Children of Moor & Moss

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Part One

Feb. 23, 2020

The feast day of Naroth, the god who teaches us how we too will one day fall under the eye of judgement and death, is always a somber affair. So it was in the castle on the old grey moor where Lord Estian and his Lady made their autumn home. When their feast day began it was a solitary occasion, for they had few friends and no mind to dine with servants. Their only company was the lord's son, and such was his pallor he might have been mistaken for a vision of the god of death himself.

Their feast was a quiet one. Occasionally the boy would try and find the strength to put food to his lips, and every time his lord father would nod and smile and hope; but just as quickly the lady would give him a dark look, out of view of her husband, and the boy would put his food down again. So it went. If questions were raised the child would only shake his head, for he was terribly afraid.

"It's the fairy-folk," Lord Estian would sometimes murmur, repeating his favorite thought as to the cause of his son's withering. He didn’t know he spoke even then to the true cause; once or twice servants had tried to broach the subject, but such talk only drove him to rage. More than one attendant had been cast out for speaking too freely. "They grow bolder every year. Ever since they tested themselves on poor Hagan. How many children have they snatched away since winter last?"

At this the Lady would bite into a sugared peach or tilt her head to let her black hair hide her smile. And always she would remind him: "A dozen, my lord," she would say. "It seems none are safe."

"A dozen." Soon it became too much. Lord Estian clapped his hands and servants appeared from a hidden chamber. At his bidding they took the boy away to rest. "And now they'll crown the year by taking my Huward. He will be their thirteenth."

"Is there nothing to be done?"

The lord had no reply save to bury his face in his hands, and thereby miss the triumphant look which for a moment betrayed his wife's lies. She let him have his grief—she did not care for the man, it's true, but she was not entirely heartless—and picked at her food in the quiet of the lonely feast-hall. The fresh straw scattered over the floor and the heavy cloth tapestries, each depicting an aspect of the holy death’s head or one of its divine servants, dampened what little noise there was to be heard.

Into that quiet came the sound of voices and of an armored someone moving swiftly through the halls. The lord had risen to his feet by the time the doors opened. "Is it my son?"

The intruding footman shook his head. "Your son? No, my lord. It’s only a visitor at your gates. He begs entrance."

Lord Estian sat. "What is the look of him?"

"He looks a vagabond, my lord, and an armed one. He carries a sword."

"His business?"

"He wishes to make sacrifices at the shrine."

Lady Estian now set aside her food. "Did he tell you his name?"

"Cenovarus, he said it was."

"Nothing else?"

"Just that."

Lord and Lady shared a concerned glance. "A strange name," said the one. The other nodded.

"If I may, my lord and lady, I told him so myself."

"Say on."

"He claimed he won it strangely. Those were his words, 'I won it strangely.' And—"

"Say on, I said. Why so bashful now?"

"My lord, he said if my mother weren't half so strange I should not have been standing there to bar his way."

A smile (though a thin one) appeared on Lord Estian's face for the first time in a long while. "It's ill luck to turn away strangers on a feast day," he said. "No matter how impertinent they be. Let him in. But have him touch iron, and see him to us. He can have his prayers after."

So it was done just as the lord commanded. Before long the stranger, divested of his sword, appeared before the high table. The footman's estimation hadn't been far off: he looked all over like an outlaw or a thief, with travel-stained clothes and unkempt hair. His skin was darkened by long hours in the sun. In all, he could hardly have looked more different than his hosts with their pale skin, dark hair, and fine grooming. And yet the stranger had a proud bearing about him which let him stand before the lord and lady unabashed.

"Good day, and welcome to my hall," said Lord Estian. He didn't stand and the newcomer didn't bow. "Come, dine with us. We have questions for you."

"I thank you, my lord and my lady." The stranger's speech was also at odds with his ragged appearance, for at once it was obvious he was learned. "But I fear I will prove a dull guest. Might I not only make my sacrifices and depart?"

"No," said the lady. "Come and sit. There, the servants have just set that place for you at the side-table. Or would you deny us guest-right?"

Cenovarus did bow at that (though it was shallow enough to make the lord frown) and took the seat prepared for him. Lady Estian gave no sign she had noticed the discourtesy and even served the salt-bread herself; first to her husband, then to her guest, and then she took the remainder for her own. Wine followed. Only when they had all observed the proper rites of host and guest did they resume their talk.

"There," said the lord. "Now you are truly my guest. Eat and drink. Do, you look as though you've been on the road many days. And I know these roads well. They can be unkind to newcomers."

It took a long moment for Cenovarus to answer, as though he were fighting to work the words from his throat. Or still trying to swallow the bread and wine. "I'm happy they have been kind to me, lord. Though I am no newcomer."

"Truly?" The Lady narrowed her eyes. "I thought you a foreigner, by your speech and your name."

"As I told your doorman, I didn't come by my name in the ordinary manner. And the same is true of my speech."

"How did you come by your name, then?"

"Strangely."

"How?"

"The tale is too long to tell—"

"You see before us no other entertainment. Perhaps your tale will do us good."

"—and it does not befit a holy day, my lady. But if it may amuse you or set your mind at ease, I will tell you this: I was born a subject of your neighbor, the Duke of the Greenway, only I have been away for many years. And in that time I learned many things and also left behind my boyhood name."

This contented Lord Estian, for he knew it was not so uncommon a practice to take new names, even among the meanest of the third estate. And by his estimation the stranger sitting at the lower table was not so low as he seemed.

But the Lady was not so easily satisfied. "Where did you away?"

"I should not speak of it."

"Why? I wish that you would."

"It is note met to speak of it on a holy day."

"Is the land full of heretics?"

"Aye, my lady, that it is. And I can say no more."

Now she stabbed at her food with quick, decisive strikes. "Perhaps you can answer this: where is it you're going, to be outside our gates on a holy day?"

"I wander." The newcomer leaned back in his chair, having touched neither food nor drink since the guest-rites were concluded.

"An outlaw?" Now Lord Estian set his own food aside and leaned forward.

"No, lord."

"Who do you serve, then?"

"Only myself, lady."

"You are neither a king nor a priest, we see that plainly."

"No, lady."

"Then what manner of man are you?" Here the lord clapped his hands again, and at once guards came to stand near the back of the hall. Cenovarus noted them plainly but did not stir.

"I am only a wanderer."

"A wanderer." The lady's words had teeth. "You might be a wizard, or a fairy—"

"I am no fairy. I've touched your iron, and said so with plain words. There are none of that breed who could do so much."

"A wizard then."

"No. But I've no proof to offer of that. Please, my lord, my lady. I want only for a moment at your shrine." The stranger's voice now rasped, and when he coughed it was a dry sound.

"Would you have us send away a guest still wanting for drink?" An edge crept into Lord Estian's voice. He stood from the table and began to advance, slowly, his men-at-arms just behind him. "Drink, man. How now? Well, perhaps a morsel of food. No, I'll hear no argument. Eat."

Cenovarus bit into a sliver of ham as another might a branch newly stripped from the tree. Lord and lady both watched with interest. After, the stranger coughed again and a cloud of something grey escaped his lips.

The lord made another gesture and, at once, the men surrounding him fell upon the newcomer.

In another land and another time, Cenovarus had earned for himself the title of Champion. And let it never be said that he tarnished that noble station, for even half-starved and facing a dozen men he proved his valor and his prowess. The men-at-arms held clubs and scabbards while he had nothing but his bravery, and still he unmanned more than one. The violence in the hall was ill-befitting the holy day, but then, attacking a guest is a fell act.

At long last they brought Cenovarus to the ground. The strongest and most able piled atop him until he couldn't move so much as a finger. During the combat his foes had earned themselves three broken noses, a bent knee (which in later days would never fully heal), and a bloodied and overturned table.

Only after it was all done did Lord Estian, who had shouted himself hoarse during the melee, approach any closer. He put a finger to Cenovarus' overtunic where the grey cloud had settled and found it came away with something dusty. He rubbed it between his fingers. "Are you a fire-eater, then? Never before have I seen a man produce ash so. And in the middle of a meal, no less!"

The stranger said nothing. He only stared ahead.

"I would see it once more. You, feed him this." He snapped his fingers.

An attendant crept out from his hiding place behind a tapestry to obey and, after only a few stern words, saw that the morsel was thoroughly chewed. He worked Cenovarus' jaws as he might have worked a viper's. It took only a moment for the stranger to fall again into a fit of wracking coughs. More ash spilled from his mouth.

"A changeling!" The lady pointed a knife, still dripping with food, from her seat at the high table.

"Yes," said the lord. "A fairy's slave, no doubt." He made as if to strike the man, but thought better of it.

"Your son, my lord." Now the Lady's voice took on a new timbre and she fought to keep that old smile from her face. "This could be the very creature sent to take him. Surely he cannot be allowed to live."

"Why so bloodthirsty, wife?"

"I want only what’s best. For your son."

Silence stretched through the hall.

"No," the lord said at last. "I fear you have the right of it, my lady, but I'll not act in haste. And there is also this: he broke salt-bread with us and drank wine at our table, on a feast day. He is still a guest of a sort. You there, fetch the steward and see this man to one of the upper rooms of the tower. You six, keep hold of this one and be wary of any elfin tricks. His door is to be barred, and a watch will be set over it day and night. Two men at the least, both with open steel."

"Of course, m'lord."

"Has the blacksmith left already?"

"He left for Amgerad yesterday morning."

"A shame. Ah, well. I've business that way, I will find him on the road and send him back here. Look for him and tell him all that's happened. I shall want for his counsel when I return. Oh, and send Stave to attend the prisoner; he asked for sacrifice, after all, and I see no reason to deny him that."

***

The room in the tower wasn’t a bad cell, as such things went. By Cenovarus’ reckoning it might even befit a champion with its raised bed, well-made table (and three chairs to match) and beside it all its wide and well-stocked fireplace. The prisoner had no reason whatever to suffer, excepting for that which his empty stomach gave him. The smell of the lord’s food earlier, and his bitterness at not being able to enjoy it, had sharpened that pain considerably.

Later in the day he found distraction in the visit of the resident priest, a man of great age whose features spoke plainly of wisdom and kindness. In his hands he carried a silver bowl, and a series of holy tablets linked by a fine chain, and an offering of food.

“Take that bread from me,” Cenovarus groaned. “I would speak with you, master, but take the food away.”

“Is our fare so offensive?” The priest said, handing the loaf through the open door to the guards outside.

“Far from it.” Cenovarus sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m hungry enough, but it offends my curse.”

“That seems a hard thing to carry.”

Cenovarus said nothing.

The priest took one of the chairs and laid his remaining burdens aside. “I see there was truth in what I was told.”

“What is that?”

“A stranger arrived, as I heard it, and was found to be in league with the fairy-folk. The same creatures which have, these last weeks, preyed upon and threatened my lord’s only son.”

“There is more lie than truth there.”

“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “Stave, they call me.”

“I am Cenovarus. You’re a brave man, Stave. Did you hear aught else of my conduct in your lord’s hall?”

“The beating you gave the guards, you mean? I heard it all, and in great detail. If I were to believe half of it—that you are as strong as ten men, and can conjure witch-fire to your hand with a word—then it would do me well to fear you.”

“I am no conjurer.”

Stave laughed. “No, I thought not. We Gernish are a simple folk and given to simple, tall, tales.”

“I know it well. Though I wish your lord were not so susceptible to them.”

“You are not alone in that wish.”

“Oh?”

The old man looked to the floor. “That was ill-spoken of me. Let it lie.”

“What harm? I am a prisoner and would like be called a liar, if it were anything too awful. It seems to me even a priest may betimes need to speak of his troubles.”

“It is only castle-rumor. They say the Lady has no love of Lord Estian’s son Huward.”

“Is she so unnatural a mother she cannot love her own child?”

“You’ve struck the heart of the matter: the child is not hers. He came from the previous Lady.”

“And the good Lord sees no way that may turn to envy?”

“He chooses not to, I believe.”

“More fool him, then.”

“Perhaps. But maybe he sees, and only wishes it were otherwise. In any case,” he clapped his hands, “we’ll speak no more of that. It was not worthy of me to say even what I did, though perhaps you’re right that there is little harm in telling you. Now, to business. What need you of a priest, if you won’t eat? You don’t look ready to pass to Naroth’s halls just yet.”

Cenovarus pointed to the holy items on the table. There were twelve of the tablets, each one inlaid in precious metals and gems depicting one of the Many Gods. “I came here to make my sacrifice for Naroth’s feast-day. I would do so still.”

Stave flipped through his tablets until that of the Stern God was topmost and held it on his lap. Naroth’s visage stared out from the plate, a golden death’s head with hollow eyes. On its right side was an open hand crafted of bronze, and to its left the icon of a bell cast in silver. Cenovarus knelt so his forehead nearly touched the holy metals and, from a secret pocket, withdrew a piece of hard bread.

“This is the last food I have which may satisfy my curse,” he said. “I give it freely. I pray only that Stern Naroth, God of Death, God of Judgement, keeps me yet in some esteem and holds his grim aspect from me for a time. This pledge of mine shows I give faithfully even in need.”

“Well said,” the priest mumbled when it was done. He gathered everything together (including the sacrifice, safely tucked under the tablets in the sacred bowl) and held all of it close to his chest. “Before I go, would you accept a blessing from an old man?”

“Of course.”

“Then first, a scrap of wisdom: though they come together in one god, the face of death and the face of judgement are not the same. Every man finds himself judge and judged, and at no time more often than when death stands at the door. So keep a watchful eye.”

Cenovarus was not quick to respond. “I thank you for your words, though I fear they are perhaps beyond me.”

“Ah, or they are only the ramblings of a foolish old man. Here are some which do not meander so much: I hope Naroth finds you worthy of answering your prayer.”

“Those I understand better, and I thank you for them.”

“Farewell, Cenovarus.”

“And good feast-day to you, Stave. Eat well and think of me.”

***

Say what you will of Lord Estian, but do not call him entirely a fool. Even Cenovarus—who had more reason than most to dislike him, and to question his judgement—would not, for early the next morning he awoke in bed to the sound of the lord giving warnings to his servants in the halls outside.

“See to it every window is barred with a nail in the sill,” Estian said. “The doors are all banded with iron, no need to worry over them, but the windows are open to the air. Keep a watchful eye on them.”

“What of the prisoner?”

The lord raised his voice enough that any impertinent eavesdroppers would have no trouble in hearing. “If the prisoner is sensible, he will put iron in his own window. And if he thinks of escape, cut him down. I will come see him when I return.”

There were few who would call Cenovarus a sensible man, though he might say so of himself. He did nothing which would persuade his dissenters by laying back in his bed, arms out and legs crossed, looking all the while at his window with its bare sill.

Only after Lord Estian had given his instructions to all the servants and attendants and castle rabble did he see to bidding his family farewell. First he saw to his son, who lay abed despite the golden rays of day shining through the narrow window. He bent low over Huward and kissed his brow, whispered his name, brushed a lock of straw-colored hair from where it had fallen over his pale face. The hair had come from his mother; the lord, and his father, and all his fathers back so far as anyone could remember, had been given to dark hair and dark eyes.

The boy stirred but did not wake. It seemed to his father that Huward—whose eleventh winter was now drawing near—looked much younger.

Estian found the nurse Alinde waiting just outside. She curtsied, as was customary for a servant, but not very deeply, as was usual for a friend of his wife. “Is he any better?” The lord asked.

“No, m’lord,” Alinde said. Since the sickness she had been loathe to leave Huward’s side. “But neither is he any worse.”

“There’s little comfort in that.” He looked back through the door, just to assure himself the boy’s chest still rose and fell. There were tears in his eyes. They were still there by the time Lord Estian found his lady-wife in the rooms above.

Her quarters were as lavish as could be had in such a remote fortification, and she made full use of the extra finger’s breadth of width afforded to her windows as a result, staring out over the moors while her hands busied themselves at needlework. Her head was uncovered save for a thin chain circlet.

Lord Estian came to stand behind her and for a time they watched the mists outside curl and fade as the heat of the morning at last began to overcome them. The southern horizon was a line of dark green, almost black, where the edge of the woods could just be made out. It seemed to Lord Estian that he could feel something looking back from that distant border.

“It must be one of the Good Folk.”

“Of course.”

Lord Estian continued as though he hadn’t heard. “What else could it be? We make our sacrifices and Stave keeps us right with the gods. Yet—” He stopped. “Forgive me. I forget how young my wife is. Soon enough you’ll come to understand.”

“I understand well enough now. Husband.”

He twined one finger through her hair, dark as his own, and bit his tongue. He would not have his last words to his wife before his departure be words of anger. Instead he made them words of warning: “Do this for me, lady. Please. Keep to Huward’s side, you and Alinde, and keep iron near him always. It is one of them. I know it. It lives in the moss, in the hay, and already its reach has grown far. Keep Huward for me.”

From his place behind her, he couldn’t see her smile. “Farewell, my lord.”

***

In those days the castle on the moor was already ancient, and in some places it was rudely built and in others it was choked with ivy. But its high tower was more than enough to keep a man imprisoned; from his room Cenovarus could find only two exits. The first was the door, of course, guarded by men who made no secret of their weapons or their eagerness to blood them. The second exit was the window set into the thick stones of the opposite wall, open to the sky, but no more than a hand’s breadth wide. It gave enough of a view to let the prisoner watch the hustle and bustle of a day’s work in the castle, and to mark the departure of Lord Estian and his retinue a little after midday. But that was the limit of the view: perfect to serve as an arrow-slit in times of attack, but too thin for even a child to slip through.

Yet to a fairy, even that was enough.

It watched the lord and his followers leave with almost as much interest as did Cenovarus in his lofty cell. Both had hunger on their minds, though of different sorts. The iron laid out against it gave the fairy-creature pause (for it could feel it, even from its hiding place in the bog) as did the mysterious presence it felt in the high tower. So it set to that ancient game which every predator knows, the game which the fae have perfected: waiting. If any of the watchers on the walls felt eyes on them from the low places they only shivered, or whispered a prayer to the Many, or shook their heads and dismissed it as fancy.

Near dusk the watcher’s patience was rewarded. At the boy’s window it marked two women, one with a sneer on her lips and one with a pained expression. They spoke together, sharply, but it seemed the dark-haired one with silver on her brow was the victor. The other, cowed, left. The creature laughed—a sound like wind whistling over the scrub—as the remaining lady walked to the window and, as though by accident, brushed the iron nail from the sill. Then she too left.

What luck, the fairy thought.

It came from the moor with the wan night, a shadow-walker, and the castle’s many guards cannot be faulted for their failure to mark its passage. Up over the walls and down like a leaf it went, across the hard earth of the courtyard and then up the sheer stone of the keep, nimble as a spider and twice as swift. It knew the path well, having taken it many times, but never before had it gained the windowsill. Now the fairy slipped inside—the narrow passage slowed it not at all—and then it would have had its prize had the nurse not chosen that very moment to creep back into the room. She held a candle in one hand and a load of bread in the other.

The dimness of the candle in Alinde’s hand kept her from seeing the creature at first, and so by the time she could have screamed it was already upon her. A hand like cold, wet bark covered her mouth.

“Where is the master of this place?” said the creature in a voice which matched the feel of its hide.

“Away,” whispered Alinde when the hand was momentarily lifted. “To Amgerad.”

“Where is the lady?”

“In her chamber.” It was all Alinde could do not to look in its amber eyes.

“And where is the child?” As it spoke its face curled into something which might have been a smile and its voice changed to mimic the nurse’s.

Weeping, Alinde could only point in answer.

After its business in the child’s room was finished the fairy slipped through the door (careful to avoid the iron bands) and into the inner hallways of the keep. Once or twice its path crossed with that of another late night wanderer, but it is the way of the fairy folk that they are rarely seen unless they wish to be.

From her place in her chambers Lady Estian heard Alinde calling for her. “Lady, come down the stairs.”

“Alinde?” Had it been anyone else she might have ignored them entirely or simply bid them enter. But for friendship she ignored propriety and went to the door herself. Beyond it she saw only blackness. “Alinde, where are you? Someone’s let the torch die. How can I see you in the dark?”

“You have light enough, lady. Come down the stairs.”

So she did, and there found the fairy-creature standing ready with its arms spread wide.

Part Two

Mar. 24, 2020

Lord Estian came galloping back through his gates just after midday, the words of the morning’s messenger still ringing in his ears. Though foam had appeared at the corners of his stallion’s mouth and its flanks were lashed bloody, he paid the beast no heed as he vaulted down from the saddle. A pale-faced castellan led his master inside, and after there arose such a cry from within the castle that it set even the hardiest man’s teeth on edge. It seemed for a time the sound would never stop.

The whole entourage, red-eyed and bloody-minded, stormed the tower to find the prisoner still tucked away in his cell. Estian came into the room with sword already drawn. The two strides it took for the lord to cross the room granted Cenovarus enough time to half-stand from his place on the bed, but little more. When he felt the blade pressed to his neck he slowly sat back down.

“I’ve passed your iron test once already,” Cenovarus said. He leaned a little into the steel, just enough to allow a touch of red to tinge it.

“You’re in league with it.” The lord’s voice was steady and cold, though tears still stained his cheeks.

“If that were so, you wouldn’t find me here.”

Estian roared and pulled the blade back, brought it down two-handed. Cenovarus threw his arms up, more from instinct than hope. There came a crash of metal, and shouting from the castellan hiding just outside, then nothing. When Cenovarus opened his eyes (wondering that he still could) he saw the sword in the fireplace and Lord Estian facing away from him.

“Show me,” Cenovarus said. “Let me see what’s happened.”

There was blood in the kitchen, there was blood in the halls. Here and there a particularly gluttonous or loathly cur licked at the stains (and was soundly kicked by anyone passing by). A few of the torches in their sconces would not light for the spray they had received. The stains colored the stones from the bottom of the stairs and in a mostly-straight line through the central portion of the castle, ending at last in the room where Huward had slept. Here and there along the way a tapestry had survived unscathed, or with only a few drops of blood soaked into the cloth, but for each of those three others were ruined.

Cenovarus had seen like displays before. Many of the fair folk would have called it a piece of artwork, one tragically unappreciated by the boorish humans allowed to witness their sublime creation. His scowl deepened.

“No one heard this?” He asked. The castellan, so pale now it was a wonder he hadn’t yet fainted, shook his head.

A crowd trailed behind them as they walked the length of the grisly trail. Cenovarus paced it slowly, carefully, but found nothing of interest until he reached the boy’s room. There he found the bones, broken to pieces and thrown into a basin in the corner. Not many; he counted two shards of what might have been jaws, and a handful of others. The rest had been scattered, or eaten, or ground down to nothing. The whole room was filled with dust, and where the narrow window had been there was now a hole half the size of a man. A thick curtain of ivy hung over the opening.

“Strong enough to crush the stone,” the castellan said.

“No.” Cenovarus pointed to the ivy. “Those vines are new-grown, I’d wager. It ensorcelled the ivy to crush the stones; not so great a task for their kind.”

“No mean task, it seems to me.”

“Aye, nor that. But the ivy would have done that all the same, if it were given a handful of centuries. This creature only helped speed it along.”

They retired to the courtyard and there Cenovarus joined many others in being sick against the outer wall. He had precious little to offer the earth and his knees shook from weakness. It took the span of a dozen heartbeats before he could push himself away from the stones and stand upright again. Though he hid it as best he might, wearing his ragged cloak far forward and clasping his hands together before him like a scholar, many careful observers marked his sorry state. His skin hung a little loose about him, and his bones showed in places they should not.

Estian looked up from his conversation with Stave as the stranger approached. “What think you?”

Cenovarus looked the lord up and down. He seemed more statue than man: not the least tremor betrayed him, his eyes were now dry, his voice calm and steady. Either he had mastered himself or gone numb. The second was more likely, the champion thought. He wondered how long it would last. “I’m sorry, lord. There is little to divine which you’ve not already guessed: one of the Si stole into this place after dark and slew your lady-wife and one other. Perhaps a servant.”

“Oh, Alinde,” Stave said. He put his hand to his heart and whispered a prayer.

“One other.” The lord’s voice cracked. “One. But there are three gone: my lady, the nurse, and Huward. What of my son?”

“I saw bones enough for two people, lord. None of a child’s size.”

Stave opened his mouth, but by that time Lord Estian had already started off for the stables at a run. He called for a fresh horse, and for as many of his guards as could be mounted. “To horse!” He yelled. “All to horse, and out to the moor!” The servants and men-at-arms scrambled to obey and soon the courtyard was filled with clamor and ready-making. Food was quickly gathered for a long hunt, horns and hounds and horses brought out. There were mail shirts and weapons to be had, and good heavy cloaks against the chill. Saddles were tightened and cinched. One of the local shepherds, who had come to the the castle hoping to have his plea heard by his lord, tried in vain to corral a handful of sheep (the subject of the plea) and then went madly chasing after them when they inevitably panicked and ran. Lord Estian’s voice could be heard over everything. He met even the slightest delay with fierce words and savage blows, as though faced with the very creature which had stolen away his boy.

Cenovarus and Stave stood forgotten by the wall.

“A changeable man, your lord.” The stranger remarked.

“He has lost his wife and perhaps his only son. Will you judge him so harshly?”

“Are both losses so upsetting to him?”

“Of course.” The priest attempted to look offended, but Cenovarus was not convinced.

“It seems to me he is much changed, now that he’s learned of hope for the boy. But I saw little on his face when I told him of the Lady.”

“May a man not grieve in the fashion he chooses?”

Cenovarus said nothing.

After a moment Stave sighed. “Your eyes are sharper than most. There was little love between them, that much is true.”

“Why?”

“Surely I need not explain why the highborn rarely find love in their marriage beds.”

Silence stretched between them again.

“Is there hope?” Asked Stave. “Truly?”

Cenovarus shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“Yet none of these outriders will find anything, I wager. How could they?”

“You’ve the right of it, there. If the fairy is near it won’t be fool enough to be caught by a mounted retinue. Unless it’s one of the Trow.”

“And if it is?”

“There will be many more to bury ere dawn.”

Stave took Cenovarus’ arm. His grip was gentle, but firm enough to broach no argument. He spoke low enough that the stranger had to lean forward to hear. “Please,” he said. “My lord is a good man. Please Cenovarus, if it is in your power to help him, I beg you to do it.”

“I asked only to make my prayers before the Many, and he threw me in a cell. You would have me repay that with kindness?” He spoke with no malice, only confusion. As though the thought was too strange to even consider.

“My lord is like a wanderer in darkness. You and he are alike in that, it seems to me. For him, his only guiding light these past four years has been little Huward, and now even that has vanished before his eyes.” The priest began to stoop down. “I will beg you on my knees if I must, if you will only give me a moment to get there.”

Cenovarus caught the old man under the arm and raised him back up. “No, Stave. Your words are enough. That, and my fear of what may befall the boy if he’s not found soon. I know a thing or two of what happens to children left alone with the fae, and I would not allow such a thing if it was in my power to stop it.”

Stave smiled beneath brimming eyes. “Thank you. I said Lord Estian is a good man; I think you and he are alike in that, as well.”

“We will see.”

Cenovarus caught up to the distraught lord just as he was about to quit the gates with his hastily-formed company. Heedless of the danger he strode in front of the mass of riders and seized the bridle of Estian’s new courser. The beast took half a step back and sent a ripple through the rest of the assemblage. The lord’s eyes blazed, but before he could form the words to reprimand him Cenovarus spoke.

“I would look for the boy as well.” He didn’t like having to crane his neck so to look Estian in the face, but he held tight to the leather straps and hoped that would be enough.

“Or you would slip out from my gates and return to your master. Which shall I believe?”

“You are set to ride out with hope I gave you, lord. What else must I do to be free of your suspicion?”

“A great deal yet.” Estian’s hands twitched as though preparing to pull the reins and spur the horse onwards. But at Cenovarus’ stillness, he instead let out a rattling sigh and spoke again, this time more gently. “Perhaps you are right. I may have misjudged you. But you see that I and my house are ahorse, and though I would welcome your aid, I fear you will not keep pace.”

“You’ll not overtake a fairy no matter how swift your horses, lord. It could leap into the sky and run on the winds if it chose.”

“I must do something.”

“Let me go find the child. Alone.”

“No. That much faith you have certainly not earned.”

“Lord, if you leave with an iron host at your back the fairy will quit the moor at once. This isn’t a hunt in which you can flush your quarry out; you must catch it still in its lair.” His grip tightened on the bridle. The leather creaked. “Anything else and you doom your son to his fate.”

The silence was a long one, during which the lord’s anguish was writ plain on his face. Once a man-at-arms kicked his horse forward, hands held out placatingly, but Cenovarus shot him such a look he retreated at once. Then as suddenly as the quiet descended, it lifted: Lord Estian wheeled his courser and bade all his household unhorse. “Keep ready,” he shouted. “Let no man nor woman go anywhere unless they go with another. And the both of them will have iron to hand.” He leaned down to look at his former prisoner. “Does that sound sensible?”

“It does, lord. Though perhaps one or two messengers might be sent to the city so news may spread. Should the worst come to pass.”

“Wise. It will be so.”

Lord Estian saw that two of his most skilled riders were sent north along the road to Amgerad. Then he and Cenovarus quit the gates afoot. They traveled light. The lord wore a shirt of mail which covered him from crown to knees, and over that a finely-made tunic, a woolen overtunic, and a hood, all of burgundy. He wore also vambraces of hardened leather, and from his belt hung his sword and a long knife. Cenovarus left the keep much as he had entered it: with little more than his travel-stained grey cloak, a brimmed cap, and a fine sword in a ragged scabbard. His clothes were of simple cloth, save for long leather boots not of any local style.

“We have one errand to attend first,” the stranger said. “Else I fear we will have no chance whatsoever. But as we go, tell me: what of the lands around the castle? Where might a creature or an outlaw make its den?”

“Between here and the city there lies only flat marsh and the road, as I believe you’ve seen. To the east and the south the land becomes a bog choked with peat. The waters there have swallowed up more than one wanderer or errant child. No stranger can hope to navigate it.”

“A fairy will find little danger in that.”

“As you like.”

“Please, what else?”

“Our farms lie to the west of here. You see that smoke there, against the sky? That is the nearest village. Not so far. There are a few places in the hay where an outlaw could hide, places where he might avoid a farmer’s plough for a long while. Though maybe that, too, is of less concern to their kind?”

“The iron of a plough would do more to keep it at bay. No, I don’t think it went that way. Is there anything else?”

“One thing more. Near the border of the bog—south of here, and a little west—there is still a forest. We use it sometimes to collect firewood when we have no more peat to hand. And once or twice I have gone hunting in it.”

Cenovarus smiled. “A little-used wood on the border of a bog. If our quarry is truly a Si that will be where it’s made its den. And maybe even if it is from one of the other races. Are there any hills in the wood, or nearby? Standing stones?”

“None that I can speak to. But I know little of the place.”

Both men were gifted with long strides, and though Cenovarus’ were still weak with hunger, their pace was swift. So by that time they had traveled a fair distance from the castle, and soon enough they spied a pile of stones a little ways from the road. Cenovarus set to work at once with both hands, pulling up the loose earth around the base of the largest rock. He looked once or twice to Lord Estian, but received nothing in return save an impatient stare.

Luckily the prize was not so deeply buried. In moments the stranger uncovered two wrapped bundles. The first was a small cloth sack, the like of which could be seen on the shoulder of any road-weary traveler, while the second was long and thin and wrapped in a material entirely unknown in those parts. Cenovarus unrolled the strange package to reveal a set of two spears which, like their wrapping, had not been seen in that corner of the world in a long time: they were shorter than the spears of modern soldiers—making them equally suited for throwing and fighting—and had broad, leaf-shaped heads. The first spear’s blade was of iron and the second was bronze.

“Is that everything?”

“One thing more.”

The wanderer pushed aside a few of the stones to reveal a sort of hollow, from which he withdrew a shield. This, too, was like nothing the lord had ever before seen; it was made of a dark and sturdy-looking wood, carved into a rectangular shape, with a bronze boss in its center and painted designs of interlocking swirls all across its face.

“I’ve been to war many times,” the lord said. “And met with knights from Belan, from Maer, even from Zheul. Never have I seen a man so armed.”

“That is good,” Cenovarus said, slinging the cord of his pack over his shoulder. He held the shield in one hand and his spears together in the other. “If you are fortunate you will never see another. Come, I’m ready. Your son awaits us.”

They walked for a time in silence back the way they had come. Again their long strides made short work of the distance, which ran straight and mostly true. They soon parted from the road they had taken to reach the spot and set themselves on a different trail, one Estian knew would more directly lead them to the woods. Before long they found not farmland and easy paths under their feet but roughter terrain, rarely traveled and untended. Wet soil sucked at their boots. The grey block of the castle shrank to nothing on the northern horizon while the sun began its long descent into the western.

“What would you carry that would be so offensive?” Lord Estian asked.

Cenovarus nearly started at the question. “I don’t understand, lord.”

“You came to my walls with a sword at your waist, but without your shield, spears, or the rest. You must have feared to be seen with them.”

“Perhaps I feared they would be taken from me.”

“You fear to lose a shield of wood and two javelins, but not a fine sword? I think not. Better in that case to come with nothing and say you are a beggar.”

“That is not in my nature.”

Silence crept between them until they came upon a stream. They spoke of where it ran, and if there had ever been any tales of fairies using the waters, of the flow reversing from one day to the next, or if it was known to suddenly boil and steam. After that they spoke of hills in the distant wood, and standing stones, and all manner of other things which might point to signs of the fae. In the distance the rough scrub through which they walked gave way to denser plants and, a long ways off yet, the first of the trees.

Lord Estian allowed his companion time to relax before asking again. “What do you carry that you feared to bring within my walls?”

Cenovarus stopped. Estian halted alongside him, allowing his hand to drift toward his sword. The stranger made no move other than to adjust his cap to better shield his eyes from the sun.

“I’ve grown exceeding weary of mistrust, lord. Especially when it’s all my honesty earns me. Would a third iron test quiet your fears?”

“I’ve grown exceeding weary of secrets,” Estian replied. “You dole out answers like a meiser, yet you cannot help but show a glimpse of your purse as you do.”

“Ask, then.”

“We will walk as we do. Go before me. You see the trees there, make for them.” Now he carried his sword openly. “Three times I’ve asked you now: what do you carry that you would not take within my walls?”

“Trinkets and arms. Of fairy-make. Yet you knew that already, I think.”

“I suspected it. Who do you serve?”

Cenovarus sighed. “My answer will not change. I am a wanderer, I don’t serve.”

“Is it true, as I’ve heard it, that fairies will ensorcel a man to eat no food save their own? In order they might enslave him?”

“You’ve heard it rightly, lord. And to stop your next question: that is indeed my curse.”

“Then you admit you are a fairy’s slave.”

“No, lord. Have none of your own serfs fled to seek freedom elsewhere?”

“They may have their food from any hand which offers it. You may not.”

“And I am faint with hunger even now!” Cenovarus was close to shouting, but marking the nearness of the woods, his next words came much more quietly. “Speak to Stave when this is done. You will hear how I gave a morsel of food in sacrifice. It was the last of my fairy-food, the only kind I may eat. You saw plainly enough what becomes of aught else.”

By that time the pair had reached the trees. Cenovarus slowed his pace and looked always to the left and to the right, as though expecting a foe to come rushing out at any moment. Estian did the same, though almost at once he stumbled over a root. By the time he managed to catch himself against a tree he was on his knees, his sword pointed to the ground, while the champion stood before him with shield and spears already in his grip.

Cenovarus stuck the spears point-down in the wet soil and offered his hand. “You are right to suspect,” he admitted, helping the lord to his feet. “Once, your accusation would have found me just as you’ve described. But that time is past.”

Lord Estian seemed to look at Cenovarus for the first time.

“I would not have another suffer as I did,” the wanderer said.

“You think my son...”

“Aye. You wish to see him returned because you’re his father. Admirable enough. But I’ve my own reasons for this errand, and they too are close to my heart.”

At that moment a night-heron took up its raspy call from somewhere back the way the pair had come. Cenovarus started and looked above them; the dappled sunlight which reached between the bare branches of the forest canopy now glowed crimson and orange, for the sun was nearly set.

“What do you hear?”

“Nothing yet, but listen,” the champion said. “If it was the Trow who took your son we may hear them soon. But if we can’t catch them in the twilight I fear our task will be all the more dire. We must hurry.”

“You said before it could be something other than a Trow. A Si.”

“I did.”

“Are they too only to be caught at twilight? Will we hear them?”

“No, and no. Against one of their number—in the dark—we haven’t any hope at all.”

As Cenovarus expected they soon heard a faint music carried to them on the wind. Anyone of lesser courage—or lesser desperation, or more sense—would have at the first strains of that melody turned and fled the woods. Indeed, that very thing had happened many times over the years when farmers and hunters and outlaws had chanced upon the area as the sun was setting.

Whatever the reasons, Cenovarus and Lord Estian pressed on toward the strains of viol and flute and drums.

By the time they found the musicians the sun had dipped entirely beneath the horizon and only its last red rays still painted the sky. All they could discern was the black shape of a bald hill some distance before them. Cenovarus went first, creeping as close as he dared over wet and slippery leaves, until he stood only a few dozen yards from the base. With the screeching of the high notes and the pounding of the low there was little danger of being heard. Lord Estian followed behind. Both kept their weapons ready to hand.

In the gloom the Trow were little more than tiny, squat shapes no bigger than children, dancing and cavorting in ugly ways. They whooped and laughed and sang in their own tongue while a few of them kept the music with crude instruments. The sound grated against the teeth. Presently one of the the viol players’ strings snapped and, after a round of jeers and taunts, the player scuttled to the side of the hill and pulled back a stone. Light spilled out from the newly-revealed opening and for the first time Lord Estian saw fully the look of the creatures: humanoid in feature but grotesquely deformed, with elongated nose and ears, greenish skin, and sallow eyes which looked ready to pop out of the skull at any moment. The flesh of their lips was pulled back—not by choice, it seemed, but as though there was simply too little skin for their tiny heads—and the teeth revealed beneath them were ragged and broken.

The monstrous creature slipped out of sight into the hollow hill. It left the entryway uncovered. The light which spilled out from within cut a fuzzy line into the distant brush and very nearly caught the two human forms hiding not so far away; luck alone kept it from revealing them. But their luck wasn’t so great that it prevented the scent of food from wafting out of the den, and at that Cenovarus struggled to contain a groan.

The food of the Fair Folk is ever enticing to humans, even when made by those as repulsive as trolls. Considering that, and his long fast, perhaps Cenovarus cannot be entirely blamed for the rashness which overcame him then.

“Stay hidden,” he said. Before Estian could respond he was up and running toward the hill. The champion gave a shout, took three great strides, and loosed the first of his spears. The silence which had followed his warcry was broken by the sound of a drumskin tearing, wood splintering, then by the drummer’s pained screams. The Trow writhed and grabbed for the spear which now pinned its hand to the earth, but the agony was too much and it couldn’t maintain a grip long enough to free itself. It scrabbled at the shaft with its fingers, jostled it, screamed, relented, screamed, and over again.

Cenovarus had enough time to cast his other spear aside and draw his sword before the rest of the Trow recovered from the shock of the attack. Then with laughter and frenzied cries they drew weapons of their own—crude things, it seemed to Lord Estian, jagged bone blades and wicked copper spears—and swarmed toward their latest target. They poured down from atop the hill and more came out of it a heartbeat later. The human warrior cried something in the elven tongue, but if the Trow understood him they did not deign to respond. At least, not intelligibly.

It wasn’t a true fight, not by Lord Estian’s measure. He had gone to war and to tourney, had participated in everything from the vicious melee of a failed cavalry charge to the honorable combat of two knights vying for a lady’s favor (in fact, one such had even led him to the hand of his first wife). The combat between Cenovarus and the Trow was something else altogether: more akin to a desperate man holding back a swarm of rats with a torch, or a hound fighting a pack of wolves which nipped at its heels. Wherever the iron sword went the trolls fell back, and after it had passed on they pushed inward again with renewed hatred. Those with longer weapons poked and prodded at their foe, forcing him to make good use of his shield, while those with shorter weapons only jeered and sought for opportunities. Cenovarus’ blade whirled and danced in his hand.

One of the Trow thought its speed a match for the champion’s, ducked under the sword and thrust with a knife made of a hind’s jaw. The crude blade found its mark in the champion’s shoulder and he fell. For an instant Lord Estian though it was the work of poison, and he would have cried out, but by then Cenovarus had already turned the fall to a roll and resumed the combat. At the end of the maneuver he brought his blade whipping back behind him, catching his attacker by surprise. The blade struck the Trow full in the face.

The pain of the pinioned drummer was no easy thing to witness—for all their viciousness, they seemed more like piteous children or rabid vermin than true foes—but it was nothing next to the death-throes of the creature burned by iron’s touch. The scream which rent the air reminded Lord Estian, in a twisted way, of his own son: the time when Huward, barely able to crawl, had strayed too near the stables and had the tip of a finger crushed beneath a horse’s hoof. How the boy had wailed. “He’s never known pain,” Lady Estian had said. “See, he’s only fearful. There there, little one, it’s not so bad as all that; and you’ll have much and more to suffer, in time. You will learn.” Then she bowed her head so her golden hair fell across Huward’s face and sang him a song until the boy cried himself to exhaustion.

So it was with the screaming troll, but there was no one to comfort it, and there would be no more suffering after. Such is the way of Iron. Estian found a tear in his eye as the scream rose higher. The cry wasn’t wordless: there was a plea for help in it, though he didn’t know the words. The spot where Cenovarus’ blade had touched the troll’s skin burned, blackened, turned to embers, and finally began to spread.

There was a flash and the creature was consumed.

All the fight left the remaining Trow at once. They fled into the night as swiftly as their tiny legs could carry them. A few passed so close by the lord’s hiding place he might have reached out and touched them if he had dared.

Cenovarus stood motionless for a small while before seeing to the drummer, still pinned to the earth. It babbled and whined piteously at his approach, and screamed when he took the spearshaft in his hand. Lord Estian set his teeth in preparation for its death-wail.

Instead the champion lifted the spear free and watched as the stroll scrambled off after its brethren.

“Lord?” The champion called after the fairy was well clear.

“Here I am.” Estian stumbled out from the underbrush and into the light of the hill’s entrance.

Cenovarus pointed to the doorway. He was bleeding from half a dozen cuts and still hadn’t regained his breath. His hands were shaking and he looked near to collapsing. “See if your son is within. And what manner of food they have.”

The inside of a Trow’s hovel is nothing grand, or even decent, by any standards one would care to think of. The floor of such a place is invariably earthen and only as packed as the slight weight of their tred can make it. The only light comes from a sullen little fire near one side—the Trow are not wont to ever stoke a flame beyond embers—and without a place to go, the smoke fills the whole hill. Their crude carpentry yields furniture which only just serves, if one is their size, and serves not at all for anyone else.

They found no trace of Huward inside the hill. With the boy still missing Lord Estian was of a mind to set off again at once, but Cenovarus wouldn’t hear of it. Despite the hovel’s flaws (and there were many) that night it made Cenovarus a happy man indeed: they had food aplenty.

After devouring a bit of rabbit and a rind of bread, he dove into the pack which he had worn at his shoulder and from it produced a stack of curved metal plates. These he set to work with, fastening each one to the others by means of silver hooks craftily hidden within the intricate designs scoring them. Once he had formed a ring of the plates he produced the final piece, a shallow bowl of the same make, which he fastened onto the bottom of the ring. Once his enterprise was done Cenovarus held a cauldron, perfectly water-tight despite its segmented design, and covered all over with depictions of fairies and beasts and men at rest.

“You carried that with you?” Estian asked.

“You saw me take the pieces from my pack, Lord.”

“But I never heard them during our walk. And it seemed to me your pack was light, almost empty.”

“So it seemed, yes.” Cenovarus smiled. “Dwarven smiths are well-known, even in your world, for their prowess. As they should be; it was a dwarf who made this cauldron for me. But I hold that their tailors aught to be held in no less esteem, and you see here their handiwork as well.”

“Your world?”

“Lord?”

“In your world, you said.”

"Ah, a habit. In our world, I mean, the human world."

Lord Estian looked at their present accomodations but said nothing, and Cenovarus seemed only too happy to allow the matter to drop. In any case he was much too busy with his cauldron. Most of the food remaining in the hill—more bread, more meat, roots and tubers, seeds raided from rodent’s stores, eggs stolen from bird’s nests—all made its way in and soon he had a stew cooking. The champion ate enough for a whole host of warriors, scooping out portions with another bowl from his pack. Anything which escaped his hunger that night he kept for later.

By the end of it his belly and bag were both so stuffed it was a wonder one or the other didn’t burst.

“Is it so good as all that?” The lord asked as Cenovarus’ pace began to slow.

“Not in the least. In fact, it’s quite terrible.”

“Yet that gives you no pause at all.”

“It may surprise you, lord,” the champion said between bites, “to learn the Good Folk are not so kind as to make a habit of giving alms to the poor, let alone meals. Not that I would beggar myself, in any case. When I last met one of them willing to trade for a meal, it was still a week or more to Fire’s Night.”

“You’ve been without food nearly a month?”

“Save only what I’ve been able to keep and store.”

“And are you now satisfied? I would have you remember my boy is still missing.”

Cenovarus poked at the fire with a tangle of wood which might have been an attempt at a stool. When it broke he fed the pieces to the flames one by one. “To answer the question you asked me: yes, I am satisfied. And I thank you for your concern. To answer the question you meant: no, we’ll not resume the hunt tonight.”

“I am a lord yet, wanderer, and not accustomed to hearing orders given by your ilk.”

“If you rankle when I say ‘we’ then go and resume your hunt. I’ll not delay you. But take a little heart: the Trow are not given to closeness with bands not their own, and your son wasn’t here. I’d guess that means he wasn’t taken by Trow.” The fire caught and set the shadows to dancing all across the earthen walls. “I told you the fairy folk have many races. Those others will not be so easily found out.”

“I liked you better half-starved. Your mouth wasn’t so sharp and you listened to your betters.”

“Lord, understand this. You’ve gleaned a little of my past, that I spent my youth under the thumb of the fae, and like as not you’ve heard a tale or two of how their kind delights in putting on airs. I’ve seen lords who keep court in the starry vaults of the sky, and princelings who wear the moon upon their brow, and once a king who shone so with noble radiance that his very gaze was fire. They speak the name of an old king, a protector from long ago, whose tomb is a great hill which has turned so black it will make a man go blind if he but looks at it too long. After all that, what is human rulership? I mean no disrespect, lord—let me say on, before you shout, thank you—but how can a man of my circumstances serve? Or abase himself? It’s like watching children play at their elder’s crafts.”

Lord Estian scowled. “Those are brave words, but my son must needs have more than that.”

“Is that all there is to your anger? Then let me settle this fighting between us once and for all. I’ve a pledge for you.” Cenovarus knelt and laid his sheathed sword across his knee. “Hear my oath: I swear, though I serve no master, I will serve the wellbeing of your son until the time you and he are reunited. Remember well, lord, my upbringing. No fairy’s ban keeps me from breaking my oath, yet I no more would than if I were so bound.”

Perhaps it was something in that same noble bearing which Lord Estian had noticed in Cenovarus from the first, or perhaps it was in the champion’s words, or perhaps it was only the desperation of a father grasping for hope. Whatever it may have been, it drove Estian to gather the kneeling man up and embrace him.

“I submit to your skill in this matter,” Estian said. “You lead the hunt and I will follow. To Huward.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Aye, tomorrow. But bright and early, I hope. We should rest.”

Part Three

Apr. 23, 2020

It rained that night and they slept inside the hollow hill. Lord Estian took the late watch and Cenovarus the early. In the morning they ate a little, Cenovarus smiling broadly at having such a bounty again, Estian eating of what little food he had thought to take with him in his haste to leave. By the time they set off again the sun was just over the horizon and the mists which clung to the ground so tenaciously in that place were only beginning to thin.

They went over ground which had mostly forgotten the moors to the north. They made good time and Cenovarus led the way with the surety of a man following a well-trod path, though Lord Estian saw no such trail.

Half the morning had gone by when the lord, unable to bear it any longer, broke the silence. “We found no trace of Huward with the trolls.”

“Aye.”

“And if a troll was not the thief, it must be what? An elf?”

“Nothing so certain as that.”

“Surely there is some way to know.”

“No, none.”

Estian balled his fists but bit down on his next words. The other man’s calm goaded him as surely as a hot poker.

Cenovarus raised a palm in a conciliatory gesture. “You aren’t wrong, lord. That is the general way of things; if not the Trow, the Si, and if not the Si, the Hob. But we cannot know for sure.”

“And if not the Trow, Si, or Hob?”

“That would be strange indeed. There are other fairy-races, but none known for stealing children.”

“And these fairies, these... Trow?”

“Their word. You call them trolls.”

“The ones we fought last night.”

“We now, is it?” Cenovarus showed his teeth.

“Terrible monsters.”

“No, think of them not so unkindly. Once, I’m told, they were a proud and even a noble people. Moreso than any of the rest. Those monsters we saw were only echoes, and cursed ones at that.”

“What happened for them to fall so far?”

“What else? War. They lost themselves and broke one of their bans, and the few who survived were cursed. That's why they seem so hideous now, and...”

“Yes? What else?”

When Cenovarus spoke again he did so but slowly. “They cannot have children. For a new Trow to be born, it must be... made. From a human child. That is why we sought them out first; this business seems to me more the workings of a Si, but your son would’ve been in greater danger had he fallen into a Trow’s claws.”

“Huward, could he—”

“No, lord, the process is slower than that. Your son was not among the creatures I drove away.”

Now it was the lord’s turn at silence. It suited Cenovarus well enough. While his feet wandered south through the glades his thoughts wandered back toward his childhood. The fae had many reasons to take children, and the Trow weren’t the only race who might make Huward one of their own. In his youth Cenovarus had even feared that fate for himself, though his abductors had held a different purpose for him.

In any case, he deemed it would do no good to tell Estian more. Let him believe that particular danger had passed.

Where his thoughts strayed, so followed his senses. In time the champion became so lost in remembered sights and sounds that he very nearly walked straight into the trap which had been laid for them.

They had by then come upon the Whitetail River, just at the spot where it twists itself from its southerly course and wends off to the east, eventually joining into the moorlands which marked the borders of Estian’s rulership. It is well known that willows and reeds find the Whitetail very agreeable, and in fact they often grow dense enough along the banks as to make the water itself impossible to see. That is how the two hunters found it in the spot where they decided to ford the river. It seemed a favorable place, for the reeds stretched from one bank to another almost unbroken, and they took this to mean that they would find the river shallow and the current slow.

Had Cenovarus not been thinking of the Si and their ways, he may never have thought to check the reeds for ambush. As it was he saw the attackers only just in time, yelling out a warning as a wolf leaped out from behind the concealing fronds of a willow tree. The beast lunged and the champion scrambled back, falling into Estian and nearly bringing them both to the ground. The jaws snapped only a hand’s breadth shy of Cenovarus’ ankle.

While the men regained their balance the wolf was joined by the rest of the pack. More wolves and also a few trolls, perhaps a dozen altogether, emerged from their hiding places. None of the beasts was less than half the height of a man at the shoulder, and some were a hand or more taller; these took to the front and formed a loose semicircle with their leader in the center. The trolls hid in the shade, little more than child-like shapes in the green. They giggled and some whirled slings or held spears at the ready.

“Where is my son?” Lord Estian yelled. His only answer was a dart which nearly caught his ear. He drew his sword and held it two-handed before him.

Cenovarus thrust one spear into the ground at his feet and eased into a fighting stance, shield raised and his other spear hovering just above its edge. “We’ve no wish to fight,” he said. “If only we may speak with your master.”

The lead wolf snarled. The sound turned into a rumble, something like a cough, then into rough speech. “Our mistress commands you come no further.”

Estian’s blade dipped low. “You—”

“Yes, it speaks,” Cenovarus growled. “Not so unusual among the Good Folk’s servants.”

“I hear that plainly enough, thank you. Now, silence.” The lord stood to his full height and let his sword’s point fall entirely. “Am I right in thinking I know your voice, wolf?”

The beast bent its front legs in a motion like a bow, though it kept its head raised and its eyes open. “I would think you know it well, lord. It gladdens me to be remembered.”

Many times since their meeting, Estian had looked to Cenovarus with questions in his eyes. Now that the roles were reversed, it must be said the lord took a moment to savor the feeling before he offered an explanation. “We first suspected a fairy had stolen into my lands three years ago. We had our first sign the night my own captain of the guard went missing from atop the walls. It was a fire’s night, I believe.”

“Aye, lord. Your memory remains sharp.”

“We all thought you dead, Hagan.”

“And so I am, to the world of men.” The wolf shook its coat. “I’ve found I like this life better. It is simple and it suits me.”

“I’m glad to find you happy, then.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“But do you love me so little,” Estian continued, “that you would now bar the man you once served from his only son?”

The wolf’s ears flattened. “Is the boy little Huward?”

“So he was brought this way after all,” Cenovarus interjected. “And by a Si, I’d wager.”

“My mistress is an elf, right enough.”

“What does she wish with the child?”

“Before I answer, know this: I only tell you to repay the love my Lord Estian once showed me. Had he been a harder master, or had I left him in happier circumstances, I wouldn’t be so open in the sharing.”

“Thank you, Hagan.” Estian’s voice was low. “Now, tell me, what does your mistress want with my son?”

“The same as she ever does.” Hagan looked over his shoulder to the little forms still hiding in the trees behind him. Now that the two hunters had time to study them it became apparent at once they weren’t trolls at all but human children, clad in rough clothes and still obscured by reeds and fronds. The wolf bobbed its muzzle in something like a nod. “Now you see. I’ve no doubt reports have reached you, lord, of children gone missing in the villages? Here they are. Safe and happy.”

“Who is it you serve?” Cenovarus said sharply. “I know no Si who would do this out of kindness.”

“She is loathe to give a name. But she is kind.”

“Moss-Mother,” one of the children said. “That’s our name for her.”

“And does she treat you well, child?” Estian spoke gently, but there was desperation there. “We can return you to your real mother, this man and I. Only say the word.”

“No!” With that half the children seemed to vanish, withdrawing further into their hiding places. Those who remained heaped their own answers. “She was wicked,” said one. “I’ll never go back,” vowed another. All gave voice to similar sentiments. Lord Estian turned to his companion, who could only return his look with a shrug.

Hagan made a hacking sound which may have been an attempt at a polite cough. “I’m sorry, lord, but even if they wished to go I would not be permitted to let you take them. I and the rest of the pack must bar you from straying any further into her lands.”

“Her lands?” Estian said. “All of this is mine, Hagan. You know that.”

“She claims it, my lord, the same as you. I only serve. Knowing the right of it, that’s far above me.”

Estian was wont then and there to give a lesson on the law which would surely have worsened their situation, but Cenovarus took him by the shoulder before he could form the words. The champion studied their surroundings again, as he had been taught long ago. Seven wolves, at least one with the cunning of a man, and besides that a handful of children holding darts. The near part of the river was sluggish and looked shallow, but it was choked with reeds which would doubtless slow any attempts to ford it in a rush. Trees all around, and many of them willows whose wide fronds and tall branches could hold yet more attackers ready in hiding. He could hear none, but it would be a foolish Si indeed whose movements could be plainly heard by human ears. If Cenovarus’ upbringing had taught him anything, it was this: he would not win this fight, and he could not merely pass them by.

According to the teachings of champions, he was to dedicate his death to the lord or ideal he most venerated and then see how many foes he could lay at his feet before he fell.

Not for the first time, Cenovarus was glad he had abandoned that path.

“Come,” he said to his companion. “We must away.”

“What’s this? Huward—”

The former champion smiled over his shoulder. “I know a swifter path.”

The wolves and the moss-children watched them go back the way they had come. The pack conferred, not with conversant sounds but in the usual manner of their kind, and afterwards it was decided one of them should follow the interlopers. The rest of them, and their charges, faded back into the deeper woods.

Cenovarus heard the wolf following. “Is that you, Hagan?” When there came no reply he looked to Estian, who repeated the question.

“Yes, lord. Here I am.” With no further need of pretense the former captain of the guard trotted up to walk beside them. “I’ll see you as far as the border.”

“Kind of you,” Cenovarus said. “But we’ve unfinished business yet.”

They walked on without words for some time. Cenovarus, smiling, walked half a step before the others. His followers were less amused than he. If either noticed they were being led by a winding and a wending path, they said nothing of it. Eventually they all came to a place where the ground swelled a little and then fell away, forming a sort of flat-sided hillock about the height of a man’s shoulders. Most of the trees in this part of the wood were short and thin, but atop the hillock rose a proud and tall birch whose pale white bark shone like the full moon.

“Wait here a moment,” the champion bade the others as he mounted the rise. “A beautiful tree, do you not think so?”

Estian narrowed his eyes. “I suppose.”

The wolf gave no answer at all.

Cenovarus moved swiftly, too swiftly for Hagan to do anything more than raise his hackles and snarl. He planted his spears in the dirt at his feet and drew his sword, holding the edge of the blade a mere finger’s breadth from the bark.

“Hold, pup,” he said. “You’ll run and tell your mistress of what you see here. Tell her I’ll fell this tree unless she comes to us ere dusk. Be sure to mention that it’s iron I hold. Now get you gone.”

Hagan growled a moment longer, but Cenovarus needed only to pull his hand back as though preparing to swing for him to think better of overstaying. Without a word he loped back the way they had come.

Only after a hundred-count did the champion allow himself to breathe a sigh of relief. He dropped the point of the blade to the ground next to the tree’s roots, but didn’t put it away. “Your household would rather a loyal guard than a clever one, it seems.”

“Why this tree?” Estian said. “What ploy is this?”

“Your man said it was a Si who took your son.”

“Aye, and you said the same yesterday. What of it?”

“I suspected, but had no way to know. Your man told me it was so. And this threat would do nothing at all to anyone but a Si.” Seeing Estian’s confusion, he spoke on. “The Si suffer a ban which forbids them from allowing a tree to come to harm. They must defend it. Now that I’ve made my threat, this Moss-Mother will act.”

“And she will come to us? So easily?”

“So I hope.”

“Is there not a risk she shoots us full of darts from afar? Or magicks us, unseen? It looks to me you’ve set us on a dangerous path.”

“Oh, a very dangerous path indeed. And I took a risk in setting us on it, too, for I had to risk your former guardsman taking my bait. After all, if a Si never hears of a threat to a tree, how can it act in its defense? But Hagan ran along like a good dog and will plant my poison when he tells her. And then, as you say, there comes the danger she will cast a spell over us or shoot me clean from this hill.” He paused a moment, remembering. “There are Si, lord, of such great stature and such great skill they are able to fire an arrow twice as long as I stand tall, and their aim lets them strike a target a league or more distant, though it be only the size of my fist.”

Estian looked back the way they had come. He half-expected to already hear the keening sound of a mighty arrow whistling through the sky. “And what will stop this elf from doing so to us?”

Cenovarus shrugged. “The Fair Folk are not, by nature, a practical people. I hope this one doesn’t prove an exception.”

“And if she is...”

“We will never know. Or I won’t, at the least. I will be quite dead.”

“You left one question unanswered: why this tree?”

“It seemed appropriate. I think it looks very beautiful.”

Lord Estian didn’t agree, but held his tongue on the matter. “But if the Si are charged with the defense of all trees, you could have chosen any we passed. And saved us a good deal of walking.”

“I could have.” Cenovarus grinned. “Sometimes I am not very practical myself.”

***

They waited there for a time, and all the while Cenovarus kept a guarded disposition about him. He never allowed his sword to stray from his hand or for its blade to stray far from the tree, and he never sat at all, even as the sky began to dim and the first shadows of twilight crept from their hiding places. The forest began to take on a new aspect, and a sinister one. Estian sat nearby, sometimes working at a small fire and sometimes singing softly to himself.

The first sounds of approach came from the east, and both men turned to meet it. What they found was not any sort of fairy-creature, but a scholar. He approached at a shuffling gait, holding a long staff in one hand to help him navigate the underbrush, which tore at his worn robes. His skin was pale and his eyes gleamed a merry blue, in stark contrast to his filthy clothing. The pair watched his approach in confused silence.

“Lord,” said the scholar. “Good day. And the same to you, champion.”

Estian hesitated only a moment, then stepped forward with his arms outstretched. “Welcome and good day. But tell me: where is it you’ve come from?”

“I come from the city, lord, where I was engaged in songs. Why do you ask me?”

“This is a far walk from the city, and a treacherous one. I wonder to see a man of your years and profession so far afield.”

“Well, lord, I am passing through here on the way to my destination. That is all. And what, if I may ask, is your business in this place?”

“We are set to fell this tree,” answered Cenovarus from where he still stood.

“That seems a task ill-befitting a champion and a lord. Why, even on that account, I would hate to see such a thing done. In fact, I will give you the coins in my purse to let the tree alone.”

“Whether you find it mete or no, this is our business,” said Cenovarus. “We’ll not be so easily dissuaded.”

The scholar harrumphed and without another word tottered back into the woods the way he had come. Before long he disappeared from sight entirely.

“What manner of vision was that?” Estian asked. “Surely there are no such men out this far. And why would he care for this tree?”

Cenovarus smiled. “It was strange. He called me ‘champion,’ did you hear? That is a word the Good Folk use for some of their human slaves. I hear it but rarely among humans.”

“You think he was in league with the Moss-Mother?”

“He may have been her. All their kind are skilled with illusions and none moreso, perhaps, than the Si.”

“What now are we to do?”

“Let’s see her next move.”

“You are suited to this world, Cenovarus. Do you know that?”

“What world is that?”

Estian looked all around. “This one here. The world of humans is not strange enough for you, I think.”

Cenovarus frowned and said nothing. The lord, not noticing his disquiet, only shook his head and chuckled to himself.

They had only a little while to wait before the next encounter. Presently there came from the north a woman dressed like a priest, in garb very similar to Stave’s own. She strode confidently toward them and greeted them with a smile and a wave. “How now, warrior? Greetings, lord.”

“Good day, and welcome.”

“What is it you have there, champion?”

“Only my sword. I am soon to fell this tree with it.”

“That seems an unlucky task to me; I’ve heard tell of creatures in these woods who would loathe to see even one tree so affronted.”

“Then let them come and tell me themselves.”

“Rather than see you trouble yourself, I would offer you this: I know of a place where an old cauldron is buried in the peat, and within more gold than either of you can carry in your arms. Would you come with me to see it, and leave that tree as it is?”

“No, even that prize will not dissuade me.”

“Then good day to you.” She left without another word or even a backwards glance. After that it was only a moment or two before they were approached again, now from the south, and this time it was no scholar or priest or other authoritative figure which greeted them, but only a fair-haired boy stumbling through the bushes.

“Huward!” Estian cried. He nearly ran to the creature before he mastered himself.

“Here I am,” the boy said. “Will you not come to me?”

“Come instead to your father.”

“And who is that, up on the hill? What is his business?”

“He is to fell that tree before the light fades entirely. It seems his work will start soon.”

“But look, here I am! What more need is there to fell the tree?”

Lord Estian pursed his lips. He thought it best to keep the thing talking, even if it meant playing its games. “Will you give me a price, son, if I tell my champion to put aside that business?”

“I will, I will, if the price isn’t too steep.”

“You’ll not find it too steep, I think.” By this time Lord Estian’s voice had grown hard. Anger rose within him, to see the form of his own son used against him. “This is it: quit your disguises, creature, and Cenovarus there will leave that tree unharmed. I would speak with you plainly.”

“Easily done.” The boy reached up to grasp his chin and gave it a tug. The face of Huward came free and was suddenly no more than a mask cunningly made of interlocking leaves. The elf behind the mask had been bent more than double to achieve Huward’s height, and now it rose so that it towered over the humans. It seemed to them almost like a human woman, perhaps a druid, wearing a robe of purple velvet sewn with swirling patterns not unlike those on Cenovarus’ own shield. The elf’s hair fell in black curls down almost to the ground, and was everywhere dotted with leaves and bursts of bright pollen. Her hands were bare, save for a ruby ring of deepest crimson on one finger and a golden torc clasped in her fist. Beneath the mask her face was that of a homely woman, perfectly human, save the two straight horns sprouting from her temples.

“I give you greetings,” Cenovarus said when he found the breath to speak.

"Her lan entet nemaem temac ag riaehem nai dro res." The elf spoke in a language Estian did not know.

“Saan veśates." The champion sheathed his sword and stepped away from the tree, though he did not leave the hillock just yet.

“What did she say?”

“She threatened to kill me.”

Estian couldn’t help but smile a little. “I’ll not hold it against her, having felt the same urge myself.”

“Her threats were not so uncouth as yours. She was quite courteous.”

The lord returned to the present business, spreading his hands. “Lady, if that is what you are, welcome and good day yet again. I am Lord Estian, and this is my companion Cenovarus.”

The creature was still for a moment. “I am Lankin,” it said at last.

“Lankin, I hope we may have peace between us.”

“Do not speak of peace.” The elf again reached up to her face and pulled away her mask. Beneath it she had the look of a woman wrinkled by age and terrible circumstance. Her lips were pulled back into a rictus with bright gums below a long hooked nose. Worst of all were the eyes: twin orbs faintly glowing with a light like a lantern’s, inset into sockets so impossibly deep they appeared utterly black. “You creatures, you sow pain and threaten my ban, and you would speak of peace?”

Estian looked over his shoulder to Cenovarus. The champion only shrugged. “As you say, lady. But may we no more talk of death?”

“For a time.”

“Than—” He would have thanked her, but at that moment Cenovarus interrupted with such a sharp word he couldn’t help but stop and turn to look again at his companion.

“Not those words,” the champion said. He had gone pale. “Never those words.”

Lord Estian had heard tales of fairies and their strange ways, and perhaps once or twice those stories had included their curious hatred of giving thanks. Sometimes it was said to be because the phrase granted power over the creature, but more often it was simply given as fact, and no more was said of it. In more than one tale it led to the death or disappearance of the speaker. When the lord turned back to Lankin the elf’s face was mere inches from his own.

Say what you will of Lord Estian, but say this: in the matter of his son his heart was firm, and he neither flinched nor turned away by even the smallest degree at the creature’s sudden closeness. No, he looked it full in its terrible face and spoke bravely. “Then let us talk of other matters. Did you take a child, a fair-haired boy, the night before last?”

“I did, I did. Was it yours?”

“He is my only son. Is he safe?”

“Safe!” The elf’s eyes blazed. “And I thought we would not talk of death. There is no ‘safe’ with your kind.”

“All the same, he is my son and I would take him home with me. What have you done with him?”

“Oh, little enough. See, so even your crude heart may be assured.” Lankin stretched out its long fingers and wound them together in a circle. Through it Estian beheld a vision of Huward wrapped in a blanket of lichen. The image of the boy was small, as though he was a long way away. “Here is the child.”

“Where?”

“What does ‘here’ mean to you humans? Here the child is. Touch it. Hold it, as long as you are gentle.”

Estian looked from the elf’s face to its hands. Then, with thoughts of snares and traps in his mind, he reached into the creature’s twined fingers.

“Cenovarus!” He cried, turning to him. He held the sleeping boy—who was getting to be a little big for his father to easily carry—in his arms. “Look, here he is!”

Lankin unwound its fingers. “As I said.”

“Very good, lord.” Cenovarus said. He addressed the Si in its own tongue. “Nemoe loś idrae her res dro aira?"

“Lan veaim loś aira.”

"Lleim aira nem lan? Raiam?"

"Ton."

Lord Estian studied Huward in the dim light. “What did you do to him? He’s hurt. Why does he not wake?”

“She says he is in an enchanted sleep, lord. He will awake in his own time.”

“What are these scars?”

“I poked him,” Lankin said, holding up a hand now covered in thorns. “I pricked him. There is no hurt. He needed to bleed. I took only a little blood and gave only a little pain.”

“How dare you!” At that moment Lord Estian might have again caused his doom, but the precious bundle in his arms prevented him from drawing iron or otherwise doing more than shouting. “You say there is no safety with my kind, yet I see your hospitality is worse yet.”

“Better a pin-prick than a cruel death,” the creature hissed. “Are you humans so base you cannot agree?”

“Cruel death? He was ill.”

“Rather locked away and left to wither. I saved him from the woman.”

“Woman?” Cenovarus said. “Lady Estian?”

“What is her name to me? She had a chain on her brow. She would have starved the child, and you would have watched, to fuel your own grief.”

“My Lady fed him herself, every day, whenever he would take food.”

“She laughed at his plight and ate the food herself. I watched it.”

“Forest-witch! Murderer! If I were alone you would feel my sword. Come, Cenovarus, our business is at an end.” He turned to go. “Perhaps we’ll return with foresters.”

Before Cenovarus could do more than raise a hand Lankin flowed from behind him, bending in ways impossible for any creature of blood and bone, and came to stand before the retreating lord. “Perhaps it is time to speak of death again,” it hissed.

“Lady, wait, I beg you.” The champion stood still. “And lord, stop where you are. Please.”

Two pairs of proud eyes looked to him.

“Lord Estian, the fair folk cannot speak a lie. You know this. Stave told me he suspected your wife of... unkindness.”

“What? Then Stave is a fool. My Lady loved Huward before this creature slaughtered her.”

“Lord, believe me, I beg you. Stave’s words were words of a troubled mind, and sometimes it’s safer to speak to outsiders than to friends. But now you have it laid before you: your priest, who may lie but who loves you, believes the Lady Estian mistreated your son. And this Si, who does not love you but may not lie, says the same. Does that not make it so? And remember the other children this creature stole away: they seemed none too fond of their mothers either.”

“I saved them all,” Lankin said. “I am their protector. Their mother.”

“Elfin tricks! You’ll not have my son!”

“Lord, please—”

“I see where your loyalty lies, wanderer. Look, here is my son in my arms; I release you from your oath. Begone. I will fight my way free of these woods without you.”

Lankin only watched.

Cenovarus’ shoulders slumped. “Am I right to think both of you saw my fight with the Trow?” He bent enough to retrieve one of his spears from where it had lain.

“Aye.”

“I saw.”

“Then neither of you will question my skill at throwing. And look, I’ve had this one’s blade coated in iron.” The champion moved slowly, as though to let them see the spear’s point, then whirled the weapon in his hand so that he held it ready to cast. Both man and elf flinched back. Cenovarus now shouted down at the two below him. “You, Si, you desire the child’s safety. And you, lord, you desire the boy’s return. But what of me? I desire that he have a different fate than what I now see before him.

“I have what I want at the end of this spear, for even death is a different fate. Hold, both of you, or you’ll lose all chance at making this right. I will not miss. Be still.”

Lord Estian spoke through grinding teeth. “I’ll have your head.”

“Is that prize worth your son’s life?”

He quieted.

Lankin said nothing at all, but the trees around them stirred as though in a driving wind. The last light of dusk was now leaving the sky, and in the darkness the shadows came out in force.

Cenovarus kept his weapon poised. “Death is near, do you feel it? And where Naroth’s first face ventures, his second is never far. I deem it better the boy die than suffer, and I think Naroth would judge me gently for the sacrifice. So, what is it to be? Will the two of you find common ground in Huward?”

Two pairs of proud eyes looked to each other.

***

The sun was beginning to set by the time they made it safely back to the castle. Stave was the first to greet them on their return, shuffling out the gates and down the path toward them as fast as his old legs would carry him. He bowed low to Lord Estian, who let his son down so that he might run to the priest. Stave fell on the boy, enfolding him in his robed arms. They spoke, the three of them, but Cenovarus was too far away to hear their words.

The champion watched from a perch on a tree stump north of the castle. He had chosen the spot carefully: close enough that he could see the comings and goings about the gate, but not so close as to be within bowshot. Should Estian decide to carry out his promised vengeance personally, there was a low ditch nearby in which he could hide from the first riders, and then it would be a run to the safety of the treeline over rough ground.

The fact he considered the forest safer than the fort didn't escape him. He scowled.

Behind him Cenovarus heard a whistle of wind and a sound like leaves rustling. “Huward is back,” he said without turning his head. “And safe.”

"He was safe before," came Lankin’s voice from somewhere behind him.

"In some ways, aye. But the boy deserves to be with his family."

"Why?"

"Because it’s where he belongs. Everyone deserves to be with their own kin, their own kind, if they wish it."

"I know better how to keep the child."

"You may think so all you like. The pact is struck and I know you won't break an oath."

"No."

They were silent a little while, until Cenovarus broke the stillness. "Between his Lord Father and his Fairy Godmother, I wager Huward will grow into a force worth reckoning. In ten, twenty years the Lord of the Moor will be a man to be feared."

"A wise prophecy. Huward Elf-Friend will go far."

"No prophecy, I only guess. Foresight is your kind's skill."

Cenovarus felt the elf’s long fingers drape across his shoulder, saw her long face come into view at his side. He felt neither warmth nor breath. "Yet here you are."

"Here I am."

"Even your name is ours. You don’t belong to them."

"I know."

"You don’t belong with them."

Cenovarus said nothing. He only watched from afar as the gates of the castle closed and dusk settled over the walls.

---

This one took a while, and went through a ton of changes along the way. Even after I had the first two parts up, I was still tweaking it.

This started after I read an article about some of Andrzej Sapkowski's inspirations for coming up with the basis for Geralt. It got me thinking about what a witcher might look like in this setting. It couldn't be a professional monster-hunter because monsters aren't common enough. And I didn't want it to be a wizard; that introduces too many complications. So I settled on the situation Cenovarus finds himself in: stolen by the fae and raised as a warrior, chained to them by the curse of their food but, crucially, still human. I think it's a fun set of circumstances to explore. I'll be doing more with Cenovarus in the future.

This story had a happy ending for most of its development. I had challenged myself to write something with a happy ending because I've got a nasty habit of always trying to be bleak and depressing. But even after I wrote it here, it just... never felt right. One of those things where the characters won't let you do something, and forcing it on them causes dissonance that's hard to ignore. Jeph Jacques, of the webcomic Questionable Content, once said that that experience can probably lend insight into the idea of how an omnipotent God could create, and allow, free will in His creations. In the case of this story, the three major players just wouldn't stay cordial with one another. But I think it worked out well. Even if I did, ultimately, fail my challenge.

Maybe next month we'll get a happy ending. Lord knows we could all use one right now.