The small room was to remain a kind of prison cell for the irrepressible youth, for several days ere he regained the freedom he craved so badly. The room he had been kept in along with its walls appeared to grow smaller, and more oppressive with every day that passed.

  Days that passed ever so slowly for the youth, who had studied every inch of the room’s interior, with its alder wood that made him wonder if the room had been grown somehow out of the tree’s woods. As excited as he was, to meet the Elves he could not help but feel resentful to be locked away in his room. Staying by his side, Wulfnoth attempted to lighten his mood with songs, psalms and old stories taken from the Canticle or from his many travels.

  One of the tales he told was of the Tigrun twins Fergus and Ronald, both of whom were old friends of the druid who recounted to him early one day, sitting up in his bed. “Fergus and Ronald are two lads who never could resist trouble, finding it wherever they have had a tendency to wander off to. One example of this would be when they arrived in Cymru, whereupon they quarrelled with a man sworn to a local laird there. Ronald was imprisoned, his sorcerer’s staff taken from him and thus he had to rely upon his wits, to survive not that he did very well at this at the time. His brother, clever Fergus during this time had escaped capture, only to arrive at that laird’s court, as a minstrel for he was the finest Pardiff in all of Bretwealda.”

  The mention of the beast-folk term Pardiff was one that Cormac recognised at once. It was one that you may not have heard of, though it is a translation of an originally ancient Tigrun and Wolfram term. For their languages had similar roots, with the term stemming from a Brittian term for ‘to part with’ for this was what the beast-folk believed they did when they sang a song or recited a poem or great tale.

  They were parting with something precious, something of immeasurable worth. This immeasurably special possession could be best summed up in one of the Minotaurs’ proverbs; ‘there is naught more precious than a good tale or song, for jewels may allow a person to pay for food to warm one’s belly. But a good tale warms the heart.’

  The Pardiffs carried with them the cultural memory of their ancestors, rather like how the druids did, or those court-poets of the Caleds or érians did. Remembering hundreds of tales, songs and poems by heart without ever writing most of them (for most knew not how to write), the Pardiffs were sacred in the eyes of the beast-folk. Such was the importance of their roles in the tribes that it was said that when they went to war with one another, they often made an effort to spare the rival Pardiff for fear of losing the poetry, and music of their rivals.

  A wandering lone Pardiff was a rare thing, given how tribal the Tigruns and other beast-folk could be, and the importance of having one of those poets in one’s tribe could be. For one to wander away was almost sacrilegious in the eyes of these folks.

  A great lover of poetry and song, Cormac had never had the honour of meeting a Pardiff, though Glasvhail itself had always welcomed wandering minstrels and poets whom the Pardiffs shared much in common with.

  “A Pardiff, he must know a great many tales, what sort of tales did he used to tell you, brother Wulfnoth?” Cormac asked excitedly, eyes round as he sat upon the edge of his straw and wooden bed that appeared to his mind, admittedly far more comfortable than beds that kings likely enjoyed.

  “Erm aye, he did used to tell many a tales when we traveled together, but I will not recount those stories for the moment,” Wulfnoth replied stammering a little before he regained his composure. Seeing the disappointment on the youth’s face, he snapped a little irritably, “If I were to pass all my time answering your most recent questions you would dream up another thousand, and then another once I begin answering those questions. You are irrepressible and have no self-control that is your greatest flaw lad.”

  “I have some self-control,” Cormac muttered weakly, cheeks flushing red.

  “Nay you do not, the first way by which one may fight against one’s vices is to admit to them.” Wulfnoth counselled wisely, ere he continued his tale of Cymru, “Fergus had not slipped in alone though, for he was accompanied at the time by Colwyn. A witty lad, cleverer than most men I have ever laid eyes upon, he was then but a lad and though not a trained poet took up minstrelsy with little difficulty. Though his sister, treacherous as she was and as mighty a witch as any have ever been, if you will pardon me for terming her such. She had forged dark pacts with nefarious spirits and demons you see, and it was she who exposed her brother’s identity to the laird or prince rather as the Cymrans call their lairds, Maelgwn. Exposed, somehow Colwyn still succeeded alongside Fergus into trusting him for a time and out of his castle.”

  “Wait, now I know you speak in jest,” Cormac interrupted the moment the druid took a long breath, laughing as he did so, for it seemed ridiculous to him. “How could he possibly trick a man out of his own castle?”

  “I do not know. All that I know was that he was aided by the prince’s own sister whom Colwyn had wooed over the course of that winter, with many pretty tales of his home-life, of his beloved uncle and parents. She was terribly lonely you see Cormac, her pain know no boundaries for she had been imprisoned almost the whole of her life, so frightened was her brother of someone coming to wed his pretty sister and usurping his throne.” Wulfnoth explained at some length with a great deal of sentimentality, his sorrow for the wee lass who had once upon a time, been imprisoned heartlessly by her own brother visible in his face. It made Cormac’s heart ache, so that he felt his own throat tighten and heart squeeze with sympathy for her. “It came about though that he and his consort that is to say Colwyn’s sister Modron, left for one of their many wars with a neighbouring prince, and Colwyn took the castle over. Laying claim to the title of prince, with the aid of Fergus and Ronald, the latter was to never forget how foolish he had behaved before he was sold to Maelgwn.”

  This last part was delivered with a wink that drew a long chuckle from the youth, who momentarily forgot the chaffing feeling he had, about what he felt to be his own imprisonment. There was more that Wulfnoth told him about the witch Modron, who was sent across the Gertruan straits to ériu where she escaped to join the Warlock-King of Amadan’s court, with Fergus and Ronald joining the now High-King of ériu, Bradán.

  The mention of the Warlock-King inspired a shiver in even Wulfnoth who admitted, to having never met the terrible monstrous self-proclaimed king. However, the dread the mere mention of the name was enough to dampen the good humour he had by then inspired in the small room.

  His mention of the heroism of the High-King of ériu, along with the heroics of the man’s kinsmen, from his uncle Meallán to Muirgel the king’s wife, who was according to rumours a mermaid once imprisoned by the Warlock-King.

  The tales ended only when Daegan arrived with her father, in favour of a tale of the previous wars Bradán had fought to retain his crown from Nordic invaders.

  This tale in particular pleased Daegan, who had a passion for such tales, especially those from ériu, of which Wulfnoth knew a great deal from his time in Sgain and Carreyrn. As the people there, felt their loyalties to be strongly tied to the lands of the Emerald-Isle due to the cultural ties between the Caleds and érians.

  *****

  It was some time after that day that Cormac was at last allowed out of the small room he had been contained in. The one who informed him of course, of his newly regained freedom, was Corin who did so with a great deal of joy, at the same time that Wulfnoth was informed that he could not leave quite yet.

  There was more, with the Gallian telling him, “Brother I should warn you that they intend to move Trygve to your room, as Bardulf has long since recovered and they wish to facilitate care for the both of you.”

  “Ugh, I must soon endure the largest-mouthed youths herein my chambers? Is there to be no end to my sorrows?” Wulfnoth grumbled bitterly his disdain for Trygve on full display for all to bear witness to.

  The reason for his severe dislike for the youngest of Freygil’s sons bewildered Cormac along with the rest of them. Fond as they were of the lad in question, who had his own innate charm, inherent goodness and was a loyal friend or so Cormac thought. Even Corin bore a special fondness for the lad in question, due to his many jests at Daegan’s expense and continued loyalty towards their cause and companions.

  Too cynical to counter the argument of the druid, the blacksmith fell quiet only to give his daughter a stern look that made her squirm. She was alone in having giggled at Wulfnoth’s words, with neither Corin nor Murchadh’s son pleased by her show of scorn for their friend.

  “Come now, Trygve is not such terrible companion, do give him a chance Wulfnoth,” Cormac pleaded keen to create peace between his friends. The druid threw him an annoyed glance, one that he sought to mollify by offering though he had no further taste for this room, “If you wish I may return to visit you both.”

  This offer appeased the druid, with the following offer on the part of Corin to bring some beer made by the Wilder-Elves bringing a much wider grin to his lips.

  Rolling her eyes at the keenness on the part of the Brittian for liquor, Daegan was the first to leave the small room, muttering to herself, “How that drunk became a paragon is still a mystery to my mind.”

  Bemused by her words, Corin guided the youth out of the room, to show to him for the first time the Elvish village of the Longwoods. A village believed to have been lost to time, after the First Wars of Darkness.

  The village that Cormac was introduced to was not at all what he expected after hearing so many tales across his childhood, of the magnificent structures once built by the Elves. The tales he had heard had painted the image of forest utopias the likes of which no other peoples had ever built, in the whole of the history of the world. This village though was but a shadow, of what was once a glorious city that was incomparable in the whole of the Lairdly-Isle.

  The shadow though was nonetheless a moving, glorious image though. This city was markedly different from the villages constructed by men or the many beast-folk who inhabited the lands of Bretwealda, villages that built themselves sideways. Different in that this city had built itself upwards, from the ground up through the trees of the Longwoods.

  The houses on the ground were built directly into the trunks of the trees. The roofing of those houses bore the same colouration of the gargantuan oaks, ashes, cedar, pines and birches that they had been somehow carved into. Each of the trees that they were built into had been grown near to almost triple the size most of their cousins typically were.

  Most of the trees reminding Cormac of the king-oak that they had visited just before their encounter with the wraiths, with the Elf houses wide two storey buildings. Near to six meters wide, the houses were well stocked with fine chairs, some cushioned with feather-stuffed cushions all made of finely carved red-wood and magnificent birch wood. The cushions were woven from fine red and blue silk, as Cormac was soon to discover.

  These houses also had kitchens, with hearths that were well-wrought that were the only points made of stone in these houses and which directed what smoke their flames belched out safely from these trees. This was done thanks to the well-constructed hearths which arched about through the tree to a little higher than the summit, so that the smoke and flames could be gotten rid of safely. Fire were a great concern for the Elves, who lived, for they lived in trees that typically housed multiple families higher up along the tree from where those near the trunk lived.

  The tables of the Elves were likewise well-wrought of the finest red-wood also this being the favourite sort of wood they had carved into shelves, chairs and tables. Other peoples may have pained over the wooden material, but not the Wilder-Elves who felt it crucial that the wood retain its original colouration.

  The polish and sheen of the material was flawless, with even the house walls polished to such an extent that they were fine to touch, as Cormac later discovered over the course of his explorations of the village.

  Those houses that were not near the trunks of the great trees that populated the heart of the forest, where the village was located, were better built than those directly upon the ground. Most of the houses were two-storeys also in nature, with these homes somewhere between six and seven meters wide and almost as high, the kitchens built exactly akin to those directly upon the earth.

  The difference was that those houses upon the ground were those of the farmers with those living higher on the trees, carpenters, fishermen (for there was a great lake in the heart of the forest), artisans and tradesmen.

  These middle-men populated their houses with fine shelves, kitchens and tables also, red-wood being favoured in their midst also. Honoured amongst all the Elves, there were also guest-rooms smaller than their homes, such as those that Cormac and his companions had been housed inside of. These smaller homes being for visitors, with the Wilder-Elves of a mind that guests aught to be honoured, even if they were not to stay forever, for they believed that those guests who overstayed their welcome were the rudest of peoples imaginable.

  The upper-homes near the summit of the trees were to serve as a bulwark against the rain, as Bardulf later jested, when Cormac found him near the lake when his explorations brought him there days later. For the moment, he found when the time came the upper-houses to be three-storeys in nature; the floors were the same size as those beneath them.

  The key difference between these homes and the lower ones was how these homes were forbidden hearths, and had in some cases the leaves of the houses for roofing. The leaves according to Bardulf never fell away in the winter, with this village dubbed the land of ‘never-snow’ by the Elves themselves. The upper ranks of the Elves were those sorcerers, shamans who served as their druids and the heads of these Elves. Their homes had on their top floors libraries, containing the ancient wisdoms of the ancestors of the Elves.

  Many of those houses were closed off as Cormac was to discover, due to Arduinnas having secluded herself with a great deal of the village during the day, to discuss the matter of the wraiths. It was conveyed to him that Bardulf had been invited up there, alongside Wiglaf that the Elves might hear of their adventures.

  How it was that the Elves and their visitors could travel between these high-houses, was a simple matter as Cormac discovered. A series of smoothly polished stairs made from the trees themselves, served as ramps that led from the bottom to the very top, the base of these ramps began at the base of the trees, before they wrapped themselves around the tree.

  It was not simply the leaders of the tribe that were absent, but also the vast majority of the people, for they were an arduous folk. Preferring to toil throughout the day, with children taught by their parents just as humans were, or apprenticed to master-artisans to learn their arts.

  Not that there were a great many children, according to Corin, the reason for this lack of infants was not a topic of debate that the blacksmith spoke of in too much detail. Seeing it as rude, it happened to be one mystery of the Elves that Cormac was not meant to discern the truth behind, during his sojourn among the Wilder-Elves.

  This brings us to the Elves themselves. What he had thought made Arduinnas unique, as it was revealed to him within seconds of stepping out of the building to find a guide to the right of his door awaiting him there.

  Quiet, the Elf was about Corin’s own height, this guard had the same emerald hair of Arduinnas and eyes that pierced through the dark with a silent glow that alarmed him. It felt unnatural, with the non-human’s every movement graceful and animalistic in some way that reminded him more of deer or a wolf, than the manner in which a man might walked. Between this trait of the Elf’s, his eyes which were also almond shaped and his long slightly curved ears near the tip he was one of the strangest figures the lad had ever seen in all his years.

  His clothes, fine leather trousers and tunic which were green in colour, with a quiver of arrows thrown over one shoulder humanised him, in Cormac’s eyes. The boots though were the most human element; with them being made of similar deer-skin to that which was worn by the likes of Daegan or Corin (cobbling though taken for granted amongst the Caleds is deeply honoured and respected among the Elves).

  *****

  Cormac first sought to explore the various homes of the Elves out of sincere curiosity, searching through them in search of not only his friends but the Elves. Many of whom were absent, for there were a great many who preferred to work by the pool of water some distance away, or had left for the hunt. Still others had been swept up by the rumours that surrounded the newcomers, and they had joined their brethren in the private meeting room of Arduinnas.

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  “It is so vast,” He murmured stunned to find that the village not only stretched upwards, but at first sight he could not help but notice that it stretched out at least for a whole league.

  “Aye, though according to our guides, it has been diminished over the centuries, due in no small part to their decline as a people.” Corin said to him, mournful for all that the Elves had lost as if it personally touched him. “Their majestic trees which they wrought by arts only they know have begun to at last decay it appears.”

  “How sad, if only they could remain forever,” Cormac remarked sadly, the guard to one side of the door gazed at him oddly, he noticed from the corner of his eyes.

  “Nay,” The accent the guard had when he spoke in Caled was such that it made the already lyrical language appear all the more lyrical by nature. “Naught should remain forevermore, for it is in the temporary nature of things that beauty is most oft-found.”

  The weight with which he spoke, and the conscious manner in which he chose every word gave his words added meaning. Meaning which Cormac did not dismiss, nor did his companies; not even Daegan dared to do so. The guard had the youthful appearance of one his own age, yet there was no mistaking the age and wisdom that lay within his hardened glimmering green and black-flecked eyes.

  Bowing his head to this wisdom, though he somewhere within himself disagreed still, Cormac replied respectfully, “I only wished that what is beautiful might remain forever, that future generations might one day appreciate it also.”

  “This is the reason for why books, and teachings passed down by elders is crucial, no building, no person, nor even the trees, can outlast time itself.” The Elf stated with the same deliberate sternness that he had addressed the youth before with.

  Daegan shot him an exasperated glance that she might well have thrown in his direction, when of a mind that Kenna was wrong but that she thought it futile to bicker with her. It was as they journeyed across one of the many bridges that linked the different tree-habitations together that she whispered to him. “You are right, it would be better if this place were to last forever, pay him no mind Cormac.”

  A small smile on his lips, Cormac none the less paid greater heed to the bridge which was made of oak-wood and finely polished and near to three meters wide. He briefly wondered with a slight shiver as he glanced down below the bridge that the floor was so smooth it was a great possibility that he might slip and fall to his doom down below.

  “Do not glance down,” Corin warned him a heart-beat too late, with a small bemused smile on his bearded lips.

  Cormac nodded with a slight swallow, gripping the hand-rail tighter turning out of pride away from Daegan’s offered hand. Her disappointed pout was likewise ignored, she had evidently hoped to hold hands with him, but pride would not allow the blonde-haired youth to accept such a show of weakness.

  Guided throughout the village wherein there were a great many wonders and not one locked door, as the Wilder-Elf considered their homes to almost be communal in nature. It was after she had shown him four of these homes that Daegan appeared to deflate. Complaining at some length, “It appears that Elduilas and Eflarria have vanished.”

  “Who are they?” Cormac asked taking in the appearance of a nearby tapestry that hung to one side of a family home, which was empty of all inhabitants. The tapestry depicted a scene where the Elves rode on horseback to fight by the side of Wolframs and Men, against the Cyclops-tribes that had sought to enslave the people of the Lairdly-Isle.

  Foreign to Bretwealda’s shores, the tapestry depicted their arrival and terrible misdeeds before they were repelled by Fionnlach and his ‘Pact-Brothers’. Finely woven, from the blue skies to the greenness of the earth to the crimson and orange flames that had enveloped the whole of the Lairdly-Isle in the wake of the darkness’s arrival were all magnificent.

  “Elves I have befriended, since our arrival here,” Daegan retorted visibly disappointed at the absence of the other Elf-maidens.

  Though she resisted visiting with Trygve, Daegan came to in time agree to escort him to the room in which Trygve was housed. It was thereon the tree they stood upon that the small home he had been placed in lay, with the home near to being an exact duplicate of that which he had himself escaped form but a short-time ago.

  The room was small, with two beds identical to those he had occupied alongside Wulfnoth. With this home having in the middle of it rather than to one side, a table, with Indulf seated at the other end of the small red-wood table upon a chair with finely woven blue cushions upon it. In the middle of a hearty lunch that involved owl meat (a popular delicacy amongst the Wilder-Elves), apples, and cornbread.

  A word about the nature of the cornbread wrought by the Elves, where human bread of that age was hard, requiring to be dipped in wine that of the Elves was soft in nature. Quite why was was a mystery to Cormac, who had developed as much of a taste for it as had his friends.

  None enjoyed it more so than Wulfnoth of course, with the mill by the lake and thus at some distance from the rest of the village, with the miller living apart from his people. For the communal people of the Longwoods, this was an inexplicable mystery, one that had inspired in them a great deal of perplexed attempts to convince him to move back to the village and commute to the mill.

  The Elf as Cormac had been told en route to this house preferred his solitude particularly since his mate a remarkably beautiful Elf-maid had perished some two centuries ago.

  Trygve was in a sour mood, taking the foul stew that Cormac had so recently ceased being fed with ill-grace. Devouring a hunk of owl, along with some cornbread Indulf in turn was in good spirits, or as good as he could possibly be since the death of Inga.

  At the sight of Cormac though the brothers exploded with joy, the elder of the two leapt to his feet and was quick to embrace him. Doing so before either of the two of them could remember their own respective pride, wrapping their arms about each other’s shoulders and slapping one another heartily upon the other’s back.

  “Cormac how good it is to see you so healthy!” Indulf shouted, so sincere was he in this proclamation that none could doubt the truth of his sentiments.

  Previously, his friend had nursed some doubts on the matter of his friend’s affection for him, in the absence of a proper visit. Swept up by the embrace, and bearing witness to the sight of the older lad tremble with eagerness and break into a wide grin filled his heart with warmth, where it had once been cold.

  Such was the force of the regret he felt for his prior doubts that Cormac, marked this moment out in his memory as one for change. Thinking ill of himself for having had these doubts, his simple-minded nature would not allow him to break this particular oath no matter if he had not formally sworn it, in the name of any of the gods or one of their paragons.

  “We were just in the middle of discussing how we might break our way into your room,” Indulf burst out excitedly, his typical timidity momentarily forgotten at their reunion.

  “Aye,” Trygve murmured earnestly, with tears in his eyes or so it appeared to Cormac, when he pulled away from the elder brother’s embrace.

  “Strange that you had not visited by now,” Daegan needled disapprovingly, with a glower in the direction of the weaver.

  At her words, Cormac expected another of Indulf or Trygve’s sardonic remarks to rebuttal her accusation of dereliction of friendship. This was not the case though, to his alarm and stupefaction for neither of them sought to defend themselves. They both appeared upset, with Indulf’s cheeks red and his expression darkened, whereas that of Trygve became downcast and angry though his gaze was directed at his brother’s back.

  Not always the most sensitive to the mood of his two friends, Cormac could not help but resent Daegan’s words, for causing such anguish betwixt the brothers. It was his view that certainly he had felt lonely and hurt, when they had failed to visit but they had apologised therefore all was right now. Or it ought to have been, with the moment a damaged one due to Daegan’s need to scold and prove her superiority over the two men.

  “Dae! That is quite enough,” Cormac hissed from between his teeth, throwing a glare in her direction so that she was taken by surprise.

  Daegan appeared prepared to counter his reprimand, with a further argument when Corin interceded. “Dae, there are always times for such remarks, and times for silence. If Cormac has forgiven them, it is hardly our place to reprimand the brothers, when they have had more than a few tongue-lashings each.”

  This admission startled Cormac who amused looked from one brother to the other, both of them appeared quite sheepish and annoyed by the casual manner in which Corin had exposed this detail.

  Curious nonetheless, he could not resist asking, “Who did the scolding?”

  “Everyone from Arduinnas, to Bardulf, myself and even Wiglaf,” Corin admitted with an amused glance now in the direction of the brothers.

  Trygve answered for his brother, with a small if nervous chortle, “Aye, we have had more than a dozen reprimands each, almost every day my friend.”

  “Why scold you Trygve?” Cormac asked with a small grin of his own now, “Did you complain too much?”

  This drew a sharp laugh from Daegan and the lad in question, though he did complain a little; even Corin appeared amused by the remark. It was Indulf who appeared less than pleased with the remark so that the fisherman’s son wondered if he had taken the reprimands he had received too much to heart.

  He wished he could have said something at that moment, to comfort his friend yet he knew not what could be said. What was more was that he wished to bridge the gap that was felt between the brothers in the room, when he seated himself upon the edge of Trygve’s bed.

  They would converse for some time, about all sorts of matters notably how they had all been treated since their arrival in the Longwoods.

  A subject that Trygve had a great deal to say, most of which involved him complaining. His manifold complaints won him many laughs, with only Cormac truly empathising with his various sorrows which ranged from his having been forbidden from leaving his room due to his wounds, to the poor-tasting stew he was fed, to also the mockery the Elves had treated him to.

  This last part amazed Cormac, who heard his own voice ask before he was truly aware of it, “Wait you have received visitors from amongst the Elves?”

  “Aye, surely you have received your own visits?” Trygve replied only to blink when he saw his friend turn red and look away. Glancing from him to Daegan who was seated upon the other bed, next to her father, to Indulf who had re-occupied the red-wood chair by his bedside, he remarked. “Woah, I would have thought that given how much wiser you comported yourself back upon the Mound of Griogair.”

  This remark made Cormac feel all the worse, so that he felt a small spark of envy light itself deep within his heart, at the idea that the Elves had shunned him in favour of the brothers. He attempted to repress the feeling yet still it grew, and threatened to show itself in his eyes and words, which required him to contrary to what Wulfnoth had accused him of, employ more discipline than he had ever shown before.

  He was not alone, in feeling a certain discomfort, as Indulf fell silent by this time, looking away at his hands with an almost guilty air about him. Forgiveness was not something he appeared keen to show himself, at that moment.

  Always this is the case with those of the truest worth in the world; they could be swift to forgive those around themselves, just not what is within them. Or so Corin was to later comment upon, as he escorted Daegan and Corin away from the house that had been lent to the siblings.

  Trygve was quick to change the topic by asking, “How is good old Wulfnoth?”

  “He is well, and what of yourselves?” Cormac asked, attempting to keep his voice as casual and as polite as possible, for he worried that they may see the envy and judge him harshly.

  He need not have worried, for Indulf refused to see it where Trygve did and had no spite in him, for he was full of gratitude for this visit. Pleased to have at last had the chance, to see Kenna’s son, he laughed off his friend’s desire to see the Elves. “That is good, and are you still upset about the lack of Elvish songs and company, during your time in your own room? Trust me Cormac; you shall soon be driven half mad by these Elves for they have an insatiable curiosity about us.”

  These words appeared to the fisherman’s son incomprehensible. He was unable to imagine being driven mad by the Elves. Their ways had always appeared to him, a source of fascination with their tales not far in nature from those of the fey to his mind. His hope was to hear of tales such as the Vulimar the Wayfarer, or those of this particular figure’s grandfather Dinwê the Elf-Minstrel. The former was one of the greatest wanderers of his time.

  He was also one of the great warriors of the First Wars of Darkness, one of the greatest warriors and wise-men of his age. The hero of a dozen hero-sagas and songs, he was considered heir to the house of Dinwê. A figure of incomparable fame also in the two Agenors, who was said to have had such a beautiful voice that he had sung until even demons shed tears. Or so Corin had once told him, telling him of how the Elf’s grandfather, the first Dinwê had been a companion and friend to Herakles the ancient hero of Doris.

  There were others he wished to hear of, he knew there to be many other tales and songs he had yet to hear. He knew the Elves knew considerably more than he, given their many centuries of life, centuries of collected wisdom and answers to all the questions he had gathered over the course of his short-life.

  This may not seem terribly important or an exciting reason to look forward to time spent with Elves, but for Cormac who had always had an inquisitive spirit and a passion for old songs this was all he had ever longed for. This and to spend his days fishing, were all that he could ever wish for in life.

  “Do you think they will truly come to my chambers to sing?” He asked hopefully; face lighting up with joy at the thought.

  This drew a roll of Trygve’s eyes, as he muttered, “I forgot to whom I spoke to. You should be a match for them.”

  “I wonder if they also have boats, I could take out to sea,” Cormac murmured dreamily lost in the thought that he would not have to sneak behind Salmon and Kenna’s backs to venture out to sea.

  Grimacing to himself, Trygve grumbled good-naturedly, “Please do not speak to me of the sea at the moment, much as I enjoy fishing I appreciate the vacation from it.”

  This drew a laugh from him, with Corin’s next words drawing a sheepish chortle from him one accompanied by scarlet cheeks. “You sit herein the village of the Elves, leagues from home yet all you could think to do Cormac, is the same things you did in your hometown; listen to Elf-tales and fish. One would have thought you might have changed since your departure from Glasvhail.”

  “I see no reason to change,” Cormac argued back embarrassed.

  “Good,” The blacksmith approved, adding warmly with a glance about the room, “There are those who desire more than good songs, fish and the sea and all they come to is pain and sorrow.”

  His praise made Cormac’s cheeks flare red, almost as brightly as Daegan’s curls. The latter part of Corin’s words appeared he noticed, to be directed at Daegan and Indulf.

  Both of whom, appeared to look a little affronted though in the next moment the former grumbled beneath her breath, whereas the latter clenched his jaw and looked away. This response drew another hard glance from Trygve, ere he turned his attention once more to the other lad.

  “Have you heard of the Blood-Gem or of those night-wraiths that attacked us?”

  The question was a good one, and it frankly made Cormac feel ashamed for he had not thought of either at all in all the time he had spent, in the Longwoods. He had been more concerned about hearing tales and his own feelings of betrayal towards Indulf and Trygve.

  It felt as though he had betrayed or failed in some way his father, along with Daegan and Corin. He had sworn to find the truth behind what had befallen Murchadh, to bring to justice the man’s killers as much for his murder as for the burning down of Corin’s home. Yet he had not thought of these things in the past days.

  This distracted him if briefly so, with the youth embarrassed to find that once more his friends saw through his stammering attempts to cover up the fact that he had failed them in this regard. Daegan’s disgusted look in particular wounded him, with Indulf sharing her disappointment in him though his irritation appeared a little more muted.

  Trygve though laughed loudly, which worsened the feelings of failure on Cormac’s part, he could not quite fathom. He was accustomed to being laughed at; it had never bothered him before, especially if it was Indulf’s younger brother. At this moment, all felt different and he wished for nothing more than to find himself a hole to hide away in.

  “It appears that you forgot, I should well have guessed,” Trygve mocked and there was a meanness to his words, that hardly pleased the son of Kenna.

  Indulf chose this moment to intercede in favour of his friend, who appeared adrift and helpless, “It is hardly worthy of you to mock him so Trygve, after all, who was it, who could not help but boast of his connection to Alette, little brother?”

  This won the more timid of the two a glare. The tension between the two grew once more, so that such serious talk was once more impossible for the duration of the visit.

  The mutual frustration between the brothers was such that Cormac once more lost his certainty, of what could be said and what could not be. To one side, father and daughter appeared equally uncertain, with the latter demonstrating unusual tact when she preferred not to speak at all.

  The grievances between the brothers appeared impossible to bridge. Never before had Cormac felt more invisible, he wished he could have helped the two, yet it appeared to him as though only they could help themselves.

  Later he would confide his concerns, regarding the siblings to Corin who would tell him, “Yes, the two brothers have been feuding since that night, or to be more apt since Trygve has woken from his own long-slumber.”

  “What? Long-slumber?”

  “Aye, for like you he slept for some time, for days in fact.” Corin revealed with an apologetic look on his face for not having been clearer in his meaning. “He only awoke a short time before you, yourself did Cormac.”

  “If you ask me, Trygve ought to cease his whining,” Daegan interjected in exasperation, which caused her father to purse his lips at her.

  Sulking at her father’s disapproval for her words, she fell silent after this conversation not that she was miserable for long. They were not far from the home that had been lent to Cormac. The song of the Elves of the Longwoods, a song that at once pleased Cormac as it filled him with awe.

  “Away we must be,

  For thither where home lies,

  Let us rest in our tree,

  This after a tough day all agree

  If only I can stop my dinners’ fin-flapping.”

  It was magnificent, with not one discordant note in the great symphony of voices. Such was the magnitude, and depth of the voices of the men, who had voices as profound as the depths of the sea. They certainly brought to mind the crashing waves of the sea that Cormac loved ever so much, with all of his heart and soul.

  The women for their part had such high lilting voices that they appeared as though they might enchant the heavens themselves. The only voice that to his ears appeared even more incomparable in beauty was that of Daegan.

  “I shan’t believe I did not hear this song ere this moment,” He gasped with an excited glance to his friends.

  “You were already asleep by the time they returned,” Corin replied with a shrug of his shoulders, “It is time now for rest I think.”

  He would have loved to disagree, especially since he had just caught sight of the great torches carried by the multitude of dozens of Elves below him. Who lit up the night below so that it appeared to his eyes as though there was a multitude of singing, twinkling stars beneath him. A swift glance upwards, showed that up above him, there were an equal number of Elves moving and roving about the upper floors of the village, with their own torches well in hand.

  This was not what caught and maintained his attention for a few minutes, but the sight of Wiglaf moving up above over on another tree, near the upper part of the village. Head bowed in thought, he appeared to be deep in conversation with an Elf, who was dressed in thick blue robes of his own and a fur-cloak, and whom was strangely for an Elf, brown of hair.

  Cormac tried to call out, and he had the pleasure of seeing Wiglaf pause if briefly so, glance about. He felt certain that as he waved at the old man, his eyes alighted upon him ere he continued along as though he had heard nothing.

  This stung. Cormac would have preferred he at least acknowledge him, or mayhap wave to him in response. To be ignored was the worst punishment imaginable he mused, to be ignored was to signify that one did not matter, that one was little better than an inconvenience.

  Or so he had come to believe, from his time in Glasvhail from all the times his mother would ignore him, when the mood struck her and she was of a mind that yelling at him was pointless.

  Discouraged, he looked to Daegan to find her hardly paying Wiglaf any mind, her eyes upon the lanterns far below her, a frown upon her lips. “They are all headed once more for their respective homes.”

  “They always sleep early, and rise sooner than most might,” Corin informed Cormac who nodded absently, “Mayhap the morrow will be more joyous, trust me when I say that you will have a great deal to look forward to.”

  He appreciated the blacksmith’s attempts to make him feel better, yet Cormac could no more summon up the will to be enthusiastic. Indulf and Trygve were divided, Wiglaf had ignored them and Wulfnoth was still bitter and wounded. In all, over the course of their adventure he had never felt more alone. The only things he could look forward to, he mused were that Corin and Daegan were as ever, by his side.