She continues the poem from memory, her young voice carrying each word with the careful precision of someone who understands they're speaking something sacred. Nelrish listens with the kind of focused attention he typically reserves for matters of clan security, but his expression holds wonder rather than calculation.
When she finishes, he sets her gently on her feet and crouches to meet her eyes at their own level. "Tonight, we'll have a feast to mark the longest night. The whole clan will celebrate together, with fires and food and stories. Would you like that?"
The smile that spreads across her face could light the entire longhouse without assistance from hearth or lamp. She throws her arms around his neck with the kind of spontaneous affection that speaks to absolute trust, and I watch this man who leads warriors into battle melt beneath the assault of childish joy.
"Can we really?" she asks, pulling back to study his face for any hint of adult deception. "A real celebration, like Mama's grandmother described?"
"As real as we can make it," he promises, and something in his tone tells me he's already planned more than simple decoration.
The hours that follow pass in a blur of preparation and anticipation. Word spreads through the settlement that tonight will mark something special—not just another communal meal, but a celebration rooted in traditions most of the clan has never heard. But Nelrish's enthusiasm proves infectious, and bymidday, warriors and crafters alike have thrown themselves into preparations with the kind of wholehearted commitment that transforms work into worship.
Vaenna appears at our door carrying armloads of additional decorations—carved figures that might represent animals or abstract symbols, ribbons in shades of red and gold that seem too bright for our harsh world, clusters of dried berries that must have been saved from autumn's harvest specifically for this purpose.
"The chieftain says you know the proper way to arrange these," she tells me, her weathered hands gentle as she passes over items that represent hours of careful work. "The women want to learn, if you're willing to teach."
The request catches me off guard. I've grown accustomed to acceptance within the longhouse, to small kindnesses and gradual inclusion in daily routines. But this represents something deeper—acknowledgment that my traditions have value beyond personal sentiment, that knowledge preserved in whispered stories might enrich the entire community.
I spend the afternoon moving between households, sharing fragments of my grandmother's teachings with women who listen with the kind of respectful attention typically reserved for clan histories. They ask careful questions about placement and meaning, about the significance of colors and the purpose behind specific arrangements. Their genuine interest transforms what might have been awkward cultural exchange into something approaching communion.
And through it all, Eira remains at my side like a tiny ambassador, her empathic abilities allowing her to sense the emotional resonance of each tradition we share. She explains things in her own words when my explanations fall short, her innocent wisdom bridging gaps between different ways of understanding the world.
By evening, the entire settlement has been transformed. Every building displays some acknowledgment of the Longest Night—pine boughs over doorways, ribbons tied to fence posts, clusters of bells hanging from eaves where they catch the wind and produce gentle music that layers together into something approaching symphony.
But it's the central courtyard that takes my breath away completely.
Nelrish leads me from the longhouse as full darkness settles over the settlement, Eira's small hand secure in mine as we make our way through paths lit by torches that cast dancing shadows against snow-covered ground. Other families emerge from their homes in similar processions, their voices subdued with the kind of anticipatory hush that marks truly sacred occasions.
The courtyard has been transformed into something that exists somewhere between dream and memory. Fires ring the entire perimeter—not simple warming blazes, but carefully constructed arrangements that throw light and heat in calculated patterns designed to create spaces for gathering and celebration. The scent of burning wood mingles with aromas drifting from iron pots positioned near each fire, where stews and roasted meats simmer in preparation for the feast.
Tables constructed from salvaged planks and sawhorses bear platters of food that represent the best the clan can offer—root vegetables glossy with fat, bread that still steams from recent baking, preserved fruits that taste like captured summer. Barrels of fermented beverages stand ready to warm bellies and loosen tongues for the storytelling that will follow the meal.
But it's the decorations that make my chest ache with a fullness that borders on pain. Every surface that can bear ornament has been adorned according to the principles my grandmother described in stories told by lamplight. Garlands of evergreen loop between the fires, their fresh scent cuttingthrough woodsmoke and cooking aromas. Ribbons flutter from every available anchor point, their bright colors providing startling contrast against the winter darkness. Carved bells hang at varying heights throughout the space, creating vertical layers of gentle music that respond to every breath of wind.
Children weave between the gathering adults, their voices bright with excitement as they discover new details in the transformed landscape. Some carry small bells of their own—gifts crafted by clan artisans during the afternoon's preparation—and the sound of their play adds another layer to the evening's musical foundation.
"So deck the trees with ribbons red, for warmth and love and daily bread," I whisper, watching Eira's face light up as she takes in the magnitude of what's been created in honor of traditions she's only known through stories. "And when the morning light returns, the world will know what the winter learns."
The snow begins to fall as if summoned by the poetry itself—fat flakes that drift through the firelight like captured stars, settling on shoulders and hair and the decorated surfaces around us with the gentle persistence of nature joining our celebration. Each flake catches and holds the orange glow of flames, transforming the entire courtyard into something that shimmers with otherworldly beauty.
Nelrish moves through the gathering with the easy authority of leadership, but tonight his role carries ceremony rather than simple command. He checks food preparations, ensures fires burn with appropriate intensity, exchanges words with clan members who beam with the pride of successful collaboration. But his attention keeps returning to me and Eira, his gray eyes bright with satisfaction that goes beyond simple accomplishment.
This is the Longest Night Feast my grandmother described in whispered fragments, transformed through love into reality that exceeds even her most vivid descriptions. The warmth spreading through my chest has nothing to do with proximity to fires and everything to do with the profound recognition that some promises, carefully tended, eventually bloom into truth.
24
NELRISH
The celebration winds down with the natural rhythm of satisfied exhaustion, clan members drifting back to their homes with bellies full and hearts warmed by more than fermented honey wine. Children droop against their parents' shoulders, their earlier excitement finally succumbing to the late hour and the gentle weight of falling snow.
Eira fights sleep with the determined stubbornness of someone who refuses to let magic end, but even her remarkable energy has limits. She leans heavier against my side as we stand near the dying central fire, her small body radiating the particular heat children generate when they're fighting unconsciousness.
"The bells are still singing," she murmurs, her voice thick with drowsiness as she tilts her head to catch the gentle chiming that continues despite the evening's end. "Even when everyone goes to sleep, they'll keep making music."
The observation carries the kind of profound simplicity that makes my chest ache with unexpected tenderness. She's right—the bells will continue their soft conversation throughout thenight, marking the passage of hours until dawn brings the return of lengthening days.
"They will," I agree, crouching to gather her into my arms as her eyelids flutter with increasing frequency. "They'll sing all through the longest night, keeping watch while we rest."
She nestles against my chest with the boneless trust of a child who's never known a moment's doubt about her safety. Her curls tickle my chin, still faintly scented with pine sap from the afternoon's decoration efforts. Through my shirt, I can feel the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, strong and sure and utterly peaceful.
