no hope in the eyes of the dead

The veil between those that live and the dead has dropped, allowing the ghosts to see and wander among those that breathe. Meadow has already visited her daughter, possessing her little companion and, in the process, talking to her mate. After that, her ethereal form had left the castle, traveling to the stone steppes where the roaring green bonfire called the wolves from every corner of the continent together. Her ghostly form slips between the gathered wolves, watching as children play, adults laugh, and wolves from all walks of life make resolutions next to the bonfire.

Joy fills the air, infusing the wolves here. Yet, a russet wolf catches her attention and something about them has the ghostly Meadow immediately feeling a pull to follow after her. There seems to be a deep sadness that covers her and the ethereal wolf trails after her, easily keeping pace with the unknown wolf. She is beside the stranger as they arrive in a wooded, cold area where blood and fur mix with snow. It is mostly covered over now but still some telltale signs poke out from underneath the winter blanket.

Emerald eyes watch as the wolf settles near the scene of violence, beginning to start some sort of ritual and Meadow settles in across her, watching with sympathetic, loving eyes. The woman cannot see her but she is there with her, watching the way the lady lays out the candles and grind the herbs. Around her, is a sense of desperation and grief, hanging thick as if they are physical presence around her. When the stranger calls out for someone named Torben, Meadow’s brow furrows as she looks around, waiting for the wolf to answer her call.

A tear rolls down the russet woman’s cheek and the dead wolf’s heart lurches in empathy for her. A spirit, thin and distorted flits by Meadow and she wonders if this is who she is calling for. But they are too distorted, too thin to be able to connect to the living world and are quickly gone. Meadow looks back to the russet woman, as she lights the herbs on fire, hearing her plea and wishing to give comfort. With an uncertain sigh, the dead wolf stands, looking to the red wolf and knowing what she needs to do.

Stepping forward, the dead wolf looks at the burning herbs and candles. Looking back to sad wolf’s face, Meadow softly says, “I am not the wolf you seek. But maybe I can help.” Taking a deep breath, she closes her eyes, focusing on remembering the bite of winter air. She latches onto her memories of a cold wind cutting through her coat, the feel of snow crunching underneath her paws. She holds onto them, pulling them into existence until her emerald gaze blinks open to find that her indistinct and ethereal form has become solid and real.

A gentle smile appears on her lips as she looks to the russet woman, softly calling, “Take heart, sweet lady. Even though the wolf you call for did not appear, I know you are loved deeply. I can see it.” She stands there, near the burned herbs and looking at the stranger with love and kindness in her green gaze, Meadow offers the woman a gentle, warm smile.


"Meadow Lark"