These paths were familiar to her. Endless trails of red and woe, she knew some thought them to be, because she did too. Those who didn’t understand, steered clear of the deep and daunting forest. They considered it to be huanted, possessed by the darkest of all evils.

The Weeping Walkers is what they called them—the girls people, or rather, anyone who dwelled within the forest where most would not. Originally, the intent of the name was to be insulting, make her fellow Weepings feel ashamed of their existence, and disconnected from society. But they didn’t mind it. And they were disconnected, but they much rather preferred it to desperately attempting to living side by side a race borne of their own pigheadedness.

The forest preferred it that way, also. He was eased seeing people who truly valued him, walking the winding ways with bliss. It was apparent in every gentle sway of the trees leaves, and every slow, sure movement of the insects gait. None were feared; all where respected, and deserved respect.

An expanse of gray and gloom showered down on all the rest. This meant that if one soul happened to be distressed, the burden of that one soul would rain over everyone else. So the Weeping Walkers were known for their silence. Nothing can be said of regret, when ones lips remain sealed, yes?

Another very bright feature of the Weeping people, would have been their long, red robes. Robes made from a very special fabric. By finding articulate ways to weave petals, lace, and silk together, they had careated a most beautiful attraction they called, a _bloom drape. _And they were ancient pieces of finery. You were only to receive one once you reached the rightful age, and had successfully completed a full year of muteness. Not a single word could be formed with their tongues during this time, or they would be shunned, left to walk the winding ways alone. Yes, the bloom drape would be given to them, but the seal of blessing—a small rose—wouldn’t be woven into the fine material.

Luckily, the girl putting one foot infront of the other on a dusted red path, had already completed the year of muteness and received her seal. She might have been happy, if not for having to paint her first rose so soon. Painting someone’s first rose, meant they had to stain a perfect, white flower with the blood of a loved one. The blood of someone who had passed. This was tradition, part of her culture, but she couldn’t help but be mildly unsettled.

She wasn’t unsettled simply because of the crystal bottle full of deep, red liquid in her hand. Surveying her surroundings, she was disconcerted by the many red roses before her. They were everywhere, and there were far more red than there were white. Her throat tightened, as she choked back tears. How could there be so much blood in a place where peace was supposed to forever exist? The path from which her bare feet sat on, was covered in crimson petals, dried and withered, yet still vibrant with death.

This was not where she wanted to lay her brother to rest. How could she ever leave here knowing he was lost amidst so many unfamiliar souls? If only he hadn’t been such a fool. If only he had kept his mouth shut during the year of muteness, then he wouldn’t have been left to die. He could have been saved. Of course, she knew being angry with him wasn’t fair. If she had any right to be angry at anyone, it would be her own people, for claiming to be so gracious and respectable, but acting like complete monsters. Savages and ghastly creatures, convinced with every stem of their being they weren’t.

But she saw everything differently. Be it a curse or not. She should never have been forced to abide by the customs. How painful it was, knowing her own blood was out in the forest somewhere, alone, yet not being able to see him—to look into his eyes at east once so he knew he was still treasured by someone. By all the hells, she hated her parents for turning their backs on him. How could they act such a way to their own child?

Her chin turned down. The bottle was rattling, softly—a result of her shaky hands, and the utter resentment she felt. But she knew the forest was watching her. She couldn’t be seen this way, lest she be punished for portraying signs of emotional distress, or rather what they liked to refer to as _weakness. _

__

__

Slipping the hood of her bloom drape from her head, she calmly stepped infront of a white rose of her choosing. Before she opened her mouth to speak the words that every Weeping did here, the words that provided their loved ones a safe passage to Crimson Way—the afterlife—she heard a sound. It was a soft dripping. She looked beside her to see a freshly painted rose. It’s petals hung low due to the weight of the blood, as it followed a vein of red all the way to the edge of one of the petals, dripping from the flower and soaking into the dirt below. Her friend must have come here moments before—his brother had died the same day as hers, murdered by the same outsider that had slithered their way into their home.

Taking a shaky breath in, she forced her gaze away. If she was this saddened now, she shuttered to imagine how her friend must have felt. His brother was the only family he had left. It made her consider how fortunate she was that she still had a mother and father.

Their two brothers were good friends when they were still living, so perhaps they’d find each other. That gave her some amount of comfort knowing they wouldn’t be completely alone.

She eased the cap of the bottle off, and lifted it over the flower, closing her eyes. With a deep inhale, she began chanting in her peoples old tongue.

“We walk the trails of

Familiar roots,

Blood in palm

A small tribute,

The hands of those

Merciless folk,

Stealing their breath

Away.

Remembering to hold

To our truth,

Crimson flow to end

Dispute,

Gently, we pray a swift

Invoke,

Passage to

Crimson Way.”

She tilted her hand until the blood flowed from the bottle onto the flower, tarnishing its petals. Everything had suddenly gotten so quiet—quieter than usual. She stared at that rose until the blood dried. Then she pulled her hood back over her perfectly brushed hair, until it hung so low it covered her eyes, revealing the seal—a red rose. It was then that a single tear fell. As she slowly walked away, there was something in her heart that broke, like she was leaving her brother behind all over again.