Darkest Days (The Wild Hunt) - 2. Unfinished Business

Morning crept into the cabin like thin mist, gray light spilling across frost-rimed windowpanes. Elias sat hunched on the edge of his bed, his hands clenched between his knees. The cold pressed against his skin, sharp and unyielding, and his breath formed faint clouds in the icy stillness, each exhale dissipating into the silence like words he no longer had the strength to speak.

The night before lingered vividly—the horn’s mournful wail, thundering hooves, and the storm that split the sky. Most of all, Adrien’s face haunted him: frost-covered, pale as the winter moon. Adrien had ridden with the Wild Hunt, his frozen eyes devoid of the warmth Elias had known. Yet that fleeting glance—just before the night claimed him again—had stirred something deeper than grief.

Elias shivered, but not from the cold. Adrien’s stories clawed at the edges of his memory—tales told by firelight, his knife carving shapes into wood. He’d spoken of the Hunt often, of restless spirits caught in its thrall, bound to it because of unfinished business.

Adrien had died a hero, saving the boy from the wolves, but why was he riding with the hunt now? Did he volunteer? Had he died with something left undone?

The thought hit like a blow, stealing Elias’s breath. He pictured Adrien’s steady hands carving wood, full of concentration, the pride he took in his work. Elias’ promise whispered to the biting wind, there above the grave beneath the pines.

I’ll finish what you started. You can rest. I promise.

But he hadn’t.

His gaze swept the cabin. Dust coated every surface and Adrien’s always meticulously cared for tools showed signs of rust on the workbench. His unfinished carvings lay discarded in the corner, the crooked chair Adrien was supposed to repair slouched against the wall, the frame of its newly build twin leaned awkwardly against it, like a skeleton left to collapse.

Elias’s breath hitched. He had failed Adrien.

Shame crept over him, slow and suffocating. Grief had consumed him, paralyzed him, and he’d abandoned the promise meant to honor Adrien. Now Adrien’s unfinished work sat frozen in time, just like him. Had he condemned Adrien to ride eternally, always on the hunt, never finding peace?

Elias swallowed, his throat tight. He clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms. “I should’ve… I should’ve done better,” he whispered. His voice cracked, thin as brittle wood. The silence didn’t answer, but it didn’t need to. The dust, the chairs, the unfinished carvings—they were Adrien’s unspoken question, waiting for Elias’s reply.

He rose, his joints stiff, and crossed the room. It wouldn’t do to work with cold and stiff hands, so he cleared the ashes and rekindled the fire. While waiting for some warmth to fill the place, he brushed most of the dust away. He’d later have to do it again, but Adrien always insisted on a clean workspace to begin with. Finally, when everything was clean and he couldn’t put it off anymore, he turned to face the work. His hand hesitated as he reached for Adrien’s tools. The carving knife lay where it always had, its once shining blade dulled by disuse. Elias picked it up, cradling it in his palm like something fragile and sacred.

“I promised you,” he murmured. His breath caught. The handle felt familiar, stirring memories of Adrien’s steady hands. Elias’s hands trembled as he traced the grooves of a wolf figurine Adrien had started, its details barely sketched into the grain. So majestic looking already, and yet, what irony to honor this beast in such a way. Or… was it a message from Adrien? Did he know? He shuddered just thinking about it.

The shame burned hotter, but with it came a flicker of resolve. Adrien couldn’t finish this. But he could.

Elias set the figurine down and swept the bench clean, the dust and wood shavings falling like ash. He lined up the tools the way Adrien always had, polishing and sharpening the blades one by one. He cleaned and dried them meticulously, using an oiled cloth to wipe them down. His hands moved with growing confidence, the deliberate motions filling the cabin with a faint sense of purpose.

Finally, Elias picked up and steadied the wolf figurine again. With some trepidation, he brought the knife to the wood. The first cut was tentative, the blade sliding across the grain in a soft hiss. But as he worked, his breath slowed, matching the rhythm of the blade.

“I’ll finish it,” he said softly. “I’ll finish it all. You can rest, Adrien. I’ll make sure of it.”

Hours passed. Gray morning light faded into the cold white of midday. When Elias finally set the wolf on the mantelpiece above the fire, its form smooth and complete, the fire had burned to embers, and the cabin had grown colder. But Elias didn’t feel it as sharply. The figurine of the wolf still looked majestic, but there was something uncanny about it, not quite right. He needed to work on it some more, but the other jobs were much more pressing.

His gaze shifted to the crooked chair in the corner. It would be next. As he lifted its frame and carried it to the bench, something stirred in his chest. Not warmth—not yet. But it wasn’t the emptiness that had haunted him for so long. This weight steadied him.

The work was still Adrien’s, but the promise was his to keep. He wouldn’t rest until it was done. Rest was for the dead.

***

Snow crunched under his boots as Elias stepped into the village square, his breath clouding the icy air. Weak light barely touched the rooftops, where thin trails of smoke curled skyward. He tightened his grip on the rope and pulled the sleigh, packed with the repaired chair and its new brother. A box contained all smaller, finished repair jobs. Their owners had waited a long time and would have waited longer, but Elias couldn’t. He almost failed, but he made it. All jobs done, the cabin clean, he even did the washing.

Thick layers of snow covered the roofs. The eerie hush of these short, beleaguered days, squeezed between the inescapable siege of the twelve dark nights, was deafening. But tonight was the last night. A woman glanced at Elias as she passed, her scarf pulled tightly against the cold. He ignored her curiosity and approached a modest stone house near the edge of the square.

The father, a broad man with lined features, opened the door. His gaze fell to the chairs. “Elias,” he said, surprise edging his warm tone. “I didn’t expect this anymore.”

Elias shrugged and pushed the chairs forward. “It’s done.”

The man ran his calloused hands over the wood. “You’ve done fine work, please come…” he began, but Elias cut him off.

“You can pay me later.” His voice was flat as he turned away.

He moved with purpose, dropping off several items.

At his last stop, he wanted to leave a bundle of Adrien’s finished carvings at the doorstep. A woman opened the door, the smell of fresh bread warming the cold air. “These are Adrien’s, aren’t they?” she asked, hesitant. “You finished them?”

“They’re yours,” Elias replied, already turning away.

It was done.

***

By the time he reached the village center again, his fingers were stiff, his shoulders aching.

“Elias,” a voice called, deep and gravelly. Looking up, he faced the village elder, sitting on a bench near the church, his cane resting across his knees. Was he waiting for him?

“Come here, boy,” the elder said. “You look like a man with too much on his mind.”

Elias hesitated, then sat. The elder adjusted his cloak, the whiff of smoke and pine clinging faintly to the fur.

“You’ve been busy,” the elder said. “What’s got you moving all of a sudden?”

Elias clenched his fists in his gloves. “Just saw I needed to finish some things,” he muttered.

The elder’s sharp gaze didn’t waver. “And what exactly did you see… up there in your lonely cabin? You don’t move like a man cleaning house. You move like someone running out of time.”

The words hit like a blow. Elias looked down at his boots. Clean, white snow and icy lumps that clung to the dark, sturdy leather.

When the elder didn’t ask again, Elias whispered his secret, almost disbelieving himself. “I saw them. The Wild Hunt. I saw Adrien.”

The elder leaned back, tapping his cane against the snow. „Christmas night? There was power in the air that night… “

Elias kept his gaze down, but nodded.

“The Wild Hunt,” the elder murmured. “To encounter it is to be marked. I understand your resolve.”

“But what does that mark mean? No one knows. For leaders, it might mean war or death. For you, a warning, perhaps. A call. Or just fate catching up.”

Elias shifted uneasily, the elder’s words settling heavy in his chest. “Will it come for me?”

“If it does,” the elder said slowly, “running won’t do you any good. Find out why you saw it. Any ideas? Maybe it was coincidence.”

Getting up and leaving Elias on the bench, the elder added, “whatever it means for you, the Hunt is a force of nature. Respect it. Take care, Elias, you are well liked and needed here.”

As Elias climbed the snowy trail back to his cabin, the elder’s words echoed in his mind. Well liked. A bitter laugh escaped his throat. Somewhere in the distance, he thought he heard the faintest sound of hoofbeats. He was ready.

Elias finished all his tasks on time .... or so he thought. The washing is still hanging to dry.