Blood Ties

A delicate white flower, long pressed between the pages of her journal, fluttered in the wind and tried to fly away. Morwyn pressed two fingers down against the dried stem to keep the snow lily in place as she stood alone the burial site. After their long hours spent salvaging the wagons and rounding up the surviving oxen that had been scattered down the mountain, others of the caravan had gathered in silence to place mementos around the tombs. With few worldly possessions of her own, Morwyn struggled to think of any such gesture she could do herself. After the others left and she opened her journal to inscribe the names of the fallen, she noticed a familiar gap between the pages that had been passed over hundreds of times.

The flower had rested for many long years between two bone-white pages, blank except for the dates written with shaking hands at the top of each. One for the death of her father, one for her mother, nine days apart. Morwyn stopped to stare at the sloppy black lettering and came to the bitter realization that the ninth anniversary of their passing had quietly come and gone, unnoticed, in the time since they'd gone through the Narrows. She stood there for a time, nearly hypnotized by the fragile, flattened petals.

Disappointed in herself for her forgetfulness, Morwyn clenched her jaw and gently withdrew the flower. She slammed the journal shut with her other hand before she could stain the pages with her tears again and limped forward to the center of the cairns, favoring the leg that that had been run through by the goblin's spear.

“Moonmother...” she whispered to herself as she knelt stiffly between the iron tombs, “I don't know if it's something you do, but... if you can, bless these souls. Let them find their loved ones in the... well... wherever they are now. And if you can, please tell Mother and Father that I'm sorry.”

For a long moment Morwyn knelt there in the darkness with her eyes closed, listening passively to the whisper of the wind and the muted chatter of the caravan around the bonfire some distance behind her. She felt no sudden rush of peace nor the familiar warmth of the goddess's reassurance. Sighing heavily, she reluctantly opened her eyes and placed the Snow Lily on the ground with a small stone on top to hold it down. The pale, nearly translucent flower trembled in the breeze but remained in place.

“Please bring them the comfort you've given me.”

A soft silvery glow, so dim that she had to squint to make sure she actually saw it, began to emanate from the dried flower. Morwyn's eyes widened slightly as it began to quiver and shake. Tiny silver roots, at first as thin as thread, sprouted from the withered stem and worked their way down between the fragments of shale. A moment later the flower began to swell with moisture as it reconstituted before her eyes and ever so slowly worked its way upright. The stone she'd placed upon it tumbled to the side with a soft clack. The last to come to life were the petals, which spread out as if stretching languidly before coming to rest.

When the silver light faded, Morwyn smiled softly and reached forward to run a tentative finger along the edge of one petal. The flower was as alive and firmly rooted in the rocky ground as it had been when she'd first picked it all those years ago on the slope above her parents' graves.

“Thank you,” she whispered once more into the night as the ache in her chest slowly faded, replaced with bittersweet gratitude. She slowly rose and tucked her journal beneath her arm, simply basking in the beauty of the snow lily for a moment before the shifting of stone beneath boots alerted her to an approaching presence. She looked up to see Rennock, his face a mask of calm contemplation as he meandered in her direction without hurry. The old wizard gave her a nod and stopped beside her, looking down at the flower with curiosity.

“It is quite beautiful,” he murmured at length, his voice low. “I believe She approves of your gesture, as do I.”

Morwyn gave him a quizzical frown.

“She? You know of-”

“Your patron, the Moonmother,” Rennock said with a knowing smile. “Yes, I am familiar. I have crossed paths with her champions in the past. It is good to know that She has not been forgotten, especially in such trying times.”

Intrigued, Morwyn turned to face him. She winced as her calf twinged painfully.

“Champions? Who were they, and how did you come to meet them?”

Rennock's smile faded and his eyes took on a faraway look as he continued to stare down at the snow lily, which swayed gently in the wind.

“I knew them only briefly, but in that time we became quite close. Twins they were, Ezrath and Iraena. It was an era of great tragedy. They fought bravely, but in the end they fell to the darkness against which we fought. Such is the nature of war.”

Morwyn's brow drew together with concern at the depth of loss in the man's voice.

“I'm sorry to hear that... I didn't know you were in a war. I don't mean to dredge up old wounds.”

“It is quite alright, dear one,” Rennock said as his smile returned, though absent some of its previous warmth. “There are few now who still remember the Great War, even amongst the eldest of my kin. I carry on the memory of many friends and allies long forgotten by the rest of the world.”

A swarm of questions buzzed in Morwyn's head. Not wishing to pry too deeply despite Rennock's reassurance, she wrung her hands for a moment as she considered a neutral approach to the subject.

“I'm not exactly familiar with the history of the mainland, but I've studied it somewhat and I've never heard of anything called the Great War.”

Rennock chuckled and slowly shook his head, his long beard swaying.

“Nor would you have. It was over one and a half thousand years ago. The few records that survive from that time are little more than curious relics these days.”

Morwyn's mouth dropped open and she stared openly at Rennock with shock, unable to form a coherent response. Every assumption she had about the old wizard, everything she thought she knew about him, crumbled to dust in the wake of his revelation. As old as he appeared, she struggled to reconcile the scale of time against the figure she saw in front of her.

“What are you?” she asked before she could rein herself in, too astounded to be embarrassed by the bluntness of her words. “I mean, who are you?”

Rennock's smile widened and his shoulders shook with quiet laughter, apparently unbothered by her forwardness. The mischievous twinkle that had been absent for many days now returned to his eyes.

“I am most certainly not human, though I believe that much is clear. As for who I am, well, I am Rennock. Your leader. Your mentor. Your friend, perhaps. Does anything I have told you change your opinion of me?”

“Well... no,” Morwyn said, though she grew increasingly uneasy. “But at the same time, yes. I didn't expect... I guess I don't know what I expected. It feels like every other day I learn something that turns my whole world upside down, yet still you withhold the full truth from me. It's dizzying, and to be honest, a bit infuriating.”

The old- or rather, ancient- wizard's countenance grew serious once again.

“I know, dear one. I too grow tired of the secrets which continue to pile upon my shoulders. Please understand that the time for truth draws ever nearer. When we reach my home, our home, all will be revealed. Until then I ask for your continued patience.”

Morwyn frowned and her pulse began to rise with her mounting frustration. She'd taken a chance by joining the caravan without any idea of what it was she was truly getting herself into. She'd worked for them, bled for them, nearly died for them time and time again. Members of the caravan had died on her account with even less knowledge than she had. The scraps of truth and cryptic hints no longer satisfied her in the aftermath of their most recent tragedy. Secrecy be damned, she deserved to know at least something that might make their hardships worthwhile, something to give reason to their suffering beyond the vague promise of a new home. Her thoughts drifted to Yvonne, to the pain on the woman's face when she'd expressed a similar sentiment.

She felt an odd twinge from deep within her as the new darkness at the very edge of her consciousness briefly stirred in tandem with her rising anger, and her body grew strangely warm with its slow awakening. Crossing her arms and holding the old man's timeless gaze for a time, she fought to work up the courage to finally speak her mind.

“No, Rennock. That's not good enough. After all we've been through I need to know the truth. About you, about me, about the Vale, anything. I've trusted you, we've all trusted you, to the point where regular folk would call us mad. I have made my decision to stay, to see this through on behalf of the others, but I need you to reciprocate that trust in me if I am to continue to trust in you. Give me some truth to hold on to.”

Surprised by the aggression in her own words, Morwyn tensed her muscles to keep herself from shaking. As she stared into his eyes she noticed a confusing combination of emotions pass over him in quick succession. Recognition, uncertainty, sorrow, pride. And was that... fear? Suddenly his face became a mask of guarded neutrality, which was nearly as worrying as the rest combined. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping as he carefully relaxed his posture.

“You are right, Miss Shrike. I have asked much of you and have given little in return. The old ways are no longer relevant and we are near the end of our journey as it is. However,” he said, lowering his voice even further as he leaned in, slowing his cadence to stress the importance of his words, “this knowledge is still dangerous, so choose carefully. I will tell you the truth about one of the three subjects that you have requested. Myself, yourself, or the Vale. I swear to you that I will tell you everything that I deem relevant and necessary, but there are some things of which I will not yet speak, no matter how much you protest.”

Out of habit, Morwyn began a deliberate breathing exercise to calm herself down. She closed her eyes and focused on her center, pushing through the churning, shifting ring of darkness that now enveloped her core instead of lurking on the perimeter. She delved beyond the frost and into the golden light deep within. She lingered in it's glow without releasing it, drawing comfort from it, clinging to the familiar warmth that helped to hold back the confusion and rage and dread that was building in her heart. Releasing one last, shaky breath, she opened her eyes and met Rennock's gaze again.

“Rennock, I know you're a kind man. A good man. Please know that I'm not angry with you, but with our situation. I can wait to see the Vale. I can wait to learn more about you and your past. What I need to know right now more than anything else is who I am, and why someone would kill all these innocent people to get to me.” Morwyn's voice was little more than a hoarse whisper by the time she finished. “And why, knowing all that you do, and as much danger as I bring with me, you continue to lead me toward the place you call home.”

Rennock was silent for a long moment and his eyes bore a hollow pain she hadn't expected to see. He cast his gaze down from hers and began to walk away, motioning for her to follow him as he murmured under his breath.

“Let us take our leave of the camp. I must take precautions before this conversation may continue any further.”

Morwyn followed him without a word, her heart pounding with nervous anticipation rather than anger. Now that she was on the cusp of the answers she'd sought for so long she was scared witless to actually hear them, to ascribe some semblance of meaning to the chaos of her life. Rennock's dark demeanor made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end, and for a brief moment she considered whether or not she really did need to know. The faces of the dead that seemed to linger just beyond the edges of her vision pushed aside any of that doubt.

She had to know. For their sake.

Rennock escorted her beyond the ring of sentries that surrounded the tight perimeter of the camp. Anyone still able to walk and hold a weapon had been called to stand guard in shifts, half at a time, in the event that the goblins that had fled the battle decided to try their mettle a second time. As they continued a short distance down the slope to the east, Morwyn felt a strange resistance to her movement and a brief red glow surrounded her body for a moment- one of the wizard's new wards, she assumed. Pushing through it with only mild difficulty, she limped faster to catch up to the old man. He stepped off of the vaguely defined trail and began chanting under his breath and gesturing intently with both hands, his eyes closed.

Morwyn remained a pace or two away from him with her back turned, scanning the dim slope around them out of habit. She turned around in time to see Rennock clap his hands together softly before spreading his arms wide. A pulse of energy shot out of his palms to either side and a translucent, dimly glowing dome of golden light encompassed them, giving the stars and surrounding landscape a watery, distorted look. He gestured for her to come closer as he sat down upon a stone shelf. She'd never seen him look so tired.

“You may want to sit down for this,” Rennock said softly, his deep voice seeming to echo within the dome. Everything else was dead silent. Not even the wind penetrated the glassy barrier. For a moment Morwyn considered remaining where she stood but her defiance was quickly replaced with tired acceptance. She uncoiled her tense muscles and sat beside the old man, hunched over with her elbows on her knees while she wrung her hands nervously. Rennock placed a hand on her shoulder for a moment. Though it brought her little comfort, she appreciated the gesture.

“What I am going to tell you will cause you much distress,” he murmured, removing his hand from her shoulder and stowing it in his opposite sleeve. “It is one thing to suffer without answers and another entirely to know the reason for your suffering yet remain unable to break away from it. Are you certain that is what you want?”

Morwyn pondered his words for a moment, her mind whirling with half-baked possibilities as a part of her consciousness screamed for her to stop. With a defeated sigh, she wiped her face with her hands and tucked an errant strand of hair behind one ear. She gave the old wizard an exhausted glance and fiddled with the end of her braid as she fought to keep her panic at bay.

“Yes,” she said flatly as she stared at the ground. “The whole caravan is in danger by their mere proximity to me, as I assume the Vale will be as well. I need to know why. And why you would keep me around despite it all.”

Rennock was quiet for a long, uncomfortable moment. Morwyn glanced sideways at him, unsure if he'd fallen asleep or something, but he cleared his throat and slowly, hesitantly, began to speak.

“When I first laid eyes on you in Millcrest, I felt something... familiar about you, like the ghost of a long-forgotten memory. It was the barest, briefest impression of a power that I once knew well long ago. For a time I tried to convince myself that my instincts were wrong or that it was only vaguely similar that which I once knew, but now I am certain of what I sense within you. It was hidden so well that none but the most familiar would ever know it, but your true nature stirred during the battle with the goblins. I can see it now for what it is and I can deny the truth of it no longer. Your bloodline has awakened.”

Rennock retrieved his pipe from his robe with deliberate slowness, lit it, and puffed on the fragrant smoke for a time. Unwilling to press him, Morwyn retrieved her lungwort case with a shaking hand. She dropped her smoke on the ground and cursed silently in her head as she retrieved it. Rennock offered her his pipe and she lit her smoke from the glowing ember within. She took a long drag, her first in days, and her head swam as the smoke filled her lungs. The old wizard blew a ring that drifted through the wall of the ward uncontested and was whisked away on the wind outside.

“I knew your father, Miss Shrike. More than knew him. I raised him.”