Parental Controls

12:37:03.101008Z 1E337.19DBA908A265F0F5A101 : ERROR ThreadID=1025981

12:37:03.101008Z 1E337.19DBA908A265F0F5A101 : TrackDescription=Host L7 "Dawn"

12:37:03.101008Z 1E337.19DBA908A265F0F5A101 : PostLogFile invoked -6670

The small, peat-roofed wooden cabin lay still under a heavy blanket of snow that continued nearly uninterrupted from eaves to ground. A careful eye might have noted that the cabin's placement, just outside the main circle of structures, suggested an additional degree of isolation even for the remote hamlet of Hiemsfell. But the most careful of eyes could not have discerned the trickle of smoke emerging from the chimney into the blizzard that surged over the land. Due to the thick snow clouds that hung almost low enough to scrape the chimney in their wild passing, the twilight hour was already dark as a moonless night.

Within, the hearth holding a weak fire shared the cramped single room with only a cot, a table, and, running the entire length of one wall, a deep shelf made from a live-sawn cross-section of oak. Depending on the time of day, the table supported food, work, or one of a few thin-paged tomes frequently read by candlelight, while the shelf served as a larder, tool rack, and library. The crone who bent over a yellowed page at the table squinted and drew the single lit candle an inch closer to the subject of her fixation. A hand-drawn anatomical diagram lay surrounded by runes so familiar to her as to feel like parts of her own weathered body.

With the insulation of the snowy blanket around the cabin and her hearing not being what it once was, the blizzard's rage was reduced to a low vibration upon which her meditations floated. She used the spindly tip of a gnarled, rheumatic finger to trace one of the runes and found herself humming along with the deep notes of the storm. The only interruption of the duet was an occasional weak pop from the fire and a soft tapping that might be dripping water.

She raised her head and turned an ear. Nowhere in Hiemsfell did water currently run free, save from pots left long over heartier cooking fires than hers. With the turn of her head, the tapping faded, and she thought it a trick of the wind.

She returned to the page. The tapping returned. She again turned her head. The tapping, though faint, continued.

She picked up a thin strip of tanned skin crisscrossed with still-visible pores connected by faint lines and laid it down the page. She closed the book. Not wishing to waste energy moving anything more than her own inconsequential flesh, she turned sideways in her seat, left her chair where it had remained unmoved for months, and leaned against the table as she rose unsteadily.

She stood still. The tapping continued, its frequency slower than only a moment before.

She hobbled to the door and, after listening for a moment, laid her hand upon its center. She could feel the tapping. She lay her ear against the door. One. Two. Three. It stopped.

She stood as straight as her long-burdened spine would allow and looked at the single wooden bolt that held now against the storm and whatever else lay without. The corner of her mouth curled. Deep into this bleak season, she found herself with little choice and less to lose. She leaned her bony shoulder against the door, pressed with what strength she could spare to unpin the bolt, and slid it from its iron keeper. The door immediately began to force her back, and her feet shuffled to keep her from falling. Snow blew in through the widening crack, and a white-cloaked body leaned through the opening. The woman raised an arm to protest, but as the door opened further, the body fell through and sprawled prone.

The woman was able to arrest the movement of the door. She looked down at the unwelcome guest spanning her threshold and then peeked around the door and into the darkness. Though the candlelight was meager, her vision still bore its effects and cast dancing shapes onto the inky sea of snow and clouds. Among the phantasms, she thought she saw a shadow prowling toward the cabin through the drifts. Letting go of the door, she stooped as quickly as she could to pull her senseless intruder farther in. It took her much longer than it would have in her youth, but she managed the task and stood to face the gaping door and black world beyond. Nothing entered, save wind and snow. She pushed the door closed without receiving further unwelcome visitors.

Snow lay in tiny piles near the door, and across much of the floor a white scrim was slowly melting in air now nearly as cold as that outside. She looked at her visitor and frowned. If the person lying across her floor was taking breath, it was not enough to disturb the fall of the white cloak or fog the cold air of the cabin. Slowly, she lowered herself to one knee and pulled back the hood, revealing long blond strands that were tucked into the back of the cloak or fell across a beautiful, if unearthly still and pale, face.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Why, the old woman wondered, would a half-elf risk travel in this country? The thought sent her mind up the splitting branches of her own complex ancestry as she slid fingers under the blond hair at the neck. The girl had a pulse, but faint.

Neither relieved nor not, the crone slowly rose to her feet and hobbled to the shelf, where she spent long minutes in front of a row of small glass containers, occasionally unstoppering one and adding a drop to a stone bowl. From time to time, she turned and observed the girl.

Complete, the tincture in the bowl was a bright blue and smelled like a coin held too long in a warm palm. The whole cabin smelled of it. Picking up a thin brush, the woman took her work to the table and left it there while she dragged the chair to the girl's side. She went to the hearth and placed a thin branch on the fire before returning to the table to collect the bowl and brush and then sit in the chair. The toes of her thin leather shoes were just touching the sleeve of the white cloak. She held the bowl in one hand and the brush in the other. Uncertain what would follow, she sat quietly and allowed herself a moment to enjoy listening to the fire as it spread to the new fuel.

When she felt she could justify no further delay, she looked down at the tincture, sighed, dipped the brush, and leaned forward. She rotated one foot to push the sleeve of the cloak away from the hand hidden beneath. She lowered the brush to the girl's exposed palm and, hesitating no more, ran the brush's tip down the length of one crease, the Life Line. She sat back up.

The reaction was almost immediate. No sooner was the woman upright than the girl took a deep, ragged breath. Her body contracted, pulling her knees and elbows under her. Her muscles convulsed as though she were shivering uncontrollably. She pushed herself to hands and knees and began to crawl forward.

The old woman watched, waiting for the process to run its supernatural course.

The girl collapsed and was still.

The woman frowned. She raised the bowl and examined the tincture. She smelled it.

She stood, returned the bowl and brush to the table, dragged the chair to again be next to the girl, collected the bowl and brush, and then sat.

This time, she leaned across the girl's body and ran the brush down the Life Line of the other hand. She hadn't even sat back up fully when the contractions began. She watched. The girl thrashed wildly. The woman waited. The girl fell still.

The woman's frown deepened.

She rose, shuffled to the table, where she left the bowl and brush, and moved to the shelf, where she worked with the set of glass containers for some ten minutes, still occasionally checking on the girl.

She left the completed potion, which was a deep purple, in a tiny glass next to the bowl on the table. She then undertook the laborious task of rolling the girl to her back and unclasping the cloak. It should have been simple, but it took more than five minutes. She rubbed her aching, gnarled hands and considered the leather armor beneath. As close to the heart as possible, she thought. But how? The cuirass the girl wore had multiple layers, over which lay a patchwork of straps, pockets, and buckles. Hoping to gauge the complexity of the puzzle she faced, she leaned down and curled her fingers into a pocket near the waist. After a few seconds of exploration, her hand stopped, then stretched around the object it had found and pulled it free. The woman looked at the spyglass she held. It was well crafted. She laid it on the floor next to her chair and tried the pocket again, hoping it provided passage through the layers of the armor.

Despite the seemingly small size of the pocket, which seemed only a slit in the leather, her hand again encountered something. A vial, with a silvery liquid within. It joined the spyglass.

More surprised was the woman when her hand again found the pocket still occupied. She tugged on the rough object within, and the end of a rope emerged in her hand. She kept pulling until an entire coil of some fifty feet lay next to the vial and spyglass.

The woman sat back and appraised the unconscious girl anew. Reaching no conclusions, she tried the pocket once more. She pulled loose a small glass globe. Inside, white particles floated around a miniature wooden cabin. She leaned back, let the globe rest in her lap, and for several minutes sat still, only her eyes moving now and then in a random walk about the cabin as she thought hard on the meaning of the pocket's odd treasures.

Curiosity eventually prompted her back to motion, and she spent the next fifteen minutes working to fully empty the pocket of its secrets. She did not succeed. When she gave up, she looked around the floor cluttered with her efforts. She shook her head and retrieved both the tincture and the potion from the table, having to step carefully between and around the objects on the floor. Deciding to give up also on finding a path through the armor, she chose the girl's neck, leaned down, and ran the brush down the vein clearly visible beneath the pale skin.

When the girl gasped and sat up, the woman immediately thrust the small glass against the girl's lips and tilted the potion into her mouth. The girl's eyes widened, but seeming to recognize the taste, she swallowed. As the woman withdrew the empty glass, the girl nodded and said a barely audible, "Thank you, but I won't have much time."