The Veil That Chose

Sunlight gilded the frost like scattered emeralds,

morning pretending innocence.

A lone bird stitched sound into the silence

while winter’s last breath

hung white and waiting.

Beyond the mist—

rot.

Iron and decay.

The truth of the field.

Carys walked toward it

in mud-streaked boots,

balaclava tight against the taste of death,

yellow gloves bright as warning.

Before the veil, she knelt—

snapping purple trumpets from the frozen grass,

small hymns cupped in wicker and gingham.

The windmill turned lazily behind her.

Chimneys promised bread and warmth.

Somewhere, life continued.

She stepped through.

Fire needled her skin—

then ice—

and she was among them.

Weeks-old mounds.

Months.

Years.

Crows feasting without ceremony.

Black blood swallowing her steps.

At each fresh stillness

she knelt.

Closed green eyes.

Snipped a lock of hair.

Freed rings from stiff fingers,

silver from torn lobes—

tokens for the living,

proof for the town.

One flower folded into folded hands.

A fragile mercy

in a brutal arithmetic.

Body by body

she worked,

methodical as winter.

When the basket brimmed

and only one bloom remained,

a twig cracked.

A red-haired boy—

thin as a question—

watched from a withered tree.

His green eyes mirrored the first woman’s.

He nodded.

So did she.

At the field’s heart

lay the oldest mound.

Once, she had called it sister.

Blue eyes long claimed by crows.

Blonde turned black with ruin.

Teagan.

Twin.

The veil had chosen.

It let one pass.

It kept the other.

Carys placed the final flower

upon a grave of withered purple,

then stepped back through fire and frost.

She did not look behind her.

But the boy did—

keeping vigil

over the Field of the Fallen.