Hideaway Strath he walks the field at night

the footfalls of another shatters the silence that lingers over the strath like a hush. the ebony woman's presence in his peripheral draws his attention for the briefest of moments. wintersbane does not react with hostility — it would be wrong to be so disrespectful at this sacred site — and accordingly the woman does not give off any signals that she intends him harm. she remains in his peripheral vision until she speaks and his head lifts from his, tilting away from lotte's grave. the stranger's inquiry makes it sound as if they — he and her — are old friends ... but he doesn't recall her voice, face, nor her ruby red eyes.

"i don't know," the son of the nightingale queen whose grave he looms over answers honestly. tragically. "i was a young boy when i last saw her." that wasn't expressly true but he wasn't about to share his vivid and strange dream of lotte ansbjørn with a stranger. he kept that to himself, coveted close to his chest like the deepest secrets and most meaningful treasures are. he doesn't want to relive his tragic story, made of his own creation and naivety as a child either. a young boy ripped too soon from his mother's embrace and forever left to live with the sorrow of knowing that he will never see her again and make amends with a corporeal version of her. her body lays beneath the earth, nurturing the hemlocks that protect her gave as she'd once nurtured her children.