Eira stared into the depths of the water bucket she carried from the river, its surface shimmering under the nascent warmth of summer. The daily chore of hauling water, once a daunting task, had now settled into a comfortable routine. Her new life, though initially awkward, had found its comforting rhythm.
Gregor and Ann, her newly loving parents, tirelessly answered her endless questions, no matter how strange they might have seemed. Their unwavering belief in her amnesia shielded her from suspicion, a blessing in disguise. Her reflection, though obscured by the rippling surface, filled her with a strange wonder.
My reflection—it's beautiful. How could such a face exist? In another world, I could be an idol, adored by many. But here, I am nobody, not even worthy as a writer. I don't have abilities like magic, so becoming a magician? Absolutely not.
Eira pondered for a moment. She chewed on her lip, eyes tracing the ripples in the water.
Despite reading through every reading material that I found in the attic, even devouring every scrap in Mother's books, mostly filled with concoctions, I still lack writing fuel.
Does this world even have libraries? Surely one more question wouldn't hurt? With a newfound resolve, she carefully lifted the water-filled bucket, her heart filled with the anticipation of returning home.
The thin porridge barely took the edge off the chill in the air, but it warmed her hands as she cradled the bowl. Eira spoke to Gregor and Ann, her voice laden with hope.
"Do you know where I can find more books?" Gregor and Ann looked surprised. They noticed their daughter seemed rather strange, suddenly into books and above all, studying. That kind of thing was something that she hated the most since childhood. Yet, she wanted more?
"Why do you ask? Weren't the books in the attic to your liking?" Ann sat beside Eira. Eira shook her head, "Not at all. I've actually finished reading all of them."
Gregor and Ann shouted, "What?" Silence passed as both of them were totally astounded. All the piles of books in the attic were the collection of books from Ann's time as an apprentice. She read all of that in a mere month?
Ann tried to hold herself from shock, "I see... well, I'm happy that you are into books these days, but books are difficult to come by around here. The only way I can think of is for you to go to the library in Frostgard."
Frostgard, the heart of Glacia kingdom. Every two months, Gregor went there, selling various goods, such as the collective pelts of winter animals hunted by the villagers and minerals mined from the nearby caves.
Eira faced Gregor, "Father, might I accompany you to Frostgard?"
Gregor felt awkward hearing Eira's sudden request. Eira, with a hopeful glint in her eyes, pleaded, "I hope to find more books to read."
Gregor cleared his throat, taking a glimpse over his wife. Seeing his wife nod in agreement, he pondered for a moment.
"Very well. You may accompany me in three months. But you must stay close and listen carefully to my instructions. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Father. I understand perfectly," Eira's face lit up with a radiant smile, eyes sparkling with excitement. "Thank you, Father! I won't let you down! I promise to be careful and help in any way I can."
She embraced both her parents in turn, overwhelmed with gratitude. "I'm so grateful to you both. Thank you, Father. Thank you, Mother." Within her, a sense of anticipation bloomed like a spring flower. This journey to Frostgard was more than just a trip; her long-held dream of becoming a writer could finally begin to take shape here. Every great endeavor began with a single step.
****
The village lay blanketed in mist, its thatched roofs ghostly humps under the heavy shroud. Glacial winter's bite sent shivers down Eira's spine as she exited her house before sunrise. The damp chill of dawn seeped through her threadbare cloak, sending goosebumps prickling on Eira's skin.
"Mother, I'm off now. I'll be back in three days," Eira called, her voice barely audible over the chirping of frost-kissed sparrows as she cast a final glance out the window.
Ann, her hair streaked with moonlight, emerged from the smoky depths of their cottage. She leaned against the windowsill, her eyes held gentle concern. As the sole practitioner of wood-element magic in their village, Ann's skills were always in demand.
Seeing Eira restless and with nothing to do, Ann jokingly asked if she was interested in helping her pick herbs. She was surprised to see Eira happily doing so, willingly delivering the medicine throughout the village.
Before long, it had become part of their daily routine. This assistance was a great relief to Ann, who often struggled with the demands of her practice. More villagers flocked to their doorstep almost every day, seeking solace in her poultices and tinctures, bartering precious coins for various remedies of all sorts.
Sometimes the payments they received came in the form of bartered food and other goods. These meager offerings were the lifeblood of their small family, a fragile thread against the harsh realities of winter.
"Give my regards to Flewick," she said, her voice tinged with concern. "And have you brought his medicine?"
Eira patted the canvas satchel slung across her shoulder.
"Of course, I'll drop it off on my way."
A crisp breeze ruffled Eira's hair as she stood before Old Flewick's weathered hut, nestled at the village's edge, a gnarled oak its loyal companion. The path leading here was rarely trodden, a ribbon of frosted earth winding through the silent woods, except by generations of Glacia hunters from their own village who ventured into the old Frozen Forest.
The Frozen Forest, like a labyrinth of ice-shards and crystallized boughs, marked the border with a chilling kiss. Its icy breath painted the sky with wisps of mist that danced like spectral banners between the Glacia kingdom and the Sylvan Kingdom.
Here, the Glacians, weathered and fierce, hunted winter animals like arctic foxes with coats the colour of moonlight, trading their pelts for the sturdy timber and stone quarried by the Sylvanians.
Eira had learned that the tension surrounding territorial expansion in the Frozen Forest between the Glacians and Sylvanians had eased somewhat, as fewer winter animals were being found. Some believed this was because the kingdom had discontinued the Glacia festival, a tradition passed down through generations.
Maybe I can learn more about this festival when I have access to new books. Eira, her heart drumming a rhythm against her ribs. There was a month left before she and Gregor departed for the city of Frostgard. Ann had sent word to relatives in Frostgard, arranging for Eira to stay with them for the next two months.
Eira hesitated to impose on her relatives' hospitality, so she conceived of a plan: she would create a special musical instrument to take with her to Frostgard. Her reasoning was simple: she had set a new goal for herself – to work as a storyteller.
In times past, storytellers would share narratives with audiences, even in regions where literacy was low. If she aspired to be a writer, her first step was to establish herself as a storyteller, spreading her name and gaining experience. With everyone facing hardship, she felt compelled to do what she could.
However, the materials for the musical instrument she envisioned were not available in the village markets. They lay hidden in the deepest recesses of the Frozen Forest, and who better to aid her in crafting such instrument than Old Flewick, the forest's oldest confidant? He was always pleased when I visited him. It's practically like my second home now.
"Old Flewick!" her voice rang out, a bright chime against the hushed wood. And there he was, emerging from his rustic haven, his wizened face creased with a warm smile.
"Eira, my dear, you are looking much brighter today." His calloused hands, bearing the whisper of a thousand winters, clasped her shoulders in a hearty embrace.
"Thank you, Old Flewick," she replied, her voice laced with a touch of youthful pride.
"I've brought the medicine you requested, as promised."
From her satchel, she produced a bundle wrapped in linen, its faint scent of herbs and earth a familiar comfort. "And," she added, a hint of pleading in her eyes, "might I borrow Jaq?"
'Jaq,' the nickname she had given him, was Old Flewick's faithful steed, standing patiently nearby. Once the mount of a retired knight, the noble black stallion was now Old Flewick's only solace. He was aging, yes, but his spirit remained as wild as the winter wind.
Today, she hoped to use him as her mount. Jaq was gentler and much tamer since Eira had spent considerable time learning to ride him under Old Flewick's guidance. Eira was surprisingly quick to learn. Old Flewick chuckled, a deep rumble that echoed in the stillness.
"Jaquis is growing old, like myself, but his heart still beats for adventure. And what better companion for a young dreamer than an old steed with stories of his own?"
He patted the stallion's flank, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Come, let me show you what I've been working on."
A thrill, sharper than winter frost, danced down Eira's spine. Anticipation churned in her stomach as she followed Old Flewick into his workshop. The sweet scent of pine and the sharp tang of sawdust tickled Eira's nose as she stepped into Old Flewick's workshop.
Sunlight streamed through the dusty window, casting long shadows on the polished tools hanging on the walls, each testament to the old man's skill. And then, cradled in Old Flewick's weathered hands, lay the embodiment of her wildest dream, stealing the breath from her lungs. It was her wind harp, not just any wind harp, but one sculpted to her exacting specifications.
Smaller and lighter than a normal harp, it seemed destined to unleash melodies upon the wind. Her gaze, wide as a winter moon, devoured every detail. The willow wood, polished to a soft gleam, sang with the whispers of the forest. Its frame adorned with the iridescent feathers of snowbirds, their tips dipped in the amethyst hues of twilight, shimmered like frozen tears of the winter sky. And the strings, woven from the fur of snow hares, glistened like threads of moonlight, taut and ready to be plucked and coaxed into song, sending shivers of excitement down her arms.
But beyond the excitement, a deeper emotion bloomed within her: gratitude. Old Flewick's face, etched with the wisdom of a thousand winters, had listened to her every rambling, translating her dreams into tangible reality. His calloused hands, strong from years of toil, had crafted more than just a wind harp; they had forged a bridge between her heart and the soul of the forest. The endless nights she spent scrutinizing the ideal materials, sketching and refining the design, all culminated in this moment.
Tears welled in Eira's eyes as her fingers danced across the smooth wood, tracing curves that echoed the wind's caress. Eira ran her fingers over the smooth willow wood, feeling the grain and the knots beneath her fingertips. The strings, taut and shimmering like threads of moonlight, thrummed with a faint vibration that resonated in her bones.
"I must admit," Old Flewick said, a quiet pride warming his eyes, "this is the most intricate craft I've ever undertaken. But seeing it in your hands, I know every knot and blemish was worth it."
Eira cradled the wind harp close, its comforting weight a balm against her chest. "It's almost exactly as I imagined," she whispered, "One final touch here, and it will be perfect."
Old Flewick's gaze followed her pointing finger to the unfinished strings. "See here," she said, her voice gaining strength. "I need to find a crystal like this," she pointed to the pendant hanging around her neck, its facets shimmering with an ethereal glow.
"If I play with them," she continued, her voice trembling with hope, "it would feel as if the song from my wind harp carried across time itself, connecting me to the spirit of my ancestors."
Old Flewick took the pendant in his calloused hand, his practiced eye discerning its beauty. "I see," he murmured. "A touch of magic and brilliance like this crystal would surely captivate any audience. In that case, take all the extra threads with you. You might find them useful."
Eira tucked the wind harp safely into her satchel, its form a comforting presence against her back. "I will leave soon, with Jaq," she said, her voice laced with a promise. "I'll return him well fed."
Old Flewick nodded, his eyes twinkling with knowing wisdom. "Take good care on your journey, child," he said merrily.
"May you find what you seek and allow me the honor of being your first audience," he winked, "What do you say about that?"
Eira laughed, a bright sound against the quiet air. "Sure, but don't get your hopes too high. I'll do my best to practice."
Yes, I must practice diligently so I won't be a laughingstock again.