Chapter 19: The Æthelweave

The forest transformed as they ventured deeper.

The trees soared skyward, not in gentle increments, but with abrupt, breathtaking ascents that challenged the senses. Their trunks swelled from merely vast to truly monumental, bark forming plates as broad as barn doors, whilst roots arched from the earth like the ribbed vaults of ancient cathedrals. Far above, the canopy stretched towards the clouds, so high it seemed almost impossible, and the sunlight, strained through countless tiers of leaves, bathed the world below in a green, underwater radiance, casting the ground in shifting patterns as if they wandered through an ocean of air and light.

Repeatedly, Oren found himself pausing, neck tilted back until it strained, striving to grasp the immensity of these ancient living pillars. His elvish senses, still unfamiliar, still marvellous, discerned subtleties that would have escaped him mere weeks before: faint gradations of bark hue marking the passage of centuries, the near-silent flow of sap through invisible channels, audible only if he stilled his breath and listened with intent, and the delicate interplay of temperatures where sun-warmed timber yielded to the cool, shaded moss below.

His pointed ears flickered, attuned to layers of sound far too subtle for human perception. There was the delicate rustling of leaves high above, five storeys up, mingling with the faint scrabble of claws climbing bark and the deep, resonant creak as ancient wood settled beneath its own formidable mass. Each noise carried weight, each a phrase in the forest’s endless, intricate dialogue, significant in ways he was only beginning to comprehend.

Beside him, Tavik moved with the poise of a seasoned warrior, every sense sharpened to preternatural keenness. His ears, forever alert, swivelled to track the source and direction of surrounding sounds, mapping their positions as if by instinct, a skill that seemed almost superhuman yet felt as natural to him as drawing breath. He detected scents before they revealed themselves visually: the musky sweetness of Lumisilk mushrooms nestled in the shadow of vast roots, the biting tang of resin seeping from wounded bark, and the lush, verdant aroma of moss so thick it formed living carpets beneath their feet.

His hand no longer hovered near his blade; in this place, threat felt remote, as though the forest pressed close to them out of curiosity rather than menace. The Eldertrees were, he realised, aware of their presence, not watching precisely, but recognising them. Within his elvish blood, he sensed a kinship with these ancient giants; it was a bond he could not name, but its resonance was undeniable, a truth felt deep within his bones.

Bran traversed the woodland with wonder etched upon his face, his healer’s sensitivity to living things enhanced now by the stirring of elvish awareness. He sensed the slow, deliberate pulse of the trees, the patient rhythm of their breath, and understood, with growing clarity, how they communicated beneath the earth through networks of roots more complex than any city built by humankind. Each tree was singular, yet belonged to a greater whole, and in that unity, Bran found astonishing beauty: the elegant, unspoken simplicity of their communion.

His ears quivered at the subtle stirrings of life beneath the undergrowth: a red squirrel, its tail a cascade of copper, paused upon a low-hanging branch to observe them with bright, appraising eyes before uttering a sharp chitter and vanishing into the leaves. A flock of Yndrel birds flitted through shafts of dappled light, their feathers shifting from turquoise to emerald as they called to one another in melodies that verged on language itself. Now and then, a Drimhaer, ethereal and pallid, drifted amongst the trunks, its wings beating in perfect silence.

“Look at that,” Bran breathed, gesturing towards a spider’s web strung delicately between two roots. Sunlight caught the dew-beaded strands, each as thick as twine, scattering a thousand miniature rainbows across the shadowed earth. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is,” Oren replied softly, and in his tone lingered something new. Perhaps it was peace, or simply the quiet certainty that he stood precisely where he was meant to be.

Nix watched his cousins with fascination bordering on delight. For so long he had been the oddity, the one apart, the presence that never quite belonged. Yet now, as his cousins traversed the woodland, their movements mirrored his own. Their bodies responded instinctively to the subtle cues he had always known in solitude; their ears flickered in time with his, their eyes caught the faintest stirrings in the gloom, and, attuned at last, they breathed in harmony with the cadence of the forest. They were no longer resisting its ancient rhythm, but flowing with it, becoming, in ways both subtle and profound, akin to him.

They were at last growing into themselves, and, in doing so, drawing nearer to him. The thought brought with it an unexpected surge of happiness, a gentle warmth radiating through his chest, unconnected to the ceaseless throb of his wound.

The hours drifted by as they walked, their progress measured not in distance but by the gradual sweep of sunbeams across the leafy floor. Conversation was sparse, broken only by the occasional gesture towards some marvel or curiosity discovered amongst the undergrowth. More often, they were content to let silence settle, absorbing the forest’s quiet revelations, the slow language of growth and green, in their own time.

It was Tavik who first discerned a shift in the light ahead. A faint purple glow appeared, distinct and pulsing with a gentle, steady rhythm. He raised his hand, signalling forward. “There,” he murmured, his tone intent. “Up ahead. Something waiting.”

They advanced with measured caution, not out of apprehension, but respect. Thus far, the forest had extended only generosity towards them.

The source of the radiance was revealed: a natural pool, perfectly circular, nestled at the roots of an Eldertree so ancient its bark resembled weathered stone. Yet water did not fill this basin. Instead, amethyst crystals, each roughly the size of a clenched fist, rose in clusters from its depths, reaching towards the surface like hands supplicating for sunlight. Their inner glow ebbed and flowed, waves of light moving through the crystals in patterns that seemed almost purposeful, almost sentient.

“Magnificent,” Bran whispered, dropping to his knees at the pool’s edge, his voice hushed by awe.

Nix, meanwhile, had become utterly still. His ears flattened tight against his skull; one hand pressed to his chest. With each pulse of the crystals, pain stabbed through his wound, sharp and insistent. Gritting his teeth, he braced his free hand against the weathered trunk, fighting for composure, striving to unravel the strange sensation that had so suddenly overtaken him.

Through the tether, Tavik felt Nix’s suffering strike him like a hammer’s blow, white-hot agony seared his chest, robbing him of breath and sending him to his knees. He collapsed heavily, one hand clutching at his heart, gasping for air.

“Tavik!” Oren turned sharply and caught his brother just before he hit the ground in full.

Bran’s gaze darted between Tavik, now supported by Oren, and Nix, who was still braced against the ancient tree, both clearly in distress. His healer’s instincts made the connection at once. “It’s the crystals,” he said quickly. “They’re resonating with Nix’s wound.”

“Get them away from it,” Oren commanded, already hauling Tavik upright and slinging his brother’s arm across his shoulders.

Bran seized Nix, dragging him from the tree’s roots despite the boy’s feeble resistance. Nix’s legs threatened to give way, and Bran was forced to half-carry, half-drag him along the winding path back through the forest. Oren followed, bearing Tavik’s sagging weight, his brother’s feet trailing.

Twenty paces. Then thirty. Gradually, the purple luminescence faded into the woods behind them.

Bran lowered Nix gently to the earth beside a gnarled root. Oren settled Tavik next to him, both of them drawing heavy, ragged breaths.

Relief swept through them at once. The pain vanished, cut off as abruptly as if a door had closed. Nix’s breathing grew steady; his ears lifted from their flattened sprawl. Tavik managed a deep, rattling gasp and straightened, his hand falling from his chest at last.

For a moment they remained there, gathering themselves in the hush that followed.

“Useless,” Tavik muttered, roughness in his voice betraying his frustration. “Some warrior. Can’t even stay upright.”

Nix’s ears drooped. “I should have used the meditation technique. Could have controlled it before it became unbearable.”

“How?” Tavik asked, turning to Nix, confusion mingling with the frustration etched on his face. “I couldn’t think through that pain. Let alone control it.”

Nix met his gaze, his reply plain and unvarnished. “Practice. A childhood spent learning it.”

The truth settled between them, heavy as stone. Tavik stared at his cousin, realisation chilling him. Of course: years enduring Simi’s and Ulfgar’s cruelty. Years of learning to mask pain, to function in spite of it, to survive. Nix’s endurance was no blessing. It was a mark left by hardship.

“Right,” Tavik said quietly, the word almost lost to the hush.

Oren helped Tavik rise once more. “Can you walk?”

“Of course.” Tavik tested his weight, finding his legs stable again. The tether still hummed with Nix’s residual ache, but nothing compared to the crystal-induced torment of moments before.

“We’ll need to watch for more of those,” Bran said, brushing loose earth from his knees. “Purple crystals. We avoid them.”

Nix accepted Bran’s hand and allowed himself to be helped up.

They pressed on, leaving the crystal pool and its strange dangers behind. Neither Tavik nor Nix spoke of the incident again; their bond through the tether was unyielding, pain and all, and they both knew they would simply have to endure it.

By midday, they had arrived at a brook cascading over stones so smooth and lustrous they appeared crafted rather than simply shaped by time. The water’s song echoed across the clearing, at once alien and oddly familiar, whilst the stones themselves, catching the sunlight, shimmered with an almost mirror-like brilliance.

“We ought to pause for lunch,” Oren declared, unslinging his pack with a sigh of relief. “Rest before pressing onwards.”

Settling themselves upon the bank, they drew out provisions collected from the tree house: bread, miraculously fresh despite its age; cheese, redolent of summer meadows; and dried fruit, intensely sweet and bursting with flavour. Their meal unfolded in a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the gentle harmonies of the brook.

Bran, having finished his meal first, drifted towards the water’s edge, compelled by the glinting stones. He knelt, peered into their glossy surfaces, and drew a sharp breath. Instead of his own reflection, the stones revealed something else: a forest, but not the one surrounding them. The trees were arranged in unfamiliar patterns, their bark etched with runes glowing blue rather than green, and overhead stretched a sky of such profound purple it resembled a bruise.

“Come and see,” he called softly, beckoning the others closer.

His brothers and cousin gathered beside him, crouching at the brook’s edge to gaze into the mirror-stones. Each one displayed a distinct vision: forests that might have been, worlds running parallel to their own, fleeting glimpses of possibility folded into reflections that defied reason.

“Other MirMarnia’s,” Oren murmured, wonder infusing his tone. “Or perhaps worlds altogether apart. Look, those trees have silver leaves. And over there, the sky is green.”

Tavik leaned in, scrutinising one stone more closely. “This one’s different. More like our world.”

The stone revealed a sky of pale blue, a familiar expanse, almost unremarkable in its simplicity, with a woodland unfurling below that might have belonged anywhere in MirMarnia. Yet through that tranquil image, sound began to bleed: the distant rhythm of waves collapsing against a shore, mingling with the plaintive cries of gulls overhead.

As they watched, a face materialised upon the stone’s glossy surface: a young girl, eight or nine at most, her hair a vibrant red that caught the sunlight like burnished copper, and her eyes an arresting shade of green, sharp and inquisitive. Her head tilted with curiosity, as though she could see them as clearly as they saw her, the connection almost palpable.

The four of them fell utterly still, suspended in that moment, each locked in the silent exchange. The girl’s mouth parted, as if poised to speak.

Then her gaze shifted, drawn away by something beyond their sight, a voice calling perhaps, and in an instant she was gone, leaving behind only the woodland, the sky, and the endless rush of waves in the distance.

“Did you see that?” Bran whispered, voice barely carrying above the brook’s music.

“We all saw it,” Oren replied, his tone hushed and steady.

Nix’s ears stood alert, eyes riveted to the stone’s surface where the girl had appeared. “She saw us too,” he murmured.

They lingered a moment longer, searching the stone for her return, but the reflection held only woodland and sky, the music of waves undisturbed.

“Strange,” Tavik observed at last, sinking back onto his heels.

“The whole forest is strange,” Bran agreed, his words thoughtful rather than anxious.

For a few minutes more, they lingered, eyes flitting between the shifting visions within the stones, worlds impossible and wondrous, but none bore a face, none echoed the fleeting sense of connection they had shared with the red-haired girl.

Eventually, Oren rose and dusted off his britches. “Best move on. Still plenty of daylight to spare.”

They gathered their belongings, stealing the occasional glance back towards the brook. As they hoisted their packs, the mirror-stones remained inscrutable, their surfaces reflecting visions of forests and skies belonging to worlds they might never tread.

They pressed onward, the afternoon sun casting long shafts of gold and green across the forest floor, rendering every leaf and branch with a radiant luminescence. The Eldertree Forest enfolded them in its immemorial tranquillity, a realm where no threat could take hold, where even the air seemed to exhale serenity. They scaled roots arching over the path, bridges sculpted by patient centuries, and edged past pools whose surfaces lay so undisturbed they mirrored the canopy above with flawless precision.

Bran slowed beside a cluster of flowers sprouting from a moss-laden log, their petals layered like roses yet rigid and crystalline. “Banya Blossoms,” he remarked, recalling them from his studies. He plucked a handful, the petals snapping with a crisp crunch, then passed them to his brothers and Nix. “Try these,” he encouraged.

Tavik bit down gingerly, and surprise flickered across his face. “Nectar. Pure nectar, yet finer than any I’ve tasted.”

“Sweeter than honey,” Oren agreed, feeling the blossom melt away on his tongue, as if spun honey had taken solid form just for this moment.

Nix ate his slowly, relishing each mouthful, his runes emitting a gentle glow of satisfaction.

They continued walking, munching on the Banya Blossoms, when a sound cut through the forest quiet. A call, low and resonant, somewhere between an owl’s hoot and a bell’s chime.

Nix’s head snapped up, ears swivelling towards the sound. His eyes brightened.

Shapes descended from the leafy heights above, owl-like entities, yet grander than any ordinary bird. Their plumage bore intricate patterns, shifting and flowing with a mechanical grace, reminiscent of clockwork gears rendered natural. Faint silver glints illuminated their eyes, and as they swept low near Nix, their calls resonated with a peculiar note of acknowledgement.

Chronoveks, the Guardians of Time.

Nix stood rooted to the spot as three Chronoveks encircled him, their wings slicing through the air with barely a whisper. Though he had never encountered them before, something deep within stirred, an instinctive recognition of the way they navigated the air, as if the very fabric of time folded around their passage. Without conscious effort, he lifted his hands, tracing their flight with delicate gestures.

Light unfurled from his fingertips, violet interwoven with blue green, twisting in ribbons that mirrored the movement of his hands. Luminous trails shimmered through the air, alive with enchantment, and at each touch upon the Chronoveks’ feathers, the guardians responded with cheerful twittering’s, spiralling closer as if urging him to continue.

A smile spread across Nix’s face as he crafted patterns in the air, much as he had traced the runes upon the Emaris River. The Chronoveks flashed through the glowing streams, their plumage scattering sparks of magic, tiny fireflies that drifted briefly before dissolving into the tranquil forest light.

“They understand what he is,” Tavik remarked in a low voice, his gaze following the silent exchange. “Never set eyes on him before, yet they know.”

“Time magic recognising its own,” Oren murmured, absorbed by the sight.

Bran inclined his head, observing Nix’s interaction with the Chronoveks. Again, he saw how effortlessly magic seemed to flow through his cousin, as if it were as natural to him as water tracing the path of least resistance.

After several moments, the Chronoveks called out once more, their bell-like chimes reverberating amongst the trees. With a sweep of wings, they vanished into the canopy above. Nix lowered his hands, the luminous trails dimming, and turned to face his cousins.

“They sense it,” he said plainly. “They can feel what I am capable of. They know I am Caelvarae.”

As they pressed deeper into the forest, a slow, insistent sensation began to take root, a growing awareness that they were under observation.

It arrived not as panic, but as a subtle sharpening of the senses, a faint prickle at the back of the neck, hinting that somewhere above, unseen eyes had fixed upon them. Tavik’s gaze drifted upwards by reflex, scrutinising the lofty branches, yet all he could discern were shifting leaves and sunlight dancing through the canopy.

Still, the sensation endured, intensifying with each step.

Nix’s ears twitched, attuned to nuances his cousins could not perceive. His pupils dilated as he peered into the shadowed heights, though his bearing remained composed, curiosity overtaking any instinct to defend.

Through the link binding him, Tavik registered Nix’s intrigue rather than trepidation. Whatever entity lingered overhead was not a predator, nor did it radiate malice. It simply watched, patient, impartial, its intent inscrutable but seemingly benign.

“There’s something above,” Tavik murmured, voice pitched low. “Watching us.”

Oren, his own senses newly attuned, nodded in agreement, feeling the gentle but persistent weight of scrutiny from the treetops. “I sense it as well,” he replied quietly.

They pressed on, glancing up from time to time, each seeking a glimpse of the elusive watcher trailing their journey through the ancient woodland.

Bran halted abruptly, arm outstretched in silent warning. “There,” he whispered, his gaze fixed above.

Perched high within the branches, barely discernible amid the shifting dapple of light, a visage regarded them from above. It belonged to neither man nor beast, but was a mask fashioned from living green: oak and holly entwined with the gold threads of linden and the dark shadow of yew. Eyes, deep and inscrutable as peat pools, peered out from the verdant mask, ancient and unwavering. For a single, suspended heartbeat, the woodland seemed to still, poised on the edge of revelation.

A hush of movement, reminiscent of wind threading autumn bracken, heralded more faces emerging from the foliage. Three appeared, then five, then a score, each one masked in the aspect of the Greenman: some wild and tangled, others etched with clean, geometric runes and interwoven knots. Their cloaks, moss and bark in hue, were adorned with spirals that curled into angular symbols, Celtic knotwork terminating in geometric chevrons, triple spirals merging with straight-lined wyrd staves. Some bore circular brooches worked with interlaced stags and ravens, others wore square-cut fibulae marked with boar imagery, the old ways of two peoples woven together, patterns that spoke of ancient treaty, of cultures become one beneath the canopy. With the quiet assurance of those native to the heights, they moved, soundless as foxes, sure-footed in the labyrinth of bough and leaf.

The boys froze, the weight of so many unseen eyes settling upon them. Oren’s hand moved instinctively towards his blade, not drawing but ready, his body shifting slightly to shield the others. Tavik’s stance widened, warrior’s reflex despite the forest’s benevolence thus far, his ears tracking the positions of the figures above. Bran’s breath caught, wonder warring with caution across his features, his healer’s senses trying to parse whether these beings meant harm or welcome.

Nix remained utterly still, ears forward and alert, runes pulsing with faint light beneath his skin. His eyes tracked the masked figures with focused intensity, recognition flickering across his features, not of family but of something older, fellow inheritors of the ancient world. His slight frame seemed to straighten, acknowledging kinship with beings as other as himself.

A voice drifted down to them, low and resonant, its tones shifting, part song, part old saga, as if the language itself had been plaited from two ancient strands. “Strangers beneath the canopy, what compels you to venture into the heart of the Æthelweave?”