Tag Archives: Fiction

Chapter 4: The Wolf in the Distance

It was a cold, bright winter day, when the snow lay fresh and thick upon the moor and the sun was small in the blue sky, that Brandyé first saw a wolf.

It was not long after hearing the tale of the battle between West and East, when the Demon Lord had so nearly conquered all of Erâth, and was defeated only by a mystical creature, the Dragon. It had snowed for several days afterwards, and in the weeks that followed, when the weather was bleak and grey, Brandyé had spent many hours sitting before the fire, or watching the flurries from behind the large round windows, but what flew through his mind was not flame and snow, but the clash of steel, the cries of battle and the smell of blood and dirt. He was fascinated by the thought of such a battle; it would be unfair to say he could not imagine such a thing, but rather that he could not accurately imagine scenes of death and horror, for it was outside of his experience and his comprehension.

The idea that men could hate each other so deeply that they would desire to bring death to their own kind was difficult for Brandyé to grasp, but his young imagination had no difficulty at all picturing the terrible demons that brought destruction upon the brave soldiers of the East. Great monsters, their size exaggerated grossly by his mind, towered over the soldiers on the field of battle, high as ten men, and crushed men underfoot as they stomped across the fields. Their clubs swung madly through the air, spikes jutting elbow-length from the shaft, and clawed at the earth and the men who ran before them.

The wolves, too, were terrifying for his thoughts to behold. Picturing himself as a soldier of the East, he saw great jaws approach him, a mouth that gaped wholly as wide as his own body, glistening teeth bared and bloody. The beast’s fur bristled along its flanks, each strand stiff and sharp as a razor. And the eyes – mad, evil eyes that glared red at him and saw nothing but the death of the flesh before them.

And, inescapable in the midst of such gruesomeness, the Demon Lord stood high above all others, tall and proud, black armor drawing all light around it and drowning it in darkness. In Brandyé’s inner sight, he had no face to speak of; his helm, thorned with black steel, hid from sight what countenance he might have had, but through the eyeholes, which were large, there was nothing at all. Emptiness stared out from blank sockets and held you in fascinated horror, unable to move. And his blade was fearsome. The length of a man, the Demon Lord wielded it as effortlessly as a feather, and bore it in his left hand, and so was odd, for all the other soldiers carried theirs in their right. The blade’s edge did not run straight, but rather had been forged to small points along its length, as thought its purpose was as much to saw and hack as it was to pierce armor and flesh. Its color also was black, apart from the grip, which was bound in leather the shade of blood. At the base of the blade was a marking – a large, curved V, with a smaller A behind it:

 

Even then, Brandyé was struck by the clarity of the Demon Lord as he pictured him. While the beasts, and the soldiers, and the sights of battle were clouded, and changed in his mind even as he imagined them, the Demon Lord did not waver: he saw him with equal clarity each time he allowed his mind to wander, and above all, saw the blade, and came to know the marking on its blade as well as his own face in the mirror, or the tracings of the script he wrote at his desk at night. Eventually, Brandyé named the blade End of Eternity, though he knew now where this name came from.

Yet Brandyé was not fearful of these thoughts, but rather dwelt on them enthralled, and saw himself as the bravest of warriors. Sometimes he was swinging his blade, hewing at the legions of wolves and monsters, an army of men behind him, encouraged by his own fearlessness. Other times, he saw himself among the kings of the East, as the Demon Lord closed on them, and he alone stood to face him, and would bring his sword up to meet End of Eternity as it bore down on him, and as the two blades clashed, his own held strong, and the Demon Lord was brought to his knees. Brandyé wrested End of Eternity from the Demon Lord’s grasp, and with renewed strength drove it through him bodily, and so brought an end to the conflict between West and East.

Though these thoughts occupied him often, the one that overcame more than any other was the sight of himself, suddenly held aloft over the field of battle, and saw below the struggle laid out before him. And he saw the Demon Lord from afar, bearing down once more upon the kings of old, and knew that he was being carried on the back of the very Dragon itself, and to Brandyé this was a thrill beyond the measure of any other. As he looked down upon the Demon Lord, so too did the Dragon turn its great head there, and bore down upon him at such a great speed that Brandyé felt the wind threatening to pull him off the back of the Dragon entirely. Closer they came, and the Dragon opened its jaws and sent flame upon the Demon Lord, and thus he was conquered also.

Such were Brandyé’s thoughts and imaginations during the period of ill weather, and so naturally when the clouds cleared and the sun lit the snow around their home, he donned cowskin boots, put on his hat and coat, marched out across the moors to act out the fantasies that had played through his mind for so many weeks.

While he was yet young, Brandyé loved nothing more than to be outdoors, whether in cold or in heat. He often enjoyed work and small jobs – he would regularly be sent by his grandfather into the village for wood, or fruits, or small novelties that amused Reuel, and would sometimes be asked by villagers to drive carts from farm to farm, or to dig and turn soil in their fields and vegetable gardens. Even as he worked happily for them, they would yet often keep a distance from him, and, if they chose to pay him for his efforts, would leave the coins on the porch and not speak to him when he was finished.

But above all, Brandyé loved the freedom of the open moorland, and it was here that his imagination was able to truly fly. So it was that morning that Brandyé spent several hours at play, brandishing a long stick at the crows and the lone, leafless trees that grew meagerly here and there across the landscape. He was first a soldier of the East, swingingly bravely at the bestial birds and towering monsters of the West (and thoroughly defeating them, as the crows flew off, annoyed at his attempts to skewer them on the end of his branch). Then he was a king, commanding his troops (the unlucky crows, again, who would not obey his orders), and thoroughly enjoyed rushing them towards a row of enemy snowmen he had built up. He would draw back and plunge his branch through them, or sweep their heads clean off their shoulders in one fell stroke.

As the sun moved across the sky, Brandyé found himself drawn further away from his home, and towards the North. Abandoned in his play, he did not particularly notice until he realized his house was no longer in view, and he had begun to descend into a shallow vale. He knew well his grandfather’s warnings about the mountains to the North, and although there were yet many miles off, he had not often been this deep into the north moors, and was worried his grandfather might be concerned for him. He made to turn back, and as he did, saw at the bottom of the vale a glimmer in the sun, something that reflected light and shimmered gently.

He was curious, and slid down the slope towards the bottom of the vale, towards the shimmer. To his delight, he discovered the sun had been reflecting off a shallow stream, hidden beneath the snow. A small part of the snow roof had given way under the gaze of the sun, and he could see the little brook murmuring away, running back under snow and onwards down the valley. He knelt beside it , cupped his gloved hands beneath the water, and drew some towards his mouth. It was icy and made his teeth shiver, but it was clear and refreshing, and he drank several more times before standing once more.

The stream was only a few feet wide here, and he wondered if he could leap across it. Drawing back a few paces from the stream, he threw himself at it at a run, and launched himself clear over the water. He landed a few inches past the bank on the opposite side, and grinned, for he had never leapt over a stream before.

For some time, he amused himself by taking ever more daring leaps across the stream, and even cautiously stepping over where the snow still covered the stream. Finally, his luck gave out, and he plunged with both feet into the cold water and gave a small shout of surprise. He leapt out quickly, and sat down on the far side of the stream. His boots were well proofed, but the stream had been deep and water had poured in over the top, and his feet were now wet and cold. He wanted to take them off, but there was nothing to rest his feet on but more snow, and so resolved that he would head home now, and warm himself before the fire. Reuel had gone into the village for the day, and he would likely not arrive back home before him if he left now.

As he stood, though, on the far bank of the river, with home to the South and mountains to the North, the ice in his boots slowly melted and his feet did not feel quite so cold, and he wondered what he would see if he were to peer just over the next ridge. It was not far – a rise of no more than a hundred feet – and so he thought he would venture just that much farther today, before returning. He began to trudge up the hill, the effort of wading through the snow warming him more, even as the sun began to sink low over the horizon. Soon, the top drew near, and as he crested the ridge, the view beyond greeted his eyes.

To his disappointment, it was nothing extraordinary to behold. Yet further moorland stretched off for many miles beyond, and the Trestaé, dressed in white, still as distant as ever they appeared. The only distinguishing mark in all the white land was a row of trees, firs that kept their green through the winter, some half a mile to the northwest. For some time, Brandyé stood and watched the landscape, the setting sun beginning to bathe it in gold, and it was then that he saw something move.

At first, he was not sure, but as he looked closer, there among the line of green firs, something was slowly moving. It was distant, but to his eyes it seemed very large. The trees seemed tall, and their first branches stood probably some eight or ten feet from the soil, yet this creature moved so that its head seemed to brush the needles and pines. It slunk on all fours, and though in the twilight it was hard to discern, its color seemed a muted and mottled grey.

In and out between the trees it wove, and for several minutes disappeared entirely from view. Brandyé stood, transfixed, for he had never seen such a creature before. Some of the cows and horses in the village were large, but this creature seemed it would dwarf even them. Certainly none of the wild creatures he knew – the marmots, the crows, the gobays – were anything like it in size. And it moved with stealth, as though it wished to avoid being seen.

Brandyé began to feel it must have retreated deeper into the woods, when suddenly it reappeared from the end of the line of trees nearest him. A thrill of fear now suddenly rose in Brandyé’s chest, and he suddenly felt exposed as he stood on the hilltop, for he recognized this creature: it was one of the demon wolves from his grandfather’s tale of battle. He didn’t see how it could be so – his grandfather had not greatly described these creatures, and so their look and manner had so far been merely of his own invention. It was impossible that any such creature could actually exist, and even if it did, it surely should not appear as it did now.

Yet there it was: a wolf, tall as a man, grey fur bristling menacingly from its body. It stood even as Brandyé did, unmoving, as though it sensed it was being watched. Brandyé wanted to drop to the ground, to hide, but he felt he was powerless to move. For many moments, the wolf and he stood. And then, the wolf turned its head, slowly, deliberately, and brought its gaze to bear directly upon Brandyé, and in a moment, he saw its eyes and beheld they were red as he had seen in his mind, and in that moment he was very afraid.

Time froze, and the sun refused to set, and the sky refused to change, and the wolf refused to lower its gaze. It held Brandyé, and he was under its power. Brandyé knew now that were the wolf to move at him, he would not run, would not be able to move his feet, and would fall victim to whatever terrible fate the creature should choose to bring upon him. In all his young life, he had not felt such anxiety and fear, and knew for the first time that his life was in actual danger. Yet the wolf did not take a pace toward him, and indeed seemed as though it wished merely for Brandyé to recognize its presence, to make itself known. After many endless minutes that were as hours to Brandyé, the wolf suddenly turned, and made its way slowly back towards the line of trees.

It was at almost that moment that a voice called out, and renewed the thrill of fright in Brandyé’s chest. “You! Boy!”

Brandyé turned swiftly and saw on the ridge opposite the vale behind him the small figure of a man, silhouetted against the evening sky. He called again. “Oi! What’re doin’ out there on yer own?”

Brandyé now recognized the voice as Farmer Tar’s, and felt relief. Farmer Tar did not dislike him, and he felt that he would be safe with him. He would tell him about the wolf, and Farmer Tar would say that they would gather a party the next day to hunt for it. He made his way rapidly back down the hillside, sliding in the snow, leapt once more across the water, and very nearly ran up the far side. Soon, he drew abreast of Farmer Tar, and stopped before him, panting and out of breath.

“What’s a matter?” Farmer Tar asked gruffly. “Seen a ghost?”

Brandyé shook his head, for he could not yet speak.

“You shouldn’ be out so far, you know. What’f you was to get hurt? You know there’s no one around up there. Yer foolish.”

Brandyé felt Farmer Tar spoke the truth. “I know,” he said breathlessly. “I should not have gone so far. I was curious. But I saw something.”

Farmer Tar now narrowed his eyes, and looked suspicious. “What did you see?” He asked.

“It was big,” Brandyé said, still drawing rapid breaths. “Very big. A wolf, I think. I have heard wolves spoken of, but not like this. It was a wolf out of grandfather’s stories. It stood as tall as a man, I am certain. It was in the trees – I think it was hiding – and then it was gone, and then it was back, and it was looking at me. It saw me.”

Farmer Tar now was frowning. “You saw a wolf. So what? Yer right – they’re out there. They look fer hares n’ such. Not men. They’re like as dogs.”

Brandyé shook his head again. “This was no dog. It was monstrous. And it’s eyes–“ he shivered “–they were red, they glowed red, and it looked directly at me. It knew where I was. I think it knew who I was.”

Farmer Tar grunted, and seemed reluctant to speak. “Nonsense,” he said finally. “Wolves don’ get that big. An’ their eyes don’ glow. An’ they don’ look at men. It saw somethin’ behind you, no doubt. You was against the sun – it wouldn’ have seen you.”

“I am certain it saw me,” Brandyé protested. “And what of its eyes? I should not have been able to see its eyes at such a distance, yet they shone fierce and red.”

Farmer Tar looked away. “Light playin’ tricks on you,” he mumbled. “Nothin’ but the settin’ sun. T’was a wolf you saw, I’m certain, but no monster. Such creatures is silly fantasy.”

Brandyé felt his face grow warm. His grandfather’s fantasies were certainly not silly. “I’m sure of what I saw–“ he began, but Farmer Tar cut him off.

“You didn’ see what you thought you did,” he said with emphasis, and Brandyé knew that was the end of the conversation. “Get on home. Yer grandfather’ll be wonderin’ where yer at.”

Brandyé lowered his head, and said nothing more. Slowly, he trudged through the snow towards his house, which he now saw in the distance, dark against the fading sky. He had long since forgotten the cold in his feet, and his thoughts were filled with the clarity of the vision of the wolf. He knew what he had seen.

For some time, Farmer Tar remained on the hill, looking to the North.

When Reuel arrived home that evening, carrying a basket laden with carrots and onions and potatoes, it was to find Brandyé still on the rug before a high fire, naked feet stretched towards the flames. Brandyé did not turn as he came into the parlor, and Reuel was the first to break the silence. “How was your day, son?”

Brandyé did not answer, and this was unusual. Reuel has the sense, however, to know Brandyé was brooding and did not interrupt him. Instead, he retreated to the kitchen and began the preparations for supper.

Later, as they sat in dim warm firelight over steaming bowls of winter stew – potatoes, carrots, leeks, lots of onion, and half a flank of lamb, smoked and diced – Brandyé was yet silent, and Reuel began to wonder what cause his grandson had for such quietness. Finally, he knew must ask, and said quietly, “Speak to me, son.”

Brandyé looked him. “I saw something today,” he said.

Reuel return his gaze calmly. “Tell me what you saw, son,” he replied.

“I thought I knew,” Brandyé said, “but now I am not certain.”

“Tell me what you thought you saw,” said Reuel, “and together we will decide if it is certain.”

Brandyé hesitated, then took a breath and said, “I saw a wolf.”

Reuel raised his eyebrows. “A wolf? Well done, son; they are not easy to spot. Most will hide until they see prey. Was he seeking food, do you think?”

Brandyé shook his head slowly. “I do not think he sought food. I believe he sought another thing. Grandfather – this was no ordinary wolf.”

“What do you know of ordinary wolves?” his grandfather inquired.

“Little, I suppose,” admitted Brandyé. “Farmer Tar says they are scavengers, or hunt small animals. He says they are as dogs.”

“He is right,” Reuel said. “A wolf is no more than a wild dog, one that does not take kindly to men and seeks to prey upon those smaller than itself. Was the wolf alone? They most often are to be found in a pack, many hunting together.”

“This wolf was alone, grandfather. And that is not all. I know what ordinary wolves are – both Farmer Tar and you say they are as wild dogs. That is how I know this was no ordinary wolf. What if I were to tell you this wolf would have towered over both you and Farmer Tar?”

Reuel’s eyebrows lowered, and his face grew grave. “Are you certain?” he asked.

“Farmer Tar says the light was playing tricks on my eyes. He says such creatures do not exist. He says your tales are silly.”

“Farmer Tar, like so many others, son, does not believe in what he does not see. He will convince himself that things that ought not to be do not exist, even if his own eyes tell him otherwise. Tell me about this wolf. Not as Farmer Tar says it was – tell me what you believe you first saw.”

“It was so large, grandfather. I was not scared at first. I thought perhaps it was a lost horse, but it was not the right color and did not move right. It was in the trees that lie beyond the stream to the North.”

“Why were you so far to the North?” Reuel interrupted.

“I was curious, grandfather. I know I should not have strayed so far, but I wanted to know what lay beyond. I did not think there would be any danger. You have always told me the land of Consolation is protected from darkness.”

“I have not said it is protected,” said Reuel. “Merely that darkness has not yet found it. What else did you see?”

“When it came out from the trees, I saw it clearly. It was huge, and it was of an ugly grey color and its fur bristled. The head was large. And…grandfather – it saw me. It turned its gaze wholly on me. And I saw its eyes. They glowed, grandfather. They were red, and they glowed. I know this; I should not have been able to see any creature’s eyes at such a distance, but these eyes burned into me as though they were candles.”

Reuel was quiet for a moment. Finally, he pushed his bowl away and stood. “We have finished supper,” he said. “Come sit with me by the fire.”

Brandyé took the dishes into the kitchen and set a large kettle boiling on the stove to rinse them with, and then joined his grandfather in the parlor by the fire. They had lit no other candles, and the glow from the flames cast flickering shadows over the walls and Reuel’s face. Reuel was looking into the fire, and did not turn his gaze from the flames as he spoke.

“What you saw was a Fierund,” he said. “A Beast-Wolf. They are of the Trestaé Mountains. It is a creature of Darkness.” He paused, and allowed Brandyé to take this in.

“Then the creatures of your tales are real?” Brandyé asked.

“You know this,” Reuel replied. “I may embellish the details of my tales, but of the creatures and men I would not lie. Fierundé are real. Darkness is real.”

“What would it want with me?” Brandyé asked.

Reuel shook his head. “I do not know, son. It is a creature of evil, and it has the intelligence of a man. It is not driven by beast instinct, but rather by Darkness itself. I do not doubt a Fierund would not hesitate to kill a man had it the chance. Perhaps it was deciding whether you were too far to prey upon.”

“Grandfather, you are frightening me,” said Brandyé.

Reuel looked at him now, gazed deep into his eyes. “You should be,” he said. “A Fierund is not to taken lightly. You were lucky today; do not venture to the North again. In fact, do not go out onto the moors at all for now.” He sat back in his chair and gazed into the fire again. Absently, he stroked his beard, and now spoke quietly, as though to himself. “Most odd. I have not seen them venture so far into Consolation. Last I knew, they kept to the mountains and did not descend into the valleys.” He trailed off, and spoke no more.

Finally, Brandyé spoke up again. “What does this mean, grandfather?”

Reuel did not look back, but merely said, “I do not know, son. I do not know.”

Brandyé was not pleased that he was now forbidden from playing on the moors; it was his favorite place to be, and now, in the winter, he could only stay indoors, or visit Burrowdown, which had little to do in the cold months. But he knew he would not disobey his grandfather, and the presence of the wolf – the Fireund – unsettled him. He had sensed the danger of the creature, but had not realized its nature. What had it been doing in the trees? What had it to do with him? He felt certain the beast had known him – as though it had been deliberately seeking him, Brandyé Dui-Erâth, of the small cottage on the hill of Burrowdown in the land of Consolation.

He resolved to find something new to pass the time through the winter so that he did not miss the moors too much. Perhaps by the spring his grandfather would relent, and allow him once more to play in the open heather. Maybe the Fierund was merely passing through, and had been drawn to the sight of a person so nearby. Perhaps Farmer Tar was right – it was but an ordinary wolf, made large by the poor light of dusk. Somehow, though, he did not think so.

Chapter 3: A Tale of Blood and Battle

In the end, Brandyé did not speak of his inexplicable nighttime journey. Much time passed, and his nights were once again empty and blank; fitful sleep until the light of morning awoke him again. As time went by, his memory of what had happened gradually faded, and he sometimes wondered if, somehow, he had merely imagined it all. He would often picture the lands and events of his grandfather’s tales, both sitting at home on dark days, and acting out their adventures outdoors on pleasant days. But he had never heard of anyone imagining things when they were supposed to be sleeping, and this continued to bother him for some time.

Several years came and went, and since he never went anywhere else, he eventually resolved to forget about what had happened, and stop worrying. Still, he couldn’t shake from his mind the image of the woman in black, and the crimson jewel that had hung at her breast.

As Brandyé was now older, he would often accompany his grandfather to the Burrow Wayde when he went there each Friday. He enjoyed these visits to the inn immensely, partly because he liked going places with his grandfather, but mostly because the atmosphere of the inn was greatly exciting.

Brandyé never saw so many people in once place at any other time; it seemed sometimes that half the village was crammed into the little inn, and there were never enough seats and tables for everyone, and this didn’t seem to bother them in the slightest. Even so, there was always a small table, out of the way in the corner, that was never occupied, and it was here that Reuel and Brandyé would sit, Reuel with a large mug of ale, and Brandyé with a smaller mug of something less potent – usually keffil, a sort of drink brewed from dandelions. When Brandyé asked his grandfather why this table was always empty when they visited, even though other people had nowhere to sit, he replied, “They leave it empty for us.” This made Brandyé feel terribly important, and it wasn’t for many years that he realized they left the table alone out of fear, and not respect.

Most weeks, Brandyé and Reuel would spend a few hours quietly sipping at their drinks, and leave with the others as the hour grew late. Sometimes they would talk; Brandyé would ask questions, and Reuel would answer. Other times, they simply watched everyone else. Brandyé thought it was wonderful how everyone seemed to be having such a grand time, and how, as the evening wore on, emotions rose ever higher. Their voices grew louder; their laughter more raucous; and of course, their tempers flared also, and often arguments turned to fights. Even these were a novelty to Brandyé, who had never seen two (or more) grown men throw themselves at each other. There did not seem to be any particular bitterness in this brawls, and would often end with both men, bruised and bloodied, regaining a table and sharing a drink, and laughing together once more. Brandyé was never frightened by these frays, and was intrigued how two people could beat each other nearly senseless, and then laugh about it moments later. Naturally, he asked his grandfather about it.

“Do you recall how we sometimes argue?” Reuel asked him.

“Yes,” replied Brandyé cautiously. He and his grandfather did not usually disagree, but on occasion, when he felt particularly strongly about something (such as being allowed to stay up later on his birthday), they would enter into a heated debate, which usually ended with Brandyé shouting, and Reuel calmly telling him that he would no longer speak to him. Eventually, Brandyé would calm down, and he and his grandfather would be able to more rationally discuss the issue.

“We are usually able to resolve our differences because we talk to each other,” Reuel explained, as though he knew what Brandyé was thinking about. “These men lack the language to do so, and so they must resort to their strength and might to finish their argument. They do not dislike each other, any more than you and I dislike each other when we quarrel.”

Sometimes, usually late in the evening, if the crowd grew quiet, they would turn to Reuel, and call upon him rowdily for one of his tales. Brandyé thought this was perhaps because they were bored, and had not found anything particular to fight about. Though they often laughed at his tales and called them ridiculous, they were never unpleasant towards Reuel, and did not even tease Brandyé, who was by far the youngest person in the inn. It seemed they found entertainment in far-fetched tales from a dangerous man; a thrill that matched the rush of fists and blows.

Late one Friday evening, two particularly large men, sitting in the middle of the inn, began talking louder than usual, and the rest of the people quietened, waiting for the inevitable blows to come. Instead, one of the men, a blacksmith by the name of Joe Rawley, slammed his mug down on the table, and growled, “Enough! Old man! Tolkaï!” This was the sign that Reuel was called for.

“Yes?” said Reuel calmly.

“Me an’ Thara here, we been talkin’ ‘bout what the bloodiest battle were, an’ he says it were the farmer revolt of 3340. I says he’s a fool, ‘cause everyone knows it were the battle of Reisenwell, when they burned a whole village to the ground.”

“Bah,” grumped Thara. “Burnin’ ain’t bloody, all’s left is just ash.”

“Shut up,” retorted Joe. “Anyhow, we thought you might have a thought or two on the matter, and figured you might help settle our differences.”

Reuel drained his ale, and stood, and smiled. “A tale of blood and battle, you say?” He moved towards the two men, pulled over a spare stool and seated himself at their table. His presence commanded a certain stillness around him; though they rarely spoke to him, the people at the Burrow Wayde quietened, and turned towards the table he now sat at. It was as though this were their evening’s entertainment; it was also as though they dared not speak while he spoke.

“Have you ever heard the tale of the battle of the northern fields,” he said in a low voice, “where the armies of light and dark clashed, and many men met their doom, and the evil of battle was washed away in a river of blood?”

Joe grinned, and punched Thara fiercely in the arm. “Told ya’,” he said. Thara made to strike him back, but was refrained by Reuel’s voice, stern and commanding.

“Do you wish this matter settled?” he said. Thara growled lowly, and Joe grinned again at him. “Good. Listen well, and you will hear of the most terrible battle that has ever shaken Erâth. You must start by understanding that men were once not the only great creatures in our lands.”

“Ah, we’ve heard o’ them creatures afore,” called out a voice from near where Brandyé still sat. He was enthralled; his grandfather seemed to put on more of a spectacle here than he ever did with his stories at home. These tales were also, of course, more exciting – filled with battle and death, they were.

“Not like these,” he replied, not looking away from the two men at his table. There is a great and terrible darkness in the West of the world, and the creatures that roam there are twisted indeed. That darkness exists still to this day; you can see it by the might of the storms that rise from beyond the Perneck.”

There were some general laughter at this; everyone knew that the worst storms came from the North. Reuel waited for their mirth to be subdued, and continued. “This darkness exists still today. But understand, in those days this was a darkness that was overwhelming; it was inescapable, and the lands of Consolation were yet unknown.

“Who knows why there were such terrible creatures in those lost days? Perhaps they simply evil; perhaps they were tainted by the powers of Darkness and changed from nature. I speak of wolves whose heads stood six feet from the earth; spiders who skulked in the shadows and fed on sheep and cattle. There were monsters, also. You know these creatures from myth; they stood twenty feet high if they stood an inch, and could knock a house down with one blow of their club.

“Most terrifying of all, though, were the skull creatures, swift and silent, who fed on the blood of men. These creatures, though smaller than a man, would strike terror into the hearts of the bravest warriors. You, Joe; you are strong?”

Joe, the blacksmith, grinned broadly at the crowd, and flexed his large shoulders. Reuel smiled grimly. “You should count yourself lucky that there are today no skull creatures left; a single one would make a snack from you like that.” He snapped his fingers abruptly, loud in the hushed inn. Joe’s grin was suddenly less broad.

“These creatures dwelt far to the West of our lands, where the waters were black and poisoned, and the trees grew crooked and the thorns long,” he continued. “There was no sun in those awful lands; the sky was forever black, and fog obscured the land so that you would not see the creature who designed to make you his supper until it was upon you.

“Mind you – there were also men in those lands. Poor, wretched men they were; they lorded not over the creatures of darkness, but rather were commanded by them, and served as their food as much as their slaves. These men hated the creatures of darkness bitterly, but had no power to overcome them. They were stupid also, and did not see that their own hatred cast them as much under the spell of darkness as the beasts they despised.

“But then one day, there was a man who stood above all the others in those terrifying lands, and he called the beasts his own, and they obeyed his will. He had a great tower built for him, and became lord of the dark lands. But this was not enough for him, for he was evil, and saw that there were yet lands of light to the East and would not suffer them. So he called upon the powers of Darkness, and they put all their might into him so that he became more, and less, than a man: he was a Demon.

“They said that he could not be killed, and his blade was broad and struck men down without scratching their skin. And so the men of the East saw that the creatures of Darkness intended to destroy them, and knew they must gather an army such as the world had never before seen. As the kings of those days travelled the length and breadth of their kingdoms and called ever man and boy to fight, the men and creatures of the West gathered themselves into an army of their own, and marched upon the kingdoms of the East.

The northern border of the lands of the kings of the East was marked by a river that ran from mountains higher than any you have ever seen, and it was here that the armies of the East and West – light and dark – first met and gazed at each other. Some ten thousand men the realms of light had mustered, yet threefold that number stood on the north bank and stared them down with hatred. The men of the East were afraid, yet the river still separated them from their enemies, and there was not a bridge for many miles. They thought perhaps that battle might yet be averted, if the creatures of darkness could not cross the flowing waters.”

“That don’t sound so bloody to me, Joe,” said Thara. Joe grunted, but said nothing.

Reuel carried on as if they had not spoken “It was of course not to be. From the midst of the men of evil and darkness came their Demon Lord, and he touched the river and turned it black, and so he and his army were able to pass unharmed beneath the waves and fall upon the men of the East, who fought valiantly.

“This was to be the greatest battle that had ever been seen in Erâth. For seven days it raged, and the blood of men and beasts ran so thick that it stained the ground and turned the river red. Over miles of field and plain men did battle with beasts, but it was clear that the men of the East, the men of light, were not winning the struggle. Their soldiers knew the art of battle with blade and spear and bow, but were now faced with not just these instruments of death but claws and teeth and fangs also, and could not defend themselves. They were also greatly outnumbered, and for every creature or man of darkness they slew, two more took their place.

“It was certain they would be defeated, and their lands of light overrun by the creatures of darkness, and all the world would be ended. The Demon Lord marched through the field of battle, stepping heedlessly on the corpses of his enemies, and the kings of the East saw him and knew they had lost.”

Reuel paused; he had been speaking for some time now, and the entire inn was silent, listening intently (for the most part; an old man near the door had his head laid on the table and was snoring softly). Even Mrs. Heath was following the tale with interest; since Reuel had begun speaking, there had been no further fights, no broken stools, and hardly anyone had called for another ale. For her, Reuel’s tales meant a quiet evening.

Joe was staring at him with small, squinty eyes. “Well?” he said. “What happened?”

Reuel smiled at him, a twinkle in his eye. “I would love to say,” he said, “but my throat is a bit parched.”

Joe frowned; he had had at least eight pints of ale tonight, and he felt Reuel was trying to trick him, but he couldn’t quite figure it out. Reuel leaned closer to him. “I could do with a drink,” he added.

Joe’s eyes widened. “Mrs. Heath!” he bellowed. “Two ales, over ‘ere!”

“You’ll pay, of course,” Reuel went on. “As it’s you who’s so keen to hear the ending of this tale.”

Joe glared at him. “‘course I’ll pay,” he growled. He slammed two large silver coins on the table as Mrs. Heath brought their ales. Joe grabbed his and took a deep draught without looking at her. Reuel, though, looked up at her and said, “Thank you, dear.”

Mrs. Heath smiled at Reuel, and swiped the coins off the table. Both she and Reuel knew Joe had paid far too much, but neither made any comment. Reuel took a slow, leisurely sip at his mug, before putting it carefully back down. A moment later, Joe slammed his own down. “Well,” he rumbled, “I’m waitin’.”

“I thank you for your patience,” Reuel said. “Where was I?”

“That Demon whatsit were about to cut down all them kings,” said Joe.

“Thank you also for reminding me,” smiled Reuel. “So the Demon Lord towered over the kings of old, and drew forth his terrible black blade, and held it high above them. All around them, the beasts and warriors of the East were slaying their soldiers, many of whom had abandoned the battle and fled to the hills. Many were cut down as they ran, for the races of Darkness saw no shame in sending arrows into the backs of their enemies.

“You must understand the scene of horror the kings of the East faced as they drew their final breaths under the shadow of the Demon Lord. Their very feet were bathed in the blood of their soldiers; piled thick so the grass of the fields was hidden were the bodies of both man and beast, all hacked and rent terribly so the insides of some spilled out onto the battle field. All this alone would suffice to bring a strong man to insanity, but all their eyes could see was the pitch-black metal armor of the one who would slay them all. They threw up their shields in one last show of futile resistance, and the Demon Lord brought his evil sword crashing down towards them. And then…”

Reuel stopped. It was as though not a man in the Burrow Wayde drew breath, so complete was the silence. All were waiting for the final moments of the tale, but Reuel did not speak further. He stared intently at Joe, peering unblinking into his small back eyes, who gazed blearily back at him. The silence drew on, and on, until Thara, who had also been staring at Reuel, finally said, “And then? What happened?”

Reuel turned his gaze on Thara, who turned away his own eyes. “Can you imagine?” he said. “A beast, unseen in these lands for three thousand years, appeared on the field of battle. Twenty feet long, great talons as sharp as Joe’s very own knives, crushing jaws and wings that would span the river Burrow, it descended from the grey and clouded skies above – a Dragon.” Reuel paused once more. This was a new beast – few in the Burrow Wayde that evening had ever heard of such a creature. Even to Brandyé, who knew most of his grandfather’s tales by heart, had not heard of this.

“What did this Drago do?” asked Mrs. Heath breathlessly.

“Dragon, dear,” said Reuel. “It came down from on high, and covered what was left of the sun, and all were smothered in its shadow…and then…”

The people in the Burrow Wayde were now becoming anxious. Reuel was dragging this story out too long, and they were feeling uncomfortable. Where was this tale going? Finally, farmer Tar broke the silence from the bar: “Get on wi’ it!” he called.

Reuel cast his gaze over at him. “That’s it,” he said.

“What d’you mean, that’s it?” cried Tar.

“That’s it. That is all there is.”

“It can’t be!” bellowed Joe. “It’s a foul endin’ if ever I heard one! Somethin’ happened after that!”

Reuel shrugged. “Indeed,” he replied. “But it has been lost to time.” He smiled slyly. “But, there is one thing we know. The Demon Lord was not allowed to finish his blow upon the kings of the East, or we would not be here today. For we are the descendants of those kings – all of us.”

Joe stared at Reuel for a long, long moment – and then let out a great, roaring laugh. “Arh!” he slurred. “You’ve pulled our leg! We ain’t descended from no king!” And he collapsed, face-first, onto the table and heaved a loud snore.

For a moment, no one spoke; and then, slowly, the people began to move about, talking quietly among themselves. They were unsettled; this was far from Reuel’s usual tales. They did not like to hear of such evil and demented beasts, as though speaking of such might bring them upon them from the mountains. Finally, Mrs. Heath called out, “Alright, boys! Leavin’ time! Out you go!”

There was a great round of hurried drinking as people drained the last drops of their ale, and gradually shuffled towards the door, and into the cold winter air. Mrs. Heath began gathering up the empty and knocked over mugs, shooing the last few stragglers towards the door. Several of Joe’s friends were attempting to lift him off his stool, but he stubbornly refused to raise even his head, or indeed show any signs of life at all, apart from the occasional blubbering snore, and the pool of spit that slobbered from the corner of his mouth.

“Leave ‘im, lads!” Mrs. Heath called to them. “He can sleep it off here; he’ll regret it sure enough in the mornin’.” Grumbing, they moved off towards the door, and finally, only Mrs. Heath, Reuel, and Brandyé remained in the Burrow Wayde.

The fire was growing low, but Brandyé was not tired. This had been, by far, the best story he had ever heard his grandfather tell. He knew he would be acting out this terrible battle for days on the moorlands, unless of course it snowed, which it might well do soon, in which case he would be staring out at the falling flakes, and playing through the whole battle in his head.

“That were some tale,” Mrs. Heath commented to Reuel as she cleared the table he still sat at. “Really got ’em all worked up. Weren’t really true, though were it?”

Reuel raised his eyebrows at her. “Stranger things have been known to happen,” he replied.

“Well, not ’round here, anyways,” she said. “Burrowdown’s as quiet as ever it were.” She stood and sighed. “Gar knows, I wouldn’ mind a bit of excitement now an’ then.” She moved back towards the bar, carrying an armload of empty, sticky mugs. “You’ll be leavin’ now too, won’t you. It’s late.”

Reuel finally pushed back his stool and stood. He nodded toward her and said, “Of course, dear. I wish you a pleasant evening.” He turned to Brandyé. “Come, son.”

Brandyé stepped outside into the cold night air with Reuel, and together they set off up the hill towards their home, their breath frosting as they walked. Brandyé shivered; he had not brought his cloak, and his undercoat was poor defense against the cold. He rubbed his arms, and looked up. There were no stars in the sky, and he thought it might snow.

To take his mind from the cold, he spoke to his grandfather. “You know what Mrs. Heath said?” he asked.

“What did she say?” replied Reuel.

“About your story not being real. I’ve been thinking since then; you are so sure when you speak, and I have never questioned before that they are true. I think they are true. But that doesn’t mean they are – it’s just what I think.”

Reuel smiled in the dark. “You are perceptive, son,” he said. “If you must know, I embellished that tale to some extent; it is important to make a story interesting, especially to a drunken crowd who cannot sit still for more than five minutes.”

Brandyé thought this an odd remark; the people in the Burrow Wayde had sat still for over an hour as Reuel told his tale. “What is embellish?” he asked.

“I made some of it up,” Reuel said simply.

“Which bits?” Brandyé asked.

Reuel shrugged. “The details, mainly. I do not truthfully know how many men there were from the East, nor what beasts made the armies of the West. I do not know that the lord of the East was a Demon, or even that he was clad in black armor.”

Brandyé was shocked. This was the first time his grandfather had ever admitted to inventing parts of his stories. He had for so long taken them as truth. As they began to climb the hill path, and their home came into view above them, he thought about this, and finally asked Reuel, “What about all the other stories, grandfather? How much of those were made up?”

Reuel sighed, and for a moment seemed old. “The honest truth, Brandyé, is that I do not know any of these tales for certain. No one does. You cannot speak of things that took place so many thousands of years ago with any true certainty. They are passed down from generation to generation, and with each new telling they become changed, added to…embellished. You may not realize it, but that was not the first time I have told that tale at the Burrow Wayde. The people there, most have a short recollection, and the ale does not improve their memory. But were I to tell the same story the same way twice, they would become angry. I am cheating them, they would say. So I must add new details – fresh blood.” He glanced behind him at the village below. “They love the blood.”

“So then…how do you know any of it is true?” pressed Brandyé.

Reuel smiled at his grandson. “I like to believe there is some truth in every tale, son. Even the most fanciful fable is drawn from the teller’s own life, and thus has truth in it.”

They walked the rest of the way home, and when they arrived Reuel lit the stove and Brandyé went upstairs to bed. Though he still enjoyed his grandfather’s stories, he from that day on did not see in them quite the same magic that he did when he was but a small child.

Chapter 2: A Strange Dream

Of all the things that brought Brandyé joy, the one thing he loved more than anything was listening to his grandfather’s many tales. These were not the ones he told at the Burrow Wayde sometimes, though those were enjoyable as well, but rather the ones he would tell in the dark of a winter night, before the fire when it seemed that nothing existed in all the world but their house, alone in the moors. The wind would whistle through the cracks and under the doors, and small snowflakes would swirl in the corners of the room, but before the fire all was warm.

Reuel would sit in his armchair to one side, and Brandyé would sit sometimes in his own chair on the other side, and sometimes on the rug before the fire itself, staring into the flames and embers. As his grandfather spoke, it sometimes seemed that he could see the lands and people of which he spoke within the dancing flames, and they would sometimes speak to him, even as his grandfather described them.

“Have I ever told you of how the world came to be?” Reuel would ask.

“No, grandfather,” Brandyé would answer. In fact, he had heard many of these tales before, but enjoyed them and didn’t want to disappoint his grandfather, who sometimes had difficulty remembering things. As it happened, this particular tale was a new one to Brandyé.

“We live in a world called Erâth,” Reuel began. “Our land – Consolation – is but a tiny part of the world, even though it seems big and takes many weeks to cross from end to end. Long ago, though, there was nothing – nothing at all. The world was perhaps empty – perhaps it did not even exist. No one is sure.”

“Then how do you know about it?” Brandyé asked.

“Don’t interrupt,” his grandfather chided him, and Brandyé grew silent again.

“So, there was nothing at all. And then, there was something. In the forgotten origins of time, seven races came into being. They inhabited all parts of the world–”

“Erâth?” said Brandyé.

“Don’t interrupt,” his grandfather said again. “Yes, Erâth. In this early world, there were seven great races of power. And from these, there came the Ageless. There are seven Ageless – one for each of the great races of power. The Ageless have always been, and may even be the ones who brought Erâth into existence in the first place. Maybe the races of Erâth even came from the Ageless. I suppose anything is possible…” Reuel trailed off, and was silent for a moment.

“Which race are we?” Brandyé asked. “And what happened to the other races? And where are the Ageless now?”

Reuel looked at him reproachfully. “Who is telling this tale?” he said. “Perhaps we should stop; we can finish this another night if you like.”

“I’m sorry grandfather – I do want to hear more about the world. I shouldn’t ask so many questions.”

“No,” he replied. “You must never stop asking questions.”

“Do continue, grandfather – please.”

“Yes. We are the race of Men. We do not live where we once did, and we do not live as we once did. The first men – the Ancients – were magical beings. They lived many hundreds of years, could travel an entire land in a day. They could heal the most grievous of wounds, and could even bring back the dead. In those days, Men filled Erâth, and commanded the lesser creatures, much as we still do with the cattle and sheep.

“The other races represented the powers of Erâth. There were the Mirèn, race of life, and the Namirèn, race of death; the Illuèn, of light, and Duithèn, of darkness. There were also the Portèn, of power, and the Sarâthen, of wisdom. They do not exist any longer, but left Erâth many ages ago when the race of Men fell.”

“We fell?” Brandyé asked.

“Yes, we did. We fell far. Look around you – we live in huts, tending the land, and travel on foot. We do not live hundreds of years, nor can we revive the dead.”

“Well, what if this is the way we’re supposed to be?”

“That is quite possible. All the magic of the Ancients did not prevent their downfall, or we would still live today as they did. In many ways I would be wary of magic – I have never heard of magic that did not bring harm.

“In any case, the race of Men faded, and nearly disappeared. We lost the power we had, and the magic is gone from the world. But they say there are remnants of the ancient world, if you look hard enough and travel far enough. There is a broken bridge that once crossed an entire sea, and in the farthest corner of the world is an island, whose ruined cities were once the greatest in all of Erâth.”

“How did the bridge break?”

“That is a tale for another time, son. Would you put another log on the fire?”

Brandyé picked up a small long from the pile beside the fire, and placed over the embers that were slowly dying. For several minutes there was silence, as together they watched the new wood darken, rise flames, and finally begin to spit and pop as it started to burn.

“It was at this time that darkness first truly fell over the world. There had always been darkness, of course – much of it brought about by the Duithèn, whose power it was. But the magic of Men and the other races of power kept this darkness at bay, and it did not begin to take over the world until there were no longer enough men to withstand it, and the other races of power faded and left.

“Eventually – and it took many thousands of years – all that was left of the race of Men found the world risen against them, and were no longer able to survive. It look as though all was lost – and then Consolation was found. It was the last remaining refuge of light in all of Erâth, and it is from these men that we are descended. They found the land welcoming, and they could once more grow crops, and raise livestock, and live in peace.

“All the while, they feared that the darkness would discover this land, and then there would be nowhere left in Erâth to go, and they would become extinct. For many thousands of years, we have lived with this possibility, but we have had fortune so far, and darkness has not yet crept into Consolation. I do wonder, though, if it might be inevitable. We are blessed here, but you need not travel far to discover that the rest of the world is not so. Have you ever noticed that the mountains to the North – the Trestaé – are most always shawled with grey, and dark clouds? You would not need to go far into their valleys to discover the trees grow crooked, and the beasts are wild, and far stranger than any that roam our lands. You know the wolves that have sometimes attacked Farmer Tar’s sheep? The creatures that roam those mountains would send them running with their tails between their legs.

“I do not have an explanation for why these creatures have not, in all this time, ventured to descend from those mountains and strike at us. Perhaps they do not need to, knowing that we are so isolated, and cannot conquer them. Perhaps there is still some good magic in the world, that keeps them at bay. I do not know.”

“Maybe there are other men out there, who kill them,” Brandyé said.

Reuel looked at him curiously. “What makes you think there would be other people, not living in Consolation?”

“People say that you left Consolation, and you weren’t killed by the beasts. They even say that’s where you found grandmother – in the lands outside of ours.”

Reuel closed his eyes. “Yes; that is true. Your grandmother was a magical creature.”

“I thought you said there was no more magic,” said Brandyé.

“I do not mean magic as you might think of it. She had no powers, but that does not mean she was not magical. There was something special about her; something I have not seen in almost any other person.”

“Who have you seen it in?”

Reuel smiled a little. “Your mother,” he replied. “And you.”

“What was it she had?” Brandyé was intrigued; he had never thought he had anything special about him, other than the fact that most people didn’t like him.

“Curiosity,” said Reuel. “Not being satisfied with a simple answer. Questioning. Your grandmother knew more than any other person I have ever met. But despite that, she never stopped asking questions, to the day she died. Do you know what she said to me before she passed away?”

“No,” said Brandyé, who felt a little uncomfortable. His grandfather did not usually speak of his wife, who Brandyé had never met. She had died long before he had been born.

“She held my hand – she was very weak by then – and she said to me, ‘All my life I have wondered. I have seen the world and wanted to understand why it is the way it is. There are but two things I have never questioned: that you and I should always have met, and that I will see you again.’ The last thing she ever said was, ‘I wonder what death will be like.’”

Brandyé was quiet, and looked at his grandfather. He wasn’t sure in the dim light, but it was possible a tear was glistening under his eye. Unsettled, he turned back to the fire, and watched the log slowly burn, the flames growing lower and lower. Soon, there was nothing left but embers, glowing quietly. The wind rushed outside, and it was dark.

Brandyé felt sad, though he wasn’t sure why. He had never known his grandmother, any more than he had known his parents. He felt no particular connection to her, but yet he felt badly that she had died. Perhaps it was seeing his grandfather, usually so strong, seem so saddened by the thought of his wife. He wondered what it was like to feel that kind of connection to someone else, and whether there was a word for it. He wondered where she had come from, and what it meant that she was not from Consolation. The people he had heard these rumors from seemed to think his grandfather was somehow dangerous, as though he had some hidden power they were afraid of. He realized this was exactly how people reacted to him also, and wondered about his grandfather’s own childhood.

He wanted to ask his grandfather all about these things, but it was getting late, and so far Reuel had not spoken or moved. Uncertain, Brandyé eventually stood up. He looked at his grandfather, who was himself staring into the fire, and said softly, “I’m going to go to bed, grandfather. Goodnight.”

Reuel nodded, ever so slightly, and Brandyé knew he would be okay, and went to bed.

 

Something very odd happened when Brandyé fell asleep that night. Without really realizing it, he was suddenly somewhere else, somewhere he had never seen before in his life.

It was a place entirely unlike anywhere he had ever been in Consolation. For a start, almost everything seemed to made of stone, yet not a kind of stone he knew; it seemed far too flat, far too smooth to be natural. The ground was made of this stuff; the walls of the buildings around him were also, where they were not made of glass.

The buildings were also extremely odd. These stone dwellings were vast – some stretched hundreds of feet into the sky, and continued off into the distance beyond sight. They were made of the same strange stone as everything else, but this stone seemed to serve only as a frame to the buildings; between these huge pillars, vast panes of glass stretched. Brandyé had never seen anything like it; it made the windows of his grandfather’s parlor seem like small peepholes by comparison.

The second thing Brandyé noticed was that these buildings seemed almost all ruined. As the buildings climbed into the sky, he saw that they were topped by jagged, uneven and crumbled edges. There was rubble on the ground, and many cracks in the walls of glass all around him.

The third thing he noticed was that he was entirely alone. He peered about, and saw nothing. There was no sound, no smell, no sign that anything lived in this place at all. He shivered; he had never been in a place of such desolation. Even in the great expanse of the moorlands near his home, where no one ever went, there were sounds, there were smells. The bitter scent of heather, the mustiness of earth; the call of wagtails and scratching chirp of crickets, and the harsh whistle of the wind. There was none of that here.

He began to feel a little uneasy; he did not understand how he came to be here, and was worried about how he would return. He felt very far from home. He took a few steps forward; his feet made a soft pat on the ground and echoed. He stopped again, and looked around. Perhaps someone was watching him. He waited many minutes, and yet no one appeared. He was still alone, it seemed.

He moved on, continued in a line between the high walls of buildings. Ahead, there seemed to be a change of horizon; no building loomed before him, but something else, something empty. As he drew nearer, he began to see light glistening and shimmering. Slowly, the buildings diminished behind him, and he came upon a sight that made his breath cease.

Beneath his feet was sand; before him was water. It was of a size beyond his reckoning; he had visited a lake once before with his grandfather and this was a thousandfold greater than that, and more. To the North and South it stretched infinitely, disappearing beyond the horizon unimaginable leagues distant. The sun hung low in the East, and turned the place to gold and ember. It glinted off the low waves of the water and dazzled Brandyé’s sight. It seemed unmoving; as he stood, still and awed, it neither rose nor set, but stayed put as though it was always just before dusk.

It was the horizon over which the sun hung, the eastern horizon, that Brandyé was unable to comprehend. While the sea stretched infinitely to the North and South, it ended to the East. Brandyé knew of no other word to describe what his eyes saw. Perhaps two miles distant, the sea simply stopped. There was no other land, nor was there more water. A white mist danced beyond this ending, rising gently from beyond the sea and dissolving as it rose towards the frozen sun. It appeared as though the entire sea was plummeting wholly off the edge of an unfathomable precipice. Brandyé had the strongest impression that he stood facing the very edge of the world itself.

It was as he stood, mind reeling at this sight, that a voice, clear and simple, spoke behind him.

“Ye terviae, Brandyé Dui-Erâth, Viura Râ-i, fae erarâth.”

“I greet you, Brandyé Dui-Erâth, in Viura Râ, at world-end.”

He was not startled; though only a moment ago he knew he was alone, he now felt this strange greeting was exactly as it should have been. He turned.

Before him was a woman in black, face pale and fair shrouded under a cloak. Her robes were of a black that the light of the sun did not touch, and a single crimson jewel that hung from her neck was the only color that she bore. She stood on the sand, gazing calmly at Brandyé, and he saw her feet were bare. He gazed into her eyes, and saw they were black also, and looked away, for he felt he might be drawn into them directly and drown.

“Fryae na, Brandyé.” She smiled, though her mouth did not move.

“Fear not, Brandyé.”

Brandyé did not understand her words, but he recognized his name, and knew she spoke the language from which his name had been drawn.

“Who are you?” Even as he asked, he somehow knew the answer.

“Ye-vèr Namira,” she spoke.

“I am Death,”

“I do not understand you,” he said.

“Ye va,” she replied. “Tuthae.” “I know. You will.” She leaned down so that her face was before his, and cupped his face in her hands. They were smooth, and pale, and very cold. She wore a ring, as black as her robes, on the third finger of her right hand, and he felt it against his cheek. “Unéyae. Ye therù.” “You are the dreamer. I will return.”

She kissed him lightly on the forehead, rose, and turned.

“Wait,” he called. But she moved away, and was soon lost to distance. He turned back to the sea. The sun had still not moved. The waters plunged still into their abyss. He felt her kiss linger on his skin, and the coldness of her seemed to slowly spread over his face and down his neck. He thought his vision darkened, and he sat on the sand, watching all the while to the East.

Slowly, he felt his whole body become cold, and the warmth of the sand beneath him seemed to fade. He lay down, and saw the sky above, saw scattered clouds, and saw they too did not move. He lay there for what seemed like many hours, and slowly sank into the sand. All the while his sight grew darker, and eventually he saw nothing at all.

 

Brandyé woke next morning to the sun coming gently through his window, and the scent of breakfast from below. He heard his grandfather humming a tune, and knew where he was, and was relieved. What an odd thing to happen, he thought to himself. I wonder where that place is? He thought he might ask his grandfather, but hesitated – traveling to another place in the middle of the night, when you were meant to be sleeping? It sounded an awful lot like magic, and his grandfather had said he knew of no magic that did not bring harm.

He rose from his bed, and went downstairs to breakfast. He would think about it.