Death of the Crone

There are defining moments in life, my friends.

Sometimes, it's all condensed into a minute. A trickle of time. A mere breath.

There, stuck in the vigil of caregiving for a soul in a coma, an intrusive thought prowled like the mistress of doubt. How easy it would be, they mused, as the crone was already dancing on the edge of the abyss. Ah, the wise old crone, who had already embraced a century.

She had once been a maiden, then became a mother as she came of age. A fierce protector, warrior, and mediator during wartime. She was a tailor, a musician, a poet. She wovve magicks with her hands, and negotiated with her sharp mind and tongue. She was gifted with foresight; thrice blessed or thrice cursed, she knew. Yet, she chose to relinquish her natural magick, for one could not serve two masters. She is faithful.

Many tales were told of her: how she had nurtured those not her own, assisted others with no obligation, and always spoke kindly, even in frosty civility. She believed one should never stoop to the level of the mud-slinger.

Nightly, she would tell the new maiden how beautiful they were, and sealed each affirmation with a kiss on the cheeks before she slept.

Yet, in that slice of intrusive thought, the maiden stood, contemplating using the pillow not for comfort but as an instrument of release. 10 seconds.

The mother and the spinster would arrive. They, the maiden, would envelop both in a hug. The old crone would be no more, her departure a secret held by the maiden alone. This deed would unfold in less than a minute. Yet, this was merely a shadow of a thought.

In reality, the maiden never laid hands on the pillow, instead scolding their mind for courting such darkness. In that shard of time, as if summoned, the mother and the spinster stepped in. The old crone lingered still, a warrior in her final battle.

"It's the curse of old age," they whispered, a destination we all aspire to reach, should fortune favor us. 20 seconds.

In that fragment of a minute, the old crone’s breath grew loud, not in struggle, but as though gathering the strength for one final journey.

The maiden loves the old crone, yet at sixteen, they were temperamental and sometimes mean. Rare was the moment treasured, even when, in the quiet before this day, they had heard the murmurs in their mind, advising them to "cherish these moments before they slip into memory."The maiden, nearly seventeen, still perceived as a child through the crone's eyes, bristled at such a notion. For what maiden, on the brink of adulthood, wouldn’t?

Guilt, a quiet specter, brushed against the maiden's heart. For though they had not acted, the mere contemplation of ending one's suffering—as witnessed in tales—was a path they had never envisioned walking, until now. The mother attempted to revive the crone's fading light, but with a final breath, the crone opened her eyes, and then, the light was extinguished. 10 seconds.

The maiden showed no sign, nor did the mother or the spinster, but each wept silently, in the seclusion of their own heart. To reveal such sorrow might prove too overwhelming. Far too overwhelming.

20 seconds.

There was no time for open grief. Preparations were to be made. The wise, venerable crone had departed from this mortal plane.