Scars by the Bronze Pin - from Isolde

The first day Isolde saw a Reaper was the last day her parents smiled. Not genuinely, anyway. She never knew why. It wasn’t because of the old man’s passing, for they weren’t close, nor was it because the Reaper had sensed death in the family. All she remembered was that after the hooded person sat down with them late one night, they were never the same again.

“Isolde,” her mother said one evening, as she stirred a pot of soup over the fire. “What do you think of the world?”

“Um…” Isolde toyed with her pigtails, “It’s round?”

“No, no, silly. I meant the people.”

“They’re nice! Like you and Daddy, and Gwendolyn – even though she’s just a baby.”

“Do you believe there’s any ‘bad’ people?”

Isolde shook her head. “Nope! You told me bad people don’t exist. Only bad, um – actions, right?”

Her mother sighed. Isolde thought she said something wrong, or maybe it was the carrot’s fault, based on the way she cut and dropped it into the soup so solemnly. “Well, what if I was wrong? How would you feel?”

“But I thought grown-ups were always right?”

“That isn’t true. Certainly not. Everyone can be wrong, sweetheart. It doesn’t matter how old you are.”

“So… Bad people do exist?”

“Yes, honey. Sadly, they do.”

Isolde pouted, eyes sagging to the floor momentarily. “Am I a bad person, Mommy?”

“No, of course not!” she rubbed her head, “You’re the sweetest little girl I know, you could never be bad. But the reason I’m saying this is because… Well, when Dad and I are in Arenard… I need you to remember not to trust everyone around you.”

“Not anyone?”

“If they are someone we haven’t… ‘Approved of,’ then yes,” she sighed, her grip on the mixing spoon loosening. “I’m sorry, I know this is sudden. But while we’re away, you and Gwendolyn… Just – always be careful, okay?”

She didn’t understand what her mother meant at the time. What was there to worry about? All of her life had been spent in that one small village. They knew everybody there, at least somewhat. Whatever new people came were only travelers, who never caused any trouble aside from attempting to bargain at the market. So, naturally, as many children do when they don’t “get” something…

She did not heed her mother’s words.

But four years later, at just 11-years-old, she learned the truth behind them.

“Come on, do it, do it! Do the trick!” Gwendolyn cheered, clapping her tiny hands and jumping like a rabbit.

Isolde giggled while cracking her knuckles, then hovered her palms over the frozen lake. A shoveled path stretched from there to the village, which fishers would use to transport their daily catches. But well-accustomed to the siblings’ antics, they sat around, waiting patiently at the carved-out fishing holes.

The ice trembled as Isolde’s veins glowed brightly. It was slight, though nonetheless detectable underneath their furry boots. Gwendolyn’s rooting persisted, and as the “audience” lifted up their hoods, a stream of fish spurted out from the holes, bringing with them a downpour of cold droplets. The fish plopped on the surface, squirming about, until meeting a swift end – penetrated with the fishers’ spears.

“You’re so cool, Issy!”

“What can I say? Guess I’m just a natural,” she said proudly, her juvenile ego reaching the skies – despite the move being as easy as could be, given a fish’s little amount of thread. But in their eyes, Isolde might as well have been an Elder.

“Could I be awesome like you one day?”

“Duh! You’re my sister. Awesomeness is genetic, you know.”

Gwendolyn clasped her hands together and asked, “Really?”

“Well – I don’t know. But it sounds true!”

The fishermen tossed the fish into baskets, hoisting them onto their backs. Whistling a merry tune and covered with a piscine scent, they followed the path back to the village, the sisters waving them farewell. But one of them, a man known as Mister Connor, stood behind – his eyes locked on the two girls, yet they noticed not. Only once his companions were far out of sight did he finally speak.

“Say, I hate to ask, but would you mind helping me really quick, Isolde? There’s another mighty big lake nearby, but the fish ‘round those parts are hard for me to catch,” he scratched his chin, “Could sure use another hand.”

“Sure, Mister Connor— oh, wait, I can’t… Mom and Dad don’t want us too far from the village.”

“Ah, is that so? Why’s that?”

“Something about us ‘getting lost,’ I think.”

“Well, you don’t have to fret about that! I obviously know my way around, you’ll be just fine.”

“And I wanna see the lake, Isolde!” Gwendolyn chimed in.

Mister Connor was always heading out somewhere. Nobody was ever sure where he went exactly, but what was relevant is that he returned unscathed – that fact made Isolde shrug her shoulders. Besides, it’s not like they’d be alone. Where was the harm?

“Okay, I guess you’re right. I’ll go with you, Mister Connor.”

His toothy grin spread from ear to ear as he said, “This way, then.”

Isolde and Gwendolyn followed closely behind him, going along the edge of an iced river that was connected to the lake. The village became just mere rooftops, before even they disappeared behind the snowy hills. It was quiet amongst them, save the crunching of their boots against the ground, and despite being fairly familiar with him, Isolde knew not what to say. A comment about… The unchanging scenery? Not really worth saying.

However, when their surroundings did alter, it was the appearance of trees, some only being stumps. The river continued inward, supposedly leading to the “mighty big one” Mister Connor talked about. Branches whipped them as they made their way past, since no trail had been paved – until finally, after several hits to the face – they stepped into a clearing. There was a fallen log, a passing hare…

But no other lake.

“Mister Connor? I thought—”

His hand moved, reaching into his cloak. Before Isolde or Gwendolyn could process it, a rusty mallet was uncovered. He turned to them, and no longer was he Mister Connor. He might’ve had his face, body, and voice… But the darkness in his eyes, an endless depth of malice, forged him into a man unrecognizable.

“I need you to remember not to trust everyone around you.”

Her words coursed through her mind like rapid-fire. Jumping in front of Gwendolyn, she held up her shaking hands – then she remembered. He, like the rest of them, was a Weaver, and thus had a natural resistance to their weaving. Encapsulated by fear and a great sense of powerlessness, her hands dropped to her sides. With no defense being had, there was only one thing that could be done—

“Gwen, RUN!”

“B-But, Isolde—!”

Mister Connor urgently stomped forward, shooting out to grab them. Isolde, with all the strength she held in her body, lunged at him from the side – the most it did was cause him to stumble backward.

“HEY! Listen, I mean it! Don’t worry about me and just run already, now!”

Gwendolyn, pushing down the remorse that was displayed so clearly on her face, held back tears as she sprinted through the woods, as fast as her little legs would allow her. Mister Connor intended to chase – Isolde’s secure grip around his legs halted him.

“Mister Connor, please stop!” she begged.

“Agh! Come here, you wretch!”

He snatched her wrists, slamming them on a rock. The sharp pain made her grit her teeth. She tried all she could to pull away, free herself from the person she thought she could trust, but he was too strong. The mallet was lifted, its menacing outline highlighted by the glaring sun. And after it was struck down without a shred of hesitance or mercy —

“Oi, brat. Snap out of it, would you?” said Madigan.

Isolde blinked, her mind coming back to the present. She was at the very entrance of Arenard – her hair tousled, skin dirty, and clothes torn. The same applied to the irritable Flier next to her.

Over 25 days spent hiding in the shadows from anomalies and foraging for anything remotely edible. Staying low in the darkest parts, and only moving along when absolutely necessary, was the best way to survive their tormentors. A downright testimony. Although the method delayed their arrival significantly, they had what mattered most – their lives.

“Well? Are you interested or not? It’s a great deal,” said the woman in front of them.

She, quite rudely, had asked for the cause of their “unsightly” state. When Isolde explained their long plight, she was starstruck – though her amazement stemmed from a false belief that she and Madigan were actually fighting the anomalies. Any correction was an accusation of just trying to be humble.

“If we take them, will you bug off?” Madigan asked.

“Why, if that’s what you want!”

What she offered them as an “appreciation of their resilience” was a bronze button, an image of a vulture attached to it. Something Isolde remembered very well, and responsible for her trance into the past.

After Gwendolyn ran all the way back home and got their parents, it was nothing less than a miracle that Isolde was found alive – hands bloodied, broken, and leaving her with a permanent hindrance in weaving – but still, she was breathing. When the villagers locked Mister Connor up until a Guardian could deal with him, the most peculiar note they obtained about his belongings – not including the deadly mallet, of course – was an excessive abundance of pins for Highland Pass.

The same ones that Madigan snatched from the woman. He waved, beckoning for Isolde to come along. Eager to get away from her, she was by his side again before he could count to two.

“You saw a ghost or something?” asked Madigan, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes… Something like that, I guess.”