Thick fog cradles the Jorvegian morning.
The mountains are damp in the mist and morning dew, and last night’s rain is still flowing down the cold stone in streams no wider than streaks of tears down a cheek. Silence lies over every peak and valley, dusted lightly as if with the brush of a feather all across the island by the gentle hand of Aideen. Beyond the wisps of fog and mist, the sun is approaching the horizon, casting Jorvik in a pale lavender glow. Even so, most of the island is still asleep: this time of year, with summer closing in, the day rises long before people wake and falls down long after they rest for the night.
Through a small, stone-framed window hidden away deep in the mountain ranges separating north from south shines the sun, just peeking up above the mountain-thorned horizon and snaking its way through the mist. It casts a ray of soft, golden light all through the room, and a figure clad in shimmering grey moves for the first time in hours to tend to their duty.
In the furthest corner of his room, laid gently underneath a warm blanket upon a mattress of down and under a canopy of the softest Druidic wool, lies the leader of the Keepers of Aideen, smaller and paler than ever. He will wake up soon—he must—but even as the sun shines upon his face, he makes no attempt to move, and so it is to him the figure turns, gently moving the canopy to block out the sun. As the figure moves, their silver-shimmering hood falls back ever so slightly; they are quick to correct its position, but for a split second, the sun shines upon them, too, and on their cheek something glints. Before returning to their position, the figure makes their way to the window, drawing the thick curtains shut and once again letting only candles light the room.
It is in that gentle candlelight that you slowly make your way along the bookshelves. You let your fingers and eyes trace the spines of every book, feeling smooth leather and rough fabric and the minuscule bumps of titles and cover inscriptions little bumps against your fingertips. The pages shimmer with something that makes your heart jolt in your chest: through these tomes courses magic that calls on something deep within you, every one of them begging to be picked out and held and studied for hours, days, or even months on end until there are no stones left to turn between the words.
A thin, golden ray of sun squeezes through the gap between the curtain and the wall, shining upon the worn leather book spines and warming your fingers as your hands move through the light. Familiar runes glow rose gold as your fingers trace over them, and at last your hands move—almost of their own volition—to pull an ancient, leather-bound book from its place on the shelf.
Outside, the mist is slowly clearing to make way for the light, the wind, and the warmth. In a crevice in the mountains, and in the highest branches of a tree, and between the beams and the ceiling of a wooden stable, birds are singing, brilliant and bright.
Little by little, the island finally awakes.
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