Songs of the Goldenheart
Seventeenth Day of the First Month 294 AC
Trepidation shook her down to her roots, her Heart thrumming with furious anticipation and a strange admixture of dread and hope, the currents of the world seeming to swirl and froth beneath her, no longer pliant and quiescent as they had been through the long ages. It was as though the grave of Rowan Gold-Tree recognized the importance of what approached, but was that the wind of change which beckoned forth despair and sorrow? Or of reunions, the spring of youth and glad tidings?
She had to know.
Elswyth stepped forth, out of the shade, summer fire and goldenrod reflecting its light, beams dancing through the boughs with the dying rays cast from the astral body. For a single moment, for a single shining instant the drumming stopped, her Heart went still, every branch and leaf suspended in time, and it was only then, gazing upon a face so uncannily similar to Rowan's granddaughter, that Elswyth knew for sure. She had never unlearned joy or sagacity, but there had been some notion that Spring may never come again, something anyone familiar with the utter darkness flowing south on the high winds would be. Yet the smile that bloomed upon Elswyth's face was enough to shock even her court gathered in the distance, almost too nervous to stand in her presence until the final hour when she might know if it would indeed be rage or relief that would fill the empty void at last.
"Welcome home, young one," she breathed softly, and she felt wet in the face, something the girl mirrored as she touched her own eyes and came back with silent tears. "Let none tarnish the joy of kin thought lost, returned to nest, and always will you be welcome here, thus I proclaim as Queen of the Wildwood and Lady of Prosperity, be welcome and have no need to fear!"
"Thank you," came the reply, not tremulous but filled with soft wonder. It was with immense relief that the girl did not respond with fear, for Elswyth had shown no restraint in her joy and even the smallest expression of emotion at that time could bury a mortal soul under the weight of her deepest need. Now that she had opened herself to the notion of reconciliation, she did not wish to be robbed of a single moment bent toward that task with the full force of her Legend. If there were no people to share it with, Prosperity meant nothing, and if mortals feared or hated the Wilds enough, they might also cut it down and burn it away, as the grave of her Mother stood in testimony toward.
Elswyth listened carefully to the girl's fears and even closer to their interests. What she could not make much of due to the course of the discussion and the nature of the dilemmas both were faced with when matters of faith and the bending of mortal will toward one solution or another came to a head, she then graciously asked a reprieve from one to ponder the notion further and offered comfort in other matters of the heart that she herself closely shared, more than Elinor Rowan could ever know, more than anyone in the wide world could for it was her tale that was spinning forth into a new thread in that very moment.
"You are my song now," Elswyth whispered as she watched Elinor leave her glade, to return to hearth and home for the moment. "Let it be sung far and wide when the time comes again."
***
Mathis Rowan was a gruff man, some might say blunt too, but he was not a man with a stone heart or a dearth of gratitude for the circumspect nature of his daughter's return. It dawned on him for all the talk of adventures and the joy of discovery in a world gone otherwise mad, with what he had learned of magic hoping for some chance to recover his daughter, either in life or death come to that, it was impossible the boy hadn't known.
He had asked once a lord of the fey to slake his personal, if morbid, curiosity the truth of the rumors, that the Dragon King had journeyed far and wide and gained unexpected knowledge and prescient wisdom, then bent his likely immeasurable will, given the nature of mages on the order of the Ninth Circle, by the reckoning of both the magical parchments passed around the Seven Kingdoms and the estimations of that horned lord, toward one task.
Of his mother, Queen Rhaella, Gods keep her--or, he suppose, return her.
The Gods hadn't kept a very good watch on her in life, he thought then, immediately startled by the sharp bitterness of the notion when he came to understand the sheer gulf between him and a solution to a daughter missing or dead.
He would need to be strong enough himself to overturn the will of the Gods in matters of life or death to even stand a chance.
What else could one name that but the surest of madness? What other mad notions had passed through their head when they raised a kingdom of pirates and brigands and thought, 'I suppose it's a decent time to end slavery, then'
?
So the boy knew about his daughter, how could he not when she had come to his kingdom herself, how
convenient that was and never thought to note her survival when it was the greatest bargaining chip he could have imagined over his head. Then... returned her, with a bevy of mystical companions and a bag full of gold and a smile on her face, no words of pledges on her lips, not even once? Even if she had not lied about what she had seen, he would have to be an idiot not to see how unshakable one's confidence would have to be to do that.
Still. He was not one to cast a pall about occasions joyous such as this, part of him wished to count his blessings and think that his daughter was returned to him out of the goodness of the exiled Prince who would count himself King and then count one more banner, likely among a sea of others.
He
would if asked in the press, Mathis realized with a start. With the worry and sorrow that weighed on him, he had hedged out what little was left between attending to the needs of his fief and vowing silent vengeance for those who had taken her away one way or another, too much at once to really ponder the political realities he would soon be faced with.
Mathis Rowan wanted more than anything an explanation for why his daughter had been chosen, by the Gods or by Dragons or by the cruel whims of fate itself, why he could not have been put under trial to see what the world had in store for his House and not her, but he could not as that was, quite apparent by now, not the way of the world. All at once, he realized not even their children were exempt from fulfilling some grand purpose or destiny, whatever it may be.
"Father?" Elinor's voice was filled with worry as the lines of his weathered face deepened, he had more gray hairs than when she had last seen him two years ago, he was slower to smile, but never forgot to do so when his attention was pulled back to her, not even a single moment would he forget.
"Daughter mine," he said softly, clutching her hand tightly, "Tell me one thing. Will he save us, or damn us?" All the new foes he had heard about, ones lurking in the wilds and in the far reaches of the world, seeming to prey on all men, both the virtuous and the sinner alike, making no distinction by sound judgement who was guilty and who was not...
One might come to realize sooner or later that the Gods might not be the right answer for every occasion, not when so many
things were providing answers of their own, none of them a comfort for the faint of heart.
She pondered the question long and hard, before replying at last, "He will help us learn how to save ourselves."
That was a comfort. Mathis Rowan was not faint of heart.