The Witherwalk is a pilgrimage, of sorts, for those who need to grieve an ending and endure a transformation. A looping trail that surrounds the city of Lucerra in Southfell that, when walked alone, can affect both soul and body. It sounds simple, to walk a path that curls around the border of a city, but the journey is as much spiritual as it is physical.
I have seen many individuals and groups take on the Witherwalk over the centuries; I have seen most returned changed. I have seen some not make it to the end, and a stone marking bearing their name and the date in which they attempted the Witherwalk the only remainder of what was once their life. I have witnessed many men and women leave behind a Cloakstone, representing the grief they need to release. Some stand upon the platforms to say their goodbyes and to accept their grief as a way to move forward. I have seen more be inspired by the solitude that this walk provides, sitting with pen and paper, writing their thoughts as their tears trail down their wind-bitten faces.
Very few of these pilgrimages stand out to me; I have witnessed countless. A mother grieving the loss of her daughter. A brother mourning the loss of his brother. A lover grieving unrequited love. I have seen a fair share walk it in solitude for the penance of a crime commited. I have seen many stand by the breath-trees, the ancient, gnarled trees that sway audibly in the wind, that breathe in sorrow and exhale clarity for others to slowly inhale. I have seen many broken friendships released on this path.
What I do not often see, though, is the Bloodbound who walk this path cloaked in darkness. When I see the two most enigmatic figures of Bloodbound lore and myth step foot upon this path, I know to pay attention.
What grief they must hold, to walk this path together. It makes me wonder- when is grief and sorrow too much for an immortal being to hold? I see them now, walking silently, draped in cloth that covers them in dark colours of their choosing. Others who walk the path at the same time pay them no attention, too lost in their own grief to notice who now walks among them.
Even if they knew the names of the faces beneath those veils, they still wouldn’t know.
Not truly.
I remain hidden between the veils, as always, and yet I feel the weight of who they are.
They say nothing as they walk silently along the path, a pale hand leaving an offering of Cloakstones along the cairns that spiral along the walk. The stones are not large, yet the weight that they represent cannot be anything but astronomical.
These beings have seen almost as much time as I.
I can hear the quiet grief growing louder amongst the humens who cry as a cathartic relief of their pain. Somewhere in the distance, further along the path, I can hear the wailing of sorrow released.
Yet on and on these figures walk. No one speaks to them- as is custom upon the Witherwalk. One does not talk, to allow the trees to speak on your behalf; to allow the wind to carry your thoughts uninterrupted by words that mean nothing.
I have not experienced grief; I am not humen, nor tangled in humen emotion. The entire concept of this walk is lost upon me, and yet…there is beauty. I can recognise the beauty of the grief, of the heaviness of those who start and the lightness of those who finish. I see the deathly beauty of the cairns, of the Cloakstones- the stones wrapped in cloth- that represent something that is being left. The final resting place of emotions these individuals no longer wish to hold onto, offered to the walk and to the elements that take them- always.
It is what calls me back, to witness this rite, again and again. I feel a sense of duty to witness the sheer beauty of the emotions of humens. They are complex beings, as are the Bloodbound who now walk this path, too.
The two veiled figures are nearing the summit point now. The small grove of the breath-trees are just in front of them, and they approach with reverence as if they were gods themselves.
Maybe they are.
They pause here, and even beneath the cloaks I can see the respect in the bowed head as they face the trees. I witness as one falls to their knees, gracefully, in prayer and surrender to the trees. Do they weep? What burden has brought them here to fall to their knees in front of ancient trees?
I’m moved by the respect they show- these two figures who are likely older than these ancient trees. They keep their heads low in respect and allow their sorrow to be held and to breathe in clarity.
Only the arch of Solthar crossing the sky shows the passage of time; so unmoving and still are these two. The wind whips around them, but not once does their veil or cloak reveal who they are. They stay and stay, and some who continue to walk the path begin to look. The one kneeling does not rise, and the one standing with their head bowed does not shift, or shuffle. More and more glance in their direction; most who reach the summit are already beginning to feel lighter.
Only those with the biggest burdens remain by the trees.
Some join them by the trees, before moving on.
And still they remain as still as the trees they stand before.
Until–the kneeling figure moves first. They sink further to the floor, remain with their face upon the earth, before elegantly rising. This signals the other figure, who walks closer to the trees and places a hand upon the ancient bark in recognition of respect, before the two continue their journey. With the sun beginning to set.
I drift with them, watching as they descend along the path, back towards the city. They do not hurry and continue in silence. Each step is measured and unhurried. Lights begin to flicker around the path as they approach the bottom, with me following along behind.
I watch with interest as they approach the small manned station, where a woman is ladling the Witherwalk broth into small bowls for those who ask; a simple broth made of boiled starcress, silver mushroom and night sage. It’s served cooled, to allow the intentions of the walk to steep.
The woman smiled as she handed over bowl after bowl to those who asked for one. When the two cloaked figures approached, something in her recognised the energy. Her smile faltered, and she slowly handed over a bowl to each.
Still, neither spoke nor revealed who they were. They accepted the bowls, inclined their heads once more in gratitude, and walked out into the darkness that was now gathering.
I left them there, letting them continue on their journey, and to consume their soup in silence. I had seen all I needed to witness. I had seen the beauty of their sorrow, and knew that, even today, the oldest beings still need to release their grief and sorrow.
~ Nerien.