Beneath the Frost: A Winter Ritual

The first hints showed up when everything got quiet.

Not just silence after wind died down, yet something heavier - like the whole valley paused mid-breath. Each autumn, once trees dropped their final leaves while water crept slow below ice-coated surface, quiet slipped into Irsen. Old folks claimed earth waited then, tuned in close, hunting one lone phrase.

Elin didn't know that term - yet the attention had touched her deep down.

That morning, when silence came back, she opened her eyes before sunrise, tasting cold air, feeling last night’s dream slip away like fog. She’d been standing alone on the icy lake, holding a flickering lamp, seeing stars glowing below through the ice, not up in the sky. From deep underneath, a voice called out - not gentle, not harsh, just huge and endless. The words were gone now. But one thing stuck: it spoke her name.

The village rooftops wore a sprinkle of snow as she walked out, holding high a lantern. Above, the sky stretched dark and round, while the edge of the world glowed soft pink - her breath drifting slow, like tiny spirits leaving her mouth. Inside, her mom stirred early, fastening twine around bunches of old herbs picked back when the sun still warmed the ground.

“It started,” her mom said quietly, still facing away, like she sensed something shifting around them.

Elin gave a quick nod - everyone already knew what "it" meant. Just three days till the Hallowed Night, yet folks in Irsen sensed it coming through stiff joints or flickers behind their eyes.

They named it a ritual, yet it predated every song, every written word. Old ones claimed it began back when nothing had labels - just blackness, air, movement of hidden shapes spinning slow beneath. Come winter’s peak, once daylight shrank and night pulled close, folks walked onto frozen lakes to whisper toward the deep, hoping the Sleeper would shift slightly in rest so sun might climb again.

Down under the water, the Sleeper drifted through dreams. Should it stir one day, tales whispered, everything would split - just like ice on a frozen pond.

“Take these to Elder Ruun,” her mother said, passing Elin a small bundle bound in blue thread. “For the incense pots. Walk by the path. The lake is restless this morning.”

Elin hesitated. “Have you ever seen it restless?”

Her mom looked up, eyes shadowy, hard to read. She said, “I’ve watched it paying attention.” Then added, “That alone keeps me on edge.”

Elin slipped the herbs into her bag, then headed out across the village paths.

The houses of Irsen stuck to the hillside, quiet observers circling a flat hollow. In the middle sat the lake, still and light-colored, showing no reflection at all. As she moved forward, silence grew heavier, smothering the sound of her footsteps on stone. Around the edge, trees rose up - slender, dark marks against the sky - with twigs tangled with tokens: sprigs of pine, small wood-cut stars, slivers of gleaming bone.

By the water, ice showed up - thin at first, hugging still black surfaces, later spreading wide toward the distant bank. Overnight it locked into place, almost like something called it there.

Elder Ruun stood near the cracked stone post, leaning on his stick in the dry turf. His head full of pale strands, woven with small metal chimes - dead silent. Wrinkles ran across his skin, much like growth layers inside oak wood.

You had that dream once more," he remarked - more statement than inquiry.

Elin stopped short. “How do you know?”

“The hush has weight,” he answered. “It settles more heavily on those who are called.”

She felt a weird chill crawl under her skin. "What exactly am I being pulled into?"

He just held out his palm when it came to the plants.

Beyond him, the water sat quiet. Still, when Elin looked across, she spotted a thing unfamiliar: some dim form way off toward the middle of the frozen surface. Not a split, nor shade cast by the slopes. An arrangement. Marks crossing, light and far, almost like a wisp of an old symbol.

"Old man," she said soft-like, fingers brushing his arm. "Tell me - what's that thing?"

Ruun looked where she did. Just for a second, his expression dropped the mask - fear flashed across it, quick as a match striking paper.

“Go home, Elin,” he said softly. “Help your mother prepare. Tonight we will light the first lamps.”

“But the ritual is in three days,” she protested.

“The days shorten faster this year,” Ruun replied. “We must be ready if the Sleeper turns early.”

Elin glanced again at the thin marks across the ice. Still there, unchanged. Maybe even sharper now, as daylight grew - like soft light under flesh, tracing old paths.

She headed back, yet the image stuck in her mind. Through the afternoon, while she helped her mom drape pine boughs by the entrance and set lights on the sills, her thoughts kept returning to that design. It echoed the vision - feeling like she was hovering over some huge, alert presence, with just a thin, shimmering layer between them.

Later that evening, folks from the village came together by the hillside near the water. One after another, people showed up, drawn by quiet whispers under dim light.

Every home lost light all at once - like someone had exhaled and wiped out every glow across the valley. Just the stars stayed up there, packed tight, sharp with chill. After that, Old Ruun lifted his wooden stick; slowly, lamps sparked alive - one after another. Warm glows, like golden sap trapped behind clear panes. Folks held them close, hands curled around each flame to block wind or any stray gust from snuffing it dead.

“Tonight we begin the Watching,” Ruun’s voice rolled gently over them. “Three nights we will stand with our lights. Three nights we will remember the turning of the world, the lowering of the veil, the Sleeper’s slow breathing. We ask not in command, but in humble hope: turn for us once more. Let the light return.”

They moved along toward the lake, like a quiet trail of sparks winding through the night. By the water’s edge, they paused. Nobody went out on the ice just then - save that for the last evening.

Elin clutched the lantern tight, heat seeping through her glove. As she peeked upward, shapes emerged - wisps of pale silver weaving across the frosty surface. Right in the middle, where her dreaming figure once stood, a dim glow flickered, almost breathing. Instead of fading fast, it lingered, weak but steady.

"See it?" she murmured near Jori’s ear - Jori froze close by, stiff as a post.

“See what?” Jori squinted. “It looks the same as always.”

Elin held back what she wanted to say. Maybe it’s just me, she thought. Or maybe the dream still lingered behind her eyes.

The first evening slipped by on quiet chants, tunes you could feel without speaking. By the next dusk, silence had thickened - so heavy a snapped twig miles off felt wrong. Kids pressed tighter to grown-ups near them. Jori fidgeted, light shaking in his grip.

By morning, there was no sign of sunlight. Behind a wall of heavy clouds, it climbed - then dropped back down unseen. Dark gathered in low spots across the land. Every breath felt sharp, like metal on the tongue.

Elin. The old man Ruun called out by the door when night began to fall.

She tensed up, but moved back so he could enter.

“The lake has marked,” he said simply.

Elin's heart thumped once, dull and deep. "What do you mean marked?"

His eyes - clear like frost - locked onto hers. “One of them’s alive.”

Her mom jerked her hand up to her face. Just then, the silence weighed on Elin's ears so much she couldn't even catch her breath.

“That is not done anymore,” her mother whispered. “Not since - ”

“Not since before your time,” Ruun agreed. “But the mark is there all the same. At the center of the pattern. We have no law for refusing such a sign.”

Elin finally spoke, her tone quiet and unsteady. "So what's it supposed to tell us?"

“When the pattern rises,” Ruun said, “it means the Sleeper is restless. It means the veil thins more than it should. A walker must go to the center and stand at the point of the mark, to bear the village’s light and bind it again to the turning of the world. Once, the walker was chosen by lots. Now…” He let the word trail off.

"The lake decides now," her mom ended, voice rough.

Elin got it now - what he was really doing there. The second her eyes hit that mark, everything clicked, even if nobody said a word.

"It changed me," she said - like the voice came from somewhere outside. Instead, it wasn't her speaking; something just pushed the line out.

Ruun dipped his chin down. "Later, you'll start moving."

Her mom argued first, after that tried making deals, later pleaded. Ruun stayed calm like rocks do yet couldn’t alter the lake’s decree. Once gone, rooms shrank somehow, almost like walls pressed closer.

"I'll return," Elin said quietly, once her mom's crying faded into silence. "Legends claim the wanderer makes it back."

“The stories say many things,” her mother replied. Yet she cupped Elin’s face with both hands and pressed their foreheads together. “If you hear anything beneath the ice, do not answer. That much of the stories is true.”

Night came.

The village met again by the water, yet kept their distance now, spreading out into a shaky ring. Up ahead, Ruun waited with his staff gripped tight, tiny bells in his hair - still not ringing.

Elin moved ahead by herself.

Her lantern held a fresh flame, sparked by each home in Irsen. Around sixty minutes, folks moved fire and light between homes, blending them into one strong shine. That glow stayed alive in her palms - tiny but bright.

“At the heart of the dark,” Ruun intoned, “we send our trust. At the edge of the veil, we send our hope. Walk gently, child of Irsen.”

The first time she touched the ice, it felt smooth - like glass underfoot. It didn’t bend at all; instead, a quiet force pushed up, gentle but aware. Elin moved forward, one foot after the other, light spilling from the lamp near her shoes. Below, thin lines glowed just enough to show where to go.

Step by step, the silence grew thicker - so thick it started to hum in her head. Behind, the group of villagers shrank into the distance. Up ahead, nothing but the middle spot remained, like a faint tangle in threads of light.

As she got close, everything changed. Up there, the sky seemed lighter - breathing came quicker but stung a little, like each breath both sliced and fixed something deep inside.

She put the light on the ground.

Just for a second, everything stayed still.

Soon after, the glow under the frost blinked awake.

It wasn't a face staring back - still, she sensed eyes on her, heavy like old stone. Light snapped across the design, edges sharpening like leaf-veins under daylight. The fire pulled itself longer, narrow and slow, almost dipping down toward the ground.

A voice drifted inside her - no phrases, just emotions: tiredness yet calm, craving but control, wonder like water creeping sideways.

Child, it almost whispered - yet silence stayed thick. Tiny flame. Just a wisp of life.

Elin's legs shook. In her head, her mom’s voice echoed - don’t reply.

Yet did quiet mean a reply?

The Sleeper’s gaze moved around her - quiet, not quite chill, shadowed but not blank. Yet it reached into old moments: slipping on wet grass as a kid, peering out from the top branch of the big pine, catching the echo of her mom’s chuckle, biting into those early summer berries once the ice broke. One by one, each lit up just enough to see, then slipped away, feeding what waited deep beneath.

The world feels paper-thin, pressure humming through her ribs instead of sound. Movement drags, like something stuck. Up there, the glow hesitates - flickers unsure. Can you stay upright when it breaks?

Elin got it now, clear as something deep inside her bones. Not a command - this thing they did. More like a promise made fresh every time, shaky fingers and bold steps both part of the deal. They carried tiny flames into the thick blackness, while the night held back just enough, choosing to recall who these folks were.

She might just stay put without a word. Then the ritual wouldn't finish, that query still floating. Otherwise, she could act - something nobody’s seen in years.

She leaned down - gradual-like - and set her covered palm against the frozen surface.

I'll stay," she said quietly, the sentence slipping out too fast to catch. "But only if you change your mind."

The silence ended - sudden, without noise, just movement.

A heavy rumble crept across the frozen ground below her palm, like some giant stirred in the dark. The lamp flickered - bright, sharp - and jumped into the design, zipping out along every groove at once. Brightness surged from under the ice, glowing upward through the glassy surface she stood on, covering her and the clouds overhead with a weird, gentle light.

At the beach, folks stared wide-eyed, dropping down without a sound. Elin wasn't noticing any of it. Inside her gaze floated tiny glows - wait, not stars - more like specks drifting up from below, spiraling past her fingers, her cheeks, even her exhales.

The thing under the ice pulled back, calm instead of furious. Her chest didn't feel so tight anymore. The air seemed thinner now, almost as if it had been holding on and just let go.

Spin round, said the soundless whisper while it slipped away. Next thing - bring on morning.

The light beneath the water faded, softening into a pale shine that followed the shape and the symbol in the middle. Her fingers went cold and tingly, yet still worked fine. Grabbing the lamp again, she saw its fire held firm now - calm, not wild like before - not just from Irsen’s stoves this time, but also some ancient thing underneath.

As she headed toward the shore again, the ice stayed solid. No breaking sounds - just steady underfoot. Like it’d been fixed somehow during those brief, timeless seconds.

Her mom stepped forward, leaving the group even as people whispered. Yet she grabbed Elin’s arms, staring hard into her face.

You replied," she said softly.

“Yes,” Elin replied. “And it - listened.”

Elder Ruun came close, his stick barely thumping the dirt. Wet streaks shone on his eyelids, holding the glow from the lamp - like little sparks floating there.

“The pattern will stay,” he said, voice hushed with awe. “Children yet unborn will walk by its lines. You have woven your promise into the valley’s bones.”

Elin glanced behind across the water. The mark glimmered under the ripples - faint yet steady, sort of like a thought you can't shake.

Above the hills, a soft glow began to spread across the horizon. Although the clouds still hung close, they started to fade - allowing hints of brightness to slip out.

The hush lifted.

Crows shouted from spots you couldn't see. Off in the distance, a twig snapped, then dropped. A little kid giggled - sharp, curious. Everything felt like it was inching forward into daybreak.

Beneath the ice, a huge shape stirred again in sleep - its slow roll pushing the sun upward just a touch through the sky.

Elin stayed beside her people by the water, holding a lamp, yet something quiet clicked inside - so long as folks dared step across that slick line where shadows meet glow, mornings would rise fresh, once more, after every deep dusk.