The Weight of Silence and the Worth of Words
Twenty Second Day of the Eleventh Month 293 AC
For as long as Soft Strider could remember before she chose to follow the Dragon south, she had known that hers was a last shoot upon a dying tree, the Singers falling into silence as the mingled voices of a thousand realms of men filled the void. So it was and so it would ever be. Neither strength of arm, keenness of eye, nor even the blooming of magic could undo it. The most that they could hope was to pass on the embers they had been guarding. Then one day it had changed, between sunrise and sunset, a fire in the south was revealed. Soft Strider had followed it and there she had found hope and more than that, knowledge of the wider world and its wonders, of things beyond even the borders of earth and sky.
Yet not all knowledge was sweet upon the tongue, nor all understanding pleasant to behold. That there had been an age before this one, when men and Singers lived together beneath the pale limbs of the weirwoods, she had known from tales, but never before reading that parchment in the Builder's hall had Soft Strider wondered how that age was born.
Foolish of me, thought the Singer in the silence of her mind.
All things are born in blood.
They passed beneath the archway of the barrow under the gaze of guards, at once curious and wary, without speaking a word. What would they say to know that those they called 'Children of the Forest' and now counted little more than myth and tale, had once cast down elder gods, the deed echoing defilement down the long ages, its remnants even now stirring below? The first Lady Dustin would never have disturbed the dead had the call of the Green Gods not inclined her to care little for the ways of her ancestors and less for their gods.
Fools and defilers, wreckers of trees, such easy words to think, to whisper into the dreams of men.
Many a time had Soft Strider hoped that men would be less short-sighted, but now for the first time she was thankful that they did not remember old grudges.
"Are you alright?" the soft voice of the many-eyed watcher of beauty called from behind her.
"I am... no worse than I was a moment ago," the Singer replied, hand tightening around the spine of her bow, mentally shaking herself to make the words truer. A barrow of the unrestful dead was no place to ponder the evils of the past. The present had dark gifts aplenty in this place. At the quizzical look and tilting of stalk-eyes, she added. "I was considering the evils that made this place and the tormented one below. Some belong to my kin."
For a long moment he floated in silence beside her as they traveled down the dark hall, more comforting than the urgency with which men so often spoke. "They belong to those alike to you in form, perhaps alike to you in mind, I do not know for I have not met them, but however alike they may be, they are not you any more than two notes in the same pitch sung apart can be counted one."
"Jorondr Dustin, we come to free you of your long binding, of the weight of your curse. Let bronze shine red with battle here in the depths one final time and in defeat or victory you will be freed," the bard Danar called out in the deepest part of the barrow, where the chill of death was deepest, where the dark fey said their master opened the way.
Stone grated on stone, stale air flowed into the chamber, and below them steps there were now winding into the dark. "Come then into my halls and sup at my table..." words of that which men called the Old Tongue these were, but of an elder sort yet that Soft Strider's ear could barely pick out the words.
Soft Strider stepped out past Danar to scout the blackness. No matter who could be counted guilty of this horror it was time and past time that it be ended.
OOC: No battle in this one. I could not figure out a way to include it without harming the tone of the chapter. Soft Strider interludes are tricky.