A Lady of Ice
July, little more than a creature of ice and snow, an ageless being, sits atop the lowest branch of an ancient tree. Her immortal eyes peer down, perceiving the bustle of the village below. Mortal lives, flashes of light to her, as they dart from their homes, wrapped in thick furs, to the nearby markets and other homes. They move impatiently, eager for the month to be over, for August to come, then for that to be over, beckoning in the warm embrace of the summer months. Spring, even, with those arrogant snarky bastards who traipse the forest with their nauseating songs, proclaiming that their months give life, so they should be worshipped.
She rolls her eyes at the thought, then drops down into the fray below.
The humans rush past her, through her. She’s nothing to them, not anymore, an unseen mirage, a forgotten thing. July, the very middle of it all, the quiet month, the quiet spirit. The humans around her forgot her first, their memories weak, their minds fragile.
She lingers for a moment, then begins her walk through the village – first by the butcher, whose son was a newborn last July, a true child of her month, and now sits by the door, playing with a wooden horse. He babbles nonsensically, like all little humans do, and seems content, his small mind perceiving only his little world of bright things. She kneels, touches his horse that stands, for a moment, by itself on the hard ground – then it falls. The boy lets out a squalling cry. A woman comes, gathering him up.
July moves on.
Her second stop, the priest. This one she hates. He made them forget the old ways, forget her. For that, she likes to toy with him – carefully, though, because a few times her ministrations have only strengthened the amusement of his following. For her torment of the day she finds the priest, tall and spindly, looming wearily over that blasted book of his. His squinting eyes strain over the tiny words, studying them closely. A lone candle illuminates his efforts.
With a smile she pushes it over, then she leaves.
In her wake, she hears the man cry and curse. It makes her happy.
When she visits the new mothers, the expectant mothers, the scholars, she doesn't linger. Even the young boys who gather by the village edge, mustered and dressed in new soldier garb, off to fight another pointless war. Their young, ruddy faces look eagerly towards the new day. July doesn’t hoverr, not willing to let the familiar, depressing scene dampen her mood.
At the village fountain, a prize amongst the humans, July takes her seat and tilts her head back to the morning sun.
“Why do you stay here?” May’s musical voice sings above the cacophony of the village, delightful, refreshing.
July lowers her gaze to the red-haired spectre who floats a few inches off the ground, her shimmering red dress like fire against her night-black skin. May studies her, those ancient orbs seem to see everything but July, for July has become the latest curiosity for the autumn spectre.
“Humans forget us, forget what we did, what we could do. Now, we are less than memories, diluted into fairy-tails. Did you know December now wears red in honour of the fool the humans made for his month?” July’s mouth curls into a thin sneer.
Even May shudders. “Remind me to use all my power to smite the humans if they try that with me. It’s humiliating!”
“December seems to like it,” remarks July.
“That’s because he feels like its being remembered,” says May, her voice falling to a low whisper. “For that, I can’t really blame him, can you? Isn’t that why you’re here, playing this little game of yours? Why October prowls the nights and scares every village he can. We don’t want to be forgotten.”
July glances at a crowd of gathering girls, little more than children themselves, the first bloom on their cheeks. Their transient minds, their fickle hearts, will be caught by one and they will spend their lives by a fire, nursing children whom will likely come to scorn them, forget them as they wither with age. July knows the feeling.
“In this very spot I once saw a human hunter emerge from the trees. See those ones there?” She points to the tree line nearby, a young girl sits beneath it, an offshoot of the group close by, and she reads a book. “I was the first to be seen, you know? Funny how I was the first to be forgotten.”
“You were so excited,” says May. “We all were. Now, we’re simply their way to mark the year. How tragic is that. Well, I should be off. I have places to be, things to steal, someone to torture.”
With a flourishing bow May is gone. July looks at the girl beneath the tree again. She, too, is looking up and her eyes find July, a smile on her mouth, a knowing smile.
July lets the smile tug at her mouth. “Finally. It begins again.”
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