Chapter 14: Home of the Pogonariel

"What just happened?" Bran whispered, his voice thin and bewildered, shaped by too many shocks in too short a time.

Nix's face had gone grey; all colour leached from his pale blue skin. His ears remained flat, his eyes wide and tracking something none of them could see, reading threat in the wind and stone. "Run," he breathed, the word barely audible, shaped by fear older than thought.

"What is it?" Oren turned to him, hand still on his sword.

"Run!" Nix's voice cracked with urgency, breaking through his usual stoic control.

Immediately, Bran moved to Nix's side, his arm coming around the boy's waist and pulling Nix’s arm over his shoulder to support his weight. Oren moved to Tavik with the same swift purpose, his larger frame steadying his younger brother.

They stumbled forward together, Nix leaning heavily on Bran whilst Tavik leaned on Oren. They scrambled along the ridgeway, boots slipping on wet stone, the wind tearing at their cloaks with predatory persistence. Each step was a battle, exhaustion dragging at Nix and Tavik like weights whilst Bran and Oren half-carried, half-dragged them forward.

"What did she sense?" Tavik called, but his voice was strained, thin with effort. "What are we running from?"

Nix couldn't answer. Pain lanced through his chest with each jolting step, white-hot and immediate. He focused everything on putting one foot in front of the other, on not letting Bran take all his weight.

"They can't keep this up!" Bran shouted, his arms straining to hold Nix upright. "We need to stop!"

"Not until we're off the ridge!" Oren called back, his own lungs burning. "Too exposed here!"

They ran in confused panic, trusting Nix's instinct even as they watched him fade, colour draining from him like water from a broken vessel. Finally, the ridgeway began to slope downward, the sharp stone giving way to softer earth, and ahead, a barrier of tall grasses rose like a golden-green wall, higher than a man's head, swaying in the wind like a living sea.

"Into the grass," Oren said, breathing hard. "We need cover."

He helped Tavik whilst Bran helped Nix, and together they pushed into the tall grasses, the world closing around them in rustling gold and green. The stalks towered overhead, blocking out the sky, creating a maze of shifting shadows and whispered movement that pressed close like living things.

After several minutes of careful progress, stumbling blindly through the tall waving grass that seemed to shift and change, they found a small depression where the grass grew less densely. It offered concealment and a place to stop; a hollow carved from the endless rustling sea.

They settled in the hollow. Nix sank down gratefully, crossing his legs with trembling hands, desperate to regain some measure of control. Tavik tried to remain standing, but Oren's hand pressed firmly on his shoulder, pushing him down beside Nix with authority that brooked no argument.

"Copy him," Oren said firmly when Tavik looked ready to protest, his jaw set in lines of command. "Whatever he's doing, you do it too."

Tavik settled reluctantly, sitting opposite Nix, mirroring Nix's posture, legs crossing in imitation.

Nix closed his eyes, desperate to regain control of something, anything. A faint violet glow pulsed beneath his hands, washing the grass in soft, uncanny light. His flickering runes brightened, smoothing out their chaotic patterns, as if the land itself breathed with him, lending strength where his own had been depleted.

Facing him, Tavik's breathing began to steady as Nix's did, the meditation reaching through the tether that connected them, offering some small relief to the constant drain.

Bran watched them both with helpless worry etched across his features, not knowing what to do, his healer's mind empty of answers. Oren's gaze moved between his brother and Nix, calculating how far they could push, how much more either could take before they broke completely.

Quiet settled over the hollow, broken only by the rustle of grass and the wind's patient murmur through unseen passages. Oren opened his mouth to speak, to ask how they were managing, when the grass at Bran's back trembled, then snapped tight with a sound like rope pulled taut. A narrow blade of grass, impossibly strong, coiled round Bran's waist and yanked him away with violent suddenness. His gasp vanished into the living wall, swallowed by rustling stalks.

"Bran!" Oren shouted, his voice cracking with sudden panic, careful control shattering like glass.

He reached down, grabbed both Tavik and Nix under the arms with his hands, and hauled them to their feet with the force of desperation and superior strength. "Move!"

They crashed through the grass, following the trampled path of Bran's passage. Oren kept his grip on both, half-dragging them forward when their legs faltered, his strength the only thing keeping them upright as exhaustion dragged at their limbs like weights.

They burst into a ring where the grass lay flattened, wild patterns pressed into the soil like a sign or a snare. Bran stood at the centre, unmoving, his form small against the towering wall of vegetation. Around him, the grass soared to twice a man's height, blue-green stalks swaying as if to some silent music only they could hear. Pale faces, insubstantial as mist, shifted and twisted in the grass stalks, their eyes wide and hollow, watching with ancient patience.

"Bran!" Oren called again, voice rough with panic barely held in check, still holding Nix and Tavik upright on either side of him, their weight sagging against him.

Bran turned slowly, as if moving through water, his hand outstretched towards the swaying grasses. His eyes were wide with wonder rather than fear, bright with discovery that eclipsed the terror that should have been there. "Don't be afraid," he whispered, his voice soft with awe, shaped by reverence. "They want to help us."

From the rippling wall of grass, a figure emerged, tall as the tallest reed, slender and supple, its body a seamless extension of the living grass blades. It glided forward, each movement fluid and silent, green skin shimmering with dew, hair a silken crest undulating with the breeze. The air seemed to still around it, and the faces in the grass leaned in, their forms dissolving into the creature's wake. Light caught on its limbs, scattering in fleeting rainbows, as if the dawn itself had woven this guardian from the marrow of the meadow.

A sound swept over the clearing, threading through the hush, a cadence like wind in the heather, at once distant and intimate. At first, it was a language of breath and leaf, slipping past understanding. But as the group let their worries fall away and listened without straining, the wind-song settled into words, gentle and clear.

"Do not fear. I am Mela, leader among the Pogonariel. You are weary wanderers, and you are safe here. Rest in our meadow." The words echoed, as if spoken by many voices at once, rustling through the grass and the marrow of the earth.

Exhausted, Nix and Tavik both lost consciousness at the same time, collapsing against Oren, who quickly lowered them to the ground as Bran called out in concern.

The Pogonariel leader moved like water, like wind given form, and even through exhaustion and the weight of Lisera's words still pressing on them all, the sight commanded wonder.

Oren straightened, his shoulders still tense from the ridge and from the unsettling truths weighing on him, though he spoke calmly. "Your people dragged Bran through the grass, and my brother and cousin have just collapsed. We have to know what you intend."

Mela bowed, a ripple passing through the grass in a gesture of contrition. "Forgive us. The land's Will can be swift, protecting those within it. We meant no harm. Our purpose is peace. In exchange for news of the world beyond, we offer sanctuary and shelter and some healing. You have nothing to fear here."

Bran stepped forward, his face still showing the strain of grief and worry for Nix and Tavik, but his eyes were bright with curiosity. His healer's sensitivity to living things had sharpened the moment Mela appeared, and he could feel no malice here, only the ancient patience of earth and growing things. "It's alright, Oren." His voice held quiet certainty. "I can feel it. They mean what they say."

Oren hesitated, caught between the weight of decision and his youngest brother's calm assurance. He looked at Bran, then at the Pogonariel leader, then back at Tavik and Nix, lying on the ground at his feet.

"Please," Bran added, his gaze moving between his brothers and Nix. "We're exhausted. They're offering help."

After a long moment, Oren nodded. The tension in his shoulders didn't ease entirely, too much had been upended for that, but he accepted what was offered. "We'll trust you, if you can help us."

Mela's countenance brightened, the subtle radiance swelling with quiet joy. "The meadow welcomes you. Come."

The Pogonariel leader gestured, and the transformation began. Tall shapes hidden among the grass began to weave, moving with a blur of greens, yellows, and blues. Stalks bent and intertwined, forming canopies above and cushions beneath, dew gathering into crystal-clear bowls. The air filled with the scent of wild herbs and warm earth as platters of luminous fruit and bread unfurled from the living ground, petals opening to reveal morsels that glimmered with subtle enchantment.

Oren and Bran came together, crouching to check on Nix and Tavik and then stood silent, wonderstruck by the magical beings around them. The beauty of it didn't erase what Lisera had told them, but it offered something else. Respite. A moment outside the relentless questions. Magic that asked nothing of them except to witness it.

Nix and Tavik groaned at the same time and opened their eyes, so completely in sync with each other, that Oren and Bran could only watch with a mixture of fascination and concern. Oren helped Nix and Tavik sit up, with an arm out to steady them as they watched the Pogonariel move around the meadow.

Nix reached out with trembling hands, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the face of such craft. Tavik's gaze softened as he took in the woven details, the care threaded through every gesture. Even Oren found himself drawn into the quiet wonder of it, the burden on his shoulders lifting just slightly beneath the cathedral of living green.

Bran moved closer to the nearest Pogonariel, studying the way grass and flesh merged, the way the creature's movements seemed to breathe with the meadow itself. "I've never seen anything like this," he said softly, a small smile touching his face despite everything. "You're part of the land itself, aren't you? Not separate from it."

Mela inclined his head, pleased. "We are the grass, and the grass is us. You understand, young healer."

For the first time since Lisera's words on the ridge, something like peace settled over the group. Not resolution, but a gentle pause. The meadow held them, and for now, that was enough.

The Gathering Circle revealed itself in slow, enchanting waves. The grasses moved not at the whim of the wind alone, but in choreographed patterns, swelling and folding, guiding Pogonariel figures in silent dance. Runes, etched in curling lines and ancient geometry, glimmered faintly beneath their feet, weaving spells of belonging. Shelters rose from the ground, domes and alcoves braided from living blades, arching protectively overhead. Here and there, the Pogonariel glided between the stalks, their forms slipping in and out of view, hands tending to each curve and hollow with reverent care.

Bran looked up, wonder threading through the worry in his voice. "Even the air feels woven." His healer's sensitivity attuned to the magic humming through root and blade, the way the entire meadow pulsed with gentle life.

Tavik nodded, relaxing as he watched the Pogonariel work. He felt his strength returning, but remained seated, captivated by their undeniable skill.

Oren ran his fingers through the runes in the grass, tracing their shapes. The weight of leadership still sat heavy on him, perhaps heavier now, with everything uncertain, but the warmth rising from the woven patterns offered something he hadn't expected. Not answers, but a moment to simply be.

Nix, held steady by the presence of his friends, closed his eyes and let the wonders of the circle settle through him. The gentle magic didn't heal the hollow in his chest, but it eased something else. Here, in this strange place, even his otherness felt less isolating.

The meadow shifted once more, grasses braiding themselves into a low, curving table, its surface dappled with dew and the glimmer of hidden runes. The Pogonariel moved in silent procession, their hands deft and gentle, arranging platters of food that seemed woven from the land's own heart. Each dish was simple in shape yet shining with quiet enchantment, as though the meadow itself had dreamed of nourishment and made it real.

Mela approached, his steps light upon the grass, arms extended in welcome. With a voice gentle as the wind, he began to speak of each offering. "Prairie Seedbread," he murmured, lifting a loaf studded with golden kernels, "is kneaded from the oldest seeds, its warmth a balm for weary limbs." Next, he presented bowls of "Bluestem Broth," its surface rippling with sapphire and jade. "A draught for parched spirits, brewed from roots that drink the dawn." Beside these, "Moongrain Porridge" shimmered pale and silver. "Its grains spun in moonlit stillness, soothing hearts that have wandered long." A dish of "Windfruit Compote" glistened violet and rose, petals and fruit entwined. "For lightness, for laughter, for memories unforgotten." Finally, he poured "Sapmilk Infusion" into crystal bowls, the liquid faintly glowing. "Gentle strength, drawn from living wood, to mend what time has worn."

Each description curled through the air like a blessing, settling over the boys.

They settled around the woven table; movements slow with exhaustion. Oren sat with his back straight, the habit of responsibility never quite leaving him even here. Tavik positioned himself where he could see the meadow's edges, old instincts persistent. Bran stayed close to Nix, his healer's awareness noting the boy's pallor, the way his runes flickered weakly.

The first bite of bread brought warmth that crept through aching fingers and settled in hollow places. The broth cooled parched throats. The porridge soothed ragged edges worn raw by travel and revelation. The compote brightened dulled senses, and the Sapmilk eased knotted tension.

As they ate, gratitude blossomed quietly. Not spoken, there were still too many unspoken things between them, but present, nonetheless. Tavik's eyes held quiet relief. Oren murmured his thanks to Mela, the courtesy automatic but genuine. Bran's small smile returned as the food worked its gentle magic. Nix's shoulders unfurled, the burden of distance and pain lessened for the first time in days.

When the meal was done, Mela and the Pogonariel gathered close, their questions soft and curious as the breeze. "Tell us of the lands beyond the grass, what stories do you carry?"

The boys exchanged glances. Despite the heaviness still sitting in them, the stories wanted telling. Bran spoke first, weaving tales of the Sentinel Forest and the mountain passes they'd called home, his voice gaining strength as he remembered the Root Guardian's mossy touch, the way it had known they needed help. Tavik described Drakkensund with its Miststone huts and Breathstone guards, the weight and wonder of a settlement built where river met mountain. Oren shared glimpses of the journey on Captain Sten's vessel, of his daughter Ingrid and the sailor, Bo who'd welcomed them aboard, of ordinary human life lived alongside the extraordinary.

Nix listened, something easing in his chest as he heard the journey, they'd shared shaped into story. When Mela's gentle gaze turned to him, Nix spoke quietly of Lisera's presence in his childhood, of learning to meditate through pain when words were impossible, of the moment his magic had torn through him too soon. He didn't speak of Simi or Ulfgar. Some wounds were too recent to share with strangers, no matter how kind.

As the Pogonariel listened, their eyes bright with wonder, the circle hummed with something approaching kinship. Strangers no longer, woven together by food, story, and the gentleness of offered sanctuary.

The meadow held them as twilight gathered, the light softening to lavender and grey. They'd been given something precious here: not answers, but rest. Not resolution, but respite. The questions would wait. For now, there was enchanted food and woven shelter and the quiet presence of beings who asked only for stories in exchange.

Weariness gathered at the boys' shoulders as twilight deepened. One by one, the Pogonariel appeared, their movements as soft as dusk itself, guiding the travellers with gentle hands and murmured words. Beds took shape from the meadow's bounty; woven nests of grass and petals crowned with blankets spun from dew and moonlight.

Bran helped Nix to his bed first, watching as the boy sank into the embrace of grass and enchantment with a sigh that spoke of relief beyond words. The violet glow of his runes steadied, finding rhythm with the land beneath him.

Tavik tested his own bed with a warrior's caution before allowing himself to sink into it. Even here, surrounded by gentle magic, his hand stayed near his blade. Some habits wouldn't break for comfort alone.

Oren was the last to lie down, still scanning the meadow's edges, still needing to keep watch. Only when he saw his brothers settling, saw Nix's breathing even out, did he finally allow himself to relax.

Then, from the tall grasses, a chorus rose, a tapestry of voices weaving harmony with the night wind. The Pogonariel sang not only to the boys, but through the earth and the air, their song threading comfort and promise into every breath. The melody curled around them, coaxing their spirits into slumber, the world blurring into warmth and shadow.

Under that healing refrain, they drifted deep, the Pogonariel's magic hovering watchful and bright, a ward spun of song and ancient knowing.

In dreams, they wandered through fields awash in dawn's gold, ancestral voices echoing with hope and warning. Images unfurled: rivers renewing themselves with starlight, forests whispering their names, prophecy and memory twining in the hush before waking. For Oren, visions of a figure with his face but transformed, radiating light he didn't yet understand. For Tavik, echoes of the tether between himself and Nix, glowing stronger, binding them in ways he couldn't name. For Bran, glimpses of his mother's face, unknown but somehow familiar, turning away into mist before he could call out. For Nix, Lisera's wings spread wide, both sheltering and terrible, and beneath them, the faces of his newfound cousins, reaching for him.

Soft as a mother's touch, the Pogonariel's magic cocooned them, barring the night from harm and letting only wonder pass through the veil.

Morning came not with familiar meadow-song, but with silence and the tang of leaf and moss. The boys woke as if from deep healing sleep, blinking against the pale light. Around them, the circle had vanished, no trace of rune or shelter, nor any sign of the Pogonariel's gentle hands. Only the wide, ancient edge of the Eldertree Forest stood before them, its shadows thick with promise and mystery.

They rose, limbs lighter than they'd been in days.

Bran helped Nix to his feet. The boy swayed slightly, but his runes glowed brighter than they had in days, steadied by the Pogonariel's healing magic. Bran caught his eye, and something passed between them, not quite spoken. Kinship. Blood shared.

They gathered their courage and what little they carried and turned towards the waiting forest. The path ahead was uncertain. Their futures unknown. But they would walk it. Together.