The village cemetery lay quiet in the pale embrace of dawn, where the early sun cast long shadows across rows of modest gravestones, each bearing nothing more than crudely scratched names and dates. No skilled hands had etched these marks; they were carved by villagers who knew more of earth and toil than art. One stone, younger than many others and not yet worn smooth by years of wind and rain, lay under the careful attentions of a man nearing his fifties.
Carlos—recently widowed, with only one child left—hunched over the grave, an old, threadbare towel gripped in his calloused hands. His movements were slow, deliberate, as he traced the chill, rough surface of the granite. His back ached with every stroke, each motion sending a dull throb through his spine, but he worked on, lips moving in a constant, muttered litany, as if the one resting beneath might hear his grumbling and rise to argue back, as she always did. There was no haste in the way he moved the cloth; a kind of reverence marked each stroke, as though he were touching the very skin of the loved one.
As the cloth glided over each crevice, droplets of water clung stubbornly to the stone, glimmering like scattered pearls in the faint morning light. They trailed down in uneven paths, racing toward the earth before vanishing into the soil's hungry embrace. Each bead felt like a fleeting prayer, a whisper of remembrance for those not long gone. Carlos's shoulders had slumped, his body trembling—not merely from weariness, but from the burden of memories: the deaths he had witnessed, the lives he had let down. Yet his hands betrayed none of this weakness; they moved with a steadiness that belied his age, as if every last ounce of strength and determination had pooled into his fingers.
His expression, concentrated and solemn, was occasionally marked by a slight pursing of lips or a subconscious bite on his yellowed teeth as he navigated the intimate ritual of care and remembrance. With meticulous care, he made sure no corner was overlooked, his gaze intense and unyielding as he surveyed his work. Around him, the graveyard lay quiet, broken only by the soft rustling of leaves and the distant calls of morning birds. But silence was ever fragile in the presence of youth.
"Papá, why Mister Diurnix no come earlier?" It was Miguel, then just a boy of eight, though already too familiar with adversity—whether it be the weariness of labor or the sting of loss. Carlos raised his head, eyes narrowing until they fixed on his son. The boy stood nearby, scrubbing clumsily at the neighboring grave, his movements quick and careless, streams of water spilling over the edges and threatening to streak the stone with mud. Carlos's eyes hardened, and he let out a low growl.
"Wring out that rag right, you numbskull!" he barked, rising to his full height, though fields had stolen much of it. He snatched the rag from Miguel's small hand and demonstrated how to squeeze the excess water out, the muscles of his forearm taut and precise. "Like this, see? Or ya tryin' drown yer brother all over again?" He handed back the rag, shaking his head in mild disgust, though the rebuke carried a touch of fatherly amusement. "An' to think fool like you gonna be runnin' this place when I'm gone."
Miguel's face crumpled as he snatched the rag back, staring down at the grave with a storm brewing in his young eyes—a dark, sullen mix of indignation and loneliness that no child should have to know. "Papá..." he murmured, his small fingers fumbling over the rough cloth, trying and failing to wring it out properly. "Heavens... they do anythin', right? So why didn't come sooner? If Diurnix come then... maybe mamá an' big brother still be here." The words hung in the air, fragile and accusing.
Carlos's hand paused, the rag slipping through his fingers as the words struck him like a hammer. For a moment, he was silent, his eyes falling to the gravestones. The stone slabs glistened under a sheen of water, but no amount of scrubbing could cleanse the memory of their deaths.
Beneath those slabs of cold, unfeeling rock lay their bodies—healed posthumously by the heavens, along with the soil to which they now belonged. His gaze lingered on the freshly cleaned granite, the names carved deep into the stone, anchoring them to this earth long after their souls had departed.
His breath hitched as he remembered the prayers, the desperate, drunken cries he'd hurled to the skies, as if by sheer force of will he might wrench them back from the abyss.
And yet... his prayers had not been in vain. Miguel was still here with him—alive, strong, laughing some days, sulking others. The heavens had answered, but at their own pace, in a manner that made sense to them—unfathomable to mortal minds.
Carlos could still see it clearly—the day despair had reigned over their village, only to be broken by an impossible hope descending from the heavens. Diurnix, the Celestial with the sorrowful smile, had stepped from the light like a figure torn from a child's fable. Dressed in garments woven from stardust and dreams, with eyes that saw through worlds, he moved among them as an equal. Every step he took left trails of light that spread like ripples over the land, healing the sick and blessing the fields. That light, warm and all-encompassing, had touched every corner of the village, every soul—even Carlos's son.
Even Miguel, who had struggled to breathe, his small body ravaged by an illness that gnawed at him day by day, had been saved from its curse. The disease, the rot, the slow march of death—all of it had burned away in an instant under the Celestial's grace, leaving Miguel whole, as if reborn. It had been a miracle, a thing of wonder. Every villager had followed Diurnix in silence, enraptured, too overwhelmed by awe to speak.
When the heavenly procession was done, leaving the village basked in renewed life, Diurnix had turned to the crowd and spoken two words—just two. "I'm sorry." Carlos could still hear those words as clearly as he could hear the wind now.
"Be glad ya still breathin', boy. We just specks o' dust—blown 'round, then gone. Even Heavens gotta hard time keepin' track o' us fools." Carlos said, his voice rough, worn down like the very stones he cleaned. He tightened his grip on his son's hands, calloused fingers pressing into soft, unweathered skin.
"We born, work, eat, shit, then die—small, nothin' much. But skies... they gonna be there forever," Carlos muttered, pointing his finger upwards. Cold water, tainted with dirt from his eldest son's grave, trickled down his scratched forearms, as if to emphasize his words about their insignificance. Miguel nodded, though it was clear he did not understand. His young mind was lost in the task at hand, the stubborn stone surface that refused to clean itself.
Carlos allowed himself a brief chuckle; there would be time enough for understanding in the years to come.
His gaze shifted to the adjacent graves—wild chrysanthemums adorned the headstones, their petals trembling in the soft breeze. The flowers had been placed there by Raquel, the young woman standing nearby eyes closed, her head bowed, hands clasped, fingers intertwined in a silent prayer. Raquel, now sixteen winters old, was no longer the girl he remembered from just a year before. Her lips, which had once murmured the playful "loves me, loves me not" of a carefree maiden, were now slightly trembling, a quiet plea escaping them.
The first hints of maturity had begun to carve themselves into her still-youthful face—lines that spoke of worry and nascent wisdom. The sharp, feline grace that once defined her figure had softened, yielding to the fullness of impending motherhood, a transformation both miraculous and unforgiving. Her breasts were swollen, ripe with the promise of nourishment, ready to meet the demanding cries of a newborn. Her hands, once slender and delicate, had grown heavier, stronger, forged by the inevitability of labor and the trials that loomed. The belly had grown round and heavy, marking her as one touched by life, preparing to give life.
"So, ya tell me who father is or not?" Carlos's voice rang out, loud and brusque. He had no patience for secrets, not in a village where rumors flew as freely as sparrows.
Raquel's eyes opened, and her fingers instinctively moved to the amulet resting against her chest. It gleamed, bright and out of place amidst the simple, worn graves and wildflowers. Too ornate for a village girl, the amulet spoke of things that should not belong in their world of soil and toil. "An' I tellin' ya again—it's a secret," she replied. Her tone was firm, an undercurrent of defiance that made Carlos's teeth clench in irritation. Dozens of times he had asked, and dozens of times she had refused to yield.
Carlos's brow furrowed as he fought back his rising irritation. "Secret, huh?" He chewed the inside of his cheek, the tang of blood mixing with the familiar taste of anger. 'Sleepin' 'round, were ya? Now look at ya—a child carrying a child.' He didn't say it, but his eyes spoke louder than any word could.
"Ya can't raise no child on yer own, niña. Tell me who fool is, an' I knock some sense into him. If he won't step up, I make sure he feeds that baby, even if I gotta starve it outta him," Carlos growled, his voice a strange blend of concern and frustration.
Raquel met his gaze with a calm defiance that Carlos found as maddening as it was unshakable. "Don't worry, uncle. It'll all be fine." Her voice was smooth, too smooth for a girl so young, too full of certainty. It grated against him, stirring something dark in his chest.
Carlos clenched his jaw, swallowing the sharp words that threatened to spill from his lips. Her confidence, the way she held herself, it gnawed at him. He'd seen it before—the arrogance of youth, the blind faith that crumbled when the world bared its teeth. His lips curled into a grim smile. 'She'll come runnin' for help later,' he thought bitterly. 'They always do.'
Carlos's gaze bored into her, searching for the slightest crack, the tiniest tremor of doubt. But there was none. Her composure was as steady as ever, and for a moment, he felt a flicker of something akin to admiration. She had the same fire that his wife had once had. His eyes swept over her swollen belly, and the protective way her hand rested atop it stirred something inside him, a ghost of a memory. The memory softened him, just a little. His wife, too, had stood like this once, full of life, full of hope.
"Name…" he muttered, more to himself than to her. But then the question burst from him as if driven by some desperate need to fill the silence. "What ya callin' little one?" His voice came out rougher than intended, strained with a strange excitement, as if the name itself were a matter of life or death.
"Rigel," she answered simply, and in her eyes, he saw something—maternal love, yes, but also something deeper, almost eternal. Her soft smile softened the harsh lines of his face, if only for a moment. The name lingered in the air between them, a fragile thing full of hope.
Carlos nodded, almost gruffly, though the edge of a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Rigel," he echoed, rolling the name on his tongue. "Well now, that's name," he muttered, allowing himself a brief grin, but then it vanished, interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps.
"Hornbearers!" A man came stumbling toward them, breathless, eyes wide with terror.
Carlos's heart jumped in his chest. His voice, when it came, was sharp as a blade. "What?"
"Horned ones!" the villager repeated, pointing toward the village edge. "Look—there!"
Carlos's eyes narrowed as he caught sight of two figures emerging from the dark line of trees. Towering and silent, with antlers jutting skyward like ancient crowns of bone, they moved with deliberate grace. Druids. The keepers of forgotten truths, their existence a solemn pact between the wrath of the earth and the mercy of the heavens.
"Papá... what they here for?" Miguel whispered, his small hand clutching at his father's sleeve, eyes wide with the same question that swirled in Carlos's mind.
Carlos said nothing. His gaze stayed locked on the druids, lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.
The village had always been small, nestled in its corner of the world, where few things happened. Only once, in his distant youth, had Carlos seen a druid—Ofer, the old prophet of Aelithra herself, back when she was still alive.
The old horned one had been a sight to behold. Stooped and gnarled like the trees of the Golden Valley, Ofer had hobbled into their village, muttering curses under his breath, his face twisted into a perpetual scowl. He'd looked as if the weight of the world itself pressed on his crooked back, and each breath he took seemed a burden too heavy to bear. Carlos remembered well the creak of the old bones, like stones grinding against each other, and the way Ofer's cane tapped a rhythm of irritation with every labored step.
Every villager had watched in uneasy silence as the old druid shuffled through their village with endless mutterings. His presence had been neither requested nor desired. And yet, when the fields blossomed under his gnarled hands and the crops grew fat, the villagers had learned to see past his surliness. Ofer had left them grumbling, just as he'd come, a storm that left only life behind.
Those who had witnessed this still laughed about him at their feast tables, mocking the curses he had grumbled over them and toasting him with cups of wine. "The angriest blessing the village had ever known," they would call him.
But these two… these were nothing like Ofer.
They did not bear the stooped shoulders of age or the weariness of those who had walked the world too long. And there were two of them.