"The first lasting snow is coming tonight," I announce, reading the pressure in my bones and the particular stillness that settles over winter air before storms. We’ve had flurries and snow that sticks to the ground, but the dustings have melted andbecome slush each time. We’re about to have true, thick snow. "I can feel it."
Eira looks up from her latest project—arranging pinecones in patterns only she understands—with excitement bright as flame. "First snow! We have to get ready!"
Nelrish pauses in his examination of our smoke dispersal system, those storm-gray eyes finding mine with curiosity. "Ready for what?"
The question carries no mockery, just genuine interest that makes my chest warm in ways I don't entirely trust. Most people either dismiss Grandmother's traditions as outdated nonsense or eye them with suspicion, wondering if old rituals might attract unwanted attention from forces better left undisturbed.
But he simply waits for explanation, patient as stone and twice as solid.
"First Snow Rites," Eira explains with five-year-old authority, abandoning her pinecones to bounce on her toes. "We decorate and sing songs and make wishes for winter to keep us safe!"
I catch myself smiling at her enthusiasm, remembering my own excitement during those precious rituals with Grandmother. How magical it seemed when snow began falling just as we finished our preparations, as though the world itself approved of our celebrations.
"It's... old tradition," I add, suddenly self-conscious about explaining beliefs that might sound foolish to orc ears. "From before. When people lived above ground and winter meant something different than survival."
Nelrish settles cross-legged near our fire, giving Eira his complete attention. "Tell me about these rites."
The simple request unlocks something inside my chest that's been locked away too long. When did I stop expecting anyoneto care about the things that matter to me? When did sharing traditions become vulnerability rather than joy?
"Well, you’ve seen a bit. Like how we decorate the trees around our shelter," I begin, words finding rhythm as memory guides them. "With red ribbon if we have it, or strips of cloth, or berries—anything bright that stands against the snow. The colors carry our hopes up to where winter can see them. But before the big lasting snow, we want as much color as possible." Eira has been decorating and making wreaths but it’s been smaller amounts than what we’ll do tonight.
"And we sing!" Eira adds, practically vibrating with excitement. "Mama knows all the songs Grandmother taught her. They're about snow and stars and magic!"
I feel heat creep up my neck at her enthusiastic endorsement. The carols Grandmother taught me probably sound strange to modern ears—fragments of older traditions that evolved in isolation, changed by years of retelling until they're something between memory and dream.
But Nelrish leans forward with interest rather than amusement. "Would you sing one now?"
The request catches me off-guard, vulnerability and want tangling in my throat. It's been so long since anyone asked to hear my voice raised in something other than necessity. So long since traditions felt like celebration rather than desperate clinging to lost purpose.
But his expression holds no judgment, only the same patient attention he gives to Eira's explanations of her magical sight. As though my small rituals deserve the same consideration as survival skills or tactical planning.
"Eira knows this one," I manage, voice catching slightly on the first words. She joins in immediately, her clear soprano lifting around my deeper tones:
Snow falls soft on winter's night,
Stars come out to share their light.
Tie your wishes to the tree,
Send them where the wind runs free.
Red for warmth and gold for grain,
Green for hope through winter's pain.
When the longest night is done,
We'll dance beneath the winter sun.
The melody flows between us, simple but haunting, carrying echoes of celebrations that happened in a world we'll never see. Eira's voice catches the high notes while mine holds the harmony Grandmother taught me, two generations of women keeping flame alive in darkness.
When the last note fades, silence settles that feels different from before—charged with possibility, thick with connection I hadn't dared hope for.
Nelrish's eyes shine with something that might be wonder. "Beautiful," he says quietly. "The melody carries old magic, even without power behind it."
"You felt that?" I ask, surprised by how much his recognition means.
"Magic leaves traces long after it's gone." His voice carries the weight of experience I'm only beginning to understand. "Your songs hold echoes of what they once were, even if the power itself has faded."
