smile. “No, it’s okay. It’s time. Can …? Can you and Baz just give me a few moments? It’s just … this was his space, you know. We used to joke that he spent more time in here than he did sleeping, and I just need to see it one last time before we pack it all away.”
“Say no more. Just come grab us when you’re finished. Take all the time you need.” And with that, she was gone.
Soren suddenly felt small without her friends by her side. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the handle, her heart fluttering in her chest like a caged bird. She took a deep breath and stepped through the doorway.
It was just as she remembered. It smelled of sand and parchment. His trowels and brushes were laid out meticulously on the table, as if he’d just cleaned them. Maps littered with coffee stains, different symbols marking the type of dig site. Soren used to love sitting in here with her father and drawing up maps of her own, making him laugh with sordid tales of her adventures. “Come now,” he would say, ruffling her hair as the sun fell below the tree line, “let us see what the stars have to say tonight.”
She missed those days.
“Well,” she said to herself, “better get to it.”
After an hour or so of packing away various tools, rolls of parchment, and a jar of suspicious origin, Soren wiped the sweat from her brow. Who knew paper products could be so heavy?
She took a swig from her canteen then wiped the contents that had dripped down her face with her sleeve and let out a heavy breath. She squinted as the sun caught her eye, reflecting off an old photo of her and her father. She picked it up and smiled fondly.
It had been taken on Soren’s first trip to her father’s childhood home in Vakari. She had just turned ten, and her father had gotten approval for her to join them on a dig south of Dhamtra. She had loved seeing where her father had grown up. Everything was so different over there, more colorful somehow.
His given name was Tarakesh Raatkageet, but the locals in Draestal had trouble pronouncing it, so he had gone by Tarak. When you translated Raatkageet to the common tongue, it meant Nightsong, so he had used the latter. Soren was secretly thankful. It wasn’t that she didn’t want her father’s Vakari last name, but taking the westernized version made filling out forms a hell of a lot easier. Eastern food was still her favorite, though. She vaguely remembered trying to convince him to let her bring home a pet monkey once, but it was a no-go.
“Hey, Sor—”
The sudden interruption made her jump, and the photograph slipped from her fingers. “Fucking hell, Baztien!” she shrieked.
“Shit, I am so sorry,” Baz said, looking sheepishly at the shards of glass littering the floor. He quickly bent down to help pick up the pieces.
“Idiot.” Soren smacked him on the back of the head. “You scared the shit out of me. Literally. I might require new undergarments.” She reached down to pull the image of her and her father from the debris when she noticed something was attached to the back.
“We were going to wait for you, but—”
“Shh!” Soren silenced him, her eyes widening as she turned the photograph over in her hands. Affixed to the back of the picture was a letter with some black script on it. She would recognize the muddled handwriting anywhere—it was her father’s.
She fingered the dried ink, tears pricking her eyes as she read it out loud with a shaky voice, “The stars are speaking, and you must listen.”