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Six seconds. The Wildmother’s blessing.
Six seconds to wake up in the morning, to breathe before it all comes rushing back.
The blood, the terror.
Jester’s scream splitting the silence.
The guilt, the weight. The air, too thick to breathe.
The bubble too big, now that one was missing.
The empty spot where he used to lie.
The kitchen – a wasteland of dying vegetable and spices no one knows the use of anymore.
His splintered staff in the corner. The crystal shattered.
Six seconds. The Wildmother’s absense. Six seconds for the beast to step forward and lash out. His teeth. Caduceus‘ chest.
His scream, the fear in his eyes.
How light he felt in Fjord’s arms. How he carried him out of that dungeon.
Warm blood ouzing out of his body that is growing colder every minute.
A soft wimper.
Jester rushing up and placing her hands on his side.
Begging. Pleading for her god to help.
A white knuckled hand on hers.
One last breath.
"Let me go."
The wildmother’s roar.
Six seconds. The Wildmother’s mercy. Six seconds that he stands in front of the decaying door, building up the courage to face them.
A deep breath. A knock.
He meets Cornelius eyes. Watches them turn from welcoming to horrified within one heartbeat.
"Come in, son.“ A crack in his voice.
"Who is it, hun?“
A shaking hand clutching the wall for support.
"Please come inside, Constance, we need to talk.“
Heavy footsteps at the back door, hands wiping on an apron.
Two pairs of eyes. Violent meeting yellow.
Gardening tools tumbling to the ground.
“I’m afraid Caduceus has fallen. I am so terribly sorry.” Six seconds. Fjord’s penance.
Six seconds. The Wildmother's silence. Six seconds before Constance sinks down into the chair, clutching her chest.
A sob. A hand pressed against lips.
"How?“
"Why?“
The ground shifting and threatening to swallow him.
"He always wanted to come back to you.“
Closed eyes. Tears running.
"He has.“
A gasp at the door, a scream suppressed between two hands.
Open arms to fall into. A father hugging his daughter as if it was the last moment of his life.
"At what cost?“
Six figures. The Wildmother’s solace. Six adventurers around the grave. Six shocks of pink hair further in the back.
"Where She is with you, so is he.“
"I will send him messages every night and tell him what we did.“
A butterfly landing on the grave.
"Look, it has his colors.“
Wings opening wide. Green and pink dancing in the sunlight. A testament to Her beauty.
Twelve deep breaths.
A warm breeze. The smell of moss and tealeaves in the air. The feeling of being hugged from behind. His low rumbling laughter in the rustling of the leaves.
A hand on a shoulder. A turn. The butterfly is gone.
One soul. The Wildmother’s love. A soul reaching out one last time.
"Will they be alright?"
"They will, with time."
"And then, one day, i will welcome them back home."