When next Cormac arose, it was to the sound of a multiplicity of groans, complaints and accusations of poisoning. This just before he glanced about the bare room he found himself in. It was notable for its alder-wood stone floor, the bark-covered ceiling and walls and little else in it save for the large wooden-bed with green linen and straw two meters from his own contained Wulfnoth.

  Never a man to do anything gracefully, save for Temple rituals and prayers the old moustachioed druid had thrust a bowl full of what appeared to be stew away from him. Corin stood by his right-side, with his arms folded across his chest with an impatient expression on his bearded face.

  “Wulfnoth, you need your strength,” Corin grunted, glaring down at the druid with his grey eyes as sharp as twin drawn swords.

  “But it tastes horrid, it is rancid and feels thick,” Wulfnoth complained in a childish manner, “I shan’t understand how they can feed people stew that has leaves mixed with rotten tomatoes and apples. How can they claim this to be a restorative?”

  He made then a sound of disgust, his expression almost enough to make Cormac laugh. The images from his previous rest though were not to be repressed for much longer, and brought a shudder to his still weakened frame.

  Forcing them down back into the realm of dreams, lest he should whimper or cry out in a manner that was to his mind unbefitting for a man. Especially with Corin present therewith him, Cormac took the next several minutes to indulge in the frankly trivial nature of the bickering between the two foreigners.

  Their voices then the greatest comfort to him imaginable, as his battered spirit soaked in the familiarity and warmth of their presence.

  Not that either man had much in the way of warmth for one another at that moment. Corin was most especially bitter and rancid in nature, as he bit out in a harsh tone. “Eat it, and you will not have to at a later date.”

  “I would prefer to eat meat, and have a bottle of wine or ale.” Wulfnoth countered bitterly.

  Corin and the druid continued their argument for some time. Neither of them especially keen, to give in on the matter of the restorative-stew. The mention of meat made Cormac’s own stomach rumble, just as the scent of the tree entered into his nostrils, filling him with a peculiar desire to eat and relax in his bed to rest once more.

  Unable for a few minutes to decide quite what it was that he wished for, he was amazed to discover after a few more minutes of indecision, Corin’s eyes fixed on him.

  Wasting no further time on his argument with Wulfnoth, he hurried across the room to stand by Cormac’s side, with a small sound of relief. “At last, you are awake, lad! You have been asleep for days, Cormac! There was a time we were not certain you would awaken!”

  “Days?” he gasped unable to believe his ears, when next he spoke it was to add, in what he hoped was a comforting voice, as Corin looked ever so worried, as did Wulfnoth. “Ah yes, I suppose I am quite awake now.” Cormac murmured shyly, only noticing then how tiny the small windowless room was, these details piqued his interest, as he asked, “Where are we?”

  “The Longwoods,” Wulfnoth answered at once, placing his bowl upon the only chair in the room, which appeared made of alder-wood and was to be found to the right of the head of his bead. “It appears that a group of Wilder-Elves survived here, far away from Auldchester and the rest of the centers of power in Brittia over the centuries.”

  “Elves still live hereon the Lairdly-Isle?” Cormac asked almost leaping from his bed in his excitement, pleased and amazed all at once by this wonderful news.

  “Oui, though they have remained a private, secretive people who mistrust outsiders,” Corin explained. “What we have seen of the remnants of their once great city, is but an empty diversion from the true village that lies above and around it.”

  “Above it?”

  “Yes, it appears that they took to the trees in some cases, others live upon land and in the westernmost parts of the forest.” The Gallian said sitting down on the bed, ruffling his hair as he did so with his right-hand, “But never you mind that lad, how do you feel?”

  Cormac smiled in return pleased to see him, grateful also for the demonstration of warmth on the part of the blacksmith. It had been some time since he had seen, his father’s greatest friend the warmth in his heart enough to chase away the final memories of those monsters and phantoms that lay somewhere within his spirit.

  Between this feeling of relieved joy and his innate curiosity he could not quite decide between whether he ought to break the moment by asking his endless questions, or not. Though his mind was undecided, his stomach rumbled once again, loudly enough for Corin to hear it this time.

  A small laugh escaped him, before he regained his feet ruffling once more the hair of the lad, “It appears that you have need of some food, ere we next speak of what has happened.”

  Corin went to leave, with the youth only now taking notice of the wooden door to the left of his bed. It was only as he opened the door that the youth recalled his other friends, the lightheaded sensation that had haunted him since he had awakened cleared, a little then though not entirely.

  It was replaced by the memory of what had happened atop the Great Mound of Griogair, of the sight of Bardulf bleeding profusely from nigh on a dozen wounds. This along with the far worse memory of Trygve stabbed and seemingly dying from his own collection of wounds inspired in Cormac a horrid combination of guilt and fear.

  Fear for one of his oldest friends, a man who had followed him out into the wilderness in spite of his not being a warrior by nature or by birth. Trygve, he determined deserved far better than to perish, anywhere other than in his own bed, surrounded by family after a full life filled to the brim with joy.

  “Wait, where are Trygve and Bardulf? Are they safe?” He demanded of his friend, stricken to the core of his being by consternation for the two of them.

  Seeing his worried expression caused Corin’s own face to soften a great deal, so that for a moment it was possible to see what sort of man he once was. Before he had come to Caledonia, before he had suffered so many terrible blows at the hand and club that was life. Genial, he smiled gently at the youth whom he assured with utter sincerity, “They are safe, and you may visit with them once you have regained your strength.”

  This hardly assuaged Cormac’s concern for his friends, though he tried to do as he was told, all he could think of was Trygve and Bardulf.

  *****

  The food he was served by Corin was revolting with the only comfort as he ate, was the company of his friends and Daegan, who had apparently been sleeping but had roused herself long enough to learn from him that Cormac was awake, after which she insisted upon visiting him. Though not even they could entirely erase the rancid taste of what appeared to him then to be a half-rotted taste.

  Seeing the disgusted face he made, Wulfnoth smiled a little in sympathy, only to remark, “I can see that you like their restorative dish far less than I do.”

  Cormac nodded and might have spat it back out, however a warning glance from both father and daughter kept him from doing so. Disappointed, he swallowed it though he regretted this decision at once, coughing as he did so. Offering him a sip from a goblet that she filled with watered wine, Daegan continued to eye him sternly as he drank.

  Once he had finished emptying the goblet, he made the decision to keep from eating any more of the stew. Never again would he touch the slightest food or stew made by these Elves, not even if his mother was near at hand to show them to properly cook a stew.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  How they could ruin stews for me is a mystery, he thought to himself since like any other Caled who drew breathe across the lands in the north of the Lairdly-Isle, he loved nothing more than the dishes of the north. This last thought made him all of a sudden homesick, he missed his mother most of all.

  Though the harshest person, he knew, he suddenly longed for her company and wished she was there with him even if it meant that she might do little more than scold him until her voice was hoarse, and he felt worse than before. The silliness of this last thought and the bitterness towards all the pain she had caused him hardly seemed to him to dent his homesickness though.

  “How are Trygve and Bardulf?” He asked once he could speak again, eyeing the bottle of heavily watered Caledonian wine. He recognised the taste as a local one from Glasvhail, suspicious that Corin had bought it before he had raced south, after them Cormac thought the taste still preferable to that of the restorative.

  “They are well, though Indulf is in the midst of smothering Trygve,” Daegan stated with a roll of her eyes, a hint of worry belied her seeming indifference. “As though he truly requires any sort of mothering at such a time, especially after he has not ceased to complain and make endless jests at my expense.”

  This last statement brought a small smile to Cormac’s lips. Though the desire to visit his friends, had not abated in the slightest he contented himself then with chattering with those present therewith him, on all matters that pertained to the area they found themselves in, and the south of Caledonia. Corin had left Sgain sooner than he had intended, and once he had returned to Glasvhail he had departed south with all haste.

  Taking up a horse, he had exchanged it later for a faster steed in Ardanneag only to continue by circling about the burning forest south of that area. From there he had traversed the Longwoods, heading south of the Great Mound, to the town of Liocarrow where he had met with Wiglaf.

  “-Once there we convened on the matter of what was to be done, it was he who had hired Bardulf and his tribe to see to escorting you there. As none of you had arrived yet, even after he had returned from an extended visit to his Order, he suggested we make contact with the local Elves.” Corin went on to explain, having by then taken up the chair from Wulfnoth’s side so as to seat himself upon it nearer to Cormac’s own bed. “It was while we met with Arduinna that her niece had seen the smoke in the distance and investigated just as those wraiths made their presence known.”

  After this he went on to explain that in a panic Arduinna had ordered an immediate rescue of those by the Great Mound, though it was forbidden to fight near there. It was holy in the eyes of the Wilder Elves, and they had preserved the memory of Griogair whom they still burnt sycamine sprigs and mulberry wood in memory of.

  Such trees were symbolic in Wilder-Elvish society and the burning of these as incense, thrice upon the Great Mound was a sacred rite practiced since the time of Griogair’s death. This ritual was often carried out by Arduinna or by one of her clan, who selected the tree that they cut branches from themselves. Once the sprig and mulberry were properly shaved down and prepared they were burnt. All while the Elves sang a song begging for Griogair’s forgiveness.

  “It is really fascinating to hear them speak so of their rites,” Daegan carried on merrily, unaware of the envy in his heart and eyes at that moment, for he truly longed to hear more of the Elves and to converse with them. It had been after-all his most heartfelt wish, since he had first heard Murchadh and Corin speak of them back when he could barely walk. Still though, he felt happy to hear of them from Daegan’s full lips. “They do this thrice a year as stated, and have even sung the song that they call the ‘song of pleas’ and will continue to sing it until right is restored, and the house of Griogair has claimed a lairdship of some sort.”

  “Lairdship where? Herein Caledonia or over in yonder Brittia?” Cormac inquired confused by the vagueness of the language used.

  At this question, Daegan shrugged her shoulders as though such a detail was of little import, “What difference does it make? They are to claim it, is it not romantic Cormac?”

  “It does matter I should think, given the darkness that could be ushered in by them seeking to lay claim to the kingship of either land.” Corin countered his daughter, a small grin on his face as his eyes shone with amusement. He added just as she stuck her tongue out at him, and grumbled about him not understanding a thing. “It appears that any lairdship will do, I am not certain I know only that it is important to the Elves. For they wish to right all the old wrongs, and restore what they term ‘balance’, though if Dae would humour us, mayhap rather than pulling faces or striking queer poses about romance she could sing us the song she loves so very much.”

  Daegan coloured a little at his gentle reprimand. Ordinarily harsher towards her, the relief and love the father felt at the sight of his daughter healthy, and filled with her old vim and vigour had softened him. If temporarily so, Cormac suspected that some of the old sharpness may yet return.

  For the moment though, he felt happy not to speak of this. Especially if it meant there was a chance to hear of Elves, and Daegan’s singing voice, as these were two of his three favourite things in the world (the last was the sea).

  Though she blushed all the way up to her freckled ears, the young lass opened her mouth to sing after she stammered out that her voice was likely to not sound anything akin, to those of the Elf-women who had taken to her.

  It was as she sang though that many voices echoed from outside the room, from all around all of them were accented and laughing as they sang with sincere warmth. Such was the force of those voices and so completely did they envelop the room that it appeared to Cormac, as though the lot of them were floating in a bubble made of bark and song.

  It felt magical, airy and light all at once, it was the perfect comfort he mused, after the sudden fire and darkness of the battle that they had had left behind them, but a short time ago.

  “While the grey-woods sleep,

  Thereby the glen fair-folk dwell,

  In lament deep within the dell,

  Perk thy ears ye may yet hear tell,

  Of their tale most unfell,

  In the murky forest deep,

  In the woods that still sleep,

  We reside hereto this day,

  We chosen of the woods are gay,

  In days of yore we sang mighty songs,

  While trees grew like swans,

  Long before this dawn,

  In hollow places we still build walls,

  For the younger born, many a Elvish laird,

  To war they went, war-horns blared,

  They crafted and fought, and they lost many a bairn,

  This isle once our home is now our cairn,

  Roma was still young and we aged,

  On giant prows they came many wars they waged,

  ‘Till the sons of Roparzh were proper-caged,

  Stars rose, dawns passed and the land aged,

  In the murky forest deep,

  In the woods that still sleep,

  We reside hereto this day,

  We chosen of the woods are gay,

  This village they wove where none may tell,

  Among the trees in this dell,

  Oaks rising and stretching where they still dwell,

  To solely in song revel,

  For this song also rebuffed Razenth’s ire,

  Our pines unequalled keep reaching higher,

  This though the night is dire,

  For Brigantius’s sons who shall soon expire,

  Dark Elves, Roma, Razenth, all were endured,

  Until reduced to this wood,

  Though we sing still in corners shadowed,

  None may tell what next winter may bring”

  “Oh, what a beautiful if sorrowful song!” Cormac cried out, moved his chest and heart squeezed with the force of the grief that the song had evoked in him.

  “I am not so certain of its actual beauty,” Wulfnoth remarked to one side, brushing and dabbing at his eyes with his robe’s sleeves. “But the sorrow it spreads amongst us is undeniable as is that felt by the elder-folk.”

  “What do you mean ‘unsure of its beauty’?” Daegan growled indignant at this perceived slight on his part, against what she felt to be amongst the most magnificent people, and one of the finest songs she had ever heard. “If you had heard the song sung in their tongue, you would not judge so swiftly.”

  “Peace arrogant daughter of the Forlarin,” Wulfnoth snapped irritably, in a foul mood because he had yet to have a bottle of brandy or ale of any kind as was his wont early in the morn’. He went on at her insistence to explain himself, if in a waspish tone. “The trouble with the remembering and honouring of past wounds is that it causes the wound to fester. It means that the anger of yonder days and of olden times live on, and is passed down from father to child. That anger and pain does not disappear, but rather grows and grows, eventually as in the case of all flames it comes home to devour all around it.”

  The wisdom that lay within his words brought Cormac and Corin up short, both of them pondering them at some length. Corin sunk back into his age-old brooding. Withdrawing inwardly as he had done time and again over the years, this served to in turn darken Cormac’s own mood.

  The graveness and weight with which the druid spoke caused him to ponder another question. One closer to home; was he keeping the bitterness exchanged between him and his mother alive, when he revisited all the past words and deeds that had gone wrong between them? Was it that he was the one who stoked the flames between them? It was a question that was hardly comforting to think about.

  What was even less of a comfort to him was the conclusion that the question was a self-answering one. It begged him to wonder if he had somehow, brought down upon his own head some of the anger and bitterness that his mother had directed against him, over the past decade.

  Daegan for her part scoffed at them, in marked contrast to the two of them, “This is wholly ridiculous, what do you propose? That we erase the past and all memory of it?”

  “Nay, not at all I never said any such thing,” Wulfnoth replied at once, with equal sharpness to her own tone. “I merely propose that history ought to be passed down, but not the pain. That to pass down cultural guilt is to pass down one’s hatred for oneself and others and to teach one’s children, to destroy themselves.”