The sky is a beautiful blue. Not the deep, rich blue of my memory, but a paler, cooler shade of blue. Still beautiful.
I sit very still, afraid to move. My fingers clutch the fabric draped around my shoulders. It is heavy with warmth and carries a scent I do not know, faintly floral. It also carries the scent of the woman beside me, of the man, and of this place where I now find myself.
The cloth protects me. Not from fear, and not from the questions of the woman and the man, but from the cold that has taken root inside me. A strange, unfamiliar cold.
The ground beneath me is still damp with dew. The small white stones on which I sit glimmer dully in the first light of morning.
The beings with the blue, flickering horns are gone, humming away like a swarm of hornets. Only a dark streak in the grass remains to mark what happened. The dead man is gone as well. And so are the men in their dark blue garments.
I try to steady myself, breathing slowly, shallowly. I want to remain unnoticed, even though only the limping man and the woman with the fiery red hair are still here.
But why does the woman wear trousers? Does she wish to be a man? Why does no one beat her through the village, dressed as colorfully as she is? Perhaps because the man with the cane protects her.
They care for one another. I can feel it. They have known each other for a long time, are bound by trust. They speak softly, lovingly. They remind me of Matthes and Alina. My beloved husband. My beloved child. My own flesh and blood.
The longing in me grows, and a sigh escapes. My fear has not yet decided whether it will stay or leave. I still do not know where I am.
The woman in her bright garments surely does not belong to hell. She is neither loud nor brutal with me. Are her hands as warm as her blue eyes? They look gentle, like the hands of a queen.
And the man with the silver-blond hair, the one who limps, his voice has given no commands. His eyes are beautiful, gentle yet cautious. He seems to have seen much in his life, enough that little can startle him anymore. Surely he was a handsome man in his younger years.
I try to stifle a sigh, but what comes is a sob. I do not know where I am, but I am. I feel, I smell, I breathe, I think and I can move.
The linen against my skin scratches terribly, my execution gown, worn by many before me. It reeks, the dirt clings to me. Yet my heart beats, and that alone is a miracle.
A bird sings high in the tree, greeting the day. The leaves tremble in the wind. The light grows brighter.
I am tired. I close my eyes for a moment. Footsteps approach. Gentle, not threatening.
And yet I cannot keep the tension from seizing me. My hands twitch. But I want to be brave.
Come, be brave and open your eyes.
She is right. Perhaps that is exactly what I should do. Just breathe. In and out. In and out.
Yes. That feels good. The trembling leaves my body.