The wind howled like a banshee, whipping the gnarled branches of the ancient oaks that ringed the valley graveyard. A storm was brewing, its fury echoing in the distant rumble of thunder. But here, in my domain, a strange peace was held. The graveyard, a sea of white candlelight, seemed to glow in the darkness. Each flame flickered, a testament to a life lived, a memory I guarded. A silent promise. I, the keeper of this valley's final resting place, stood sentinel, the wind whispering secrets only I could understand.
My name, you see, is not a name, but a title: The Keeper. The title of all my kind. And I, I am the Keeper of this valley, The Whispering Vale, they call it. You see, it isn't just a graveyard - it's a place where time hangs heavy, thick with the scent of ancient earth and fading dreams. And I, well, I am the bridge between the two worlds. The living and the…unliving. A scarecrow, they call me. But, I'm not made of straw, not anymore. I'm flesh and bone, though my skin is a pale imitation of life, stretched tight over a frame that's just a little too tall, just a little too thin. My eyes, though, are my most unusual feature - an electric blue that seems to absorb the moonlight. And my hair, a wild, unruly mess of ebony, perpetually shadowed by a black velvet cap. The only real adornment I wear is a simple black ring, etched with a single white skull. One skull, one graveyard. It's the mark of my power, my authority.
And then, on that moonlit night, I saw them. Two figures, silhouetted against the storm-wracked sky, approaching the wrought-iron gate of the valley graveyard. A girl, no more than a child, with hair the color of fire and eyes like a storm, and a boy, tall and lean, his face obscured by the shadows of the hood he wore. They stopped at the iron gate, looking around with wide eyes, their breaths forming plumes of white in the wind. They were out of place, these two, as out of place as a ray of sunshine on a moonlit night. My heart, a dull throb in my chest, quickened with a strange sense of foreboding. The girl, she was the reason. I had a feeling about her, a sense of…urgency. Why had she come? And what would she offer? For the dead, you see, only accept one kind of currency – life.
The wind whipped around me, a symphony of whispers and sighs. As the two figures approached, their words carried by the wind were becoming clear to me. Again, why had they come? I hadn't seen a visitor in decades, not since... Well, that's a story for another night. My domain, The Whispering Vale, was a place of silence, a refuge for the weary souls who had left this world behind. They were looking toward the center of the graveyard, where I stood, chained to the weathered wooden cross, my pale form bathed in the spectral glow of the hundreds of candles that illuminated the graves. They didn't know the rules of this place, the unspoken laws that governed my domain. But she knew something, the girl did. She knew, even if she didn't know she knew, that there was a path, a bridge between their world and mine.
I watched as they dismounted their horses, the girl agilely leaping down, while the boy, with a look of deep-seated concern, helped her. She stood there for a moment, her eyes, the color of a stormy sky, scanning the graveyard. The boy's voice, clear and strong, cut through the wind.
"Fey," he said, his voice laced with frustration, "This is madness. You should be with your family, safe within the palace walls. The royal guards are more than capable of—"
"Please, Ned," she interrupted, "I've made up my mind. I need to speak to the Keeper."
He spoke with the air of someone who knew the risks but was determined to face them. Ned, the boy, seemed to be a good soul, a knight in training, perhaps. But Fey, the girl, was a mystery. I sensed a strange power in her, a flicker of something ancient and potent, hidden beneath the surface.
"And I'm not a child, Ned," she said, her voice hardening. "And I know what I have to do. Just help me with the candles, please."
She reached out for the pouch Ned held, the leather a dark, almost inky, hue beneath the moonlight. He handed it to her, and she took the candle, its wax gleaming in the pale light. Her touch, I realized, was different. There was a prickle of energy about her, a spark of magic that even the wind couldn't conceal.
Ned, ever the loyal friend, reached for a match from his pocket. But before he could light it, she stopped him. Her fingers flickered, a fleeting movement, and a tiny yellow flame ignited the candle's wick.
The boy, Ned, muttered something under his breath, his gaze fixed on the flame. "Are you—"
"Oh Shutup," Feyona snapped, her voice laced with warning, "Not now."
It was a warning I understood all too well. Ned, despite his bravery, was no friend of magic. His world was one of steel and strength, not spells and sorcery. The candle flame, however, was a beacon in the darkness, a silent acknowledgment of her power.I didn't need to hear her words to understand her intentions. I knew, as surely as I knew the night that followed the day, that she was here to seek my help. But why? And what would she offer? For the dead, the only currency is life.
Then she spoke, her voice ringing with a mix of sorrow and anger, her words echoed through the graveyard, carried on the wind. "I come with peace, Keeper. I mean no disrespect to the memories of lost souls. I seek the guidance of the Keeper of The Whispering Vale on a matter that affects the dead. A matter of justice, of a crime against the dead, a violation of their right to rest."
She spoke in the ancient tongue of the Wicca, her voice carrying a power that seemed to resonate with the very earth beneath my feet. "May I enter, oh Keeper of Death?"
The candle flame, which had been a steady beacon, flickered once, then settled, its glow changed into a deep, rich blue. It was my response, the silent acknowledgment of her worthiness. She had spoken the words, she had followed the rules. I, the Keeper, the embodiment of this valley's deathly silence, felt a shift in the air. It was as if a door had creaked open, revealing a path into the darkness, and as the guardian of the gate, I was powerless to resist, and she was allowed to enter my domain.
"Wait, Feyona," he pleaded, "Be careful! If you ever find yourself in trouble, don't be ashamed to scream."
Feyona smiled, a flash of fire in her eyes. "Don't worry, Ned. I'll be back soon. And you, my friend, should get some rest."
She stepped into the graveyard, the blue flame a beacon in the darkness, the echoes of her words lingering in the air. I watched her come, my pale eyes absorbing the details of her appearance. She was young, barely more than a child, yet she carried herself with the confidence of a seasoned warrior. Her clothes were simple, but they were also worn with a certain elegance that spoke of her noble lineage.
I couldn't tell what her purpose was yet, but I sensed that it was a matter of great importance to her, a matter that could shake the very foundations of her world.
I felt a tremor of anticipation run through me. The girl, Feyona, was no ordinary visitor. She was a storm about to break, and I, the Keeper of this valley, knew I would be caught in the center of it.