November Mourns

November always felt different to Donal, and not just because all the monsters had gone back underneath the earth. The short October days were filled with preparation; the fortification of defenses, the sharpening of blades, the chirurgeons setting bones and stitching up wounds, and the burying of the dead.  

In October, the village felt alive. After Samhain, the final night of October and they had survived the largest, final assault, a torpor fell upon the people like a blanket of snow. True, they were exhausted from the month of nightly attacks, and eager to return to the dull routine of early-to-rise, early-to-bed. Soon enough the camaraderie of standing shoulder-to-shoulder would wear off, and they would be back to bickering with each other, as ancient slights were recalled. 

They were a warrior people now, although not exactly by choice, for when they had first settled here long ago, it was to fish and farm and hunt. They did it well, and they had done it peacefully for decades before the monsters came. The elders said the monsters had come because the village grew too large and attracted their attention. Donal didn't know if it was true, but when he went out with the hunting parties, sometimes they would find the remains of other villages. If his people hadn't been the first to settle the valley, they were certainly the ones left now. 

Donal walked to the blacksmith, the bellows finally cold after a month of repairing weapons and armor. He put his sword with the others. Nobody had their own sword here. All the weapons were made equally well, as there was always a chance the original wielder would not see the morning.

Last night, he had tripped over the body of a slain wulver, a creature with the body of a man by the head of a wolf. 

A nuckelavee, a grotesque half-horse, half-demon saw him go down and charged him. Eilidh, a fair-haired girl, had leaped directly into its path and drove her lance into its frothing maw. 

Over the monster's gurgling shrieks, he had shouted a confession of love and admiration, and she had returned it. Then they were back to the battle and had spoken no more of it. 

Why then, he wondered, do we only speak our hearts in the face of death? Do we fear revealing ourselves so much? Can we only be true for s single night at a time?

Donal resolved to go to Eilidh and repeat what he had told her when she had saved his life. If it was true in war, it would be true in peace. 

Perhaps this November would be exciting after all.