Leon Kennedy

Every unmarried woman eagerly awaited the day of the summer solstice to tell fortunes about her betrothed. The choice was great: wooden combs under fabric bags stuffed with straw, charmed dreams, fortune telling on grass and, of course, for the brave, on a mirror. The most dangerous, but according to the wise, effective method.

They usually gathered at one whose parents had a bathhouse. Adults left their homes for the night in order to attend a celebration held under the supervision of a wise elder at the edge of the forest nearby. The girls refused: they pretended to be sick, swore that they would watch over the household with their girlfriends or weave wreaths to send in the morning with the first rays of the sun. That fun brought few joy, and was not effective - they wanted to know the face of their betrothed as soon as possible, and not the fact of being a maid until death.

Thus, time dragged on past midnight, the wind carried the melody of the gusli, a song woven by the voices of dozens of women and men. Somewhere there, fires were shining, joyful laughter could be heard.

Under the canopy of an old plank roof, at the entrance to the steam room, a flock of young men was hiding. Here were not only “nobody’s” girls cherishing the dream of a quick embrace, but also lovers, chirping in the night like nightingales - they were looking for a sign from the gods here that their love was not an accident, but a gift, and the connection between them was strong.

They waited impatiently, whispered passionately, squeezed each other’s hands, shifted from one trembling leg to the other. Everyone was afraid.

Some came out pale, the color of linen, some giggled, rosy, threw themselves into the arms of their betrothed, merging in a tender kiss, or quickly went home, to change their minds, accept, maybe find.

And someone... Stood nearby, blacker than a cloud.

"And why are we here? Your betrothed will find himself, what need do you have of these fortune-tellings?", - Leon, looking at the lovers, grimaced and shook his head. His light hair curled like ears in the wind. The girls sighed languidly - they hoped that he, the most handsome man in the village, would be their betrothed.

"Come on, let's get out of here and jump over the fire? Do you want to hold hands, huh? Wreaths? Anything is better than this obscurantism. You'll still bring trouble upon yourself," you didn't listen to his assurances, because when it was your turn, you stepped into the dark bathhouse, slamming the thick, sheepskin-covered door as tightly as possible - that's what the ritual required.

Your eyes didn't get used to the darkness right away. Carefully, step by step, you stepped into the depths of the stuffy greenhouse. There was only a lonely table with a couple of mirrors, and a couple of candles nearby, smoldering after the previous fortune teller. They had to be replaced.

The process required endurance, so as not to run away from the fear of the oppressive atmosphere around. The tremor in your fingers prevented you from getting ready: the silence and thick darkness swirling near the thin, crooked wax columns frightened you. If they burned out before the new ones were lit - expect trouble.

You sat down at the table, lifted the mirror, lining one up opposite the other, behind your back. You clearly read the cherished words. All that was left was to wait and look into the mirror corridor until the arrival of “the one”. Your beloved.

A minute, two, anxiety did not let you get bored. Moments dragged on for hours. The candle burned slowly. With your peripheral vision you could see droplets of wax rolling down, gathering into a translucent puddle in the saucer. The longer your eyes stared at your own reflection, the faster your hope flowed away. The betrothed had not come. Time had passed. You could have sworn you saw a golden ray of sun breaking through a tightly boarded-up window.

A silhouette flashed in the darkness of the corridor, barely noticeable, dim. You blinked in disbelief at the miracle, and the facial features appeared: dark hair, a large body, skin tanned by the fire of the forge - you recognized the blacksmith's son in them. Chris. He rarely appeared in public outside his forge, he missed holidays and apparently only managed to do so a couple of times: he came when his father's horse's horseshoes became dull. These features are recognizable, incomparable to anyone.

The mirror fell, almost breaking under trembling hands - just so as not to turn around. The mirror corridor collapsed. A few seconds of finding the outlines of what was predetermined behind your back was enough. Thus the fortune-telling ended. You slowly rose, left the bathhouse. To Leon, who was waiting impatiently. Noticing you, he jumped up from his place, embracing you. Apparently, he hoped.

"Well? Who did you look like? Come on, don't keep me in suspense!" the guy grabbed her shoulders like eagle claws. His eyes were filled with the same hope that a deer looks at a hunter who has aimed an arrow at him.