8 Hours Of Medieval Fantasy Sleep Stories

When the last drop of magic leaves the dew on morning flowers,

When it rises from the soil to disappear into the clouds,

When elven enchantment seeps at last away from the mortal world,

That will be a sorry day indeed.

You can feel it slipping slowly like sand through the fingertips a little more each day.

The magic that once infused the very air,

That once resonated like the strings of a celestial harp,

Is diffusing,

Dissipating into barely audible harmonic.

This should not be a cause for grief,

For it is the way of things.

Magic,

Like the world which undergoes its seasonal changes,

Moves in cycles.

It migrates like the songbirds who one morning are a full-throated choir,

Only to be gone the next,

Having moved on to better climbs.

It goes around.

It feels different this time,

Though.

You all feel it,

With each passing year of the countless years you've lived in this enchanted realm,

It seems a little more enchantment slips away and does not return on the wings of the west wind.

And each turn of the year heralds a world ever so slightly less magical,

More mundane.

It's this feeling,

This sense of magic being swept away,

That's led your kind,

The last of the elves,

To this,

A bittersweet choice to depart.

To gather up what collective magic you have,

And use it to build a new world,

Away from the realm of mankind,

Where enchantment will be safe to flourish on,

Forever.

It's twilight now,

Or at least it appears to be,

And a sheer golden-violet haze settles over the hill you climb,

Which waves with long grasses.

As you ascend,

You notice a subtle change in the light,

A deepening of the gold to amber,

And the violet to enveloping blue.

This is not,

However,

The effect of the setting sun,

But an experiment.

The high elf Sylvain,

Who stands atop the crest of the hill silhouetted there,

Lifts her arms to the sky,

Making slow gestures to which the light responds.

She raises one arm to bring a saturated magenta to the sky,

Then flips a palm in a dampening gesture.

To this,

The sky answers by muting that magenta,

And bleeding it into a thin curtain of sage green at the horizon.

You approach Sylvain,

Admiring her masterful orchestrations.

She inclines her head to acknowledge your presence,

But continues her work without pause.

Such marvelous,

Blending hues she makes paint themselves across the sky.

What do you think?

She asks,

Lowering her hands to her sides as the sky shimmers,

A smoky purple with auroras of orange and rose.

It's beautiful,

You say,

Noticing that your voice sounds different here,

More resonant,

As if it rides a wave of music as it travels from your body.

This world,

The new world,

Is still being realized,

Layer by layer.

The whole landscape from the ground beneath your feet to the shifting lights in the sky is being spun from elven charms and spells.

So even as you get accustomed to the languid feel of your limbs moving through space,

Or the way your hair flows behind you as if through water,

A new element will rise to dazzle you,

Your musical voice,

The vividness of color.

I haven't decided yet,

Sylvain says,

A note of query in her voice,

Whether the sky will change over time in a way to echo the sun's movements in the mortal realm,

Or if I'd rather find the ideal impression,

The ideal hues and qualities,

And leave it in stasis.

She turns to you indicating her interest in your opinion,

You're honored that she'd hear your thoughts.

Well,

You say,

Even as you relish the ardor of the colors that currently tinge the great expanse of sky,

I've always found that true beauty lies in the very aspect of change.

We grasp for the ripeness of a red rose in full bloom,

But we marvel all the more,

Knowing its petals will fall,

And there is beauty in the falling,

And the first budding,

Too.

Sylvain nods in assent,

She sweeps an arm over her head lifting a wave of crimson,

Rippling through the colors.

There will be no sun here,

In the immortal realm,

Unless one is made and placed in the to remind you of what you left behind.

But even then,

Its heat will not be needed,

For magic itself generates warmth and energy.

It is a wondrous privilege,

And a rare opportunity you have,

To create your own world,

One with magic as its very pulse.

But these are the questions which drive its creation,

Questions of beauty and stagnation.

How do you make a paradise?

Do you spin perfect threads,

Weaving them into a tapestry of immovable perfection,

Where time has no dominion,

And all things are beautiful and still?

Or,

Do you build for possibility,

For potential?

Do you lay seeds and encourage growth,

Even if that growth may surprise you,

Or wind out of your control,

Or lead,

As all things,

To decay?

You take your leave of Sylvain,

Who continues to gesture boldly at the sky,

Experimenting with swirls of color.

This is the elegant backdrop for your musings.

You walk the lush fields where the grasses reflect the shifting light above.

You come to the burgeoning orchard,

Where your friend,

Torian,

Is tinkering.

As Sylvain has a way with color and light,

Torian's special magic is all to do with plants and trees.

You can hear him humming gently as you draw closer,

And you feel the ground vibrate underfoot in response.

The trees before him tremble and grow,

Budding forth and bringing fruit which swells before your very eyes.

The plump fruits are reminiscent of apples or pears,

With amber flesh,

Like low firelight.

Torian stands back to admire his work,

Then catches notice of you.

Try one,

He says.

It's my third attempt.

I'd have these trees all over the land and abundant with fruit,

If I can only perfect the taste.

Obliging,

You reach up and pluck one of the golden fruits from its branch.

It sits pleasantly in your palm,

Perfectly ripe.

You hold it to your nose and inhale,

Enjoying the ambrosial sweetness of the scent.

Then,

You take a bite.

The fruit is soft and yielding,

The taste sublime.

It's what you imagine the flavor of golden sunlight,

The first glimmer of dawn in spring might be.

You take your time and savor the first bite.

But as you go back for a second,

Something stops you.

There's something missing.

The tanginess of plum or peach,

Or crispness of apple.

Whatever it is,

You can't quite put your finger on it.

The flavor of the fruit is,

By all counts,

Perfect,

But you've no interest in taking another bite.

It's always just ripe,

Torian says,

Noticing the look of satisfaction on your face.

Never ages,

Or rots,

And there will always be plenty of it on the fruit trees.

What do you think?

You explain your dilemma,

How the fruit's flawlessness somehow lessens your craving for it.

Torian looks puzzled at the thought of perfection being somehow not enough.

He concludes that he'll just have to keep meddling with the mix.

If you're finished,

He says,

You can drop that fruit right at your feet.

It'll sprout a new tree in no time.

You let the fruit fall from your hands and watch it plume into sparkling dust as it meets the soil.

Within moments,

A new sprout springs forth,

Its tendrils curling upward.

As you leave,

Torian's side,

You hear him begin to sing again,

His voice warm and clear,

The notes vibrating with the waving wind and growth patterns of his fruit trees.

You glance back as you go,

And you notice the amber fruits shrinking back into buds and flowers,

Before swelling anew,

This time with a scarlet glow.

The sky,

Sylvain's province,

Is frozen once again,

In a sheer and rosy pink like daybreak.

You carry on traversing the evolving landscape of the Undying Country,

This unfinished haven for Elfkind.

You find friends and kinfolk similarly engaged in world creation.

Elves singing the flowers to life,

Flowers undreamt in the ordinary world,

With strange colored petals and intoxicating fragrance.

Elves dreaming up bodies of water,

Vast lakes and laughing streams.

You gaze into a placid pool and watch bright colored birds swim beneath a surface,

A most peculiar and dazzling detail.

There's no limit,

It seems,

To the enchantment that may manifest here.

Wonders that could never exist in the mortal realm,

Colors that could never be captured,

Tastes that could never be dreamt.

The whole world spun from magic threads in the image of the elves.

So,

Why,

You wonder,

Does this marvelous song of a place fail to enthrall your heart?

All this time,

You've been meddling in the work of your fellows and neglecting your own task,

Perhaps because you've been feeling uninspired.

It's in your hands to shape the palaces and gardens of this miraculous land,

Such edifices that should inspire awe in all who approach,

And paths that wind through breathtaking natural splendor.

It's a heavy burden to undertake,

And one that's set your mind to wandering as much as your feet.

But as you stroll past the pools and lakes of the elves,

Your unblemished lawns stretch out before you,

Canvas waiting to be painted upon.

It's time.

Elves channel magic in many unique ways.

For Sylvain,

The mere intentional gesture can command color,

Light,

And the illimitable skies.

Magic flows from her fingertips.

Torian,

Like the oldest elves and ancient beings who first brought the world into being,

Works magic through song,

Tuning the vibrations of his voice to those of nature,

And manipulating matter like notes of music.

Those elves who fill the ponds and streams do so by spinning their dreams into water.

They are sleep magicians,

Plumbing the profound threshold of the unconscious world.

Your magic draws from the very forces that keep the world turning,

The untold ages and pressures of the earth itself.

Your magic glimmers in the minds,

Reflecting your efforts and inspiration back with its unlimited facets.

Yours is the magic of stone,

Crystal,

And gem.

You've always been able to speak to stones,

To make them transform,

Dance,

And bend to your will.

Many an impressive stone structure has been erected under your hands,

But this,

The creation of a palace worthy of elven paradise,

An immortal realm,

Is a challenge you face with trepidation.

Can you conjure the same majesty Sylvain musters in the skies above,

Beauty and sensory experience as ecstatic as Torian's fruit trees?

But you've delayed long enough,

And these shining lawns have sat empty,

Waiting to be filled.

It's time to put your skills to the test,

And add a piece of wonder to this enchanted land.

You've brought with you,

From the heart of the mountains,

You love to walk in the world,

A collection of gems and crystals.

From the shores of the untroubled sea,

Fragments of glass tumbled on the tides.

From the gardens you've kept all these years at your own humble cottage,

Unassuming grey stones that lay for decades in the shade of flowers and border trees.

You bring offerings from the domain you're leaving behind,

Hoping they'll infuse this new land with some of the memories of the old.

What is a land,

After all,

Without memory?

Under the rose-tinged sky,

You place your stones thoughtfully in a circle.

In the north,

You set a smooth stone from the garden,

Grey and flecked with little sparkling bits.

In the east,

A crystal,

The same hue as Sylvain's sky.

In the south,

A stone forged in the belly of mountains,

Pressed from all sides by pressure and fire until it emerged shining and clear.

In the west,

A bit of the sea glass harvested from the waves.

You withdraw to the center of the circle,

Acknowledging each of the glittering stones,

And close your eyes,

Tuning yourself to the wavelengths of the rock,

Those you've laid,

And the bedrock beneath the soil.

You breathe with the rhythm of the breeze.

You empty your mind,

Carefully,

Of all thoughts,

All cares,

All concerns,

And let yourself become a landing place for the visitation of creativity and beauty.

A blankness,

A void,

And then an awakening of vague forms,

Blurred and indistinct.

You bring them in your mind into focus,

And at the same time,

You can feel the ground tremble faintly beneath you.

It's working.

On the canvas of your imagination,

A great diamond palace erupts from emptiness.

You mentally manipulate its walls and towers,

Which climb to pierce the peachy sky.

Edges grow a labyrinth of them,

Flowering with something like roses,

But oh,

Much more breathtaking than any rose you've seen,

Bursting with colors like the autumn sunrise.

Great meadows of golden flowers blanket the soil of your imagination,

And you shape the rose with keen intention.

And there deepens a reflecting pool,

Long and narrow,

Capturing in its waters the image of the palace and its flourishing gardens.

For a time,

You tinker with the vision,

Arranging and rearranging the elements behind closed eyes.

You can hear,

As you go,

The sounds of groaning rock and squeezing earth.

You can feel little tremors in the ground,

Which reverberate throughout your entire body,

Through to your fingertips.

This is the hum of creative magic,

A feeling like no other.

You continue to push the borders of the images,

Manipulating them in your mind,

Until they fall into an aesthetic harmony with which you're satisfied.

Then,

And only then,

You open your eyes.

You stand at the foot of the reflecting pool.

Its perimeter,

Shaped by the contours of your mind,

Sweeps in curling organic grace,

And the clear water within shines like glass.

You kneel beside the edge and reach in with one hand to feel the water's temperature.

But instead of cool liquid,

Your hand slides into the silvery substance with some resistance,

Its texture more like fluid sand.

The pool is filled not with water,

You realize,

But with countless tiny grains of sea glass,

Each casting a shine off each other and reassembling the reflections of your surroundings in millions of facets.

You rise to your feet and take in the rest of your handiwork,

And it is a marvel,

Even if you're being modest.

There at the other end of the reflecting pool are the shining steps of a rapturous palace,

Hewn in gleaming diamond.

Its towers reach effortlessly toward the sky,

Extending to impossibly thin,

Glittering spirals.

Each face catches a different color from the sky's,

Grasses,

And surroundings,

Setting shimmering shards like auroras outward.

It's almost too much to behold,

This diamond citadel.

And stretching out from its foundations,

Surrounding and enclosing you are the tall,

Glittering hedges,

Dotted with those jubilant flowers,

Their blossoms like sunbursts.

On closer look,

Though,

Much like the water in the reflecting pool,

This is all an illusion.

For the hedges bear no leaves,

No soft-petaled roses.

All is crystal,

The hedges hewed with a deep emerald green.

The petals of those intoxicating flowers are like ombred glass,

So delicate you almost fear to breathe in their direction.

The whole palace and its manicured gardens gleam and glitter,

Forever frozen in static gemstone.

Can you imagine walking the labyrinthine pathways of this twinkling garden,

Many centuries from now,

Under a milky rose dawn that never shifts to brighten day,

Never dims to purple twilight,

Observing flowers that never lose their petals,

Never brown and bruise under too firm a touch?

And you too,

Unchanged by the ages,

In your immortal realm.

A beauty like this,

Forever preserved,

Unmoved,

Unblemished,

Is surely something to long for.

A world without age,

Without decay,

Without endings or goodbyes.

No,

But something tugs deep within your heart,

Even in the midst of all this majesty.

Something aches,

Yearns for the tragic impermanence of it all.

You hear footsteps behind you,

More than one pair.

The other elves must have seen your palace emerge from empty lawn and come to observe.

Sylvain is here,

And Torian,

And the Water Dreamers,

And the Flower Singers,

And others.

They are wandering the paths,

Shadows swimming behind the near-translucent hedges,

Hands reached to disturb the crystalline waters of the reflecting pool.

Figures climb the stairs to the palace.

The doors swing open to let in visitors,

Whose spectral silhouettes move through the icy halls.

There are exclamations of delight and gasps of awe at the facade,

The flowers,

The way the whole place shimmers under Sylvain's perfected light.

You can't help but feel pride to have earned the admiration of your fellow elves,

But you can't shake the empty feeling you're left with.

Even after conjuring such a wonder from nearly nothing,

The fragile beauty of the palace grounds are nearly more than you can take when you withdraw from the company of your fellow elves,

Making for the marches.

On the very edge of the Undying Kingdom,

A solitary elf stands,

Mithra.

He is building the boundary,

The threshold that will separate this new,

Enchanted land from the ordinary world you leave behind.

With his gnarled staff,

Mithra casts his wards and spells,

Ancient elven magic.

You can see the trails his words leave in the air,

Shining golden symbols that evaporate into mist.

Layer by layer,

The mist is building,

Coming to obscure what lies beyond the border.

But you can still see well enough through the fog,

To the rolling hills and fields of mankind's domain.

You come to stand side by side with Mithra,

Who continues to mutter his spells,

Thickening the mist.

Unlike many of your generation,

Mithra's age shows in the lines of his face,

An admirable testament to his near-inconceivable time on the Earth.

He was one of those elves and other immortals who first sung the world into existence.

Come to take a last look at what we're leaving behind,

He asks,

A paternal tenderness in his voice.

Yes,

I suppose,

You reply,

Squinting through the haze.

You can see that it's late afternoon,

And a sinking sun is making the rivers flow golden.

Herd animals,

You can't make out what they are exactly,

Graze on the hills.

The scent of autumn faintly breaks through.

Golden,

Crimson,

And brown are the leaves on the distant trees.

Soon they'll break away and fall to the Earth,

Settling there to decompose and feed the next season's soil.

Here,

In this enchanted place,

No seasons will ever turn,

No leaves will ever fall.

This is what it takes to preserve the elven magic forever,

Withdraw from that world of little wonders.

As if through some charm of his own,

He sees into the murky muddle of your thoughts,

Mithra says,

You're conflicted.

I guess I am,

You reply,

Admitting this for the first time,

Even to yourself.

You will miss the way the fields change,

The way the shorelines evolve with the ebb and flow of the tides.

You will miss the stars and their wandering ways.

If Sylvain even deigns to dot the elven sky with stars,

They'll be fixed in their positions,

Unchanging,

Only a decorative flourish rather than a cosmic mystery.

You'll miss winter,

Snow and ice,

However unforgiving,

And how they change the land to a crystal stillness.

You'll miss the tanginess of peach and plum.

You'll miss mankind,

Too,

And this you hadn't expected.

They can be a vexing lot,

With lives so short compared to those of the elves,

Driven by whim and often self-centered greed.

But they can also be loyal,

Loving,

And stubbornly brave in the face of challenges.

Despite yourself,

You admire it.

The borders of the immortal realm would separate you from them forever,

For better or worse.

You'll be safe,

Contained,

And comfortable in the enchanted hills and orchards,

Safe with the undying,

Unchanging magic you possess.

And you yourself will cease to age,

Preserving forever your immortal beauty,

The sharpness of your mind and matter.

Through the magic that radiates throughout this land,

You will never change.

But the voice that nags at you will not be quiet,

Because in your mind,

Magic is change.

It lies less in spectacular display,

Shaping palaces of crystal or painting the sky,

Than in the myriad interconnected systems that work unseen on the other side of the twilight veil.

There is magic in the parting of clouds,

The movement of stars,

The rippling of a pool when a hazelnut drops from a tree.

There's magic in mankind uttering the names of their gods,

Or making wishes on strange flowers and weeds.

There's magic in sunset,

Which,

By some alchemy,

Makes water briefly into liquid gold.

There's magic in children,

And in the wisdom of the very old.

There's magic in lined faces,

In shriveled petals and dying oak trees.

There are a few,

You know,

Mithra says,

Who are choosing to stay in the mortal world,

To live with mankind.

You squint through the haze,

Observing a strong wind that blows the grasses on the nearest hills.

You cannot feel its gusts through the barrier.

The old elf continues,

They will age,

Slower of course than men,

But in time,

They will diminish.

Year by year,

Those who stay will lose most of their magic.

It is the way of things in the world.

But I dare say,

A cup so full may never fully be drained.

When I look into that future,

I see generations of elves in relationship with humankind,

And with the earth,

Stewards of the natural world,

And keepers of safe and spirited domestic spaces.

Hidden folk with some magic left in their fingertips,

Watching the world turn.

As he speaks,

It's almost as if you can see his words as pictures in the thickening fog.

A future for those elves who stay amongst the humans,

Going unseen,

But honored.

Little sprites,

Brownies,

Hobgoblins,

And fairy folk.

Magical mischief-makers,

And granters of boons.

When you look down at your hands,

Smooth and unblemished,

With elegant,

Elongated fingers,

And try to imagine yourself small,

Ordinary,

With none of your current radiance.

Is this so sorry of fate,

You wonder?

I haven't completed the boundary yet,

Mithra smiles.

But it will be finished soon,

And by then,

All choices will have been made.

You take this to mean that once the wall of twilight mist has fully closed,

There will be no more movement between the realms.

You'll have to decide now,

Whether to stay in the undying lands your magic has helped to build,

Or to return to the mundane,

The only world you've ever known.

To watch mankind from the shadows as they shape the future.

And what will you choose?

Unending,

Unchanging enchantment,

Or a world in flux whose very commonness yields now and then to the most surprising everyday miracles?

And you turn to look back at the sparkling silhouette of your diamond palace with its glittering hedges,

How brightly it gleams,

Catching every hue of the sky's gradient,

And splintering its reflections into countless,

Tiny rainbows.

And you swell with pride to see it,

This wonder you made.

And then you cast your eyes on the distant hills,

Half obscured by mist,

And you think of the gardens you labored over,

And the satisfaction of seeing those flowers grow.

And what gems still await in the mountains and mines?

What hidden marvels quiver in the uncertain future?

Somehow,

Just the sense of the unknown sends a tingle down your spine.

This,

Too,

Is a magic unique to the mortal world.

And you extend a hand toward Mithra's wall of mist,

Thickening by the minute.

Your hand almost disappears into the cool fog,

Cloudy and ambiguous as the future.

And you close your eyes and breathe deeply of the immortal air.

Enchantment fills your very being.

You half-remember a very old song.

The sweetness of it brings you immense comfort.

Then,

With a full heart and fingers abuzz with magic,

You make your choice.

You gather acorns at the riverside by the light of the moon.

They are the children of the oaks,

The most potent ingredient in fertility charms.

And dozens of them line the base of your basket.

The summer night serenades you.

A swell of crickets here,

The whistle of a songbird there.

The laughter in the interplay of water and the river rocks.

And you are humming in harmony with it all.

An old ancestral tune,

A hymn to nature and memory.

Go down,

Go down,

Down to the riverside,

Darling,

Down to the riverside,

Darling,

When the moon is high.

And you sweep another handful of acorns into the basket,

Along with a few fallen birch twigs and dry leaves.

You won't pull leaves or switches down from living trees,

But what's already fallen,

You consider a gift.

There's always a use for such things,

Either in charms or as kindling for the fire.

Will you try,

Will you try,

To meet me there tonight,

Darling,

When the moon is high,

Meet me down by the riverside.

Cool night breezes pass,

A kiss of moisture in the air.

Rain tonight may hap,

You think,

You want to get home before it starts.

I am dead,

Dead and gone,

Darling,

Down in the river's sweet song,

And my soul sweetly swims along in the water,

And the river forgives my wrongs.

With a final gathering of twigs and leaves,

Another acorn for good measure,

You lower your eyes in thanks to the trees,

In thanks to the goddess,

And start off home,

Singing still in chorus with nature's symphony.

And,

Oh,

My love,

When the king wren softly cries,

You'll know that song is mine,

For the moon is high tonight.

The first drops of rain are just beginning to fall as you push open the garden gate.

Your night-blooming flowers catch the water in their cups,

Leaves drooping and springing back under the accumulation of droplets.

You make it inside with only a sprinkling of rain on your hair and shoulders.

You shrug off your cloak and swiftly light a fire in the hearth.

With the sound of summer rain against the roof and the pleasant crackling of the fireplace in the background,

You sort through your foraged treasures.

You toss dead leaves into the fire and polish acorns with the fabric of your clothes.

Tomorrow,

Your apprentice is coming.

And you carry a mix of excitement and apprehension at the thought.

It will be so satisfying,

You think,

To teach another the ways of healing and natural magic.

To have someone by your side to achieve greater and greater things,

To serve your community all the better.

But this wisdom you carry,

Handed down through the generations,

And that which you taught yourself through consistent practice and listening to nature,

Is precious,

Even sacred to you.

How can you trust it to the hands of another,

A stranger?

How can you be sure that she will protect the wisdom as you have?

Honoring the long-held traditions.

You recall the day your mother began your formal training here in this very house and garden.

The first poultice you made,

Using freshly harvested herbs to ease the pain of an ailing neighbor.

The first charms and tinctures you crafted together.

But truly,

You entered apprenticeship the day you were born,

For you were always immersed in her practice.

You toddled after her in the garden as she tended the plants from which most of her magic came.

You played alongside the babies that she had helped deliver.

By the time you were ready to step into training,

The magic already lived in your bones and your every action.

Perhaps it's why you feel so protective of it.

Truthfully,

That possessive feeling has only intensified of late.

The world has changed swiftly and irrevocably since the last of the elves left.

They built a barrier of twilight and crossed beyond it,

Hoarding their high magic in a realm all for themselves.

At the time,

You thought it selfish and cruel.

But you've come to acknowledge the role of humankind in pushing the elves away.

You believe magic,

In all its forms,

Comes from the great mother goddess of life,

Death,

And the land.

In other words,

From relationship with the natural world,

Participation and grounding within the natural world.

The very nature of human progress has damaged that relationship,

Leading to the destruction of forests and endangerment of species.

Many humans believe,

With increasing fervor,

That they have dominion over the land.

That they can harness and control it.

The elves warned that living out of harmony with the land would eventually drain all the realm of its natural magic.

But their pleas went unheeded for so long,

You can hardly blame them for taking what enchantment they had left and retreating.

It's now in the hands of people like you,

Who command lesser magics than the elves,

But who know how to live in relationship with the plants,

Animals,

And natural systems.

And you have a responsibility to share that wisdom,

That way of life,

With the next generation.

Tomorrow begins a new chapter in your life.

You will move into existence as an elder,

A teacher.

Tonight,

However,

You still think of yourself as a student,

As a youth with all your life and learning ahead,

Following in your mother's footsteps and her mother before her.

The fire dies and you retire to your bed,

Where the sounds of the summer storm gently lull you to a fragrant,

Dream-filled sleep.

In that sleep,

A seed of an idea is planted in your mind.

A strange and impossible idea,

Watered by wonder and mystery.

By morning,

The idea,

Quickened in the garden of your unconscious,

Is beginning to flower.

What if,

You wonder,

There was a way to preserve the generations of priceless wisdom?

To bottle it like a potion,

Or seal it up in wax?

Somehow the pages of a book,

A grimoire,

Seem all too fragile and penetrable.

And besides,

So few in your village learn to read nowadays,

You can only assume this pattern is similar across the realm.

This,

You think,

The preservation of magic is the work you were meant to do,

And your new apprentice will help you do it.

Her name is Pru,

And she comes from a neighboring village,

A girl of sixteen and the youngest of three sisters.

Her family is grateful that you've chosen to take her into apprenticeship,

Even if they understand little of your trade.

She's a good girl,

They insist,

Though she was often unwell as a child,

And never strong enough to work the family's land.

Perhaps her frequent bouts of illness,

You suppose,

Are what sparked her interest in becoming a healer.

Whatever the case,

You welcome her warmly,

And show her to the chamber you've made up for her,

With fresh linens on the bed,

And dried lavender hanging over the doorframe.

This will be her home now,

And you intend to care for her with the utmost hospitality,

As she learns the art of natural magic.

Pru is quiet and reserved,

But she comes out of her shell more and more with each passing day.

You take it slow with the formal lessons,

But you impress upon her one thing at the outset,

That everything you do,

From the work of healing to the preparation of meals and even the dusting of the floors,

Is done with the same intention.

Every action of life has its place in relationship with the work.

Pru comes with you on house calls to your neighbors,

Watching as you administer salves and potions,

Observing your bedside manner with the sick.

She listens when others come to see you for charms and spells.

A young couple comes to visit,

Hoping for a child.

Pru helps you tie up a sachet of herbs and acorns,

A fertility charm,

And takes note of how you advise the couple to continue their journey.

Together,

You are present for the whole circle of your neighbor's lives,

At birth,

Through adolescence and matricence,

Into old age,

And even with gentle hands and soft words at the end of lives.

Pru sees how you accept payment for your services,

Not in gold,

But in kind.

Gifts of food and wine,

Fine garments,

Jewelry,

Or other items of small value.

Some have no means to pay you for the charms and the healing ointments you make.

Still,

You help them,

For the work is its own reward,

And the Goddess will find her way to bring the goodwill round.

Most importantly,

You and your apprentice begin and end each day together in the garden.

Pru is a natural with plants and a quick study at the cycles of planting,

Tending,

And harvesting.

You teach her the names of each resident of your garden,

And how every part of the plant,

From root to blossom,

Has its own essence and effect.

The history of the plant,

How it relates to others,

Its seasonal cycles,

How to distill the plant essences and bring their healing properties together into potions,

Charms,

Tinctures,

And salves.

You teach her about the Great Mother Goddess,

The land herself,

And the Lady of Life,

Death,

And Rebirth,

From whom all things grow,

And to whom all things return.

There are few who still invoke her name,

You tell Pru,

But everyone who lives in relationship with nature knows her in some way.

She turns the seasons like a great and wondrous wheel.

She sets with the sun,

Rises with the moon,

And guides the stars on their journeys.

What is the Goddess's name,

Pru asks you.

She is called Arda in the days of spring and summer,

You say,

And when the year turns dark and cold,

She becomes Morana.

She dies and is reborn each year,

Renewing with the land in spring.

Our power to heal comes from that spirit of renewal,

Our magic comes from her soil,

And her daughters,

The plants.

In the moonlit stillness of the garden by night,

Pru's raven-dark hair shines almost blue,

Her eyes sparkle,

Lit from within by the Goddess's tail.

It prides you to see that light in her.

Over the early weeks and months of her apprenticeship,

You've begun to think of Pru as the daughter you never had.

To see her embrace the work,

The service,

And the magic so fully,

It heals your lonely heart,

Gives you something you hadn't known you were missing.

With each day,

Pru's magic grows.

By the time the first breath of autumn rides the breeze,

She is able to practice independently,

Visiting with the sick,

Advising families,

And harvesting by moonlight.

Still,

You work together in the garden,

Studying the plants and moon cycles,

Crafting rituals,

And honoring the Goddess.

On a cool night after supper,

You sit with Pru by the fire.

She is recalling her upbringing,

The sisters after whom she once toddled.

The family was poor,

But always rich in love and laughter.

Even through a childhood rife with ailments,

There was joy.

I would that I had known you then,

She says,

A childlike softness in her voice.

Why,

You smile,

So I might have healed you.

Yes,

She responds sheepishly,

And no,

I think it might have given me strength,

Just to know I had a purpose.

To know there was so much meaning in the land,

Beyond the hard toil of the farmer's life.

To know there was a place for me in it,

Even with my limitations,

That even the wounded may heal.

It touches your heart to hear her say this.

Now is the time,

You think.

She is ready.

There is something I hope to do,

You say.

Something that might give such hope to others across the world.

But I need your help.

You tell Pru about your fear of a world someday in the future,

Where the goddess is all but forgotten,

And the magic has died.

Where humans have entirely severed their connection to nature.

Where life is rudderless,

Ruthless,

And mechanical,

With no space for mystery.

To you,

Such a future feels inevitable.

Already the elves have gathered up their magic and departed for an unreachable shore.

Already,

The people of the realm forget what enchantment left with them.

Yet there might be a way,

You say,

To safeguard your wisdom,

Your magic,

The gifts of the goddess.

You've been developing a ritual to channel the essences of all your garden herbs,

Along with all the wisdom that lives in your muscles and memory,

Into a vessel.

What kind of vessel,

Pru asks,

Her eyes alight with interest.

It would need to be something strong,

Sturdy,

You speculate aloud,

And of no small value.

Something that might be passed through generations without being discarded or destroyed.

An item into which you could channel your magic,

And then your apprentice after you,

And on down the years.

There is a long silence,

During which you and Pru gaze pensively at the fire.

You are both deep in consideration.

Then you look to Pru,

Whose hand moves to her collarbone.

Then slowly,

Deliberately,

She pulls a chain from beneath the neckline of her shift.

At the end of the chain is a large amulet,

A gem gleaming in the firelight.

Its color shifting by the mutable flames between shades of emerald,

And amber,

And oxblood.

Where did you come by such a thing as this,

You ask,

Watching Pru's eyes which reflect the glittering jewel?

It was payment,

She responds,

For the care we provided to Miss Agatha's husband.

I was there to bring the last batch of his elixir,

And you recall how ill he was,

Not six weeks ago.

We thought he was past all help,

But this time the color was back in his face.

And he was up and walking,

Even.

She told me we'd done her family such a kindness.

It was a miracle.

And then she brought me this.

Pru pulls the chain from around her neck and holds the jewel out toward you.

But you don't reach for it.

Not yet.

I told her I couldn't possibly take something of such value.

It is valuable,

Isn't it?

A gem that large,

And not a single flaw in it.

But she insisted.

I'm sorry I didn't tell you before.

And now you reach forward to take the gem in your hands.

It sits with a heaviness in your palm.

There's something uncanny about it,

For it resembles no stone you've seen in the world,

Or in the pages of books.

Its true color is impossible to discern through the myriad shifts.

And Pru was right.

Not a flaw to be found.

Holding it,

You understand why Pru waited till now to show it to you,

Keeping it hidden under her shift.

You feel an instinctive desire for the object,

A possessiveness.

Even a refusal to let it out of your sight for fear of harm coming to it.

Yes,

You think.

Such a gem would be a perfect vessel.

A ritual like this has never,

To your knowledge,

Been undertaken before.

You are writing it together,

With no guide but the Goddess within.

You know one thing for certain,

However,

That it must be done in the Garden.

The spark,

The inspiration is bright,

And you dare not let it wane.

You and your apprentice take to the flowers and herbs so fragrant by twilight.

The night-blooming flowers arch their heads toward the lulling moon,

Only a day past fullness.

Setting the gem between you on the damp grass,

You clasp hands with Pru,

Drawing a circle,

And calling in the Goddess in her many aspects.

Morana,

The Crone of Winter,

And Arda,

The Maiden of Spring's Renewal.

Her presence in the wind and rain,

In the trees and plants,

The rivers and streams,

The firefly and the flame.

You enrich the Garden soil with your intention,

Channel the wisdom,

The teachings,

The magic of the plants and your practice into the gem.

Capture the uncapturable,

Preserving the magic in this perfect vessel for posterity,

For eternity.

Set yourselves as stalwarts for the conservation of magic in the land.

Holding firm against its inevitable depletion.

As the intention roots and the power of your dyad amplifies it across the Garden,

You begin to see the magic manifest.

The flowers turn their heads away from the moon and toward the gem,

And toward you.

Wispy,

Effervescent threads draw outward from their blooms,

Twisting across the night.

Those flowers that close by night,

Too,

Cannot resist opening,

Breathing their essence visibly toward you.

From the leafy herbs and shrubs come strings and vapors of the same,

Each plant giving its magic,

Its healing nature,

As a gift to the vessel coaxed out by your ritual.

This image of all your beloved plants glowing by the moonlight,

Sending soft mists of magic on spiraling breeze is so breathtaking that it takes all your effort not to break concentration or your grasp on Prue's hands.

The ground seems to tremble beneath you,

Looking across at your apprentice,

Your partner.

You see a similar sparkling haze lifting from her chest,

And low from yours as well.

Just like the plants,

You are breathing your magic into the gem.

With your gift,

Your wisdom,

Comes the magic of all the wise ones before you.

All that instinct,

Born across the generations,

Filtered through teaching and practice,

Travels out onto your breath.

It's a fullness of magical expression no grimoire could hope to contain.

For a shining moment which feels the length of a season,

You feel the breath of the goddess in your lungs,

Her fire in your fingers.

You feel her arms about you like a mother,

And the feeling is one of unfiltered joy,

Profound bliss.

You are breathing all is one,

You and Prue and the plants,

And the river,

And the birds,

And the trees,

And the gem.

The gem pulsing before you,

Amber,

Emerald,

Onyx.

It is in this breath of a moment that you sense the enormity of the spell,

And you see,

For the first time,

A hint of its implications.

This is a ripple,

One that will move tides.

You feel Prue's grip loosen,

And for a split second,

You consider letting her break the connection,

Halt the ritual,

Turn back.

But a reflex takes over,

And you tighten your hold on her hands as the spell completes.

There is no going back now,

It's done.

All is still and silent in the garden,

Not a wind whistles through,

No nightingale hums.

The night washes Prue's face in pale silver,

Her hair shining quite blue.

You've done it.

In synchrony,

Your gazes track downward to the amulet,

The vessel which now contains the wisdom,

The essence you've so long yearned to preserve.

It is still as the night.

With waves of pride and a sense of accomplishment comes another emotion,

This one more inscrutable.

It isn't quite regret,

But there's a pang somewhere deep,

A sense that you have touched something profound,

A magic that was,

Perhaps,

Better left undisturbed.

In the name of preserving magic in these dying days of the year,

In a land abandoned by the elves,

Have you inadvertently only hastened the end of enchantment?

Have you sealed the last of the goddess's gifts in an object,

Unchanging,

She who is the embodiment of change,

Of cycles,

Of life,

Death,

And rebirth?

In the days to come,

Winter winds herself round the village,

Bringing an early frost over the garden.

You and Prue continue your rounds and home visits to those in need for as long as the weather allows.

You take turns wearing the amulet.

It is heavy with the weight of all that wisdom.

To wear it,

You find,

Is to carry the power of centuries,

To feel invulnerable,

Ageless,

And immortal.

But as much as it is a great gift,

It is also a heavy burden,

And such a burden is lighter when it can be shared.

You begin to feel your age whenever you remove it at the end of a long day.

You sink into your chair by the fire,

Putting your feet up to rest your aching muscles.

Prue tends to you on such nights,

Preparing supper and ensuring that you have clean linens.

You do the same for her on the days she wears the gem.

After some time,

Even she,

Still barely of age,

Seems frayed at the edges.

Older,

Exhausted.

All magic,

You suppose,

Comes at a price.

To seal up so much power in one vehicle takes its toll on the wearer.

But as long as you and Prue care for one another and protect the amulet,

One evening,

In deep winter,

As the gem sits unworn upon the supper table,

Prue poses a question.

Was it worth it,

She asks.

You know exactly what she refers to,

And you cannot give her a straight answer.

Since the ritual,

She hasn't needed you as a teacher.

Neither one of you has acknowledged that aloud,

But it's true.

When she wears the gem,

She carries you and your ancestors.

You no longer take her to the garden each night,

Teaching her the nature of the plants.

You haven't guided her hand in the stirring of a potion for months.

You've missed that connection,

You realize.

The exchange you once shared.

You as guide and steward of wisdom,

Of course.

But even she,

Untested,

Had things to teach you.

She once asked questions that reframed your perspective.

Now,

No questions persist between you.

Nothing lies unanswerable.

No mystery remains.

All is within reach for the bearer of the gem.

All that ancestral magic,

That unteachable wisdom,

Dangles now at the end of a chain.

It is no longer something to be taught,

Shared,

Nurtured,

And worked for.

It is only to be possessed.

On this night,

Another kind of ritual begins.

But there is no formal circle drawn,

No question of the phase of the moon.

This is a ritual of renewal.

The renewal of curiosity.

And commitment.

Your heart skips as Prue goes to grasp the amulet,

Tossing it forcefully into the fire.

You feel a pang of loss,

But steel yourself with the understanding that it must be done.

You must release what you have so rashly imprisoned.

The stone does not burn,

Does not melt.

It simply flickers,

Blackening,

Refusing to be unmade.

What is done cannot be undone,

You say,

Recalling the strength of intention that powered the original ritual.

Then how do we go on?

Prue asks.

We make a choice,

You say.

We choose to go on,

To move forward,

With or without it.

The logs crackle in the hearth,

Flames enveloping the blackened gem.

When the fire is out and the jewel is cool enough to touch,

When the snow breaks and the village sleeps,

You and Prue don your warmest clothes and go together to the river,

Singing an old familiar song in harmony.

Will you try,

Will you try to meet me there tonight,

Darling?

When the moon is high,

Meet me down by the riverside.

Even in the depths of winter,

The river still flows,

The strength of current breaking through crystals of ice that may form on its surface.

The river is in constant motion,

Change and flow.

It carves patterns in the banks,

Rises and falls,

Bringing fresh water from village to village.

All the way to the sea.

The river,

As you first told Prue many months ago,

Is like the goddess.

A shapeshifter,

A life-giver,

And a vessel of ever-changing memory.

If you cannot destroy the gem you've decided,

Then at least you can let it go.

Together,

You toss the amulet into the current,

Losing sight of it immediately in the rush of water in the dark of night.

With love in your heart for every curve of the land,

Every barren tree,

And every hibernating creature,

You recommit to your practice,

To the plants,

To the constantly evolving state of apprenticeship.

The plants are teachers,

After all,

And even you,

So wise with the ages,

Are a student of the goddess,

Still.

You will keep magic alive,

Not with a vessel,

An amulet,

But with everyday learning,

Doing.

You will continue to change each other and the world around you for the better.

Every action infused with intention,

Every intention powered by kindness.

You will make miracles,

Rededicated in the light of the winter moon,

You clasp hands with pru and return safely home.

The amulet,

Heavy with ancestral wisdom,

Sinks to the river bottom,

Out of sight.

It remains unmoved by the powerful current,

Embedding itself in the sand.

The stone is unchangeable,

Yet it changes the water that runs over its smooth surface.

The trees that line the banks of the river draw its water for their roots all the way to the sea.

The river nourishes oaks,

Alders,

And hazel groves,

Opening doorways in the twilight.

You never speak of the amulet again,

Never write of it in your journals or notes.

Within a generation,

It passes from memory.

Pru gives birth to a daughter,

Whom she initiates as apprentice.

They keep the garden.

The river flows on,

Beneath mountain peaks and dragon's fire,

Through ages and eras,

Past raucous taverns and through king cities.

There are many who work to keep magic alive.

But in time,

Even lesser magic becomes exceedingly rare.

Even the dragons disappear at last.

But there are still teachers and healers.

There is still community and kindness for those who care to find it.

Kindness can never be stamped out,

Despite those who would try.

Somewhere down the centuries of a disenchanted world,

Across mountain and forest,

A woman with sparkling eyes and raven-dark hair,

Dark as Pru's in the garden,

Gazes into the glass-like surface of a fountain pool,

Her reflection distorted in the ripples.

She is named for an aspect of a goddess long forgotten in the realm.

Morana touches the amulet around her neck,

And for the first time in the wake of her visions in the water,

She senses all the generations of wisdom locked within the journey this stone has taken to find her.

All that wisdom contained,

As magic was never meant to be,

In this fixed and frozen gem.

To you they seem the very quintessence of liberation,

With power and might to spare,

And wings that might bear them to distant lands,

Far from sorrow and obligation.

Eyes to the evening sky each night since childhood,

You've strained to see those wings in flight,

A stream of flame across the clouds.

The village boys and girls always say the dragons died out long ago.

It's foolish to keep believing in them,

But you can't help it.

Something keeps them on the wind of your dreams,

Even as you come of age.

Secretly,

You've always held the belief in some unspoken,

Dimly lit corner of your mind,

That dragons are somehow part of you.

It's hard to explain.

Like a symbolic guide or an emblem of your deepest inner nature,

You'd never say so aloud.

How silly and presumptuous to liken yourself to a beast of such awesome power.

But a year ago,

Everything changed.

As you were cleaning the stables,

Like you do each day,

Your parents brought you into the cottage to tell you something important.

Something they wish they could have told you a long time ago.

You can still recall the uneasy expressions on their faces as they tried to find the words.

Even now,

You hardly believe what they told you.

For starters,

They were not your real parents.

Though they'd raised you from infancy,

Fed and clothed you,

And ensured you received an education,

You were,

In fact,

The child of a prominent family.

A very prominent family,

In fact.

You were the sole offspring and heir to the old royal line of this kingdom.

A child of the king.

The former king,

Beloved by all the subjects of the kingdom until his death many years ago.

It was too outrageous to believe at first.

You've only ever been a farmer's child,

Tending to stables,

Milking the cows,

Feeding the chickens.

The thought that you were,

In fact,

The exiled scion of a line of great kings and queens was preposterous.

But,

Somewhere in that same secret place where live your dreams of dragons,

You've always felt you had some greater destiny.

Some fate beyond the farm,

The stables,

The chicken coop.

You always believed you were meant to do bigger things.

To spread your wings,

So to speak.

Your parents told you this on your last birthday,

Precisely one year before you would officially come of age.

They told you then to prepare you,

Because the moment you came of age,

You would be eligible to take the throne of the kingdom.

But to do so,

You would need to summon great strength and courage.

For a usurper now rules the kingdom as regent,

And he would not easily be deposed.

You would need to train your body and mind for such a confrontation,

If,

Indeed,

You should choose to undertake it.

Your parents,

Your adoptive parents who've loved and cared for you all these years,

With tears in their eyes,

Insisted that it was your choice.

They were sorry for keeping the truth from you for so long,

They only wished to protect you.

Whatever you choose to do with this new knowledge,

They will support you and love you still as their own.

There is just one problem.

On the same day your parents revealed your true identity,

They also shared the greatest obstacle to your ascension.

You see,

When you were born,

The king had made for you a ring.

It was no mere piece of pretty jewelry,

But a symbol of your house,

Cast in gold and pressed with the royal seal.

This was tradition for all those born to inherit the throne of the kingdom.

The ring was physical proof of your right to rule.

So where is the ring now,

You inquired.

With it,

You could march into the capital city,

Stand before the king regent,

And demand he step down in favor of the rightful heir.

But that's just the thing,

Your parents say.

In the commotion to remove you from the castle on the night of the coup,

Your ring was lost.

The story goes that it was stolen by the fearsome dragon who lives in a cave beneath the western mountains,

Guarding a hoard of treasure.

At this,

Your heart leapt.

Never had you heard your parents or anyone in the village speak of dragons with such currency.

It was a foregone conclusion to most that the dragons had all disappeared from the known world.

But you could hear the ring of truth in this story.

You believed it with all your might,

And it incensed your heart.

The injustice of it.

From that moment,

You vowed to spend the next year training to confront the dragon.

So that when you came of age,

You could recover the lost signet and claim your birthright.

Now,

As your birthday nears once more,

You feel an entirely different person than you were before you learned the truth.

You are a different person.

You went from believing that as you came of age,

You'd work toward inheriting your parents' farm.

And that thought was satisfying enough.

Now,

You may stand on the precipice of inheriting the keys to the entire kingdom,

And you wonder whether you really have the ambition for it.

You've worked hard to prepare both physically and mentally for the challenges ahead.

Knowing that if the legendary dragons are any guide,

They're more than formidable foes for the mind as well as the body.

They're always ready for a battle of wits.

You've sharpened yours like an axe upon a whetstone,

Just as you've trained in agility and swordsmanship.

Now,

On the eve of your birthday,

You go to your parents and ask their blessing to leave the farm,

To pursue the dragon,

Recover your lost ring,

And begin your quest to reclaim the throne.

With tears in their eyes,

They grant that blessing.

Though not before cooking you a scrumptious meal and showering you with love.

As dawn breaks over the village in the valley,

You rise with the sun and don your modest light armor.

You carry a sword of rustic make by the local blacksmith who agreed to work for a reduced fee in a scabbard at your hip.

Just knowing it's there makes you feel taller,

Stronger.

But your belly fills with butterflies at the thought of leaving home and taking on such a massive obstacle alone.

Just as the sky grows rosy and vermilion in the burgeoning sunrise,

And the morning mist kisses your cheeks like dew upon the grass,

You take the first solitary steps toward your fate.

The road to the western mountains where the dragon guards his gold is long.

Three days ride on horseback,

But you've never been much of a rider,

And the workhorses from the farm are not meant for traveling long distances and over mountains.

So you set off on foot,

Carrying only the lightest of rations and a pack of simple supplies.

The sword is the heaviest thing you bear,

And at times you can feel it weighing you down when you'd otherwise move swiftly.

But the slow pace,

If nothing else,

Allows you time for contemplation,

Meditation,

And concentration.

There's unease,

Of course.

Anyone walking away from home with the intent of facing down a dragon would feel uneasy.

But there's also something else,

Harder to explain.

A feeling of calm inevitability and a shining confidence that you are being drawn along a golden string,

A quivering cord of destiny.

Every step brings you closer to your fate,

And there's something exciting about it.

The road winds through some tiny villages where you're grateful to stop for the night,

Take in some hot food,

And sleep in a warm bed in a tavern.

Remembering your parents' advice about keeping your identity close to your chest,

You're careful to hide the sword in your pack whenever you pass through populated areas,

And you avoid too many questions about the nature of your travel.

But as you draw closer to the mountains,

You listen thoughtfully to the tavern gossip,

Hoping to hear some whisper about the beast's whereabouts or weaknesses,

Some morsel of discourse about the king regent.

And you pick up few conversations of consequence.

Other nights you camp under the stars,

Lulled to sleep by the sound of crickets chirping and night owls through the trees.

Dragons drift listlessly through your dreams,

Sometimes made of stars,

And sometimes fire or water.

One night you dream you can see through the eyes of a dragon,

And as you soar over lakes and snow-capped mountains,

You relish the unbridled freedom before you.

Your shadow skims the countryside below,

So large as to block out the sun and bring night over cities.

It's five days' travel,

After all,

To the foothills of the western mountains.

Mist shrouds the peaks and an uncanny silence lends a haunting quality to the atmosphere.

Your footsteps on the gravel are the only disturbance in the quiet.

The highest summit in the range is that of Mount Arden,

Which now all but disappears in the descending fog.

You're certain that it's here,

Beneath this skyward mass,

That your dragon keeps its quarry.

Here you must prove your mettle.

To reach the base of Mount Arden,

You must weave carefully through narrow crevasses and rocky pathways.

Finding your footing on the ever-changing incline is a challenge in itself,

But each time your heart begins to doubt whether you've chosen the correct route,

Your eyes fall upon a cairn,

A pile of stones placed precisely and unmistakably by human hands.

Whether they're trail markers left behind by other would-be dragon slayers,

Or tributes to the beast beneath the mountain,

You cannot say,

But they comfort you nonetheless.

At the very least,

They are evidence of another soul who passed this way and chose to memorialize that passage.

It makes you feel less alone,

As though that unknown wanderer walks beside you.

All the while your thoughts turn over and over the possibilities that await you.

You reflect on the person you were just over a year ago,

The modest ambitions you had,

The responsibilities that seemed so sacred to you once,

And now feel small.

Though your dreams have grown dragon's wings,

Reaching for the grand,

Sweeping adventure before you,

You can't help but ache,

Just a little,

For mornings on the farm.

A day of hard work,

Followed by good,

Home-cooked food,

And a quiet evening.

The company of friends,

All in the blush of youth and irreverence.

It's such a strange tension,

Such an unexpected twinge of homesickness,

For never before have you held your simple life in any high regard.

Ah,

But the promise of palaces.

Once again,

Your heart soars.

You've never dared to dream of such a life.

What delights must wait behind closed doors,

Held only for the elite court?

Weren't you born into greatness,

Only to be spirited away to escape a rebellion?

Isn't it the life you deserve?

Is it the life you want?

You stumble over the rocks and into the shadow of the afternoon.

The day is getting away from you.

This final leg of the journey is longer and more meandering than you expected.

It's as though the lackadaisical pattern of your musings is reflected in the twists and turns of the path.

But soon your thoughts are stopped,

As before you yawns the mouth of a great and gloomy cave.

It's just as you imagined.

Just as it should look in a storybook.

A shiver runs over you.

But it's not quite fear you're feeling,

So much as a frisson of anticipation.

Therein lies your fate,

Should you choose to meet it.

You always have a choice.

But for a moment you consider turning back,

Following the cairns out of the foothills,

Resting for the night in one of those friendly taverns,

And returning to your village to live your life as a farmer.

Your parents would be happy to see you safe,

And you'd be no worse off.

Or perhaps you'd keep walking down the road,

Find a place to live in the capital,

Build yourself a whole new life,

Perhaps even reveal yourself when the time feels right,

Ring or no ring.

Or forget everything.

You've got enough survival skills to live in the woods.

Maybe you'll become a hermit,

Or a mad prophet,

Doling out advice and prophecies to travelers who stumble through your forests.

But no,

You think,

If you refuse to answer this call now,

Then all your life,

You'd wonder what would have happened if you earned your crown,

Faced your dragon.

And then there's the shiver again.

At the heart of all this,

You realize,

Is a burning desire so long kept under wraps to see a dragon.

It's all you've ever wanted.

Not thrones or power or wealth.

Magic.

Proof that there is still some magic in this world.

With wings.

And it's with that thought that you step across the threshold of the cave,

Feeling the instant drop in temperature and the air's moisture rise.

It's with this little fire in the pit of your belly that you retrieve a torch and tinderbox from your pack,

Lighting your way down the dark passage of the cave,

Cutting through your indecision with fire.

You move carefully through the darkness,

Your torch rising and falling with your step,

Throwing its amber light across the walls and floors of the cave.

It's as though you reflect the dexterity-challenging path through the foothills to the base of the mountains was trying to prepare you for the tests you'd face here,

Absent the sun's light.

You keep your breathing steady,

Your feet agile,

Ready for sudden unevenness in the ground or unseen obstacles.

The torchlight flickers with an intimate radius,

Beyond it,

The unknown.

Your mind searches for patterns,

Resets when the unseen becomes visible.

The slow,

Deliberate nature of the journey lulls your mind into a contented calm.

There's an almost imperceptible decline in the floor.

You descend,

Step by step,

Lower and lower,

Little by little.

Your footsteps on the damp stones echo across the cavernous walls,

Deeper and deeper down.

You might have walked a mile or more,

Or perhaps descended only a few fathoms.

As the resonant silence envelops you,

It's hard to tell time or distance.

But at last,

There's another change in the atmosphere.

The moisture in the air thins,

Stretches out,

There's an earthy scent listing on the air that wasn't there before.

Even without seeing it yet,

You can sense that the close walls of the cave are becoming more spacious,

Opening up into a vast cavern.

Now the reservoir of your torchlight falls on something other than slate-gray stone.

Limestones,

Stalagmites materialize before you like great accumulations of melted wax.

Stalactites cling to the ceilings.

Water drips in hollow,

Musical tones,

Like tiny mallets striking tiny bells.

And there's another texture,

Too,

In the cavern.

The torch casts its amber light on crimson scales,

Blackened and armorial.

Slow,

Unconscious breath and heaving motion.

And your eyes begin to adjust to the darkness in the immense cavern,

Revealing more and more of the beast,

As though your light is growing in size and throw.

Oh,

And a magnificent beast it is,

All covered with those black and crimson scales like terracotta,

With leathery wings folded by its side.

Its eyes are closed,

And its nostrils flare as it breathes heavily and sound asleep.

Twisted ivory horns extend from its head as if windswept.

Your heart swells,

And your breath catches.

The sheer size of the thing is enough to make you lightheaded,

But you can't help but find it beautiful.

Rapturously so,

Curled and coiled,

Vast as the chamber is,

The creature hardly fits within such confines.

Why,

Oh why would this majestic animal choose such tight quarters for a lair when it could have the world?

The skies,

The sea,

All of it.

This place is fit for hoarding treasure,

But not for living.

But,

Scanning the floor beneath the dragon's mammoth figure,

Searching with your light for the faintest glimmer of gold,

You fail to find any trace of treasure.

Curious.

And now,

Tracing your way along its length with a thousand questions rising to your mind,

You see something you hadn't noticed before.

There,

Around the beast's neck,

And yes,

On its forelegs and hindlegs too,

You see,

Are thick iron rings connected to thick iron chains.

A feeling like pity rushes over you,

Sorrow like water,

To see such power and freedom chained up,

Stifled.

Who would,

Or even could,

Subdue a dragon so?

The weight of the sword at your hip brings you back to yourself.

Perhaps now is the best chance you've got to defeat the dragon.

Strike while it sleeps,

Then find your signet which must be here somewhere,

Among the dragon's things,

Perhaps within its very grasp.

Then,

Signet or no,

You could march into the capital with proof of a slain dragon,

And be lauded as a hero by the subjects of the kingdom.

Summoning as much courage as you can muster,

You unsheathe the sword and step into an advantageous position.

You take a deep breath and prepare to strike.

But your mind cannot let go of the question,

Who would chain up a dragon within a mountain and why?

Despite your body's readiness to go ahead with the task,

Your thoughts will not allow you to bring down the sword.

After a few moments,

And a battle between head and heart,

You relax your shoulders and allow the sword to fall at your side.

At this very moment,

Perhaps caused by the slashing of the sword through empty air,

A ripple of wind,

Or the subtlest of sounds,

An eyelid lifts.

The breathing quickens and soon the chamber is all alive with coiling and uncoiling movement.

Your torch seems to brighten to behold it all as the dragon,

Awake and inquisitive,

Unfurls to its full height,

Gaze intent and fixed on you,

Small and trembling in its wake.

You've gone and woken the dragon,

And now your fate must be faced.

Your first instinct,

Though it might seem foolish,

Is to kneel.

You drop to a knee and avert your gaze from the creature.

Then you speak,

As you imagine princes or princesses from your storybook's might,

Infusing your voice with a noble purpose.

You state your name,

Your house,

And your intention.

For you are heir to the throne of the kingdom,

Here to recover your birthright and that which was stolen from you.

When there is no response,

Neither growl nor fire,

You dare to lift your head.

The dragon,

Gathered up still like a great mountain itself,

Is looking down at you with an expression of unmistakable curiosity.

You hadn't known dragons were capable of such expressiveness,

But there it is.

There's something so human about it.

You try to hold your ground and not flinch as the beast retracts its great neck,

Lowering back down onto its forelegs and bringing its face as close to your level as possible.

Its head might be the size of this stable house on the farm back home.

You feel so minute,

So unthreatening,

Your sword a mere strand of straw against the dragon's might.

But nothing can prepare you for what comes next.

The dragon opens its mouth to speak.

And the voice,

Though it sounds as if it hasn't been used in a century,

Is clear and distinctly feminine.

What is it you believe I have stolen,

She asks.

At first,

You're too stunned to respond.

You can feel her breath warm on your face and limbs.

Observing your shock,

She withdraws,

Curling herself up again,

Though still watching you expectantly.

The chains clink and clatter in her wake.

I can't very well hand it over if you don't tell me what it is you're looking for.

You find your voice again,

Though now it sounds weak,

Distant.

A ring,

You say,

Clearing your throat.

A signet,

The symbol of my house and my rightful claim to the throne.

Can't say I've seen it,

She responds with an air of nonchalance.

So I suppose you'll be on your way.

But,

You stammer,

It must be here.

It was stolen when the old king was put down.

You must have it.

I haven't much,

She retorts,

Angling her head in a gesture toward the emptiness of the cavern.

The chains drag along the floor as she shifts.

There's so little slack.

She can't move very far at all,

You see.

You should press her about the ring,

But you can't get your mind off it.

Who did this to you,

You ask,

Pointing to the chains.

She releases something like a sigh and slouches.

I don't know,

She says.

All I know is that someone sends a goat or a sheep in here every so often so I don't starve.

I never see anyone.

For all I know,

It might be you who did this to me.

Have you never left this cave,

You ask.

The sadness in her eyes tells you everything you need to know.

You feel immense tenderness and pity toward the creature.

Thoughtfully,

Deliberately,

You lay your sword down upon the floor of the cavern.

You ask the dragon if she has a name.

She does.

But it's one she's chosen for herself,

So she's not even sure if it is a name or only a sound she remembered from long ago,

Before she was imprisoned here.

Night is her name.

You like it.

She begins to warm to you and you to her.

You learn of night's long imprisonment and the few happy memories she has of freedom.

When she hatched,

She was kept by kindly humans,

And from them she learned the art of speech,

Though she's had no occasion to practice it with anyone listening.

She spent all this time telling herself stories.

They're her only escape from the darkness.

I was supposed to have a different life,

She says.

You feel a pang of sympathy.

You too were robbed of the life you were meant to have,

Though there's love and fondness in the one you ended up with,

That you can't forget.

You tell Night your story,

Your humble upbringing,

And the shocking revelation of your true parentage.

She listens,

Patiently,

Seeming to hang on your every word,

Delighted for any company outside the stalactites.

How you could ever have feared her,

You don't know.

Why anyone would want to imprison her is an even bigger mystery.

If you could see yourself now,

You think.

The child who dreamt of dragons now conversing with one like an old friend.

There's a warmth and a kinship kindled between you and Night already.

A bond that feels to you stronger than any you formed with your peers in the village.

It's as if the two of you were bound on this path toward each other,

As if it was she,

And not some figment of fairytale imagination who visited you in all those dreams.

As if you saw through her eyes,

In your sleepy soaring across the sky,

You say.

This ring,

She asks,

What did it look like?

All I know is it bore the seal of my family,

You say,

But I never even knew them.

I'm sure they were good people,

Says Night.

Her voice is disarmingly gentle.

How could anyone see dragons as monstrous,

You wonder?

In your eyes,

They're miraculous.

The conversation turns to the future.

The possibility of your reign.

Night jokes that she could simply give you one of her teeth and let you carry it into court.

A stunt like that would make all the barons swear fealty to you in an instant.

You'd be known as the Dragonslayer in all the history books.

You confess it's not a title you've ever craved.

Do you really wish to rule,

She asks,

Cutting to the core of your ever-questioning heart.

You've struggled so far to come up with an answer to this.

I don't know,

You respond.

I've only ever been responsible for myself.

A few farm animals.

I think I know right from wrong,

But I've never had to decide it for an entire kingdom.

Night receives this and looks pensive.

Really,

So wonderfully expressive,

Dragons are.

Can't you break out of those,

You ask,

Gesturing to her chains,

Which still preoccupy your mind.

Burn them to ash,

Or simply break them with your brute strength.

Alas,

Night responds,

No breath of fire have I after all this time in the cold and damp.

Only thick skin,

Though it grows brittle.

Sharp claws,

Though they are overgrown.

And wings,

Though they've been folded and weakened for many a year.

I wish I could break your chains with my sword,

You say.

I'd set you free in an instant,

Only so you could see the world.

It's a pity to chain up someone with wings.

It's a pity to chain up anyone.

In night's eyes,

You see something almost inscrutable.

A kind of disbelief.

Mixed with warm-hearted gratitude.

You doubt she's ever heard a word of sympathy for her plight.

I think you'd make a good ruler,

She says.

You feel yourself blush.

Then night,

The mighty,

If weakened dragon,

Unfurls herself,

Chains scraping against the floor of the cave.

I kept something from you,

She said,

But only because I've kept it secret for so long and didn't know if I could trust you.

In unfurling,

She brings round her strong,

Spiked tail to the front of the cavern,

Where it falls right into the spill of your torchlight.

There,

Sparkling at the end of it,

Hanging loosely on one of the ivory spikes,

Is a speck of gold.

Go on,

She says,

Take it.

You reach out,

Hardly believing it,

And carefully remove the gold ring from the spike.

It's heavier than it looks.

Solid gold and finely cast,

It glimmers in the firelight.

Set on its bezel is a raised image delicately engraved.

You have to squint to make out the details.

A coat of arms,

A shield,

In which stands a dragon,

Wings spread,

A crown upon its head.

Is it really,

You ask?

Night explains that she hatched on the same day the old king's heir was born.

She's younger than she looks.

The ruling family,

Whose symbol was the regal dragon,

Intended to raise her as a companion to the heir.

Their fates were intertwined,

And their lives should grow side by side.

But it wasn't meant to be,

It seems,

For the old king was displaced by a rebellion.

Night was captured by the invaders and chained up within a mountain,

And the heir was lost,

Until now she'd thought forever.

But it turns out,

The king's child was only spirited away until the day they might return and reclaim the throne.

Luckily,

Night held on to the signet,

Wishing one day that her valiant friend would come looking for it.

All those years you spent believing dragons were only fairy tales,

Here a dragon believed the same thing about you.

Your heart aches for the lost time,

But it soars with gratitude at having reunited with a friend you didn't know you were missing.

Your eyes sparkle with tears.

You thank the dragon for telling you the truth,

And for keeping the signet all this time.

You ask her what she remembers of your birth parents.

All she says is they were kind.

She was young then,

Too.

She never knew much of court or kingcraft.

But why,

Then,

You wonder,

Did the rebellious forces imprison her so?

Why do they still send food into the cave,

And why not raise her up to serve the king regent?

Night knows the answer to the last question.

By the time of the coup,

She was already fiercely bonded to you.

Nothing can break the bonds of fate,

She insists.

Not between hatchlings.

You smile,

Thinking of night now as your sister.

Scales and wings and all.

But,

She supposes,

The king regent must believe that if you were still alive somewhere,

Someday you'd come looking for your lost ring.

And if he kept me alive,

She muses aloud,

He must have hoped we'd finish each other off,

In some final confrontation.

He always underestimated us both.

He didn't know you'd show kindness to a lonely dragon.

You try the ring on,

Finger by finger.

It doesn't fit quite perfectly anywhere.

But that doesn't matter.

What now,

You wonder?

Amusingly,

You imagine moving into the cave with night.

Hunting food for her.

Sharing your lives as the companions you were meant to be.

You'll go to court,

She says,

And you'll be great.

Her golden eyes are smiling.

I've done my part.

We've been separated before,

You say.

I don't think I can do it without you.

Then a thought occurs to you.

An outlandish,

Far-fetched thought which blooms madly and swiftly into a fantasy.

Night,

You say.

You say you haven't got any strength or fire left,

But have you actually tried?

She cocks her head at an angle and for a moment you're reminded of one of the dogs on the farm.

It's rather endearing.

But she understands.

You're here now.

Together,

Your resolve is so much stronger.

There is so much more to fight for.

Night gestures with her head for you to climb aboard her back.

At first,

You step back in surprise,

But she insists.

Carefully,

Using her tough scales to maintain your footing,

You climb the magnificent dragon and rest at the nape of her neck.

You leave your torch behind on the floor of the cave,

Where it flickers and crackles still.

I believe in you,

You whisper,

So quietly you're not sure Night can hear you.

You're not sure if you even want her to hear you,

But it must be said.

You feel her muscles tense as she strains to break the shackles about her legs and neck.

You hear the iron groan against her power,

Resisting but yielding ever so slightly.

Night catches her breath and tries again,

Straining harder.

It's no use,

She says.

They're too tough.

I can't break them.

Just breathe,

You want to say.

But you find you don't need to say it.

For at the moment you think it,

You feel a soft,

Harmonic pull,

Like the tensing of the atmosphere into a taut string.

A golden thread connecting your mind and the dragon's.

You feel her breath synchronize with yours,

And it's as though you can see through her eyes,

Feel the strength and fatigue in her muscles.

You are one.

Deep in your belly,

Her belly,

You can feel a kindling heat.

It tumbles and roars like a rush of water through the mouth of a cave,

Building and intensifying until it can no longer be caged.

You feel an eruption,

A release,

An exhale of fire,

Billowing and beautiful.

You feel cleansed from the inside out,

And you feel powerful.

The stream of flame melts the links in the chains to molten iron.

Night tugs once more at her shackles,

And they disappear into liquid and ash.

Then she's off and running,

Lumbering unevenly on feet that haven't traveled in a lifetime.

You cling to her scales and hold on for dear life as she moves,

Thirsty for sunlight and fresh air to breathe.

You find yourself laughing,

Even as you clutch at the dragon's hide.

When you break out of the cave,

The clean air floods your lungs with such a sweetness.

For you,

Only hours underground,

As you gasping for the freshness of it.

For night,

Decades underground.

You squint against the sun's brightness.

She must be nearly blinded by it.

But she's laughing,

Too.

It's all too wonderful.

She topples the cairns in her giddy clumsiness,

Scraping her claws against rock and cliff.

She climbs swiftly,

You aboard her back,

To the peak of Mount Arden,

Where the mist is lifted and the skies are effortlessly clear.

You can see for miles around.

Far off,

On the horizon,

The stone walls surrounding the capital city and the palace.

Shall we go home,

My friend?

Night inquires.

But you're not ready for that just yet.

There's a whole world your dragon has never seen.

There's a whole sky she has yet to explore.

Taking flight for the first time since her imprisonment,

Night cries out with delight to feel the full expanse of her wings.

It's such sweet release.

You can feel it,

Too,

As if she's an extension of you.

As if her wings are your wings,

Her muscles your muscles,

And as they unfurl,

You grow more spacious,

More free.

There's a kingdom beyond the western mountains waiting for you,

But it can wait a little while longer.

There are oceans to skim,

New foods to taste,

Lives to be lived.

You have a choice.

You always have a choice.

To rule a kingdom,

To learn the ways of justice and strive to make the world a better place,

Or to live untethered,

Unfettered,

Unkempt and wild.

To taste the sweet freedoms of the world,

Unbothered by the machinations of court.

There's time to decide.

Night soars with sunset at our heels.

The wind dances through your hair.

You catch a wave.

If they do write history books about you,

They won't call you the dragon-slayer.

They'll call you the dragon-rider.

What a comfort and a wonder it is to enter warm quarters out of pouring rain,

To find pleasant and welcoming company on the unknown road.

Indeed,

It is one of the chief miracles of this life were it put to you,

Finding anchorage at the very moment it's most needed.

Shuffling off your rain-soaked boots and shaking free of your damp cloak,

You care nothing for the stale,

Musty air of the rooms.

They're dry enough,

And warm plenty,

And a safe retreat from the storm.

In truth,

You'd hope to travel well into the night and make it at least a few leagues further down the road,

But the storm moved in quite suddenly and without warning.

As if by providence,

Just as the rain began to fall,

You perceived a light,

Fuzzy and orange,

In the dale.

The innkeeper is kind,

A sort of friendly fellow who works in the trade for love of people and deep curiosity about difference.

You were met on entry with a thousand questions,

From whence you came,

To whither you travel,

And what news you have from the south.

Hot supper,

The innkeeper said,

Would be ready soon,

And you'd be most welcome to a mug of ale or cider by the fire.

All of that sounds infinitely tempting to you now.

Swapping out your wet socks and muddy boots for another pair from your traveling bag,

Oh,

It's such a comfort to put on dry socks,

And hanging your cloak on a hook to dry,

You turn back for the door and make your way to the tavern on the ground floor.

Where before there were only a few patrons huddled over pints at solitary tables,

Now several more have taken up residence on benches and around the blazing hearth.

The innkeeper,

A rag slung over his shoulder,

Brings frosty steins to a table of weary-looking folks in gray-green cloaks.

You overhear his jovial greetings to the three of them.

Not too often we see half-elves this way,

He says,

Beaming.

All are welcome here,

Of course,

And my Mary's lamb and leek pies are just out of the oven.

How many for you?

Most of the patrons are human,

Like you,

Though there's a somewhat surly-looking dwarf at a table in the corner.

The whole place is lowly lit,

With candles dripping wax that pools in brass and copper holders on every table.

Wooden crossbeams on the low ceiling and slabstone archways reflect the candlelight and that from the fireplace,

Which offers a pleasing crackle.

You find yourself an open table,

Close to the half-elf party and a perfect distance from the fire,

Where its warmth is enough to comfort you,

But not so intense as to flush your cheeks and sting your eyes.

The innkeeper is glad to see you freshened up and ready for company.

His rosy face,

Plump and pleasant,

Splits into a welcoming smile.

You'll have one of those pies sent to you straightway,

Unless you prefer stew and fresh bread,

Of course.

He can rustle up anything you like.

You hadn't realized how hungry you were until you sat down.

Now you're even more grateful for this port in the storm.

Though the inn and tavern are relatively small,

The rain seems miles away within this cocoon of warmth and welcome.

Just as the innkeeper plants a mug before you,

The door to the inn swings wide and a flash of lightning without illuminates a figure in the doorway.

Happy words of welcome greet her,

A dark-haired lady who looks to be of high birth by her dress and manner.

She sits down straightaway at a table very near the fire,

Which illuminates her features plainly.

About her neck is a deep green amulet wrought with a silver chain.

As the room fills,

Guests entering from the rain or coming down from their rooms,

There's a fair bit of shifting glances as you take each other in.

Not surprisingly,

The innkeeper remarks that it's the fullest his place has been on a given night in many years,

And with all sorts of people,

And what a delight.

Just last evening,

He was here alone in the barroom while Mary made pies in the kitchen for no one to eat.

Just me,

My Mary and the cat it was,

He says,

To no one in particular.

The food he brings you is hearty and delicious,

Seeming to feed your very soul.

You feel stronger,

More resilient and energized as opposed to the road-worn self you first dragged through the door.

And those around you clearly perk up after a few bites,

Too,

As if there's some magic seasoning sprinkled in the pie crust and stew that awakens the heart and stirs courage.

Soon,

The quiet conversations,

Isolated between tables and traveling companions,

Begin to overlap.

Heads turn,

Bodies lean back in chairs as guests begin to compare weather conditions,

The obstacles they've met on the road,

And the destinations in store for each party.

Coincidentally,

Though perhaps this should not surprise you at all,

You are in the company of a dozen or more others on their way to the same place as you.

A festival honoring the crown prince's coming of age.

The whispers throughout the kingdom,

Though they may be greatly distorted and exaggerated,

Suggest that the king regent will install his nephew upon the throne during the festivities.

There are rumors that a lost heir to the old king's line has surfaced,

And the king regent must act swiftly to secure his family's place,

Crowning the prince before all the public,

So there's no question to the validity of his rule.

By your measure,

It's never much mattered who sat on the high throne of the kingdom.

You answer mostly to the local lords who provide protection and benefits in exchange for taxes and work.

What draws you to the festival is a chance to sell your wares to a wealthier clientele,

And those who might find your crafts novel and exotic.

You hail from the far southern tip of the kingdom,

Where the air is crisp and salty,

And a mulberry tree grows that produces the richest and most elegant dyes.

You're well respected in your region as a dyer of textiles and producer of fine pigments.

With luck,

You'll be able to sell bolts of fabric and wool to noble lords and ladies at court who've never worn such a lush palette of golds and greens.

It seems every guest at the inn has a different reason for traveling to the king's festival.

You learn that the trio of half-elves intend to seek an audience with the regent.

They've long paid tribute to one of his dukes and wish to entreat him for sole sovereignty of their lands.

The dwarf,

Whose surly expression melts to a serene one after a few mugs of ale,

Brings gifts for the crown prince mined from the old mountains.

Only the lady by the fire,

About whose neck hangs the strange amulet,

Remains reticent with her motives.

Though the hour grows late,

And bellies are full,

The atmosphere in the tavern is so warm and companionable that no one seems eager to retire to bed.

A twosome,

Sitting in the corner near the kitchen,

Reveal themselves to be traveling bards,

And the rest of the guests persuade them to play a merry song for the gathering.

It doesn't take much convincing for them to produce a harp and a flute,

And to begin playing a charming melody that floats in the background of continued conversation.

The innkeeper is mightily pleased.

How nice it would be,

He remarks,

To have such passing sweet music here all the year round.

He'll learn that his name is Hal,

And he and his wife,

Mary,

Have owned and operated the inn for nearly twenty years now.

Build it with me own hands,

He insists,

Displaying his rough,

Calloused hands as proof that the crossing of the three great roads knew we'd always have guests from one way or another.

Though a night like this we don't see often.

Get all types,

Mind you,

Just not always all at once.

Hal's laughter is booming and infectious,

And he has a way of coaxing stories out of even the guests.

He longs to hear stories of the further duchies and petty kingdoms,

Or stories of the road.

Hasn't anyone a tale of adventure or excitement to share?

We have a tale to tell,

Ventures one of the three half-elves,

The one named Erin Brightbuckle.

Her fellows give uneasy glances,

But with a tilt of her head,

She seems to reassure them that the company is trustworthy.

A tale of strange occurrence on the road from the north.

The fires blaze,

And the pummeling rain form a curtain of fuzzy,

Crackling sound as the music ceases,

And Brightbuckle begins her tale.

It was three days ago we set off from our village,

Deep in the green forest.

Our guide was the river Durindal,

Which flows southward to the edge of the wood,

Then breaks easterly.

From time immemorial,

A bridge has stood over the river just before its bend,

Leading to the king's road.

But when we came to the forest's edge,

We found the bridge had fallen into the river.

Only a few stones remained,

With crumbling mortar.

We know not how long it was in such disrepair,

For our kind rarely leave the forest.

And so,

The story continues,

This time the half-elf called Whistle picking up the thread and weaving the narrative.

We followed the river east,

Hoping to come to another crossing.

But by nightfall,

Still we had found nothing.

Not a village,

Or a footbridge,

Or anything.

We were ready to settle and make camp,

To continue searching in the morning,

When we saw a fire a little ways off.

We drew our bows and approached the fire,

A little thing only,

And found,

Sitting beside it,

A hermit in humble robes,

With long silver hair and a beard that nearly reached the earth.

Now the third half-elf,

The one called Thorn,

Picks up the tale.

When he saw us,

He begged that we put away our weapons and join him at his fire.

Stay a while,

He beseeched us,

And share a crust of bread,

For the night was cold.

We asked him if he knew of a crossing nearby,

Or of a harbor where we might find a boat.

But he would not answer,

Only insisting that we sit with him a while,

And bring our warmth to the fire.

At last,

We put away our bows and acquiesced,

For the old man seemed weary and hungry for company.

But the moment we sat around the small,

Feeble fire,

The flames leapt high into the air and turned every color of the rainbow in succession.

The old man,

Seeming to swell from within,

Cast off his shabby cloak and rose to his feet,

Shining bright as the fire itself.

He was grand now,

Robed in fine emerald threads,

His tattered beard now smooth and shiny.

In one hand he clutched a magnificent staff,

And from the other came sparks and mist.

We had to shield our eyes against his light,

Says Brightbuckle,

Reclaiming the tale.

He was one of the old sorcerers of legend,

I say.

The ones they say left this realm for distant shores in the last age.

He looked like a star fallen to the earth,

Grown wise and aged.

In his eyes burned a blue intensity,

And yet,

Through everything awesome and terrible about him,

He smiled with a kindness that made us weep.

For our act of compassion,

A simple act of stopping to sit with a weary old man,

He raised his staff to the sky and uttered an incantation I cannot repeat,

For the words were in no tongue I've heard before.

And from the staff and gesture of his hand,

A twining of stone and mortar unfurled.

Stone by stone,

At his command,

A bridge lay itself across the rushing river.

It shone there in the moonlight,

Gleaming like gossamer.

When we'd caught our breath and the gleam had faded,

We found the old man gone,

Only embers left of the dying fire.

Shaken as we were,

We crossed the sorcerer's bridge,

But on the other side,

We found three newly fashioned bows of shining birch wood and quivers full of gleaming arrows,

One for each of us.

There is silence for a little while,

Save for only the sheets of rain on the windows and crackle of fire in the hearth.

It's as if the story has cast a spell upon the unlikely gathering,

As if the tale has struck each heart,

Whispered a secret in each ear.

There are wide eyes all around,

An audience held within the story's enchantment.

You,

One of the spellbound,

Feel a dreamy sense of deja vu,

As if the half-elves had repeated an old folk tale,

One you hearkened to in your youth,

Forgetting as you came of age.

But then,

You also had a mysterious encounter on the road,

Hither,

Did you not?

It's Hal who breaks the silence at last.

Strange wonders lie on the road these days,

I reckon,

He says.

Come to think of it,

Not a fortnight hence we had a visitor in these parts.

A farmer,

Young one,

Just come of age.

Had a rather unique sword,

As I recall,

Asking questions about dragons in the western mountains of all things.

And wouldn't you know,

Not a few days later there's talk of a dragon sighted again,

First time in living memory.

This sends a bout of whispers across the tavern,

Blending into a natural sussuration.

Dragon sightings?

Hermit sorcerers?

These are marvelous times,

Indeed.

I too witnessed wondrous marvels on the road,

Comes a low husky voice.

It's the woman beside the fire,

Speaking at last.

I was older then,

When I left my village,

She says,

Her tongue tracing the first of many riddles.

Wiser,

Too.

My neighbors came to me for charms and remedies,

Potions and tinctures.

I worked with the water and the moon and the plants and was called Wise Woman.

But before the harvest,

A blight came.

All the crops of all the villagers and all the healing herbs in my garden withered,

And my magic withered.

They left to seek an answer to the sudden dying of the land.

They say the King-Regent receives counsel from a wise magician,

Nothing like the sorcerers of the past,

But a learned sage with wisdom of the cycles of the world.

So it was of him I sought guidance.

As the lady speaks,

Her raven-dark curls in silhouette against the fire,

You sense a presence at your feet.

Peering discreetly under the table,

You meet two bright green eyes.

A cat,

Black with white paws and chest,

Winds its way around your leg,

Gently butting its head against your shin.

Then,

Swiftly deciding it's finished with you,

The cat leaps away and into the lap of Mary.

The innkeeper's wife,

Who now sits and hearkens to the tale.

The lady continues,

It was a perilous journey for a woman of my age.

My bones were not what they once were and they sorely ached as I traversed the land.

Yet my quest spurred me on.

Only I could save my home and the magic it held.

You glance about the room and the puzzled expressions of the other guests mirror your confusion.

A storyteller appears to you in the prime of youth,

And yet she speaks of old age and frailty.

You listen on.

On the second night of my travels,

As I searched in vain for shelter,

For the night and the moon rose full overhead,

A sudden chill took me and I could go no further.

I sat beneath a hazel tree as the cold closed in,

But as I sat and shivered I felt at once a shower of warmth and light upon my face,

Then upon my shoulders and my whole body.

By the light of the moon,

A young man approached me and from him seemed to come a glowing warmth that then enveloped me.

He took me by the hand and I rose to my feet as though I were weightless.

I moved with a swiftness and an ease I had not known in years.

I followed him through the wood and it was as if we passed through a kind of veil,

To another world where the sun shines as though through a dense fog.

In this strange country,

The food tasted sweeter and the earth yielded herbs I did not recognize.

With each day I spent in his ethereal kingdom,

I felt the months and years fall away.

I grew younger each night and rose freshly each morning to a new kiss of youth.

A year and a day I spent there in the other world,

Living among its people and learning to cultivate these strange herbs.

At times I forgot the plight of my village and indeed forgot that there was any world outside of this one.

I knew love,

And friendship there and I was cherished.

But soon the cries of my people I heard upon the wind and I knew I must depart and continue my journey.

The people of the other world dressed me in fine clothing and wished me well.

The beautiful man who brought me thither,

A ferryman I'm sure of it now,

Blessed me before I embarked.

He gave me the gem you see here,

And she gestures to the amulet around her neck which glows with a rubious depth in the flickering fire.

This gem,

Imbued with a charm of protection,

Would also safeguard the youth his land had restored to me.

Should I ever remove it,

He said,

The years would swiftly return.

When I passed from the fairy realm I found that indeed no time had passed,

But I was young again and eager to bring my findings to the king's mage.

The lady's story hangs upon the warm tavern air like ice crystals melting on the skin.

You feel a mixture of emotions toward her,

A slow kindled tenderness and compassion,

A feeling of protectiveness and concern for a woman traveling alone,

Carrying such a valuable item in plain sight,

And also a sense of pity,

For you never saw age as a weakness,

But something to be admired.

There's a wisdom in the lady's eyes that's unmatched by her countenance.

Behind the stirring feelings also awakens a curiosity within you.

The lady spoke of strange herbs in the world beyond this one,

Plants that do not grow on the green earth.

You must speak with her further,

For perhaps there are plants in the fairy realm that produce even rarer and more exotic dyes than the ones you petal,

Colors only dreamt of and never seen under the sun.

A fairy man,

You say,

Comes the voice of one of the bards.

And was it the fairy country in which you passed the year,

Lady?

I cannot offer proof save for the certainty in my heart,

The lady replies.

In that country,

Food was plentiful,

All were eternally young,

And illness and disease were unheard of.

I might have stayed all my life,

For I not called to a purpose in this world.

There is great interest among the guests as to the location of the doorway to the other world.

Even you harbor a longing to find the fairy country.

But the lady insists she could not recall the way.

A year in the company of the Fae has blurred her memories of the path she walked.

And even if she could find that hazel grove once more,

The doors to other worlds rarely appear in the same place twice.

At least,

When the bards here agree,

That's what the old songs say.

In the wake of dragons,

Fairies,

And sorcerers,

At last you feel moved to tell your story of the road.

You feel struck by the same poetic spirit,

Just as you were clearly visited upon by some similar strangeness.

I have a tale to offer,

You say,

Your voice clearer and more musical than you remember.

I too encountered a marvel on my journey.

Hal pours another round for those guests who wish it.

Your eyes focus on the hearth as you weave the tapestry of your tale.

It was midday when the road from the south brought me to the edge of a dark wood,

You begin.

I was prepared for this,

As those who have traveled to the castle before have brought back warnings of this place.

It is a vast forest of confused and entwined paths,

Earning it the name of Tanglewood.

At the utterance of its name,

Many of the guests around you nod or mutter sounds of familiarity with the wood.

Many a traveler has become lost in Tanglewood,

You continue,

And dangers lurk in the shadows there.

But I was unafraid when I entered.

I made,

Of the stories and songs of the wood,

A kind of protective shield.

I wrapped myself in the rumors,

For that was all they were,

And turned the dangers back upon themselves with every step.

But the wood was dark.

The afternoon sun strained to reach between the brambles,

And the path was winding and difficult to follow in the dim light.

My resolve began to fade and my invisible shield of songs and stories with it.

With every snap of a twig,

Or sound of a scurrying creature through the trees,

I became afraid.

I worried I would lose my way and be lost in Tanglewood forever.

But as I reached the densest part of the forest,

And the canopy closed in sealing out the last of the sunlight,

I perceived a silver glow straight ahead through the trees.

It was bright as the harvest moon and almost seemed to sing,

To hum toward me.

Indeed,

It seemed to me that I could hear in that quivering song of the silver light,

My name upon the lips of a gifted bard.

It called to me.

And so I followed it,

This gasp of light in a forest of darkness.

My eyes and feet found clarity in the path,

And the light guided me onward through the thicket.

The faster I moved toward it,

The more it pulled away,

As though I were chasing a playful child.

Finally,

The traveling light slowed,

Allowing me to reach it.

And when I was close enough for my eyes to grasp the detail,

I discovered that at the center of the glow was an animal.

It was a white heart,

Generating this abundant light.

The creature was so beautiful,

An expression of such profound innocence,

That I nearly wept at the sight of it.

I was so spellbound by its loveliness that I did not at first notice its injury.

But there in its hind leg was an arrow.

The poor creature was wounded,

And yet it still led me safely through the wood with its light.

So I endeavored to help the creature.

I carefully removed the arrow and dressed its wound with a scrap of fabric from my pack.

I hoped that this small gesture would convey my gratitude to the heart.

Then,

To my surprise,

The wounded heart began to transform before my eyes.

Its shining coat became skin,

Its forelegs stretched outward into arms,

And its body stood upright.

Before me,

There was no more a heart but a child,

With moon-white hair and a clean,

White shift.

She looked no older than seven or eight,

But as I beheld her it seemed she flickered between multiple states,

As though superimposed here with the pale image of a grown woman,

And there with the spectral form of a crone.

Briefly,

She was all three at once,

But as my eyes grasped for the full picture of her,

She returned,

Solidly,

To the little child,

Barefoot in the dark forest.

She stayed by my side and walked with me till we reached the far edge of Tanglewood,

And there,

Before we parted,

She insisted I accept a gift.

Then she plucked three platinum hairs from her head and sealed them in a small glass jar,

Which I now carry close to my heart.

It is like bottled starlight,

She said,

And I only need open the jar when I find myself lost in the dark.

Her gift will always light my way.

Even now,

As you conclude your tale,

You can feel the presence of the tiny jar in your breast pocket,

Your bottle of starlight.

With your words on the air and your story in the minds of others,

You feel a rush of amity,

Of fellowship.

It's as though by offering your tale,

Like a kind of communion,

You've formed a sacred bond of kinship with the people in this room.

You have exchanged memories and marvels,

Creating an intimate community of travelers and storytellers.

Many an hour passes before anyone is ready to retire to their rooms.

Guests change their seats,

And tables are pushed together,

Moving close to new friends who were perfect strangers not moments ago.

Hal and Mary beam at the new connections made under their roof.

Before the night is over,

You have shared a toast with Brightbuckle and the Wise Woman,

And you have resolved to go forth together as a company to the King's Festival.

The storm is quieting outside the inn,

The rain only a gentle pitter-patter against the windows.

At last,

The ache and weariness of long travel overpowers the exhilaration of new friendships and discovery.

The harper in the corner is lazily picking at the strings,

Composing out loud a song of powerful hermits,

Fairy kings,

And magical hearts.

Dragons in the night sky.

Arranging to meet your party at first light to set off toward the castle,

You bid Hal and Mary a grateful goodnight,

And make your way up to the chamber.

One by one,

You extinguish the lamps.

You shuffle carefully to the bed,

Feeling for obstacles in the darkness.

There's a small window by the bed,

Against which beats the last gasp of the evening's rain.

Gray clouds obscure the stars and the moon tonight,

But it's alright,

You think,

Settling into the soft embrace of the mattress.

And letting the night's darkness close around you like a blanket,

You've got starlight at your fingertips.

In the shy light of morning,

You descend the steps of the inn to meet your new companions.

Only a night,

The deep and heavy slumber of a weary traveler has passed since last you looked upon them by the light of the tavern fire.

Yet it feels like ages have elapsed.

Down in the tavern,

Where only hours ago you rushed in out of the storm,

Where you shared stories round the fire with relative strangers,

The innkeeper,

Hal,

Is sweeping the floors.

He looks up to see you,

His ready face breaking into a smile.

He'd happily rustle up something to break your fast,

If you'd like.

His wife,

Mary,

Is the cook,

And she's always got a good hunk of rye or wheel of cheese lying around.

You thank him sincerely for the hospitality,

But has he seen the folks with whom you were conversing yesterday evening?

You're meant to meet them any minute now.

Of course,

He says,

The fine-dressed lady and the three from the green forest already came down and took as much food as they could hold in their packs they did.

He laughs heartily.

They haven't gone,

Have they?

You ask,

Crestfallen.

Oh no,

No,

Hal replies.

Just gone to look around the town,

They said.

I promised I'd send you on your way as soon as I saw you.

You sigh with relief.

You didn't think you'd overslept so much.

Graciously accepting another pack full of bread from Hal,

You hoist your traveling bag over his shoulder and depart the inn.

You give it a backward glance as you go,

Cherishing the memories you made within its cozy firelit embrace.

Shelter,

It was,

In a storm.

Now you go forth into a sunny day to find your new friends.

The inn sits at the crossing of the three great roads,

And a little village has sprung up in the cradle of the Convergence.

You stroll down the main corridor through the tiny shops and trades.

Though the feel and climate of this region are very different from your home in the southernmost tip of the kingdom,

You find that the village doesn't diverge much from the ones you know.

Like every small town and large city in the south,

It has a blacksmith,

A general store,

And various market stalls for hawkers of different wares.

In the near distance,

Toward the foothills of the western mountain range,

Which forms a steady ridge across the horizon,

You can see a smattering of residences.

You wind through the sleepy marketplace,

Where merchants are just beginning to set up for the day.

If you had nowhere to be,

No obligations,

And no companions waiting for you,

You'd feel quite at home here.

You'd find an empty stall and barter for the space to set up shop and sell your products.

Your bag is packed full of bolts of richly dyed fabrics,

Wool and silk imbued with the finest green and gold pigments imaginable,

Made from special dyes only found in the south.

You might make a pretty penny hawking them here,

But you do have people waiting for you,

And besides,

You're saving the bolts to sell at the king's magnificent festival,

Where they're sure to catch the eye of the nobles at court.

You find some of your party in the village square,

The trio of half-elves,

Brightbuckle,

Whistle,

And Thorn are gathered conversing by the fountain.

They wave you over when they see you.

Each wears a bow and quiver of arrows over their shoulder.

Only now,

By the light of day,

Do you notice the heraldic insignia on each of their garments.

A white tree,

With half its branches in bloom as if at the height of summer,

And the other half bare,

As in the coldest months of winter.

You'll have to ask them,

Sooner or later,

About the meaning of this symbol,

And whether it indicates their belonging to some order or other.

But for now,

Only one question rises to your lips,

Regarding the whereabouts of the final member of your traveling party.

Gone to acquire some more appropriate travel threads,

Says Brightbuckle,

The most outgoing of the half-elves,

With a chuckle.

Morana,

The lady in question,

Whose noble attire raised more than a few eyebrows at last night's gathering in the inn,

Is wise to exchange her fine silks for something less conspicuous.

At least now,

She won't be traveling alone.

Well,

You suppose,

If there's time to kill,

You might dip into one of the shops lining the village square.

The half-elves promise to come find you when Morana returns,

So you can at last embark on your journey down the king's road.

There's one establishment in particular that's caught your eye.

A painted sign hangs outside the door,

Swaying slightly in the breeze.

Depicted upon it is the skull of a deer.

It's hard to explain,

But you feel you must go inside.

The moment you swing the door open,

Even before you can cross the threshold,

You are overcome with the smell of incense.

Clouds of smoke rise to meet you,

Obscuring your vision,

So that it's almost as if you step into a thickening void.

When the smoke clears enough for you to see,

You take in shelves and shelves of esoteric objects and arcane items.

Instruments the likes of which you've never seen.

Stones and crystals precisely arranged.

Talismans and amulets.

This,

You think,

Is a place of magic,

The domain of sorcerers and mages.

It's not a place where you should tarry long.

But before you can turn and make for the door,

A voice chimes through the clouds of smoke.

Going so soon,

It says,

Lingering like the woodsy herbal fragrance of the incense,

Before you've heard what the bones have to say.

She's seated in the corner,

At a table strewn with tiny objects.

Feathers,

Stones,

Coins and bones.

They're scattered with a chaotic randomness that nevertheless seems spiral in nature.

You have a greater destiny,

Says the old woman in the corner.

A stranger fate than you imagine.

The realm awakens once more to an ancient enchantment.

You have a choice.

To stay asleep,

Content with your lot.

Or to rise with the magic.

To turn the world toward a kinder path.

Maybe it's the hypnotic fragrance of the shop,

Or the occult atmosphere,

Or the vague and enthralling words of the woman,

But your head seems to swim.

You feel as if something within you is stirring,

Slowly,

A part of you that's been asleep.

That subdued part slowly lifts its head and perks up its ears to hear the message of the fortune teller,

The bone caster.

But as soon as you become receptive to her message,

The door of the shop swings open with the tinkling of bells.

Your inner self lowers its head and succumbs to sleep again.

It's like a veil is lifted,

And with it the clouds of incense part,

Letting the sunlight stream in through the open door.

The mystical atmosphere subsides,

Like a dream dissipating in a dreamer's memory as they wake.

Silhouetted in the doorway is Brightbuckle,

The half-elf.

Behind her are three others,

The rest of your party,

Including Morana the lady,

Now clad in peasant's garb.

As you exit the shop,

Even in your haste,

You can hear the bone caster calling something after you.

The horn,

She cries.

Find the hunting horn.

Soon,

Shaking free of the somnolent whispers of the magic shop,

You and your complete party reach the outskirts of the little village,

And behold a crossroads.

The widest path,

The King's Road,

Stretches far ahead,

Snaking through the valley.

Another road,

Rough and neglected,

Leads directly into the foothills.

The last,

Off to the east.

You and your party regard each other as so lately strangers,

Now bonded companions.

Onward you travel,

Down the King's Road,

Toward the festival,

Toward whatever may lie on the path.

To break the monotony of the road,

And as a cautious means of strengthening your newfound fellowship,

You share stories and myths from your respective homelands.

That such disparate places and cultures should exist within the boundaries of one realm,

United under one throne,

May not surprise you,

But it's a boundless source of intrigue and curiosity.

The half-elves hail from the forested regions of the north,

Their hamlet hidden so deep amid the labyrinth of trees that they rarely meet outsiders.

They like it that way for the most part.

Secrecy is key to their safety.

But such isolation means they're unaccustomed to open spaces,

Crossroads,

Oceans,

And mountains.

Their myths and legends are all of forest gods and creatures.

The only regular contact they have with the rest of the world is a tenuous relationship with one of the King Regent's Dukes,

Who sends frequent emissaries into their midst to collect tribute.

Where you come from,

A port city on the edge of the great sea,

There are local legends of aquatic spirits and ocean gods.

But the constant flow of goods and people into the port from all over the known world creates a wonderful exchange of lore and history.

Morana,

Who was known in her home village as a healer and wise woman,

Is a fascinating storehouse of natural wisdom.

She knows the names of all the flowers,

Plants,

And trees along the road.

It seems each has a legend connected with it,

A deep symbolic significance,

And a number of mystical properties.

Morana points out a wild growing vine that winds its way around the trunk of a tree.

It has trumpet-shaped flowers with an intense violet hue.

It's sacred to the moon goddess,

She explains,

And the flowers can be made into a tea to induce peaceful slumber.

It's a tricky flower to work with,

However,

For unless the dose is exactly right,

The sleeper might dream for days or weeks on end,

Waking only at the ringing of a bronze bell.

That's why I always keep a bell on hand,

She continues,

Though I'm skilled enough to avoid the ill side effects in the first place.

You learn much,

Even through idle chatter from your new friends.

With all the vast cultural differences between you,

There are also deep similarities in the stories you tell.

Your gods and heroes have different names,

But they are honored at similar times of the year,

And their tales ring with echoing themes.

With each story,

You can feel the distance between your faraway homes shrink just a bit as you come closer together.

As the road winds through stranger and stranger country,

You are grateful for their presence,

For the strength that comes in numbers,

For the joy that sings through the bonds of friendship,

And for the genuine concern each of you has for the next.

In this wide world,

You think,

There's no need to walk alone.

You hope to come to another town by nightfall,

But the longer you walk,

The more remote the road becomes.

It's surprising,

You'd assumed that as you drew nearer the capital,

You'd find more densely populated areas.

Instead,

As a purple dusk falls over the land,

The road twists into a wooded region.

You and the Lady Murana are reasonably hesitant to enter the woods just as darkness falls.

You've both had your own strange encounters in the forest by night.

You suggest setting up camp for the night.

You've supplies between you to make a comfortable place and you can take turns on the night watch.

But the half-elves,

Brightbuckle,

Whistle,

And Thorn bravely trudge ahead.

They can see exceedingly well in the dark and are well acquainted with any dangers you might encounter in the forest.

They're equipped with elegant new bows with which to defend you.

And besides,

You'll have better protection if you camp amid the trees than by the side of the open road,

They insist.

With some persuasion,

Your reservations are assuaged and you follow the intrepid trio into the wood.

There's a friendliness to the atmosphere you find.

You've walked through other wild woodlands feeling ill at ease.

But here,

The road is clear before you,

And the moonlight sparkles on the trees with an inviting quality.

Your companions sense this too,

Where before they walked cautiously,

Bows drawn,

And now they lower their weapons and move with confidence.

On many a tree,

The same purple flowers wink on the vine,

Turning their brilliant heads to the moon.

They produce a sweet,

Hypnotic musk.

Noticing that a sleepy haze seems to settle around you,

A pleasant,

Dreamy serenity,

You ask Marana if it's possible for just the fragrance of the flower to have a hypnagogic effect.

She nods wisely.

Especially under the light of the moon,

The perfume of such a high volume of the flowers can certainly make one drowsy,

Though it won't put you entirely to sleep.

She feels it too,

As it happens.

So do Brightbuckle and company.

Across the faces of all your party are mild expressions of tranquil bliss.

You begin to think it might be time to make camp.

But it's just as you're seeking out a suitable clearing in the trees,

With space to build a fire and spread out bedrolls,

That you stumble upon a most unexpected sight.

A garden.

Lush and overgrown,

Yes,

But with such impeccable grace and beauty by the light of the moon that it's impossible to think it merely an untended explosion of flowers and herbs in the deep forest.

Your eyes follow its winding cascades of pink and yellow flowers,

Speckled here and there with twitching green moths,

To its end,

Where,

Almost enclosed by hedges and camouflaged with climbing ivy,

There is a small,

Twinkling cottage.

Amber light flickers through the windows,

A fire is lit within.

You and your companions move in closer to one another,

Unsure how to proceed.

It's an eerie thing to chance upon,

And yet,

And you can sense the same in your comrades,

You feel a sense of utter calm.

Perhaps it's the presence of such natural beauty flourishing under the moon,

Or some other enchantment,

That lulls you into feeling absolutely at ease.

It's funny,

Says Brightbuckle,

But I seem to know this place.

It's like… well,

Doesn't it feel like being at home?

I was going to say the same,

Morana replies,

And I,

You add.

Perhaps the steward of this friendly place might spare a cup of wine,

Or offer shelter for the night to a band of weary travelers.

It's now that you can perceive something moving above the hedges,

The bouncing tip of a pointed hat,

Jolly in its motion.

Someone is out among the rows,

It seems,

Perhaps pruning the hedges,

Or enjoying a stroll through their garden by the light of the moon.

There's a tune,

Too,

Above the hum of insects,

The sound of someone softly singing as they work.

As you and your company cautiously start down the garden path,

The owner of the hat emerges into your line of sight.

Two bright,

Sparkling eyes and an infectious grin shine behind a long gray beard.

A more ancient person you're not sure you've ever seen,

With such joy beams from his presence that you feel light,

Childish at heart.

Who goes there,

Comes a low and musical voice.

Begging your pardon,

Sir,

You venture,

Stepping out ahead of your friends.

We are travelers from distant lands,

Meaning you no injury or ambush.

We stumbled by chance into your garden and wonder if you might have space at your table for us.

The bushy eyebrows raise,

A look of whimsy and interest in the bright eyes.

It's now as you draw closer to the tall,

Wizened gardener that you recognize the two pointed ears that protrude from beneath his cap.

This might be,

You think,

A true elf,

Though you've never seen one before and you'd thought they were long gone from these shores,

Their bloodline only preserved in the masses of half-elves like your friends.

What tales survive of the true elves sing of their virtue and generosity.

It was when they began to migrate to distant shores that the realm's troubles first began.

The gardener's expression softens now into a pleasing smile.

Always,

A crinkle of laughter lights up his eyes.

I've not seen company for many an age,

He says.

I'd welcome you,

All of you,

At my hearth.

You breathe a sigh of relief.

The old elf seems genuinely pleased to host you.

Bright buckle,

Whistle,

And thorn are abuzz with intrigued energy as he turns to lead you to his door.

They've seen it,

Too.

He's a true elf.

Beyond the hedges and the moon-facing flowers,

Or the ivy-covered stone walls,

You follow the gardener inside,

Revealing a warm and inviting cottage.

You're reminded,

Strangely,

Of the magic shop in the village square,

But it's like you're looking in a kind of reverse mirror.

Where the shop had a mysterious,

Occult energy,

This place resonates,

On a more benevolent level,

Like it's steeped in white magic.

You can't quite explain it,

But in the lady Murana's eyes,

You find a confirmation of your feelings.

She seems quite at home here,

In the hermitage hung with dried,

Sweet-smelling herbs and garlands of flowers.

The ancient elf brings you steaming mugs of tea to drink.

His supper table is large enough to fit you all comfortably,

Though you wonder at such a thing in a solitary creature's house.

Murana inquires as to your kind host's name.

The question seems to bring him delight,

As if he hasn't had to answer it in many years.

As if saying it for the first time,

Or conjuring it from the vasty depths of his memory,

He utters the name,

Lear.

Over a nourishing meal,

Your host asks you for news of the world beyond the wood.

You inform him that you're en route to a festival in the capital city.

Where rumor has it,

The king regent plans to crown his son before the public.

There are whispers throughout the kingdom of the lost heir to the old king's throne,

Who must be coming of age,

Though no one can agree on where the youth might be,

Or whether they're even still alive.

Lear nods and frows his brow here and there as you speak,

But these matters of kings and queens and disputes for the throne seem to him mere trifles.

You imagine he's so old,

Has seen so many regimes rise and fall,

That the latest political intrigue passes as a brief season,

And the way the oldest trees in a forest ringed around their centers a hundred times might perceive a long and arduous winter as a momentary shiver and a shaking off of leaves.

The king regent,

He says pensively,

Leaning back in his chair,

Is he a good ruler?

Look around to your companions,

You're not quite sure how to answer such a question.

From your home in the south,

You have so little to do with the capital,

That you function almost as your own independent kingdom.

You know the half-elves are headed to the king's festival to have audience and seek sole sovereignty for their people,

And Morana hails from a region plagued by famine and failing crop.

From such testimony,

One could assume that the regent is an ineffective ruler.

But what makes a good king,

You wonder?

What made the old king,

Who is remembered fondly by most throughout the kingdom,

Good,

If anything?

Do you merely see him as much of the past through rose-tinted spectacles?

As none of your party is eager to answer Lear's question,

He continues to speak as if in response to himself.

There was once a great leader in this country,

He says.

So long ago it seems I cannot recall his name.

Only that he never called himself king,

For it was before such rigid things as kingdoms and cities.

He was a mighty warrior.

I may not look it,

But I too was strong and energetic once,

And I fought loyally at his side.

But he was also wise and truly kind.

His people loved him,

And even those who rose once against his rule were welcomed in defeat to join his brotherhood.

Dwarves,

Elves,

And men all united under his banner,

And hearkened to the call of his hunting horn.

As Lear describes the legendary warrior,

Your eyes drift lazily to the flickering fire in the hearth.

In the smoke and flame,

You can almost see him,

The great ruler of ages past in silhouette,

Charging into battle in one instant and breaking bread in the next.

Lear continues,

In the time he lived,

It seemed peace would forever reign in the land.

Sharp edges were softened,

Swords cast aside.

War seemed a thing of the distant past,

Only a memory.

But it was not to be.

His army,

Restless after years of fighting,

Turned on one another.

When evil without was defeated,

Discontent only festered within.

So it was that in a great battle,

This hero whose cherished name sits on my tongue that I cannot manage to recover,

Was slain.

With him,

Many of his loyalist companions perished.

I survived,

And came here,

To live alone and keep my own country.

But this is not,

I think,

The end of the tale.

I converse at times with the trees,

With the birds and insects and deer of the forest.

They carry the songs of men and elves.

One which soothes my mourning heart is of the great man who once united us all.

How he was carried away after the battle,

And lain to sleep within a burial mound with his closest companions.

And how,

Surrounded by flowers and healing herbs,

They slumber to this day,

Awaiting the hour of the realm's greatest need,

When they might yet be awakened.

Something stirs in you.

The sleeping creature who lifted its head within the magic shop,

Perhaps,

You think about the hypnotic purple flowers,

And Murana's sleeping draught.

You think of the solemn sleepers,

Only awoken at the sound of a bronze bell.

And there's something else.

What was it the bonecaster cried after you as you fled the occult shop?

Beneath it all you can hear the echoes of the legend,

Permutations and variations on it.

A slumbering hero waiting to be called to service again.

A king under the mountain.

An army ready to awaken.

Do you know the location of the burial mound,

You ask?

You're not sure why,

But you feel that some answers must lie there.

You feel there must be a higher force at work that's brought you and your company together,

Into the door of the ancient elf.

Perhaps you think,

Though the life you've lived till now has been entirely ordinary,

You are to play a greater part in the story than you'd come to expect.

I've not been there myself,

Lear says with a sigh.

My heart is too heavy at the loss of my captain.

I fear that if I came to the foot of his grave and found I could not wake him,

That the sorrow would be too much to bear.

But I think one who is swift of foot and keen of sight could follow the song of the King Wren and find the place of which I speak.

You mull this riddling advice as you finish your mug of tea,

Rich with the herbs and florals of the elf's garden.

Even now,

The perfume of his many flowers mingle on a breeze that sweeps in through an open window.

You feel very much at peace,

And also bright with curiosity about Lear's legendary warrior.

Your host graciously offers you warm beds and blankets for the night if you wish to stay.

You gladly accept the offer.

In time,

He bids you all good night and turns in.

Before retiring to the quarters at the end of the hall,

You and your companions converse for a while by the warm fire.

How much has changed since first you met only yesterday evening,

And yet how much is the same.

Still,

You gather in the presence of keen hospitality before the flickering flames of a hearth fire,

Sharing stories of the old myth and magic of the realm.

You are the first to suggest that tomorrow morning,

Rather than turning back toward the road,

You make for the burial mound of Lear's legend to investigate.

There are a few days yet till the festival commences,

And such an unusual sight deserves a look.

Besides,

There's something inside you that won't let go of the story,

That feels drawn to the old hero's resting place.

You can't quite explain it.

Murana is hesitant.

She's had enough of wandering off into strange forests,

And who knows what dangers you might encounter on the way.

With only the whimsical guidance to follow the King Ren,

There's every possibility that you will become lost in the wood.

Brightbuckle,

Whistle,

And Thorn seem torn on the issue,

Intrigued by everything that comes from the mouth of a true elf,

But equally worried about traveling too far off course.

All four,

And you,

Agree to sleep on the issue and make a plan in the morning.

You extinguish the fire.

Outside the cottage,

You can hear crickets chirping in a lulling rhythm.

You and your companions retire to comfortable beds in the house of Lear.

Your dreams are full of music,

The low sonorous bursts of a distant horn,

A playful trill that dances through your head.

You can still hear the trill when your mind wakes.

With your eyes still closed,

You roll over,

Hoping to bury your face in the pillow and sneak in a few more minutes of the cozy sleep you've enjoyed.

But soon the trilling sound is joined by the plink of water and rustle of leaves,

And the whole symphony of forest noises waking with the sun.

The sound is so present,

So immediate,

That you wonder if the outdoors has migrated inside the small cottage.

You begin to lose hope of slipping back into a dream state.

Your stiff muscles call for stretching,

And the bed seems suddenly less comfortable than you remember.

Finally,

With a yawn,

You blink open your eyes.

You find yourself at once locked in gaze with a tiny,

Inquisitive bird.

Now you realize with his call that this little creature is the source of the trill that cascaded through your dreams.

He perches on a gnarled root beside you,

Bobbing his tail up and down.

It's only at this moment that you perceive how your surroundings have transformed.

You don't lie in a bed at all,

But on the mossy forest floor dappled with sunlight.

You blink in the brightness and look around to see your companions,

Each also stirring and waking now to find their beds and chambers vanish.

Your bags and bows and possessions are nearby,

Untouched,

But there is no sign that you can see of the charming cottage or of the ancient elf's garden.

Have you all happened to rise in the night and wander out into the woods together?

Or is something more mysterious afoot?

You sit up and massage the small of your back,

Which must have been crunched against a knotted root or some other hard protrusion of the forest floor.

But as you look to inspect what's caused the discomfort,

You find a curious,

Man-made object in the spot where you slumbered.

You pick it up,

Gingerly,

And turn it over in your hands.

It's made of iron or bronze and has a significant weight in your hands.

It's smooth and curved,

Adorned with spirals,

With a narrow end and a mouth that opens like the tubular flowers that make the sleeping draft.

It's a horn.

A hunting horn.

Your friends,

Bleary-eyed and dizzy with confusion,

Gather round to get a closer look at the artifact.

The little bird chatters on a nearby bush.

The feathers on his head are golden yellow,

Contrasting with the muddy brown of his back and belly,

Making it look like he's wearing a crown.

A king wren.

Within a short time,

You and your party are off in pursuit of the little bird.

He's easy to follow,

However,

And seems in tune with your quest.

As the tations cast off,

You move through the forest swiftly,

And every league or so,

The wren stops to perch on a branch and wait for you to catch up.

The horn is tied at your waist and feels quite natural there.

Each of you is now convinced that your encounter with Lear was of a magical nature,

That he appeared on the path to send you on a vital adventure,

One that binds your shared destiny.

How tight the bonds of fellowship have been bound between you all in such a short time.

Nor you thought you'd find only travel companions,

A troop with which to weather the perils of the road.

Now you feel part of a whole,

No matter your differences.

Part of something bigger than yourself.

It's not quite midday when the wren slows his going.

You've no doubt that you move further from the king's road with every pace,

But you are confident that this is the path you're meant to tread.

And soon you come to a shining heath,

Fragrant with yellow wildflowers.

Tall grass sparkles in the high sun and waves in the perfumed wind.

Rising like a breath,

Or like the rolling waves of open ocean,

In the center of the heath is a tall,

Sloping barrow.

The grass grows coarse upon it,

Speckled with violet flowers.

So rustic and untouched is this place that you wonder how long it's been hidden.

Have others followed the king wren,

Or has this burial mound been waiting for you?

Even in its abandoned state,

You have no doubt that the place is sacred.

The blanket of wildflowers seems a gift of nature to adorn the resting halls of the slumbering hero.

The wind rises with a swell of birdsong.

It's strange,

Says the Lady Mirana,

But once more I feel I know this place.

So do I,

Says Brightbuckle.

Whistle and thorn agree,

And I,

You echo.

Somehow,

It feels like this is where my journey has always been leading.

The question is,

What will you do now?

Will he wake the sleeping hero and his companions?

Is this the time set forth,

The hour of the realm's greatest need?

You can feel the bronze hunting horn at your hip,

Heavy and familiar,

Like a missing piece.

Just as the wise woman's bell can wake the drinkers of the sleeping potion,

You know this horn is how you wake the heroes of ages past.

You lift it to your lips,

Feeling the irresistible urge to sound the horn to the hollow hills.

At first you look to your friends,

To Thorn and Whistle and Brightbuckle and Mirana.

Each has a look in their eye like fire ablaze,

Curiosity,

Courage and commitment in one expression.

You draw in a deep and rapturous breath,

Hold the horn to your lips,

And blow.

The sound of the horn is like the groaning of an ancient tree,

The rushing of water through a river,

And a long,

Trapped sigh.

It travels on a spiral of wind and wakes the leaves of the trees to shiver.

You can feel it in your chest,

And in the hairs that rise on the back of your neck.

The birds and woodland creatures hush their sounds,

And all stand still,

Turning its attention to the heath and the barrow.

In the brief but unending moment between the blast of the bugle and what comes next,

You think it must not have worked,

That you've been on a fool's quest,

Straying so far from the king's road into the echoes of forgotten mysteries.

But then it comes,

Like a tremor in the ground,

Like a chorus of light and shadow.

You feel it in the soles of your feet,

Where they meet the grass and earth.

A feeling of connection with the land,

Of safety and nourishment.

A sensation of warmth and light begins to travel up through your body,

As if you were a vessel,

A chalice into which a tingling energy is being poured.

You feel the warmth and light in your ankles,

In your lower legs.

Your knees,

Which soften and relax into the sensation.

Your upper legs,

Warm white light traveling smoothly to relax your hips and pelvis,

Filling up the belly,

Softening the lower back.

The sensation of warmth and light moves into your waist,

Your chest and upper back,

Your shoulders,

Your upper arms,

Elbows,

Forearms and wrists,

The palms of your hands,

The backs of your hands.

You feel the light and warmth trickle into your fingers,

And shine through your fingertips.

The sensation travels up into your neck and the base of your head,

Into the jaw,

Relaxing the muscles of the face.

Warmth and light filling you up to the crown of your head.

Tingling in your scalp.

Till you feel entirely soft and light,

Like your whole body is made of light.

Still,

You feel connected to the solid ground,

And tethered to and cherished by the material world.

You breathe deeply into this sensation,

Feeling the light of your body glow brighter with each inhale,

And dim subtly with each exhale.

For a few breaths,

All you can see is this brightening and dimming of your own light.

You feel very much at rest,

At ease and tranquil.

But you also feel more aware,

Awakened to something.

Like the creature within who slumbered so peacefully for so long,

Has at last come into full and acute awareness.

Somewhere you can still hear the echo of the hunting horn,

But it feels less like an isolated blast,

And more like a small part of the fabric of the universe.

The ringing harmony of stars and suns very,

Very far away.

In time,

Your eyes see past the curtain of light,

Or perhaps the light of your body diminishes,

Softening back into the scene.

The grassy heath and sloping barrow come once more into focus.

With slow,

Soft gesture,

You turn to behold your companions.

They're still here,

Still beside you,

And yet they look changed.

Are they taller?

Wiser?

Older?

You cannot say.

But there is no doubt that they are different.

As are you.

No one else stands in the meadow.

No shades rise from the burial mound.

No army visibly awakens to the call of the hunting horn.

But the King Wren calls to break the ineffable silence,

And with his song comes the flood of a thousand memories.

Tales of a time forgotten,

Of heroes and sorcerers and dragons and war.

In your heart swells the strength and courage of a warrior,

The pride and passion of a leader,

And the quiet kindness of a friend.

A hero,

Long asleep,

Awaiting the hour of greatest need,

Awakens within you.

His whole history rises to meet and entangle with yours,

And you welcome the newfound wisdom and experience of the ages.

And around you,

Your companions are also awakening to new strength and new memories.

Between you,

The bonds of friendship are cast in bronze,

Stronger than before,

Emboldened by fireside tales and centuries of shared anticipation.

Your eyes meet,

And in them are the tears of reunion across untold lengths of time.

You are you,

Still,

With all the heart and talents of the merchant from the south.

But in you also dwells the soul of the hunting horn's master,

Uniter of peoples,

Friend to all.

You breathe deep,

Inhaling the scent of summer on the heath as if for the first time.

The purple trumpet flowers on the vine,

The verdant grass,

The soil.

It's rich and welcoming.

You lift your gaze to the skies,

Half expecting to see dragons on wing.

You breathe out,

Rolling your shoulders and releasing your mind and body from many hundreds of years of sleep.

You awaken to the tingly scents of tamarack and pine,

Loftily penetrating the chilly air.

You pull the blankets closer around you to ward off the damp,

Dewy morning.

The slate-gray early morning sun slices through the opening to the shallow cave you've called home for these several nights,

Where once you doubted you'd find comfort or rest,

But have instead slept the deepest slumbers of your life.

Oh,

And what extraordinary dreams you've dreamt in this place.

How vast and deep the worlds you've plumbed in that rich sleep.

Some nights you've seemed to travel on night's wings throughout her midnight hunt,

The moon on your scales.

Some nights,

You've sailed on distant seas,

Whipped by waves unending.

You shut your eyes tight now,

Holding fast to the details of the particularly vivid dream from which you've just awoken.

In the dream,

You were lost in a strange and enchanted wood in the deep of night.

It seemed to you that it sparkled with threads of magic,

And that each time you turned to look closely at the threads,

They vanished in a kind of coy dance.

And through the trees in time there was a bright burning light,

Like constant fire,

And you drew toward the light with your sword drawn and your mind sharp,

Ready to defend yourself.

And you came to the source of the light,

A small clearing,

Where the sun was shining bright as midday,

Although the woods around you still slumbered under a midnight moon.

And there in the clearing you saw a struggle underway between a dragon and a lion.

At first,

You only watched as they fought with fire and claw and tooth and tail.

But when you realized that the dragon,

The magnificent dragon,

Was losing to the lion,

You felt compelled to leap to its defense.

Your sword sang as it slashed through the air and it cleaved the lion's tail in two.

And there was a flash of golden humming light,

Which for a moment nearly blinded you.

But as you squinted through the daze,

You thought you could see,

Standing behind the lion,

Another you.

A reflection cast by some unseen mirror,

Ringed in light and bearing a sword,

Very like yours,

But not the same.

This other you fell to kneel beside the wounded lion and stroked its mane and uttered words of comfort.

It was when you turned in the dream to tend to the dragon that you awoke.

Now,

As you try in vain to return your body and mind to its sleepy state,

There comes on the breeze a great,

Thundering whoosh,

The sound of wings.

It's as if she knows you're awake.

When you emerge from the small cave,

Cloak draped around your shoulders and breath misty on the air,

She's perched precipitously upon the jutting rocks,

Eyes bright.

The marvelous dragon,

Knight by name,

All but gleams in the dull morning sun,

Her crimson scales more lustrous than ever before.

Fresh air and freedom have done her good.

When you found her,

She was chained up deep in the caverns of Mount Arden,

Thin and in poor health.

If she looked beautiful to you then,

She is divine now.

Though you've traveled together for mere weeks,

Soaring over vast oceans and mountain peaks,

You and the dragon have a fierce bond,

Forged in infancy.

Just over a year ago,

You learned a secret that transformed your life.

That you were not,

As you had always believed,

The child of a farming family,

But the lost heir to the throne of the kingdom.

You were spirited away when a rebellion deposed the king,

And hidden in the home of a loving family,

Who raised you far from the burdens of your royal destiny.

On your journey to discover who you truly are,

You sought out the fearsome dragon of Mount Arden.

When,

However,

You arrived,

The truth unfolded.

Knight was not a foe to be vanquished,

But a friend,

An ally with a shared history.

You learned that she hatched from her egg on the day you were born,

That you and she were bonded from birth and meant to grow up together.

Dragons were the symbol of your royal house,

And the auspices declared your fates were intertwined.

But this bond,

This kinship was cut short in the turmoil that followed.

You and Knight were separated,

And the kingdom torn asunder.

You have to believe that something greater than coincidence or chance brought you back together.

For the last year since you learned of your true heritage,

You've often felt like a bead of dew sliding along the strings of fate,

Inevitably sliding toward Knight,

The oldest friend you can't remember,

And perhaps also,

Toward your inheritance,

The throne.

Perhaps is a word you've used many times since your reunion,

For the closer you've come to grasping that inheritance,

The more uncertain you've become.

Do you really have the ambition to take the throne and lead a kingdom?

Do you have what it takes,

Dragons or not,

To challenge the King-Regent,

Knowing it might lead to open war?

Are you ready to consign your dragon,

So long locked away in chains,

To the limitations of courtly existence when she's only just tasted freedom?

So,

Hidden since birth even without knowing it,

You suppose you are now in a kind of self-imposed hiding while you determine your next move.

Exile might be a better word for it.

Exile conjures up noble associations,

While hiding sounds sheepish and undignified.

But ah,

There's more to this withdrawal from civilization than mere avoidance.

Here among the pines,

The rocky cliffs and mountains,

You've found a connection to the earth,

A freshness in the wind,

And a purity of energy you could hardly have anticipated.

You have half a mind to remain here,

Dreaming your vastly dreams,

Letting night hunt unfettered,

Forever.

Her voice,

With the merest suggestion of reptilian growl,

Cuts through the jumbled discord of your thoughts with the most simple welcome invitation.

Hungry?

Your stomach answers with a hearty growl.

And so you set about preparing breakfast from what night has brought.

These forested mounts have proven fecund and fruitful,

With wild game aplenty and flowering plants to provide ample nourishment.

Soon after,

Bellies full and minds the clearer for it,

You and the splendid dragon survey this,

Your kingdom for the time being.

This remote,

Unpopulated and yet breathtaking region where wild things grow,

Knowing nothing of the doings at court.

Your hair,

Which grows long after months of aimless travel,

Is tied atop your head,

And the breeze plays across your cheeks with a whisper of winter.

It comes quickly this high among the clouds.

Should you climb or fly to the summit,

Surely even now you'd find flurries of snow,

Which those in the capital won't see for months yet.

Out across land and sea,

You fix your gaze upon the sparkling horizon.

And there,

Or even just beyond,

You glimpse a faint and unsteady sparkle.

Is it,

You wonder,

The glimmer of that distant kingdom,

The one over which you should rightly reign?

You've never beheld the castle or the keep,

You know nothing of the people who live within its walls.

And yet,

Somewhere in the recesses of your mind,

You trace a map of its magnificent halls and alleys.

There is a future,

A life,

Upon that horizon,

Which was taken from you.

You're thinking about the castle again,

Says the dragon at your side,

Her voice calm and comforting.

You let go a deep exhale.

There are no secrets you've learned from her,

It's as if she can see inside your mind.

In the time you've been together,

You've learned to accept this,

Or at least,

Not to let it concern you.

There's something reassuring,

Even,

To have another being affirm your deepest thoughts and desires,

Reflect them back to you like a mirror,

And help you carve a path forward.

It's a lovely morning,

You say,

Unprepared to engage with questions of the throne.

You know little of this country,

In the mountains of which you've made your camp.

The nearest inhabited village is miles below and beyond.

You needed a place where night could hunt and fly without being constantly sighted.

Of course,

Given her size,

There's a certain risk of that that's unavoidable.

It brings a smile to your lips to think of children in that far-off village,

Glimpsing the winged wonder at dusk,

And how the vision might set their hearts alight as it did yours.

It's been so long since dragons were seen on these shores.

But it's more than just the seclusion that brought you to this region.

There's something about it you can't quite explain.

It's as if the vibrations here are different,

More alive,

More electrifying.

Just as when you sleep,

You sleep deeper than ever before when you're awake.

You feel more awake,

Invigorated,

And in tune with the invisible forces that surround you.

The wind here wakes your senses and straightens your spine.

Where you were raised,

Magic was a relic of a bygone age,

A memory passing into myth.

But here,

Enchantment seems to infuse the rocks and waters and sky,

Enlivening the atmosphere.

It feels immediate,

Tangible.

Something drew you here,

Across half the world,

A presence in the bones of the earth.

Strange herbs grow on these mountain peaks,

And they sting the air with stimulating scents,

And sharpening the senses.

One grows on the east side of the mountain,

The likes of which you've never seen.

When the wind streams through patches of the plant,

It produces an intoxicating perfume.

When burned,

You've discovered,

The smoke offers a scent even more entrancing,

Inducing a state of intense relaxation.

After breakfast,

You practice for a time with your sword.

Having a fire-breathing dragon at your beck and call affords you some indulgence when it comes to honing your combat skills,

But you've decided it's necessary to master some basic techniques.

Night observes lazily,

Half amused by your self-taught flourishes.

Before leaving your village,

You trained briefly in swordsmanship and agility,

Using the rustic blade forged for you by the town blacksmith.

You build slowly upon this foundation,

Sometimes wishing you had the expert guidance of a swordmaster.

Still,

Just to feel the blade slice through the air,

And to move your body with precise intention is of immense value.

It's like dancing,

You think.

Your feet shuffle across the rocks,

And your sword arm follows the momentum built through your base and core.

You twist round and bring the blade cleanly downward in a powerful slashing.

All in the space of a moment,

Something triggers.

It's like a bolt of lightning,

A bright sensation throughout your body as a dormant part of your mind wakes up.

All at once,

Though your sword cuts only through thin air it meets,

You sense resistance,

As though it's coming up against something solid.

And you reel backward into your dream from last night,

The dream in which you rescued a dragon from a lion's attack.

For only an instant,

It's like you're there in the clearing in the enchanted wood,

And yet you're also here atop a windy peak in unknown country.

And when at last your body and mind relax,

Settling back into the lucid awareness of your where and when,

You look to night who regards you with an unmistakable expression,

One of absolute understanding.

She felt it too,

You realize.

She was there in the wood with you.

There's a fierce vitality in the atmosphere between you and the dragon,

Like an invisible tether that connects your hearts and minds.

Your breathing returns to normal,

But you can sense your inhale and exhale coming into alignment with night.

It's a while before either of you speaks.

Night,

You venture.

The king regent,

What is the symbol of his house?

You wait for the dragon to respond,

But you already know the answer.

The lion,

She says,

Bringing into speech that which already rings in your heart.

A cloud moves over the late morning sun,

Bringing a sudden chill to the skies and goosebumps to the flesh on your arms.

There is more,

You think,

In the recesses of your memory,

The limitless depths of your subconscious than you knew.

In your mind's eye,

The surreal adventure of your dream,

A dark wood,

A mythic conflict,

A mirror image of you protecting the lion swirls and flashes.

With more concrete images.

A dragon banner flying over a stone castle,

And an instant later in tatters.

A new flag bearing the herald of a rampant lion with a double tail.

The clank and clamor of sword on sword.

The shouting of soldiers and the drawing of doors.

It all comes on with utter and immense clarity,

In contrast to the languorous pace of the dream vision.

You were only a baby when you were removed from court.

It's impossible to think that what you see are memories of the rebellion.

And yet,

The images are so vivid,

So detailed,

That they feel real enough to step into.

How can this be,

You wonder.

Unless… The realization comes delicately,

Not like the lightning bolt,

But more so the soft melting and absorption of frost into thawing soil.

Dreams,

Memories,

Thought,

The connection you feel tonight,

The splendid dragon,

Goes deeper than kin,

Deeper than blood.

Your minds are linked,

Almost as one being.

Something about this place,

It seems,

Has amplified the connection,

Brought it to the surface,

Stirred your dreams and visions into one.

It's only now that you realize you've fallen to the ground,

Knocked as it were off your feet by the force of the vision.

Night,

All monstrously magnificent against the pale afternoon,

Towers over you,

Her reptilian face caught in an expression of concern and sympathy.

Did that come from you,

You ask,

Your voice calmer than you expect it to be.

The fighting,

The castle.

Yes,

Night responds,

And the lion,

The forest,

Did that come from you?

Yes,

You say.

The air hums,

The rustle of leaves from the trees in the valley below swells to a whispering crescendo.

The mountain,

Above the pines and mist,

Your entire consciousness shifts.

It is a curious thing,

A wondrous thing,

You discover,

To share thoughts with another in this world.

Atop the world,

Here in your hermitage,

You and night plumb the depths of each other's minds,

Learning the curves and channels of the space between you and sending messages along those strings,

Like dew on spiders' webs pushed forth with only the force of thought.

You recruit energy from the ringing atmosphere,

Shaping the images deep in your mind into coherent streams and sending them forth.

This becomes a daily practice between you.

The days pass much as they did before.

You rise early,

Share a meal,

Practice your swordplay,

And ride your dragon over the peaks on the hunt for food and firewood.

But now,

At liminal times,

Midday,

Twilight,

When the quality of light seems a portal to other worlds,

You and night burn the hypnotically scented herbs and meditate together,

Exploring the threads of your newfound psychic bond,

Crafting messages to send to each other.

In time,

You learn much of your own past,

Seen through night's eyes as though they are your own.

You witness the doting attention of the old king and queen,

Your parents,

The revelry of court,

And soon the downfall of the dynasty.

Then you fully inhabit the dragon's experience of imprisonment in the depths of a cave,

Cultivating an even more potent foundation of empathy.

Night,

In turn,

Sees fields of grain for the first time,

Accompanying you through the quiet yet comforting mundanity of adolescence on the farm.

You package memories like little gifts and send them along in visible strings,

Firmly tied to your respective souls.

You receive them with gratitude and humility,

Not knowing how or why you came by this connection,

But feeling all the time that it is natural,

Inevitable even.

Your hatchlings,

After all,

Kin,

And,

It seems,

Soulmates.

Indeed,

The nexus is so strong,

So palpable,

That at times,

During your meditation sessions,

You become helplessly entangled in the network of thoughts,

Dreams,

And memory.

There are moments,

Fleeting but frequent,

In which your mind and nights are utterly indistinguishable.

You forget briefly where you end,

And the dragon begins.

You can almost feel your belly as a tinderbox,

Or the shelter of a tiny ember,

The spark of magnificent fire.

You feel strong,

Imposing,

And above all,

Empowered.

Does the dragon experience this,

You wonder?

This passing confusion of embodied experience?

As your new abilities grow and develop,

So does the moon.

It waxes fuller each night,

Swelling as if with the gathered energy of your work.

And as it gradually nears its fullest expression,

The mountain peaks almost seem to vibrate with potential.

Something new and exhilarating is within your grasp,

You can feel it.

And so can night.

You can't put it into words just yet,

Or even into abstract understanding,

But you know you are on the precipice of something.

Tonight,

Then,

You determine.

At midnight,

Underneath the full moon,

We'll cross whatever threshold we discover.

You choose midnight,

Of course,

Because it is the most enigmatic hour when mysteries might be revealed.

Because the moon will be high,

And because it is the very essence of your dragon's namesake.

Midnight is a doorway.

The hour soon approaches,

And the moon does rise,

Swollen and veiled,

Honey gold overhead.

You make a small pile of the exotic herbs.

The foliage leaves an oily residue on your fingers.

This you massage into the dry skin of your hands,

Which drink it in gratefully.

Night breathes a controlled stream of fire onto the pile,

And the leaves immediately ignite,

Curling in on themselves and glistening with red-hot embers.

Smoke travels on elegant,

Irregular spirals through the chilly darkness,

Only mildly troubled by a mild dancing breeze,

And the fragrance makes its way effortlessly to your nose.

It's a mystifying blend of accords,

One you've ached to separate and identify,

For there's both exoticism and deep familiarity in its notes.

Your closest guest calls on the warm musk of night-fragrant jasmine,

And an uplifting descant of peppermint or myrtle.

Whatever it is,

The effect is intoxicating and instantaneous.

Seated with your legs comfortably crossed,

You feel your shoulders drop away from your ears and down your back.

Your jaw unclenches,

And your brow unfurrows.

All the tiny,

Unacknowledged muscles of your face at once make themselves known to you,

And then melt into absolute relaxation.

Your hips and tailbone too find solid support in the earth,

Rooting you into the matrix of the physical world.

All this,

Your embodied self succumbs to forces tugging downward,

Inward,

Outward,

And at the same time,

Ah,

Lightness.

Your consciousness,

Your soul even,

Exhales upward and outward.

You feel both grounded and unleashed,

Wild and free.

And this is only the beginning,

The centering of the self within the ritual.

There is another,

A partner,

And the connection must be forged.

With weeks of practice,

You and night have refined a process for initiating the psychic bond.

It's a process of casting,

Almost as a fisher casts his line out to sea,

With a specialized target in mind.

Individually,

You and the dragon bind and focus on an especially powerful and specific thought,

An image,

Or a memory,

Or a symbol from a dream.

And once it's firmly established in your own mind,

So full and authentically realized that it would be recognizable anywhere,

You cast it forth toward your partner.

It's an action entirely powered by mental energy and intention.

At the same time,

You imagine and manifest a thread,

An invisible string,

With one end tied to the thought you're sending,

And one end tied to you.

The message acts,

Then,

Like an anchor in the mind of the other,

Only to be retrieved when the ritual concludes.

And as the process begins tonight,

Under the corn-yellow moon,

You search for an initiatory image or thought to send tonight as your anchor.

It comes like a wind now.

It's small,

Unremarkable,

Seemingly insignificant,

But it feels right.

You see a field of barley subtly assuay in the golden liquid light of late afternoon.

You feel yourself moving slowly through the field,

Your outstretched hand just grazing the soft,

Tickly tendrils of the grain.

It feels like home.

And untapped potential.

And intuition.

It brings you back to a past self who knew nothing of royal lineage or ambition or kinship with dragons,

But who dreamed of magical things with limitless fervor.

This is what you cast,

Like a fishing line to your hatchling,

Your sister,

Your dragon.

This is your anchor.

And as you cast it forward,

You receive a message.

It lands lightly in your mind,

Flooding you first with only emotion,

Comfort,

Contentment,

And then it takes shape as image and sensation.

You see through dragon's eyes a castle window,

Through which streams the light of a moon so like tonight's.

You watch how the moonlight plays across flagstone floors and gently across the gauzy ivory fabric of a canopy drawn close around what must be a cradle.

You feel warm and sleepy,

But also endowed with great and worthy responsibility.

You feel like a protector.

The invisible tethers hum like the strings of a lyre plucked on a pleasing harmony.

The connection is made.

It's tempting to practice as you always have,

But you both know that tonight is different.

That you have mastered and moved beyond the foundations of casting,

The sending and receiving of messages.

The tether feels stronger tonight,

Perhaps amplified by the midnight moon,

Or by the strength and specificity of your anchors.

But you have the sense,

Call it intuition or whatever you will,

That if you wanted,

You could step out onto the invisible string,

Gather up your balance,

And walk across it.

And so you do.

With the full presence and energy of your mind galvanized by the mesmeric fragrance of the herbs,

You leave your body and move,

Slowly and with unwavering intention,

Across the line you've cast.

You know somehow that night is doing the same.

Two beads of dew sliding along the strings of fate.

And then there you are,

Hardly conscious of the effort it took or of the gravity of the feet.

You are back in a body,

But it is not your body.

It is muscle and bone and scale and horn,

Imposing and empowered.

You feel the weight of organic armor pulling you downward,

And you know that any step you take would create a thunder in the earth.

But you also feel the presence of your wings.

Ah,

They are a relief indeed,

And their mere existence lightens you,

Makes you feel one with the stars.

At length you open your eyes,

And you look upon your own face through the wisps of perfumed smoke and the light of the sun.

How uncanny it is to see yourself through another's eyes.

By virtue,

Perhaps,

Of the perspective,

You look with a tenderness and indulgence you've rarely applied to yourself.

You've been so quick to self-judgment,

You now realize that you really are a creature of wonder and beauty.

The eyes across the fire open,

Your eyes,

But not.

Night regards you through them.

For a moment,

You both seem to stifle a laugh.

Whether it's amusement,

Shock,

Or pure ecstasy,

You can't say.

But then the initial butterflies subside,

And you settle,

Breathe into the exchange.

You hardly want to move for fear of breaking the tether accidentally.

And losing your pathway back to your body.

But you breathe,

And you listen,

And you observe.

Bonds like these are not so easily broken,

Says a voice in your head.

You're not sure whose voice it is,

Night's or your own.

It doesn't matter.

You've both had the same thought.

As long as the fire burns,

And as long as you intend it to,

The connection will remain intact.

And now a seed has been planted in your mind,

Though you don't know by whom.

A delightful,

Impossible,

And mischievous seed.

Your gaze across the fire doesn't waver.

The face you thought was yours,

Nods almost imperceptibly in response.

Go,

Says the unknown voice.

And fly,

You do.

Without hesitation,

You dig your hind claws into the clay,

And push away from the earth with a force you've never known.

And your wings unfold,

And first you flap them wildly,

Unsure how to proceed.

It's not long,

However,

Before you find an equalizing pressure in the atmosphere.

A stream of air that buoys you from below,

And stabilizes you from above.

And you stretch your wings wide,

And feel the invigorating flux of night air around you,

Almost enveloping you as you move through it.

Your nostrils flare,

And oh how the cool air streams down your throat,

Massaging you inside and out.

You feel awake,

And alive,

And also relaxed,

Unencumbered.

You are a dragon.

You're a dragon.

Deep in your belly resides a tiny flame,

An engine that propels you through the cloudless sky.

The stars blink in endless sweeps and multitudes.

You ride the waves of the wind.

Within minutes,

Flight is as natural to you as breathing.

Exhilaration ignites and swells within you,

Kindling the tiny flame,

Until you must let it escape.

You release a torrent of fire across the open sky.

It makes you feel powerful and creative.

There's no will to destroy in this fire,

Only to create,

To spark,

To move forward.

People fear fire,

You think.

Often rightly so.

But in that fear of destruction,

It's easy to miss that generative aspect of fire.

How it releases new substances as it forms.

How it makes possible radical and necessary change.

Far below among the peaks,

Your home body is an anchor,

Flying you like a kite,

Patiently awaiting your return.

And as the moonlight graces your crimson scales,

You can almost feel a million more little invisible strings connecting you to all the souls,

All the spirits,

All the infinite wisdom of the universe.

They bind you sweetly to all memory,

All myth,

All possibility.

Briefly,

In a kind of sublime incandescence,

You can see the future.

That you will master this new and exciting gift,

Such that on a moment's notice,

And with little effort,

You will be able to exchange your consciousness with your dragon.

That you will be each other's anchors,

From here on out,

Each other's homes.

And that you will claim your rightful throne one day,

But not through force,

Or fire,

Or the swing of a sword.

You were never one for conquest,

Dragon,

Or no.

If the kingdom won't be won through kindness,

Mercy,

And justice,

Then it won't be won at all.

Somewhere,

Another is being groomed for the throne,

Someone so much like you.

Their allegiance may be to the lion instead of the dragon,

But they are still just like you.

Flawed,

Well-intentioned,

Capable of forgiveness and mercy.

You'll touch down soon,

And walk again across the invisible string to re-inhabit your body,

No doubt finding it more cozy and welcoming than ever before.

But for just a little while longer,

You'll stay afloat.

You'll breathe fire.

You'll fly on the wings of night.

A soft knock at the door stirs you gently from dreams.

You don't open your eyes just yet,

Clinging for a few moments more to the fantastical images that have danced through your mind in this last hour of sleep.

In the dream,

You think,

You were moving through a forest thick with mist,

In a country that seemed to be bathed in midnight sun.

All around in the midst of the dream,

You saw shadows move and change their shape until,

At last,

The crystals of fog became a million tiny mirrors.

You peered into each of them,

Meeting your reflection in every droplet with curiosity and calm.

Never mind,

The dream whispered to you that the face in each reflection was not your own,

But the face of another.

They looked just enough like you to sneak through the passageways of a surreal dream understanding.

Now,

You shut your eyes tightly,

Wishing the knocking sound would cease and allow you to drift back into the strange midnight forest.

You hold on to the images,

The thousand tiny reflections,

For as long as you can,

Trying to make sense of them.

But swiftly,

The pictures fade into swirls of texture and color,

Losing their shape and specificity.

Another knock follows,

This one only slightly more urgent.

You call back for the knocker to enter at will,

Sleep still fogging your voice.

You roll over in bed to see the young woman enter with a tray of breakfast.

She lowers her eyes and curtsies on entry,

Then carries the tray over to the table by the window.

You've slept in later than you should have.

The sun streams in,

Falling in curtains across the wardrobe,

Where hangs the fine garment you are expected to wear today.

You thank the young woman warmly.

Your grace,

She says quietly.

Your father requests your presence as soon as you're ready in the throne room.

You can tell him I'll be by soon,

You respond.

The woman curtsies again and exits the room quickly.

You stretch,

Roll your shoulders and your neck,

And pull on a silk robe that hangs on the edge of the bed.

The breakfast platter smells very tempting.

You sit down to eat,

Still grasping at the memory of the decadent dreams through which you so recently swam,

But they won't come back to you in any coherent way.

Your mind turns to the day ahead.

For weeks now,

The energy of the court has been elevated,

Anticipatory.

Today is the first of a multi-day festival thrown by your father,

And preparations have long been underway.

Subjects are traveling from all over the kingdom,

Even from the remote forests and distant southern regions,

Places you've only dreamt of visiting.

The excitement is palpable and contagious,

With every day strengthening your desire to venture beyond the castle walls you so rarely leave behind.

After eating your fill of breakfast,

You dress yourself in the gold and crimson threads hanging in the wardrobe.

Certainly,

You think,

Addressing yourself in the mirror,

You look the part of the heir apparent,

The one who will succeed their father's throne.

But the collar itches,

And the exquisite details in the brocade,

Well undoubtedly made by someone with great skill,

Are so rigid and formal,

They seem to belong to someone else.

You never feel quite like yourself when done up in the fashions of the nobility.

It's more like a mask.

This is a charmed life,

Of course,

But a lonely one.

Most days are filled with lessons in the art of courtly behavior,

In swordcraft,

And in reading and studying languages.

You have no siblings,

And there's never anyone your own age about the castle,

So your most meaningful relationships are with your tutors.

There are days in which you long for mischief and adventure,

For breaking free of the restrictive lifestyle of court,

To wander the capital city and beyond,

For a formative experience of any kind for the matter.

The sound of voices rising from the courtyard below your window causes your attention to drift.

You wander to the window,

And gaze down to observe the source.

Far below,

Dabbled through the shade trees,

You can see a small group dressing the fountain with bunting and draping flags across the courtyard.

It seems the castle gates themselves will open,

You realize,

At some point during the festival,

Allowing non-courtiers within for the first time you can remember.

The bells sound from the chapel,

Intoning the hour.

They clamor brightly across the morning air and remind you of your purpose.

Your father won't wish to be kept waiting,

And you leave the chamber,

Leaping lightly down the stone steps and down long corridors draped with tapestries and hung with armory.

When you reach the throne room,

You find your father standing before the elevated throne,

Is back to you.

He's alone,

With no attendance.

He hears your footsteps and turns his head so that his profile is gilded with sunlight from the rose window above the throne.

There you are,

He says.

His voice is gentle,

Which brings you some ease.

I wanted to see you before all the excitement begins.

Now he turns to you and places a hand on your shoulder.

How are you feeling about this evening?

You're not quite sure how to answer.

It's a curious mix of emotions that have run through you these many weeks.

On your last birthday,

When you officially came of age,

Your father,

The King Regent,

Shared with you his plans to surrender the throne and announce your imminent succession.

It wasn't something you were prepared for.

Always,

You'd known you would one day take over his seat,

But this was a distant and vague proposition.

You never thought it might come so soon,

And at a time when you are still changing so much,

Still discovering who you are.

Still,

Your father insisted that this kingdom,

So long ruled under a single dynasty before he came to power,

Would never be satisfied under the reign of a regent,

A temporary figurehead.

They need a true leader,

A monarch to see them through times of peace and of turmoil.

Someone they can trust.

This,

You could understand.

But are you that person?

You who have experienced so little of the world.

You've had some time to process the impending announcement,

But all these complex feelings stir once more in you at your father's question.

You deliver,

However,

A practiced response.

I hope to serve our kingdom as nobly as you have,

Your Grace.

He smiles warmly and gives your shoulder a squeeze.

He reminds you of the hour at which you'll be expected,

But urges you to remain in the castle,

Preferably in your chamber,

Till his steward comes to fetch you.

Surely you have reading to do for your lessons.

Though your heart yearns to leave these walls and get out into the thick of the festival,

You do not protest.

You know better.

Once you're dismissed,

You leave the throne room behind,

Contemplating means by which you might sneak out into the crowds unnoticed.

You take the long way back to your chamber,

Passing through the quiet,

Elegant corridors of the castle.

Your family's banners have been freshly hung throughout the halls,

Depicting the heraldic symbol of your clan,

The two-tailed lion set in black on gold thread.

You pull your shoulders back and try to think of yourself as the embodiment of a lion,

Strong,

Self-assured,

Committed.

Still,

It feels like a guise,

Like something there to mask the real you.

And how,

You wonder,

Are you ever to truly know who you are if you're stuck within these walls?

You'd been so looking forward to stepping out into the streets for the festival,

But your father's instruction echoes in your ears.

There must be a way,

You think.

It's at this very moment that the young woman who brought breakfast to your chamber this morning enters the corridor.

She's carrying bundles of cloth piled so high in her arms that they nearly obscure her face,

But you recognize the eyes peeking over the bundle.

At the sight of you,

She stops,

Drops to a deferential curtsy,

And resumes her pace.

Wait,

You call after her as she breezes past you.

She spins around,

Appearing startled.

Near grace,

She says,

How may I help?

I'm terribly sorry,

You say,

But I don't know your name.

Lunette,

She responds,

A hint of inquisition behind her voice,

As if she's surprised to hear someone of your rank take any interest in her.

Lunette,

You say,

I'm sure you've many things to do,

But I hope you'll pardon the delay on my behalf.

Of course,

Your grace,

She says.

You don't have to call me that all the time,

You say with a small laugh,

And you ask her to simply use your name.

Behind the bundle of clothes you catch her blushing,

You've just had an idea,

A wonderful idea.

I wonder,

You say cautiously,

If you might be willing to help me.

When,

Shortly thereafter,

You are dressed in unassuming linens from the scullery,

And you're moving through the passageways in the castle walls you never knew were there,

The ones used by staff and attendants when they must move about unseen,

You think you must find a way to repay Lunette for her kindness and willingness to abet your escape from tight quarters on this most exciting day.

You follow her directions to the letter,

Two lefts,

A right,

And take the steps down until you meet the water.

There is a concealed dock there for small shipments,

An undercover passage,

A humble little boat bobs in the water just at the bottom of the steps.

You emerge into dazzling sunlight after the stretch of darkness.

The light shimmers off the surface of the river,

And a cool breeze fills your lungs with fresh,

Bright air.

Just as Lunette said,

There is a narrow towpath along the river leading away from the castle.

Holding a hand across your brow to shield your eyes from the late morning sun,

You set down it toward the heart of the city.

It's a peculiar view you have of the castle in which you've spent your life.

You've never seen it from this angle.

Looking up at the walls and ramparts,

It seems imposing,

Impenetrable.

You wonder how it must appear to those who've never seen what lies within.

But then,

To gaze across the river and toward its vanishing point yonder,

How much more fully you can breathe in this moment.

As you come around the perimeter,

The towpath rises and turns slightly,

Fading into the cobbled paths and passages that lead into the city beneath the castle.

Faintly,

You can hear the strains of music rising over the rooftops.

So,

You think,

The celebration has begun.

You follow the music through the labyrinthine streets,

Past inns and courtyards.

The streets soon open onto a spacious square filled with people and lined with market stalls.

A great column marks the center,

Adorned with stone lions around its base.

A band of musicians play an uplifting tune on the lute and pipe.

From the column to the buildings on all sides,

Your family's banners are strung,

Blitting golden in the breeze.

Colonnades and impressive half-timbered facades make up the perimeter of the square,

And an exquisite clock tower overhangs the scene,

Its spire piercing the drifting clouds.

The bustle of the crowd lifts the energy of the place,

And the sense of palpable excitement gives you goosebumps.

You can't remember the last time you saw so many people in one place.

And all are abuzz,

It seems,

With anticipation,

As they consort,

Barter,

And sell their wares.

Oh,

The crisp air is filled with the sizzling scent of the most sumptuous spices from the food stalls.

The music is playful and cheery.

Your approach in all the hubbub has gone unnoticed by the crowds,

So consumed in their activities.

The borrowed linens hang loosely on your frame,

Much more comfortably so than the royal costume that waits back at the castle.

You feel a great sense of liberation,

Like you can move unhindered,

Unobserved for the first time.

No one here knows your name,

Your rank,

Or the seat to which you will so soon ascend.

And with that uncanny anonymity comes great freedom.

You go forward with a lightness in your step you've never had before,

A bounce and a brightness to experience life outside the walls and the expectations.

You're moved by the faces you find in the crowds,

The young and the old,

Their eyes.

Each person here,

You think,

Has a story,

Most of which you may never know.

What are their lives like,

You wonder?

Where do they come from?

How big are their families?

It isn't long before you encounter folks who look vastly different from you,

Or indeed anyone you've ever met.

People with pointed ears and distinct,

Elongated features.

You've always known that the kingdom,

Reaching as far and wide as it does,

Is home to many races,

Including half-elves,

But you've never seen one.

The increasing multitude and splendid diversity of the square spurs you to greater and greater curiosity.

It's like you've spent your whole life reading only one story,

Only to learn that that story is but a chapter of a vast and expansive volume.

If only you can bring yourself to turn a new page.

You perambulate the square,

Visiting many of the market stalls to examine the items for sale.

A merchant from the east displays herbs and spices in decorative glass bottles.

These exude the most extraordinary aromas.

Some are earthy and savory,

Others uplifting and vivid.

Another trader sells hand-carved trinkets and statuary,

Including miniature wood carvings of your father and the two-tailed lion symbol of your house.

It's funny to hold such a powerful symbol in the palm of your hand,

And to look down upon your own regal father.

It's a good likeness I think you'll find,

Says the carver,

An elderly man with kind,

Dark eyes,

Who seems effusively proud of his work and eager to please.

He speaks with excitement and hope about the expected opening of the castle gates,

And how wondrous it might be to catch a glimpse of the king's heir.

You feel the color rising in your cheeks,

And have to remind yourself that in this guise,

No one knows your true identity.

The man's earnestness moves your heart,

And you buy one of his lion figurines,

With a few coins you've smuggled out in your pockets.

It really is a lovely piece,

You think.

Perhaps it will make a welcome thank you gift for Lunette.

As you continue your stroll through the market stalls,

You turn the hand-carved lion over absentmindedly in your hands.

You feel a rising tenderness toward these people from all walks of life,

And your spirits are lifted by the encounter with the old carver,

Who holds your father and your house in such high regard.

These people will soon look to you for leadership,

And you need only follow in the footsteps of your father,

It seems,

To earn their trust.

But this sensation you have,

Almost of walking on air,

Reveals itself quickly to be an illusion.

It's not long before you overhear a group of peasants decrying the extravagance of the King Regent in throwing this festival when so many of his subjects are living in mean conditions.

Elsewhere,

You hear lamentations for the old king whom your father replaced in a great coup before you were born.

Now there was a true leader,

A woman says,

A dragon at heart.

And even as she says this,

You stumble on the cobblestones.

Recovering and ensuring that no one's noticed your clumsiness,

You look down at the uneven ground.

Indeed,

It's not on mere cobbles that you've tripped,

But over a bronze inlay in the stones.

Embossed in the metal is the burnished symbol of the royal house that held the keys to the castle before yours did,

The dragon.

Such symbols are not hard to find in forgotten places,

Even within the castle.

For all your father's efforts,

History and memory are not so easily erased,

And many are alive still who remember the old king and the dynasty that came before.

There are dragons carved in relief on the castle's very gate,

And in abstract form on the royal chapel's tracery.

It's natural that you might find traces of this recent history laid in the groundwork of the city the dragons built,

And still aflame in the hearts of disenfranchised commoners.

But there's something about the appearance of this symbol in this moment that rattles you,

As if stirring up unconscious feelings or half-forgotten dreams.

It's something like déjà vu,

You suppose.

You're roused from deep thought by the tender sensation of a hand upon your shoulder.

At first,

You imagine it to be your father having discovered your little gambit,

But this hand is softer,

Lighter than the stern hand of the king regent.

It's a woman's hand,

You realize,

As you look up into the face of the stranger.

Are you alright?

She asks,

Her voice smooth and low.

We saw you take a tumble there.

The lady is richly robed,

Clearly higher born than many of the people in the square.

Around her neck hangs a glittering amulet.

Raven-dark curls frame her face.

Yes,

I'm fine,

You insist,

Though your voice trembles more from the recognition of this symbol beneath your feet than from the fall.

A motley crew of others have gathered,

Another human and three half-elves,

Evidently of varying station.

You fear you may have attracted more attention than you can afford,

But it becomes clear that the group,

However unalike,

Know each other,

And no one else seems moved by the minor commotion.

Oh dear,

You are quite shaken,

The lady says.

Come now,

Why don't we get you somewhere you can sit down?

Yes,

Chimes in one of the half-elves.

Won't you come have a drink?

He inclines his head toward a nearby alehouse.

Your first instinct is to refuse,

But on second thought,

You do crave retreat from the eyes of so many onlookers.

You agree to let the party take you somewhere quiet,

Where you can regain your composure.

The alehouse may not be entirely quiet,

But the hum of a dozen overlapping conversations is comforting in its own way.

You slide into benches near an open window,

Where the breeze is cool on your face.

The unusual crew of humans and half-elves bring mugs of ale and mead to the table.

Their rapport with each other is strong,

And while you speak little at first,

You learn much about them in the way they relate to each other.

They've traveled together for many days,

It seems,

And had only just reached the capital when they came across you.

We haven't even got a place to stay yet,

Says the merchant from the south.

But we've always been able to find hospitality,

Haven't we?

For better or worse,

He laughs.

You ease into their company,

Shaking off the reverie and concern,

And you begin to take interest in their stories.

They come from all corners of the kingdom,

From the far-flung forests of the northern country,

From the southern seaport,

And from villages so small you've never seen them rendered on a map.

Their lives sound vastly different from your own,

Or indeed from anyone you can imagine living in the capital.

They seem to have stepped into your life from the pages of legend,

Rather than from the king's road.

You learn of their intentions for traveling hither,

Over long distances,

And through many adventures and perils.

The half-elves who hail from the green forest long for sovereignty in their own lands,

After a tacit agreement with the old king crumbled in the hands of your father,

Who has levied large taxes against them.

They hope to petition the regent for a new treaty.

The lady,

A wise woman and herbal healer,

Seeks aid for her village after blighted harvests.

The merchant,

Meanwhile,

Who set out only to sell his exotic dyes and silks to the affluent people of the capital,

Has been troubled to learn of the poor living conditions many face,

And fears his regent will suffer next.

You listen intently,

Soaking in their stories,

The authenticity of their desires,

And the ache in their hearts.

Only those with deep conviction could have traveled so far,

Overcoming such obstacles in pursuit of a better life for their people.

And you feel deep sorrow for their plight,

And for your family's role in the unseen troubles of a nation.

They,

Too,

Are the people you intend to serve.

Though they may hail from far away,

Holding your house accountable for their hardship,

They will be your responsibility as much as the admiring carver or the denizens of the capital.

This is the first time you've contemplated the true scope of your destiny,

And the far-reaching consequences of your actions.

You wonder if you have the wisdom and the strength to meet such multitudes.

But then,

You suppose,

Opening your eyes to the reality of life in the kingdom is the first step to righting wrongs and repairing trust.

It's the first step to good leadership,

In your estimation,

At least.

And if you are indeed to take the throne,

You would endeavor to be good,

To be loved by your people.

When the companions seek to know your story,

You aren't sure what to say,

So you don't say much.

Only that you've resided here in the capital all your life,

Seeing little of the world beyond.

That all you hope for is peace in the realm.

The half-elves share a side-long glance and a chuckle.

What is it,

You ask?

What's funny?

Don't pay them any mind,

Says the merchant.

They shouldn't laugh at such a thing,

With all the whispers about these days.

What whispers,

You press on?

The party huddles closer and their voices lower.

You mean the rumors haven't reached the capital yet,

Says the half-elf called Brightbuckle.

You know what happened to the old king,

Don't you?

Of course,

You say.

Everyone dies.

But even as the words escape your lips,

You question whether they're true.

After what you've heard today,

Is it even possible that in your sheltered existence,

You've heard an unbiased account of the old kings being put down by your father's guard?

Well,

Brightbuckle continues,

The thing is,

The old king had a child,

One who everyone thought was long gone.

Only if you believe the whispers,

They're not so gone after all.

You mean,

You say,

Wheels turning in your mind.

The lady who's called Morana picks up the sentence where you left off.

There's someone out there with a claim to the throne who might be gathering support at this moment.

Which might put a damper on your dream of peace.

Something awakens in your mind.

Again,

You seem to feel the sense of deja vu brought on by the dragon icon in the cobblestones.

You seem to see,

Swimming to the surface of your mind,

The face that arose to meet your reflection in last night's mysterious dream.

A face so like your own,

You took it as such in the dream world.

Was this,

Then,

The face of your unknown rival for the throne?

The child of the old king,

Whose life yours might have been had things been different.

The bearer of the dragon symbol all these years in hiding,

And yet free of the confines of court.

You can't explain it,

But tears spring to your eyes and your chest swells,

As if your heart has somehow become more capacious.

For so long,

You felt unsure about your succession to the throne.

Was it because,

Deep down,

You somehow knew this fate was meant for someone else?

Are you alright?

Morana's voice cuts clearly through the fog of your thoughts.

You lift your gaze to meet hers.

These whispers,

You say,

Rushing past her concern.

Do they speculate as to the whereabouts of the old king's heir?

Nothing concrete,

Says the merchant,

But the same rumors claim that dragons are flying again over the western mountains.

Really,

You say,

Your eyes wide,

But dragons haven't been seen since,

Well,

Since before I was born.

I thought they were extinct.

They are,

Says Brightbuckle,

But I dare say we've seen our share of impossible things on the road.

The companions share knowing glances.

Somehow,

Though they don't say another word about it,

You sense that they've been brought closer together by these impossible encounters.

They've had some great adventure together,

The kind you've always longed for.

The conversation turns,

Then,

To lighter topics,

And the half-elves arrange for plates of food to be brought to the table.

The merchant barters with the landlady of the alehouse for the last of the available rooms upstairs,

And you slide into a sense of comfort with your new friends.

The music travels from the square as the festivities get underway in earnest,

Without.

After a meal,

You follow the merry company out onto the square,

Where the afternoon sun casts long shadows from the clock tower over the crowds.

A troupe of actors are performing on a platform stage beneath the central column.

They are presenting,

It seems,

A dramatization of the great deeds of your father's reign.

You're surprised,

Though perhaps you shouldn't be,

To find that you are also a character in the play.

The valiant heir,

A chip off the old block who's destined to do great things for the realm.

The actor playing you bears a muslin tunic with a golden lion emblazoned across the chest and holds aloft a wooden sword.

Despite the flowery language and bombastic performances,

The action falls flat for you now that you've spent some time among the kingdom's common folk and learned of their everyday struggles.

You wonder how much of your own story you've built upon a fantasy.

The face of your mysterious rival swims to the forefront of your mind again.

It's funny,

You think,

Now that face is so much more recognizable to you than the face of the actor on the stage who enacts your destiny.

All of this,

You deduce,

Is in the service of preparing the festival-goers for this evening.

They'll get to know you in this shining,

Gallant form on the stage,

And then they'll cheer for the announcement of your succession.

The announcement.

You turn to the clock tower and wince when you see the time.

You must have gotten carried away in your cavorting with the jolly companions.

Now you've got to get back to the castle right away,

Lest your little escapade be discovered,

If indeed you haven't been found out already.

Whispering a hurried farewell to the lady,

The merchant,

And the half-elves who regard you with bemused expression,

You slip away through the crowds of onlookers.

Careful to watch your step on the cobblestones,

You find a small alleyway that diverts from the square.

This you follow to the towpath along the walls of the castle.

You go over Lunette's instructions for the castle's secret passageways in your head,

This time in reverse,

Up the steps from the dock,

Then left.

The river waters lap the rocks below,

Catching the waning light of the afternoon.

Your breathing steadies as you approach the entrance to the hidden dock.

You'll make it in time.

But as you begin to climb the steps ascending from the dock,

Something tugs at you.

Some part of you resists going back inside the castle that has so long held you at a distance from the world,

From the strange and wonderful people in it,

From the truth.

You take a deep breath and turn on the spot.

There,

Tied up and floating on the surface of the water just as before,

Is the tiny boat.

You just need a moment to think.

You close your eyes and try to conjure an image of the near future,

An image of yourself,

Proud and confident with the strength and loyalty of the lion,

Wearing the crown your father placed on your head,

Sitting on a throne above hopeful petitioners.

You try to see yourself as a great ruler,

Beloved by all from the capital city to the southernmost tip of the kingdom,

From the green forests to the forgotten villages.

But try as you might,

The image just won't form in your mind.

Instead,

You see the face from your dreams,

The face of someone you refuse to believe is your enemy,

For the very thought of this person gives you immeasurable comfort and hope.

As if they are calling out to you across the river and the mountains,

Across time,

Across the alternate lives you might have lived.

By the time you open your eyes,

You know that you cannot go back within the walls of the castle.

Not today.

You reach into the pocket of your borrowed clothes and close your hand around the wood-carved lion figurine.

You run a hand across the natural grooves in its mane and the cleft in its tail,

Then placing it gently on the top stair.

You hope it will find its way into Lunette's hands.

Quietly,

You whisper your thanks to her.

She's done more today than facilitate a whimsical adventure.

She has set something in motion beyond imagining.

And with a full heart and a clear mind,

You step into the little boat and untie it from the dock.

You've never sailed before,

But the river flows west toward the setting sun and the mountains.

With luck,

It may bring you to the feet of this forgotten heir,

The last of the dragons.

And you wonder if it was a boat like this from the same dock which carried the old king's child to safety so many years ago.

How strangely,

History harmonizes with itself.

And somehow,

You know you will find them,

As if there is an invisible thread that weaves your fates together in a vast tapestry.

It's impossible to see the whole picture now,

Only the smallest of stitches.

Only this choice,

And the next.

You spare a long gaze back at the castle,

Curled atop the city's great hill,

Its walls high and impenetrable.

You breathe in the fresh air,

The wind from the water whipping through your hair.

You taste freedom and unlimited possibility,

But also deep responsibility.

Whatever the future holds,

You owe much to the kind company who sat with you today,

To the people of the capital,

To the forgotten folk beyond the city.

Silently,

You make a vow to remember them,

To fight for them,

Whether you wear the crown or not.

The river stretches on before you,

Glistening under the setting sun.

The whole world sparkles,

Impossibly alive with hope and potential.

And so,

On you go,

To meet your fate,

To find a friend.

The fluid in the basin is cloudy,

As if obscured by a heavy mist or rain.

It gets like this when something is obstructing your magic.

Your mastery of second sight.

And that's been happening more and more.

You gaze a moment longer,

Even dipping your hand into the cool liquid to trouble its surface,

Hoping the images thereupon might rearrange themselves into coherent visions.

But the waters only ripple and return to stillness,

Yielding nothing more than a murky swirl of color and light on which is cast your own reflection.

You suppose it shouldn't surprise you that the sight is clouded.

All the commotion of today was bound to influence your ability to divine the future by magical means.

You only wish you had something more to share with the King Regent,

Who relies upon you as his most trusted advisor and court mage.

This day began with excitement,

Hope,

And promise as preparations were made for the highly anticipated festival,

And quickly descended into tumult.

What should have culminated in the surprise coronation of the Regent's son,

And the cementing of the family as the legitimate ruling dynasty of the kingdom,

Was cut short when it was discovered that the heir was not in his chambers,

Nor anywhere in the castle.

In an effort to maintain the atmosphere of mirth and keep up appearances,

Great pains have been taken to keep the news from spreading amongst the public,

Who continue to revel in the streets as the castle's inhabitants contemplate the next move.

You've withdrawn to the West Tower,

Where you have your quarters and private library to consult your gazing waters,

This basin of fluid that often yields vision and insight.

But cloudy as they are,

And streaked as the sky is when you look to the dusk for the appearance of stars,

You fear you won't have any answers for the King Regent by morning.

You stand by the window now,

Watching twilight settle over the city below the castle,

And the glimmer of last light over the water.

The revelry goes on in the great square,

Making a low,

Muffled curtain of noise,

Occasionally pierced through by a single voice or instrument.

They seem so far away from you,

The people.

As you watch the sun's final gasp of light disappear over the water,

You feel a slight tingle at the back of your neck,

A prickling awareness of something,

Like the faint fingers of magic and sight hovering inches from your skin.

If only you could grasp it,

Use it.

It's just out of reach.

You've noticed this feeling more and more with each passing year,

The sensation that magic is slowly slipping through your fingers,

Like a dream so swiftly forgotten upon waking.

You aren't sure if it's just you,

Growing older,

More disenchanted,

And thus losing your connection to the mysterious source of magic.

Or if,

As you suspect,

This is a sign that magic is finally leaving the realm for good.

When the last of the true elves departed the realm for their enchanted pastures,

They warned that this would happen,

And the signs were there long before.

The dragons all but died out,

And everyday people who once worked lesser spells could no longer produce their charms.

You are one of the few powerful people still connected to the source,

And able to wield magic at all.

But even that feels more and more inaccessible.

Nonetheless,

There come flashes every now and then,

Like sparks in the darkest night,

When your fingertips crackle as if with the force of thunderbolts,

Glimpses of the purest magic,

Strong as you can remember it.

In those moments,

Your second sight becomes limitless,

Capacious,

Allowing you for a brief glimmer to see beyond the folds of time.

It never lasts long enough to gather more than the vaguest impressions,

But it's as if the source of magic is reaching out,

Trying to rebuild its connection to the world.

If only you could understand how to strengthen that connection.

A soft knock at the door breaks your reverie.

You call absentmindedly for the visitor to enter.

It's one of the castle's many attendants.

He nods to you in acknowledgement,

Then says,

His grace is receiving petitioners in the throne room this evening.

One of the subjects,

A woman,

Has submitted a plea for audience with you.

This surprises you.

It's not often that the king regent opens the castle to petitioners and their pleas,

But on the rare occasion,

You've never availed yourself to the supplicants.

Peasants who kneel before the monarch ask for protection,

Enforcement,

Assistance with failing harvest.

Never do they seek the wisdom of the mage,

Or a glimpse of your gazing waters.

Your first instinct is to refuse the petitioner's request to see you.

What can you even offer when your waters are murky,

And your gaze so deeply clouded?

But something tugs at you,

Deep within.

A prick in your fingers,

A stirring of the mind,

A curiosity.

So you hesitate,

Before at last yielding.

I'll see her,

You say,

Adding that she should be brought to the tower.

The attendant nods,

Then exits.

A short time later,

He returns,

Followed by another.

She appears,

From her adornment,

To be a noblewoman,

Clad in luxurious threads,

Not what you'd expect from a common petitioner.

She is young,

But a disarming wisdom sparkles in her eyes.

Around her neck hangs a jeweled amulet.

You haven't seen its like before,

But something about the gem seems familiar,

Somehow.

As if you know it from a dream.

The lady Marana,

The attendant introduces her,

Of Silverfair.

This puzzles you further.

Silverfair,

To your knowledge,

Is a small,

Poor village in the low country.

What noble lords or ladies hail from such a place?

You signal to the attendant that he may go,

And he leaves you alone with the lady.

You offer her a seat by the fire,

Which she takes graciously.

Thank you for seeing me,

She says.

I've come a long way for audience with you.

Yes,

You respond.

I confess I've never traveled as far as Silverfair myself.

What brings you to the capital?

She draws in a deep breath,

And seems about to heave a heavy sigh,

But this she stifles.

It's clear that whatever plagues her thoughts is a matter of personal significance.

You can't explain it,

But right away you feel a sense of kinship with the lady.

I love my village,

She begins.

None of us have much,

But what we have,

We share.

Food,

Resources,

And wisdom.

For generations,

The women in my family have served the people of Silverfair as healers and wise women.

We know and care for the plants that cure disease,

Ease heartbreak,

And soothe pain.

I am the last of them,

And have no daughter of my own to train in the old wisdom.

But a local girl came to me,

Hoping to apprentice.

That was when the blight began.

Now you take the other chair by the fire,

Leaning forward slightly to take in the lady's tail.

The local farmers came to us,

Hoping to understand why their crops had failed,

She continues.

But even my garden,

Once so lush and abundant with healing and magical herbs,

Began to wither.

I have long been gifted with some stirrings of the second sight,

And can look to the plants in my garden for insights into the present and even clues to the future.

But with all my beloved flowers and herbs wilted and dying,

I lost my teachers,

And my connection.

In the silence that follows,

You scan the lady's face.

The complex sadness in her eyes mirrors the melancholy of your own mind,

Your constant questioning,

Your diminishing connection to the Source.

So,

I came to you,

The lady goes on,

As the most renowned of mages and seers in the realm,

To see if you had learned anything that could help me restore my garden and help my village.

I know such concerns must seem very small to the likes of you who advise kings,

But I didn't know where else to turn.

And yet,

She says,

A gleam awakening in her eyes now.

On my travels,

I've seen and heard such things that I never dreamt were possible.

I walked in other worlds and touched great mysteries,

And so I cannot help but hope that something is rousing in the realm,

Even as my garden grays.

The gemstone around her neck glows amber in the firelight.

Curiosity flares,

You sense the lady guards many secrets,

And the gem may be the key.

I wonder if you could tell me,

You say,

About these wonders,

These mysteries you've seen on your travels.

Then,

Deciding that you should offer something of yourself,

A gift of vulnerability in exchange for what she's already shared,

You add,

I too have been troubled by the changes that have come over my magic.

I do not see as clearly as I once did,

But like you,

I dare to hope.

The lady smiles gratefully,

Then weaves a most curious tale.

She tells of a hazel grove,

Deep in the forest,

Where she stopped to rest.

In that place,

She was met by a mysterious presence,

Fairy or elf,

She couldn't say,

Who brought her across a shimmering veil into his twilight kingdom.

That other world,

She says,

Bloomed abundant with magical things.

Herbs grew there that she'd never known.

The trees were heavy with the sweetest fruit,

And all were eternally young.

Then she spent what seemed like years there,

Hovering in the sweetness of its dreamlike fog,

Nearly forgetting her home and her people.

But when she returned at last to the familiar world,

She found no time had passed,

As if it really was a splendid dream.

But I had this,

She gestures to the gemstone,

A parting gift from those fair ones,

To assure myself I hadn't dreamt it all.

So,

You think,

She carries an artifact from another world,

Rich in magic?

A swell of intrigue rises in you,

And a feeling like envy.

What is it about this woman,

From a poor country village,

That has earned her entry into enchanted lands,

Has rewarded her with items of powerful magic?

Why would you,

Advisor to kings,

The most famed magician in the land,

Be passed over for such gifts?

You stand and go again to the pedestal,

Where the basin of water rests,

Hoping vainly that you'll see something on the surface.

But just as before,

The waters are clouded,

As if a thick fog suspends your visions.

Outside the window,

The sun has set,

And the moody pall of blue comes to rest over the capital.

You sigh,

Realizing that the harder you try to pull patterns from the depth of the basin,

The more it resists,

The more it muddies.

You feel more disconnected than ever from your own power,

Certain that even if you attempted lesser magic,

Putting out the flame in the fireplace,

Or a simple glamour,

You'd be hopelessly incapable.

You bring yourself to look again upon Lady Mirana,

Whose brows are knitted with concern.

You can hardly stand to have her pity you.

Didn't she,

After all,

Come seeking your advice as the highest mage in the realm?

You feel yourself inch closer to the brink of petty jealousy,

An emotion you try never to stoop to.

You have half a mind to send the woman away,

And half a mind to demand that she turn over the amulet to you for further study.

Your eyes flick from her face to the gemstone,

And then back again to those wise,

Inquiring eyes.

And jealousy,

Which growls like a beast within your breast,

Begins to settle,

Purring,

And then slowly dissolving.

This woman,

Mysterious origins and adventures aside,

Is here for one reason.

To help the people she loves.

She is a healer and a steward.

Her devotion to the people of Silverfair was strong enough to wrest her from the haze of that fair,

Enchanted country.

How many could say the same in her circumstances?

You consider your own role in the kingdom.

Valued most for your magical ability,

You've advised the king regent since he assumed the throne.

And before that,

You apprenticed under the sorcerer who advised the old king.

Always,

You've been a political figure first.

You and your magic beholden to the commands of the one in charge.

But is it not the highest goal of leadership?

To serve the people of the realm?

How long has it been since you lent your ear to one of the common folk,

Or walked among them?

How long,

Indeed,

Since you descended from your tower,

This sparkling citadel which houses all the instruments of your magic,

Yet is so achingly distant from the people you purport to serve?

There are moments,

You think,

When life seems all a cacophony of random events and chance encounters,

Of short-sighted stumbles and shots taken in the dark.

And then,

There are moments,

Rare but exhilarating,

When the threads of fate seem to weave themselves into stunning tapestry.

When people enter your life at precisely the moment you need to meet them.

And they you.

This,

You're certain,

Is one of those moments.

Somehow,

You understand that this woman,

Who journeyed from half a world away to speak with you,

May hold the key to all your questions.

In spite of everything,

You admire her.

And more than that,

You need her.

You need each other.

Perhaps by embracing her worldview of service,

You might regain some of your lost connection to the source.

You might find some insight about the lost air.

But first,

You must take the first step,

And leave your isolated,

Elevated sanctuary.

Would you care to see the royal gardens,

You say.

A smile crosses the lady's face,

And she nods.

Down you go,

Down the spiral steps from your tower,

Each stare bringing you down closer to the earth,

To the lives that seem small when viewed from high above,

The voices that blend together when heard from afar.

But there is nothing small about a life,

Any life.

This floods back to you as you travel downward.

The lady walks behind you as you lead the way through tapestried corridors,

And at last through gilded brass doors into the moonlit night.

The royal gardens flank the castle on multiple sides,

With sprawling lawns and manicured terraces.

But you lead the lady past tree-lined alleys and rose-dotted walkways.

You have a special destination in mind.

There's a corner of the garden behind wrought iron gates and evergreen hedges to which you lead her.

It's where the plants grow wilder,

Overlapping and organic,

Without the precision or neatness of the rest of the gardens.

Here,

Herbs and flowers grow that might be used in potions or charms.

Here,

As nowhere else in the limits of the castle,

You might find weeds thriving,

For even weeds can be magic or medicine,

Without anyone to pull them out by the roots.

You must admit that you haven't set foot in the herb garden in a long time.

Not since the days of your apprenticeship have you relied heavily on plant magic,

Always seeking divinatory wisdom from the waters or the stars.

But as you pass through its gates,

Entering this unique and solitary sanctuary,

The melange of aromas awaken distant memories.

Ivy creeps up the stone benches that flank the fountain at the center of the garden.

Water trickles softly,

Musically,

Through the sculptural decor.

The moss-covered fountain is a relic of the old king's reign,

Forgotten here.

A sculpted dragon,

The symbol of his royal house,

Spills water instead of fire from its mouth.

The lady emits a short gasp upon entering the garden.

Her eyes light up as she takes in the abundance of herbs,

Some common,

Others incredibly rare.

She kneels and observes the complex undergrowth,

Running her hands through the foliage.

This is extraordinary,

She says.

I could only dream of such growth.

You're struck by the irony of her words.

This secret garden,

Tucked away and hidden from the people of the realm,

Carries all the natural magic she seeks.

Meanwhile,

A subject of the kingdom has walked in magical worlds you would give anything to see.

Again,

The thought rings in your head that you need each other.

That only by sharing wisdom,

Hers earthly and nature-based,

Yours ethereal and empyrean,

Can you make any progress toward healing the land,

The people,

And ultimately,

The source of magic.

I'm afraid,

You say,

The ache of honesty outweighed by optimism,

That I cannot give you answers that might heal the blight affecting your village.

As I've said,

My own sight is no longer clear,

But I believe you came here for a reason.

She inclines her head,

Questioning.

The only route for you to take is humility.

But even before you go on,

You can feel the impact of the words you're about to say.

Just the intention of saying them seems to ignite a spark of hope,

Of possibility.

Or,

Do you dare even think it?

Magic.

Magic.

Teach me,

You say,

Your ways of herbal magic,

Your plant lore.

I've been so long away from the roots and flowers that I scarcely recall their names.

Show me your ways,

And I will teach you everything I know of magic.

Everything in my library is yours to read,

My mind yours to learn from.

Perhaps together we can help your people,

And all the people of the kingdom.

A soft shimmer of moonlight breaks over the hedges,

The half-moon gazes into the herb garden and reflects on the waters of the fountain.

The night sings with insects and birds,

The distant sounds of ongoing revelry beyond the castle walls.

Morana gets to her feet,

Her gemstone reflects the deep greenery of the surroundings.

In the simmering silence between you,

A hushed breeze comes through the hedges,

Making your skin prickle with goosebumps.

This is one of those moments,

You think,

When possibility itself feels like magic.

When the threads of fate intertwine,

Golden across time.

You wonder if she feels it too,

That this is the root,

The foundation,

The birth of a great partnership.

The beginning of a long journey to reawaken magic in the realm,

Not through pursuit of great power,

But through acts of kindness,

Mercy,

Humility,

And service.

Years from now,

You'll look back to this as the moment earth and water met,

And wove their gifts together for the betterment of all.

The lady smiles.

It is unspoken,

Yet agreed,

As if a bond has forged between your minds in the short time you've known each other.

Destiny's hands seem to turn the dial and seal the compact.

Your fingertips tremble as if with renewed magic.

Morana's face suggests that the same is true for her.

Then her eyes flick toward the fountain,

And your gaze follows.

A thin mist hovers over the pool of water.

You go to its edge,

And the mist ripples and clears.

There,

In the waters of the forgotten fountain,

So far below the basin into which you've gazed for answers,

There form shapes and visions from the deep.

At first they are formless and vague,

Soon solidifying into flashes of familiar images.

You can see a boat on the water at sunset,

Steered by a solitary rower.

A cave in the mountains.

A cottage overgrown with ivy and moonflowers.

A lion prowling through the forest.

A tavern with a fire gleaming in the window.

A dragon on wing.

The rush of vision is too much to comprehend all at once,

But in your heart,

Hope rises high.

For in that water,

You've seen wondrous things.

The resurgence of your gift itself alluding to a renaissance of magic.

Now,

You've a partner,

And a purpose.

The garden shivers under a low wind.

Unseen by your eyes,

Roots and petals are stirring.

Drinking water from a newly enchanted spring.

Across the world,

New things are growing,

Awakening as if from sleep,

Stirred by hope.

Hope blows the wind on the waves of the waters that surround the capital,

Pushing a little boat onward.

Hope draws the moon in closer.

And all the realm is quiet,

Quivering,

Poised on the precipice of rebirth.

How fiercely the sun burned when it set upon the water.

Sailing into its liquid light was an act of defiance,

Bravery,

Quiet revolution.

How noble you felt then,

How singular,

Bobbing over the river in the little boat.

All those nights ago when you took that courageous step,

You envisioned something different.

Rugged adventuring,

Perhaps,

Like the heroes in romances.

You pictured yourself rising to meet challenges with the confidence and intuition of a daring knight.

Instead,

You've discovered rather rapidly that a life within castle walls,

A life of sheltered luxury,

Has not,

In fact,

Prepared you to set out on your own into the world.

You've got a fire going at last,

After many tries,

And for this you're grateful as darkness falls in the depths of the forest.

You warm your hands by the crackling flame and sigh heavily as you sit,

Allowing your body to relax for the first time today.

You've been on your feet since the sun rose,

Following its movement across the sky,

Eyes upward all the while,

Peering through the trees for signs.

How funny to think as you huddle for warmth among the wild roots that only days ago,

You were set to ascend to the high throne of the realm.

You feasted on the finest foods in the kingdom,

Seasoned with spices,

Imported from the south,

And tonight you pick through foraged berries,

Grateful you've read enough to know which are safe to eat.

And while a part of you,

The part accustomed to a hot meal,

A warm bed,

And fresh clothes laid out by the servants of the castle,

Longs to turn tail and go back to your father's keep,

Your beating heart remembers the reason for your departure,

And clings to determination.

You resolve not to be the villain in this story,

If and when it's told a thousand years from now.

Perhaps you won't be its hero either,

But if you can help it,

You'll be remembered for doing what was right.

You never could see yourself on the throne,

Despite being raised for it.

Power has always seemed to you this impossibly unsavory thing,

Something that once won,

Must be clung to at all costs.

You watched your father's furrowed brow etch permanent lines into his face,

Saw how fearful he was of losing control of the realm,

Despite what seemed to you like a secure reign.

But his rule is,

After all,

A regency.

He never claimed the title of monarch.

That was reserved for you.

You were called upon to cement your family's legacy as the true rulers of the realm,

And for a time,

Loyalty to your house overrode your distaste for power.

But on the day your ascendancy was set to be declared,

You made a choice that changed your life forever,

And set you on the path toward your current misadventure.

On that fateful day,

You stepped beyond the walls of the keep to walk among the people of the capital.

Unsupervised and in commoner's clothing,

You spoke with people from all over the realm,

Learning of their fears and struggles,

And hearing stories of the strange magic waking across the land.

You've long known that your father came to be regent after the old king was deposed by his army,

But for the first time in the company of the common folk,

You learned of the existence of the old king's child.

Though they were thought long gone,

Rumors have surfaced that the youth recently came of age,

And now,

Gathers support in the west.

Rather than igniting a sense of jealousy or defensiveness,

However,

This revelation of someone with potentially a more legitimate claim to the throne has sparked a feeling of uncanny lightness,

Of liberation,

As if a great weight has been lifted,

And you've been absolved of the responsibility to rule.

It's never so simple,

Though,

Is it?

Through your interactions with the common people,

You came to truly empathize with the challenges faced by those outside the castle walls,

And with that understanding came deep resolve,

A sense of clear responsibility.

You feel compelled to help the people of the realm,

To advocate for those without a voice,

To serve all,

Whether you do so from the throne or not.

It isn't power you're interested in,

But stewardship.

And so,

To simply step aside in favor of this other claimant would be a disservice to the people.

You owe it to them,

And yourself,

To discover whether this lost heir will rule with their best interests at heart,

Or whether they only seek power and revenge for their own sake.

For all these reasons,

For the conflict and care in your heart,

And for the sake of the people,

You stepped into a small boat and followed the river westward.

And westward you've continued to travel,

On nothing more than an inkling that your quarry lies somewhere in the vicinity of the western mountains.

You've heard whispers that a dragon was spotted there not long ago,

The first dragon sighting in decades.

You know the symbol of the old king's house was the dragon,

So such a rumor can hardly be a coincidence.

Certainly,

The thought of facing a dragon,

And perhaps its rider,

Strikes fear in your heart,

But you believe you're motivated by something higher than fear.

You might move forward in trust,

And in love.

A chorus of crickets sends you softly to sleep,

The distant songs of night birds never penetrating your deep slumber.

Muscles exhausted from walking at last relax,

Repair,

And restore themselves in rest.

And soon you are visited,

As you are every night now,

By the dream.

In it,

You glide through a forest,

Perhaps this forest,

With a sword at your side.

And the mist rolls in about the trees with a mirror-like shine,

Reflecting back to you a face you've never seen in the waking world.

But one so familiar,

It almost aches.

You rise with the sun,

And waste no time continuing your journey.

Surely you think there must soon be an end to this forest.

And as you go,

You amuse yourself with remembrances of the books you've read,

The lays and romances told by court troubadours.

Stories of enchanted forests,

Landscapes of adventure.

What if,

Round the next tree,

You discover someone in need of rescuing?

Meet with merry thieves,

Or encounter questing beasts?

It's a pleasant enough way to pass the time,

Even as your eyes nervously flick upward now and then,

Searching the skies for a real beast out of the storybooks.

Though you do not regret your decision to leave the city,

And you firmly believe you are on a path to doing what's right,

You do have one regret.

It was,

You realize,

Impulsive to jump into a boat with no provisions and no sword.

All your years of training in swordplay amount to little when you walk alone and unarmed in the wood.

So while you think on myths and monsters,

You silently hope you encounter no one in the trees,

Whether friend or foe.

The sun is just beginning to weep westerly when the trees become less dense,

And for the first time you can see where the forest ends.

It's a relief to leave the woods,

But open country comes with its own feeling of exposure.

As you emerge from the trees and meet a great expanse of shallow hills,

You realize,

Maybe for the first time,

How enclosed your life has always been.

You're not sure you've ever stood in such vast,

Uncultivated space.

It's strange,

And you meet it with something like awe.

Over the hills you travel on,

Until,

In the late afternoon light,

You crest a knoll to come upon a village.

Nestled there between the rolling hills,

It is idyllic and charming,

Like the little towns of storybooks.

From one establishment,

You can see smoke rising from the chimney,

And even from your place a short distance away,

You catch the scent of food.

Real food.

Your stomach growls,

Unsated by the foraged berries of the wood,

And you yearn to sit in comfort and eat what you will.

Before you know it,

You are practically bounding toward the establishment,

Hunger and hope giving you renewed energy.

It's a public house you find on approach,

The stag's head.

As the door swings open and a rambunctious duo exit,

With them come the tantalizing aromas of home-cooked meals.

Before you step inside,

However,

You stop the merry fellows,

Leaving the establishment.

Begging your pardon,

Friends,

You say,

Could you tell me the name of this town?

Ah,

A traveler,

Says the taller of the two.

Marry me.

A charming greeting.

In your head rings the old song that's often sung at midwinter in the capital.

Merry meet and merry part,

And merry meet again.

Merry meet indeed,

You respond,

And the two men chortle,

Clap you jovially on the back,

And depart.

You watch them go,

Bewildered,

But assume they've simply overindulged in ale.

In you go,

Your mouth watering at the scent of real,

Fresh food.

The frenzied barmaid greets you,

And points to a small table in the corner.

The place is nearly full,

And abuzz with laughter and conversation.

This would seem a happy,

Energetic place.

When,

A short time later,

You're fed and content,

And the tavern's denizens slowly trickle out,

You catch the barmaid's attention.

When you inform her that you're passing through from other lands,

She gives you an amused expression,

Suggesting that she already knows.

She must know everyone in town,

You think.

And you pose to her the same question you asked the men outside.

What is the name of this town?

Marrymeat,

She smiles.

Marrymeat to you,

You respond,

Then reiterate your question.

The barmaid chuckles.

My friend,

She says,

This is the town of Marrymeat.

And she scurries back toward the kitchen,

Still chuckling under her breath at your ignorance.

And now the middle-aged man and woman at the next table lean toward you.

Where are you coming from?

The man says,

Good-naturedly.

You know better than to give too much information.

After all,

The heir to the throne,

Discovered unarmed in unfamiliar territory,

Is a recipe for more than mischief.

So you simply respond,

East.

The strangers nod.

Have you got some place to stay?

Asks the woman.

I'd hope to find an inn,

If you can tell me where to go,

You answer.

You'll want to get in before sundown,

She says.

You give her a puzzled look.

The man,

Her husband,

You presume,

Jumps in.

We've a room to let,

He says.

We don't live far,

And we'll charge a fair price.

After some negotiation,

You shake the hands of your new landlords,

William and Rose.

They strike you as generous,

Playful folk.

They settle up with the barmaid,

And together you depart the stag's head.

The journey to their little house is short,

As they explained,

But it does take you across the village square.

It's a sort of effortlessly charming,

You find.

And as pleasant as it is to pass through,

You're surprised to see it so empty of people.

But the sun sags,

And the few folk who still loiter in the square are quickly packing up to go.

You can't help but notice the centerpiece of the square,

Though,

And despite your host's eagerness to get home,

You stop them to inquire about it.

Surrounded by iron fencing and a small garden,

At the center of the square there is a colossal stone,

Rough and jagged around its edges.

It's nearly as tall as you are,

And just as wide as it is high.

But what makes the thing this unassuming boulder so eye-catching is the blade protruding from it,

Which catches the last of the light and glints so bright you must shield your eyes.

The blade is silver steel,

And the hilt a gleaming gold.

Wedged at an angle into the very heart of the rock,

Its strange appearance sends something of a shiver through you.

In the soft haze of waning sun,

The sword sparkles and hums.

Rose and William say little,

Only that it was here before the town of Merrymeet.

Ever built around it,

It's a curiosity which inspires many local legends.

They'll tell you more,

Whatever they know,

But it really is time to get inside.

Why the haste,

You wonder aloud,

Stepping over the threshold of your host's modest home,

A townhouse close to the village square.

The spare room's up there,

William says,

Then gestures to another chamber.

You can wash up in there whenever you like,

Surely you're tired from the journey.

But you continue to press the couple's reticence,

Asking again why there is such urgency to be inside before sundown.

It hasn't always been this way,

Says Rose.

Merrymeet was as safe as safe can be.

Till recently,

When the beast came.

The beast,

You ask?

Every night,

William picks up where his wife left off.

It comes out of the woods and walks the streets of the town,

Like it's looking for something,

Or prowling for food.

And then by morning,

It's gone.

But we're a town that looks after people.

Everyone's inside before dark now,

And we won't let travelers like yourself be caught unawares.

What is this beast,

You ask?

Have you ever seen it?

William chuckles.

Wouldn't be here if I had.

Has anyone seen it,

Then?

Has it harmed anyone?

In your mind,

You picture a wolf,

Or even a bear,

Lumbering out of the forest.

The same forest you so recently passed through,

Even camped in,

Untouched by beasts of any kind.

Well,

No,

Says Rose.

But the blacksmith heard it sniffing around his door one evening,

And the butcher stores were raided not long ago.

And you can sense that both your hosts are unnerved.

You certainly didn't intend to take advantage of their hospitality,

And then question their worries and experience.

The people of Merrymeet would,

After all,

Be among your subjects,

Should you assume the crown one day.

It occurs to you that this presents a unique opportunity to practice empathy and understanding without the trappings of court.

I'm sorry,

You say.

I don't mean to cast any doubt.

I understand how you feel,

And I wish I knew how to help.

As William brings tea and nightcaps,

You turn to the other subject that piques your curiosity.

The sword,

You say.

Can you tell me more about it?

This subject seems to lift the spirits of your company,

As the sun finally sets outside the little townhouse.

It turns out,

There are countless local legends that have sprung from the blade wedged in the stone.

As you heard before,

The whole town was built around it,

And no one seems to know how long it was there before the square was constructed.

Many believe it was put there by an ancient warrior,

One of the great proto-kings of myth,

Who drove his own sword into the rock as a symbolic gesture to profess that peace would now reign in the realm.

And some say that only when the hero is reborn,

Or reawakened from centuries-long slumber,

Will the blade be reclaimed.

Others believe any worthy hero or leader might one day pull the sword from the stone.

In fact,

Each year,

On the longest day of summer,

The folk of Merrymeet gather in the village square to play games,

Dance and sing,

Serve a great feast,

And test their strength.

One by one,

Every person in the town who wishes can take their turn and try to pull the sword from the rock.

It's all good fun and nothing more,

William insists,

For no one has the strength to dislodge the thing from its place.

At this,

Rose laughs and informs you that her husband tries and fails every year.

The conversation warms you.

You've never spent this kind of dedicated time with honest,

Working people.

Their fears,

Their joys,

These are somehow infinitely more interesting and endearing than the goings-on of the aristocracy and courtiers.

You imagine the atmosphere at this summer festival,

The laughter,

The good-natured competition.

You find yourself longing for such a community,

And for a moment,

You entertain the notion of casting everything off,

Abandoning your quest and finding work here in the village of Merrymeet.

You can easily see yourself fulfilled here,

Working as an apprentice or selling food,

Doing something to serve the community.

But still there nags the reminder of your higher purpose,

To find the lost heir to the throne,

The reminder of your role in the fate of an entire kingdom.

All the while,

You converse with William and Rose,

You listen and look to the windows.

Something about the townsfolk's fear of this supposed beast doesn't sit right with you.

You aim not to distress your hosts any longer about it,

But you long to know more,

And more.

When cups are empty and eyelids heavy,

You bid goodnight to William and Rose.

You wash up and step into clothes they've left for you to borrow,

While yours,

Freshly washed,

Hang to dry overnight.

After several nights sleeping on knotted roots and damp soil,

The bed in the spare room feels fit for royalty.

As you climb beneath the covers,

Gratitude sinks in sweetly.

Now,

More than once,

You've seen firsthand the kindness of common people,

Of strangers,

The willingness of your would-be subjects to extend themselves for others.

You are determined to depart Merrymead in the morning,

And continue your journey westward.

But there's a cozy part of you that already feels very much at home,

And feels an attachment and responsibility to the townsfolk.

Should you choose to take the crown when all is said and done,

The first thing you'll do is send someone to investigate this mysterious night visitor to the village and free them from the fear.

The sleep comes over you quickly,

As you relish the comfort of a real bed in the enclosed space.

But it doesn't stay long.

You aren't even asleep long enough for the dream to come.

You wake,

Awash in moonlight,

And for a moment you wonder if you're back in the woods.

But here you are,

Snug beneath blankets in a warm chamber.

Through the window there streams the glow of a bright full moon.

You stand rubbing your eyes,

And go to the window to close the drapes.

But first you look outside,

At the quiet,

Sleepy village of Merrymead.

In the flood of moonlight you can see quite well,

The hills that surround the town,

Even the tops of the trees in that wild forest beyond.

And you've got a few of a corner of the square,

And just a few of the intersecting,

Winding alleys that branch off from it.

It's so serene,

So quaint,

This peaceful and idyllic counterpoint to your charmed existence.

And you wonder,

What might it have been like to grow up in a place like this?

What kind of person would you be?

Soon the sleepiness resumes,

Softening your face and eyelids.

As you let loose the drape and turn to go back to bed though,

Something catches your eye.

You gaze downward at the darkened street,

And as your eyes acclimate to the dimness,

You can make out something.

A shadow,

Large and vague,

Moving through the alley below.

What is that,

You wonder?

You track its movements,

Till it leaves your line of sight.

It's almost mesmerizing to watch the shadow go,

Like it draws your attention in.

Is this the mysterious creature then,

Whose nightly presence forces the residents of Merrymeet to hide in their homes?

And if it is,

Then why do you feel transfixed by it,

Not with fear,

But with aching curiosity?

Is it courage or delusion that decides what you do next?

You hardly spare time for a second thought before you're out the door of the chamber,

And tiptoeing down the stairs,

Aiming not to disturb your hosts if you can help it.

You silently step out the front door and onto the dim alley lit only by the pale glow of the moon.

There's something quietly thrilling about being here,

The only soul with the streets to yourself.

Well,

You and the curious,

Vague shadow.

Somehow you feel no fear,

Only a strong desire to uncover the mystery.

So you go,

Along the alleyway in the direction you saw the shadow pass.

You keep your footfalls soft,

Moving with the stealth you've mastered from training in swordplay.

There's a whisper of a chill in the night,

And it meets your lungs with invigorating freshness.

The scent of the forest pines carries,

Even here,

Throughout the valley.

By the low light,

The townhouses might be looming trees,

And the streets a winding forest path.

The village,

An enchanted wood,

The landscape of adventure.

The alleys twist and turn,

And you seem to cover the whole of the town by its darkened corridors.

Round and back,

And through and back again,

You move as if through a maze.

The night ages with each curve you round,

Before eventually,

You find yourself back in the city.

It's sublimely serene here,

And you've found no trace of the shadow you're tracking.

This unknown beast.

A thin cloud scuds across the full moon,

Augmenting the light.

It's a subtle change,

But somehow,

It seems to shift the whole world around you.

Changing the direction and perspective of the shadows around.

You find your gaze drawn to the sword at the center of the plaza.

Even now,

In the dead of night,

It appears lit from within.

You imagine this land the way it was before the first stones were laid for the town hall,

When the valley blended seamlessly with the hills.

You can see in your mind the shape of an ancient hero.

A warrior who laid down his sword,

Drove it into the very rock,

In pursuit of peace.

Is this truly a relic of the mythic past before you?

Did such leaders ever exist?

Those willing to put an end to conflict,

Even if it meant relinquishing power?

So many questions.

So many mysteries,

Just in this single,

Small town.

How much have you missed all these years,

Hiding behind the walls of your father's keep?

You take a few steps toward the sword embedded in the stone,

And the light shifts again,

As the moon emerges from behind its veil of clouds.

All is once again bathed in its glow.

And from behind you,

There comes the near imperceptible sound of movement.

A rustle.

A footfall.

You turn around,

Facing the mouth of the alley from which you came,

And at once,

You can see two green eyes glittering in the darkness.

Slowly,

You take a step backward,

And another,

Backing away from those eyes,

And moving closer to the center of the square.

Then,

It steps into the moonglow,

One padded paw at a time,

Matching your cautious pace.

Even before you see its face,

You're strangely reminded of the scullery cat at the castle servants keep around to handle pests in the kitchen.

The way the cat slowly stalks mice,

Moving with intense focus and deliberation.

And this creature,

Stepping now toward you in rhythm with your footfalls,

Is,

You recognize,

A cat,

But not the kind you'd keep in the home for mousing.

This is,

In no uncertain terms,

A beast.

Great and majestic,

Muscular and broad,

With a wild mane of hair framing its grave and glorious face.

You've never seen this kind of creature face to face before,

But you know it well.

Its image dons the heraldry of your royal house,

Graces the capital and the keep in tapestry,

Statuary,

And clothing.

This beast is a lion.

And is it ridiculous to think,

Even as you back away,

That this creature is beautiful?

You ought to be more afraid,

Oughtn't you?

This ought to feel like the movements of predator and prey.

So why does it feel to you more like a dance,

The echoing waltz of time and destiny,

Myth and memory?

Soon you realize you've come up against the gate that surrounds the monument and the sword.

The lion advances,

Still.

Without thinking,

You hoist yourself up and over the shallow gate.

The lion comes sniffing toward it,

Pacing back and forth,

As if assessing the iron for weaknesses,

Or trying to find a way through the barrier.

You reach for a crag in the mass of stone and climb,

Putting more distance between yourself and the animal.

It circles you pensively,

And you can faintly hear a low rumble in its belly.

This is some conundrum you've gotten yourself into.

What happens next relies very much on what the lion does.

Perhaps it will lose interest in you and stalk its way back to the forest.

That,

However,

Could take all night.

And you don't fancy spending all these chilly hours huddled atop a rock.

Then,

There's the possibility that the lion could find a way through the gate,

Either by leaping over it,

Or even chewing its way through.

Once again,

You chastise yourself for leaving the capital in such haste,

With no weapon or means of defense.

No sword.

But then,

Here you are,

Atop the monumental rock,

In which is driven a sword out of legend.

About you circles a wild beast,

The symbol of your house.

The moon bears witness,

And the trees,

And the hills.

All of this feels very much like a dream,

Or a myth,

Or a song.

There is only one way forward.

And whatever the outcome,

You are poised to learn something about yourself.

Are you worthy?

Are you a hero?

Are you fit to bear the burdens of leadership,

Wielding power in service of something bigger than yourself?

Or are you better suited to the modest life,

To serve in quieter ways in smaller communities,

And ultimately,

Can a sword even answer these questions for you?

The breeze,

The whisper of the forest beyond the hills,

The beads of moonlight,

And the rumble of the circling lion.

All these collapse to a gentle hum,

Like a harp string plucked and sustained.

A buzzing in your ears,

And a ringing clarity.

A presence of mind.

Your dominant hand,

As if moved by a force beyond you,

Reaches and clasps round the hilt of the unclaimable sword.

And the cold steel warms to you,

All but instantly.

You tighten your grip,

While the world seems to wait,

With bated breath,

Solemn and still,

As you activate the muscles in your arm.

Your other hand comes to meet the one already grasping,

And with one swift heave,

You pull.

There's a momentary,

Dizzy dissonance in the expectation of an immovable object,

Confronted with the reality of an effortless recoil.

You are nearly thrown back with the thrust of your own strength,

As the sword,

So long lodged in stone,

Comes sliding out like a knife from butter.

The blade glistens in the moonlight,

And the sound of it slipping from the rock joins with the hum of the hills.

Dazed and disbelieving,

You marvel at the sword in your hands,

The symbol of worth,

Of heroism,

Of war and peace.

It's surprisingly light for a blade of its size,

With a balance unmatched by any you've trained with.

And yet it feels remarkably at home in your hands,

Like you've always known its lines and curves,

Its heft and flexibility.

This blade,

You must believe,

Is yours,

Has been waiting for you all these ages.

But there will be time,

You think,

To admire,

To ponder the meaning of the sword and your claiming of it.

Now is the time to confront the beast who stalks you,

To show strength and courage,

And drive it,

You hope,

From the happy village of Merrymeet.

With caution,

But also a lightness to your step that was not there before,

You leap down from the rock.

The lion regards you with a glint in his eyes.

He stops his circling,

Conscious,

It seems,

Of the outstretched blade and the danger it poses.

As you approach the garden gate,

Stepping between the primroses,

The lion perceptibly blinches.

Yes,

You realize,

There is fear in those eyes.

Or if not fear,

A kind of awesome reverence.

With this boost of confidence,

You hoist yourself up and over the iron gate once more,

So the only thing between you and the lion is the sword.

There's a strange sense of calm that settles over you now,

A feeling of surrender to circumstance.

There is no road map for what you are doing,

Or indeed for any choice you've made since that fateful day you left the castle.

Every step you've taken has been a wild leap of faith.

So,

In the same way you've put your trust in the world,

The path,

The river to guide you right,

You now put your trust in the extraordinary blade you carry.

You take a slow step forward,

Toward the lion,

Thinking you can drive him back,

Intimidate him enough to send him through the hills,

Without doing any harm to the beast.

An ideal outcome,

Certainly.

You take another step,

And now the blade nearly touches the nose of the majestic animal.

But just when you expect the lion to begin backing away,

Something else happens,

Something entirely unexpected.

The lion lowers his heavy,

Maned head,

Then sits backward on his haunches.

With front paws outstretched,

He turns his face toward the ground,

And stills.

The gesture is unmistakable.

The lion is bowing before you.

It's only now that you realize how close it is to morning,

As a glimmer of rosy warmth tints the sky in the east.

Dawn approaches,

And a great lion,

The symbol of your house,

Kneels at your feet.

With only a moment's hesitation,

You slowly lower your blade.

With one hand outstretched,

Your heart thumping away in your chest,

But your breathing steady,

A wave of serenity within,

Without.

And you step forward once more,

A little at a time,

Until the lion lifts his eyes the slightest bit,

And uncannily,

Like a house cat angling for attention,

Pushes his head into your hand.

And the contact your breath catches in your throat.

It's such an impossible thing.

But here you are.

Between you,

Something sparkles.

Crimson rays of emergent sunlight begin to dapple the humming hills,

And a kingly beast nuzzles your hand.

There is something wondrous at work here,

You recognize.

Does it come from the sword,

Or from you?

Do you wield some unfathomable instrument of peace?

Whatever the course,

You understand one thing clearly in this moment.

You were meant to come here,

To meet the folk of this town,

To find the sword,

And to encounter the beast.

He is no harmful creature to be feared,

But a boon.

And beyond any doubt,

You know that the lion will become your closest,

Most loyal companion in this adventure.

It's all there,

In the palpable connection between you.

He was waiting for you,

Stalking the streets each night,

Hoping to pull out your scent.

Now the sun is rising,

Round and golden over the trees.

The same sun rises over the waters of the capital,

And the hiding place of your supposed rival for the crown.

The sun rises over Merrymead,

And with it the people are rising,

Coming out of their homes to begin the work of another day.

To ring the bells and put out the washing,

To open the businesses and sell their wares.

First they trickle,

And then they flood into the square.

And with them rise shouts of disbelief and awe at what they see.

A stranger,

A traveler,

Bearing the sword of legend,

Subduing a wild and wondersome beast.

With this new companion,

And this sword of power,

He will depart the village.

He will find the lost heir to the kingdom,

And the answers to all the questions that haunt you still.

But this will not be the last time you set foot in Merrymead.

These are your people.

These are folk who sheltered you,

And welcomed you as a stranger.

And you would repay that kindness.

You will at length return.

For in your mind an old song echoes.

It skips along the shining aura of sunrise,

And through the palm of your hand,

And your fingers twined in the lion's mane.

Merrymead,

And Merrypart,

And Merrymead again.

After the rain,

When the charcoal skies have a glow to them,

And birds begin to sing again,

Shaking the drops from their feathers,

When the soil is damp and the roots are restless.

When clouds come down to earth in the form of migrating mists.

In that ripe and tranquil transit,

An observer with eyes to the ground might meet the most alien visitors.

Full-fruited,

Where there was only soil and not weed once,

Mushrooms suddenly sprinkle the landscape,

Striking like sky fire in unintelligible patterns.

Yet,

Brought on by moisture,

These emergent bodies become footprints,

Breadcrumbs,

Enchanting the observer to your door.

But,

Where lies that door today?

This age,

In the aftermath of rain,

Both literal and symbolic?

In many ways,

You and your wandering house and garden are the fruiting mushrooms of that obscure,

Subterranean network that underpins the observable world.

Summoned up,

Full-flowering in a new time and place,

Arising anew whenever and wherever you need it.

You belong to the land.

That was the choice you made an age or so ago,

When all the others of your kind departed to a new kingdom of their own making,

Beyond a veil of twilight.

You played a part in the making of that world,

Too.

You spun its glass citadel into being.

It was the last time you channeled the deep elven magic that was your birthright.

On this side of the mist,

Your power is diminished,

But you have no regrets.

When the elves left this world behind,

Taking their magic with them,

They also abandoned the extraordinary beings,

Relationships,

And happenings of this realm.

They chose a world of perfection,

Stagnation,

Of power frozen in time.

A world unchanging,

A world without progress,

And also without decay.

You could never choose such a world.

Elves are immortal.

At least,

That's the popular theory.

You've never known an elf to die of old age,

Anyway.

But you are not immune to the peculiar transformations brought by the arrow of time.

You simply change on a different scale than most life.

On a timeline stretched and spread wide,

Gray hairs,

Wrinkled skin,

And creaking bones come for you just as they do for humans and halflings,

If beholden to a much slower clock.

But that is the thing your elven kin could never understand.

When they withdrew from this realm,

This energetic,

Thronging world,

Taking the last dregs of elven magic with them,

They willfully embraced artifice.

They chose stillness and deceit,

A fabricated world of cruel perfection.

They abandoned that deeper magic,

Which roots into hearts and minds,

Moves through networks of language,

Tradition,

And nature,

Dies and is reborn again and again in the bodies of myths and mushrooms.

In the alchemy of cycles,

Relationships,

Entanglements.

In remaining behind,

You've known deep love and deeper grief.

You've dug your fingers into soil and felt how it changes with the seasons.

And you have grown,

Which you cannot say for your kin.

As the ages wore on,

The people of this left-behind land decried the loss of ancient wisdom,

The inability to channel the same power they once had.

The dying out of dragons was a symbol of magic's ultimate retreat.

But you suspect,

And always have,

That they had got it wrong.

The magic never left,

Because the elves never owned it.

Magic belongs to itself,

Belongs to the land,

Just like you,

Like all of you.

The loss of magic felt like a grievous wound across the realm.

It's more like a collective forgetting.

Today,

That loss is barely felt by most who walk the roads.

They've even forgotten the forgetting.

Wisdom once cherished has dissolved into myth.

Fortunately,

Your memory is long.

Though you may not retain every name,

Every battle won or lost,

Every detail of the lengthy past,

You hold the greater story in your body,

In the threads that reach outward from you,

Threading in with history's tapestry.

You remain entwined,

Life is long enough that you can sink down into the soil,

Lying to the eye of the observer,

Dormant for a century or so,

Waiting to be summoned like the ripe scent of petrichor.

You relish the dissolution of you into a disembodied system,

A collection of fungal hyphae and mycorrhizal relationships.

You soften into a whole mythology of entanglements,

Rather than a single myth of embodiment.

A whole language,

Or suite of languages,

Rather than a single word.

There was a time,

Long ago,

When you were called up to serve at the right hand of a magnificent war leader.

To him,

You were a battle bard,

A warrior,

A servant,

An advisor,

And a praise singer.

And for all your ardent admiration of the man,

All the words and songs you spilled for him,

You can scarcely recall his name.

He lives in you,

And in the earth you till.

But it seems you've been summoned more frequently of late.

The gaps grow shorter,

Maybe.

Your house flowers and fruits into being again and again,

Popping up in the aftermath of change,

Or thunderstorm,

Or initiation.

You are needed here and now,

It appears.

Not as a direct participant in the great event of the age.

The cottage never emerges in the midst of a consequential battle,

But as a subtler force.

Not long ago,

In the timescale of trees and root systems at least,

You awakened somewhere deep in the woods.

A familiar place,

To be sure.

And there came to the door of your wandering shelter a band of travelers with good hearts and hopeful eyes.

Though they seemed ordinary folk,

You sensed in them the kind of blazing ambition and feeling as your fallen captain.

And yet,

To that happy company,

You only needed to give a nudge,

To alter their quest just so.

Like a gentle bend in a river.

Who can imagine what that nudge set in motion?

And after their visit,

You and your house and garden once more seeped into the soil.

Since then,

You've asked your reconnected roots for insight into their adventure.

The trees and plants send signals down your spine.

You sense their trajectory,

Their story unfolding,

Chapter by chapter.

And now,

You rise again.

So soon after the visit of that lovely crew,

Your garden is once again in bloom.

You are awake,

Embodied,

And curious.

What or who has called you up again?

What role will you play in the ever-unfolding tale of this land?

The sky is silver.

The air hums with that elegant post-rainfall peace.

A tiny bird is hopping between the toadstools in front of your garden gate.

You look to the horizon,

Taking in the unfamiliar surroundings.

You engage all your senses,

Probing your lengthy memory to determine if you've ever encountered the sights,

Scents,

Sounds,

Or sensations of this place before.

You're surrounded by hills,

A mountain range in the distance.

That range rings a bell,

In fact.

The teeth of its silhouette trace themselves once more upon your mind.

Much of what surrounds you is uncultivated,

Though you behold distant farmland,

Forest,

And somewhere below,

If you listen closely,

There is the whisper of a river.

You'd be surprised if there wasn't a village on the other side of that forest belt in the valley.

A settlement nestled in the curve of that river.

There's a feeling you have,

A kind of restlessness,

A sense that whatever is coming,

Whatever called you forth,

Is bigger this time.

That you are on the precipice of a seismic shift.

But there is a warmth to this feeling,

Too.

A comfort.

A sense of emerging from shelter in the aftermath of a storm,

And anticipating the return of the blazing sun.

No sooner than you have thought such a thing,

Than do the fine,

Golden threads of sunlight break the film of mist and dew that hangs so persistently in the air all around.

The sunshine dusts your face and shoulders,

You feel your lips curl,

Almost involuntarily,

Into a smile.

The world around becomes a festival of green and gold,

Birdsong rises with the light,

And little rainbows dance across the delicate drops of mist as they evaporate before your eyes.

The remaining clouds pass,

Languid,

Overhead,

Casting wisps of shadows on the landscape.

And then,

Another shadow.

It is vast,

And decidedly uncloud-like.

There are no soft edges to this silhouette,

But a svelte and serpentine shape,

Rippling over the land a great shadow with wings.

A shiver passes over you,

As the shape momentarily blocks the sun.

It cannot be.

The last of them died out only a generation ago.

The roots and the soil broke down their bones,

You felt it.

But now,

With courage and a pounding heart,

You lift your gaze to the sky.

To behold the dragon.

The creature flies low,

You can see her crimson scales glint in the sun.

She's clutching something in her claws,

Returning from the hunt,

You suppose.

But to where?

To where is this world's last dragon to call home?

As if in answer,

The dragon lowers,

Ducks under the cover of the forest canopy.

If you're right about there being a village on the other side,

Then why is she hiding in such close proximity to the public?

You'd have thought she would choose the most remote,

Inhospitable mountain stronghold.

And why is she hunting so far away,

When there's farmland within sight?

The curiosity mounts within you.

You must ask the trees what they've seen.

When you are at rest and at one with the land,

Such answers are at your fingertips.

The way forests convey messages through their tangled root systems,

Delivering nutrients and aid along elegant pathways.

You can simply plug in to the knowledge you desire.

You are part of the network,

The whole world is your body.

But in this embodied form,

With fingers and toes,

You can't converse with the plant kingdom as effortlessly.

You've had to call on old magics,

Develop new ways to communicate.

Your garden swells in the sweet embrace of sunshine.

The petals fluttering under a breeze.

These are the plants that flower with you,

Folding in on themselves when you fold into the earth.

You like to think of them as your court,

Though you carry no illusion of authority over them.

At times,

You can employ them as emissaries or messengers to the surrounding environment.

What they bring back is often garbled,

Unintelligible to you in this form.

But with careful attention,

You can always discern some meaning.

So,

You whisper your curiosities into the bells of Hollyhock.

You tug gently on the twisting vines about the garden gate,

On the exposed roots with the delicacy of a bard plucking harp strings.

You imagine yourself becoming very small,

Climbing down the stems of plants and pulsing,

Jumping from root to root,

Exchanging messages,

Asking for news from the nearby forest of unusual visitors of the reptilians.

You close your eyes and wait patiently for a response.

It is clear that you have re-emerged here and now for reasons that have something to do with the appearance of the dragon.

All the stirrings of the land,

All that restlessness,

You are being called in such rapid succession.

Something is awakening,

Something larger than you,

Larger even than what the elves took with them when they left.

When the plants respond,

It's never with words,

Nor clear answers in any form.

It's with subtle cues,

Tiny suggestions for you to interpret.

The language of the land sends tiny jolts through your fingertips,

Encoding stories in the pathways through your body.

But this time,

Somehow,

The messages you receive are brighter,

More vivid than you've ever experienced.

The forest sings back to you,

Of a dragon,

Yes,

But also its rider.

You hear the echoes of a distant mountain range,

Unheard cries bouncing off the walls of a cavernous chamber.

You sense the ripples of a great body of water,

On which floats a small boat.

A whole drama plays out in the pulses you receive from the underground,

Entangled kingdom.

Generations long,

A tale of noble houses,

Deceit,

And hunger for power.

You watch a dynasty rise,

Conquering and unifying desperate tribes into a singular kingdom,

Something your erstwhile captain aspired to,

But never achieved.

You observe the plotting of a rebel faction,

Bent on deposing a tyrannical king.

You witness the parallel paths of two children,

One born to the house of the dragon,

Spirited away amid the rebellion and raised in obscurity.

The other,

Born to the lion's house,

The child of the new ruler,

Groomed for the throne.

They are like mirrors of each other,

These youths.

Each of them claims an inheritance of power and conquest,

Yet you sense in both a fear of that power,

A resistance to it.

And then,

Your inner vision begins to zoom outward.

You see something like a vast spider web.

Tiny,

Shimmering threads woven across a great expanse,

To which cling iridescent beads of dew.

They slide along the strings like little gemstones in a kind of dance,

Sometimes colliding and joining together,

Or sliding past each other on different beams.

For the first time,

You realize you perceive something even greater than the story.

You can see all the stories.

Not the single filament,

But the whole network.

Not the single myth,

But the mythology.

It is all so beautifully entangled,

Chaotic,

And emergent.

Each strand intersects with countless others,

Opening endless pathways and possibilities.

Alternate routes,

Roads untaken,

Lives yet unlived and unexplored,

Stories yet untold.

From here,

You are witness to it all.

That which has happened,

That which is happening,

And that which may yet happen or not.

All because of your tender relationship to the land,

You have been welcomed into mystery.

Into deep entanglement.

Into the source of all magic.

You wonder if any of your elven kin have ever claimed such privilege and power.

And oh,

There comes an overwhelming urge to reach out into the vision and pluck the strings like those of a harp,

To send ripples through the entire web,

To play the interconnected mythology at your own will.

You might set events in motion that reverberate down the centuries,

Influencing kings and queens and heroes,

Changing the course of events and timelines to bend in favorable ways.

You feel the desire like a hundred tiny pulses from a system of roots,

Reaching out,

Wanting agency,

Wanting power,

Wanting to move on a more active time-to-time basis.

You can feel it rush through you,

Through the soil,

Through the forest.

And as it surges,

You allow the wanting to pass over you.

Allowing you to move on.

This is why you are not like other elves,

Why you never have been.

Even with the temptation and the power buzzing through you,

You cannot bring yourself to reshape worlds.

Where is the beauty,

The meaning in the pluck of a string,

My unseen hands,

The magic lies you've always felt,

In the spontaneous,

In the relationship,

In the way souls spark against one another,

Drawn together or flung apart by circumstance and innate agency.

You're not sure how long you sit in observation of the glistening web,

Like in your periods of dormancy,

You are,

It seems,

Outside time and beyond embodiment.

You watch the beads of dew,

Events or souls perhaps,

Sliding along the strands of possibility,

And you witness small stories unfolding in the corners of the web,

Meetings and partings,

Memories and prophecies.

It is profoundly beautiful and an impossible privilege to behold it from this perspective.

An entangled kingdom,

A tapestry of innumerable stories.

No,

You won't pluck the strings,

But you can slide along them too.

You can be like a dew drop,

Or a gemstone,

Changing the course of another's fate by your mere presence or guidance,

By your participation.

You've done it before,

Everyone has.

And so,

You ask your plant and mycelial friends for another favor.

You ask them to send a signal to the forest,

An invitation.

You leave the garden,

You brew some tea,

You wait,

You fall asleep in your chair.

You dream of the stillness of a land made by elves,

A land of glass and twilight.

And when the sun breaks through the windows of the cottage,

You awake.

You step outside the door,

Inhaling the scent of a soft,

Overnight rain,

Or gentle showers of rustled laughter from the soil.

Now full-fruited mushrooms spring up in a dappled line down the hillside.

Striking like skyfire,

These emergent bodies become footprints,

Breadcrumbs to the mouth of the woods and beyond.

Will they enchant the traveler to your door?

When a figure at last emerges from the forest,

It's not alone.

At first,

You think it's just a youth and their shadow.

But no,

There are two,

Following the trail,

The message,

The invitation.

As they draw nearer,

Their features become clear.

A young man and woman,

Scarcely more than children.

But you recognize them.

Here are two people,

Both heirs to a great destiny.

Each promised a throne.

Each promised a glorious future.

A glistening thread.

They shine like dew in the morning sun.

They are so young,

You think,

To carry so much responsibility.

And yet,

To any outside observer,

They would seem in opposition.

Sworn enemies,

Scions of noble houses that have spent a generation at war.

So why,

You wonder,

With no small amount of intrigue,

Do they walk together?

The dragonrider and the heir apparent to the throne of Brennendor.

There's a funny thing that happens when you've lived long enough to see empires rise and fall.

Wars fought and won and lost.

Landscapes reshaped.

Having seen enough of the past,

You begin to believe that you can see the future.

Sometimes,

Yes,

You can imagine outcomes and possibilities and entanglements with more clarity than others.

Sometimes,

You can make reasonable predictions with a degree of objectivity untouched by most.

You can step outside the web and observe it.

And yet,

Such foreign and unknowable things pervade the human heart.

With all that knowledge.

All that experience.

All that connection to history and land.

And still,

You are surprised by them.

Now the two great rivals for an unclaimed throne approach your door.

Your garden.

And this is why,

You think,

Why you made your choice an age or so ago.

To leave behind the promise of perfection,

Stillness,

And control.

To forsake the elven right to a glass palace.

A magical construct that never changes,

Never diverges,

Never ages.

Because what good is perfection if you are never surprised?

If you never get to see the glimmer in a young person's eye when they've realized there is another way.

If you can't be there to guide the next generation toward compassionate,

Regenerative,

Reciprocal leadership.

If they'll have you,

Of course.

As the youths approach,

Their scabbards empty of swords,

Their eyes bright with curiosity,

You wonder if they know how much a single meeting can alter the entire web of life.

How many strands of possibility they have braided,

Simply by standing together.

The wind whispers in the trees and grasses,

And the flowers of your garden turn their heads with imperceptible slowness,

Angling to listen,

To behold.

And when the two travelers,

Enchanted to your door by a trail of mushrooms,

At last stand before the garden gate,

You speak,

I was hoping you'd come.

And in those words,

You hope they can hear more than the immediate meaning.

Because the whole world,

The whole entangled kingdom has been waiting,

Hoping for them.

The future is uncertain,

But hope,

Kindled like dragon fire,

Springs up in the space between these two.

You can feel the land,

And all its soil,

And roots,

And rocks,

And networks,

Trembling,

Breathing,

Hoping collectively.

Please come in,

You say.

I'll make some tea.

We have work to do.