The seige of Arabel had been lifted, and the Cormyrian city had not been razed by the same destructive force as Tilverton, but a day later he still felt like the Star Seeker had landed upon him. Most of the Stewards had returned to Lady Rainsworn’s keep, recovering surrounded by finery and servants. While a small part of him yearned for similar treatment, he felt much more comfortable just outside of Oldtown near the running waters, with a view of the stars at night. Even if it meant resting his battered and magic drained body on nothing more than the ground and an extra bedroll pulled from the stores of the Dun Hedin. Even with the stench that occassionally wafted his way from the battlefield and the burning of the enemies undead forces, or dead soldiers’ bodies, the air remained far fresher than that surrounding the beings packed into the city, especially a city that did not appreciate its elven saviors at the best of times. He did not understand the resentment and bias, but it didn’t matter, as he had much to consider. There had been little time to contemplate Rillifane’s acquiescence to his return via TwitchTip’s power via Jergal, nor there expedition into the Darkwatch, or how much homesickness had hit him with their visit to High Moon and the news of Bianna’s survival. He had much to ponder, and recovery would bring two birds to his hand simultaneously, he hoped. With a sigh, and a brief good night to Vaelorn, he gazed at the stars until the reverie took him.
1356, Year of the Worm
He didn’t know whether the pain of his injuries had awoken him, or if Cordalyss had made another wounded sound in her slumber, but it really didn’t matter as they needed all the time of this coming day to return to her copse, a fiteen kilometer journey that did not bode well for their timeline, given the painful injuries they both had. He struggled to stand, eventually grasping a branch with his good arm and using that to pull him to his feet in the pre-dawn glow of Selune and her Tears. Tradition among his people held that a first meeting under Selene’s full gaze would prove auspicious, although they were certainly not off to the best of starts, or perhaps they were, as they both yet lived after the horrific events of the day prior, that had led to the poor girl’s sister’s death.
He quietly lit a tiny fire with a touch of his finger to the back of his hand, although that proved more difficult than normal with the tatoo resident upon the hand below his shattered arm, but in the end it was acccomplished far more easily than if he had tried to do it with one hand the traditional way. Besides, his sister had always said it was important to practice magic, and study too, for all the help that had been, but practicing the use of it, in that she had proven correct as it felt like stretching muscles before a run.
Soon, he had the water boiling ready for some tea, and a bit of thin breakfast porridge from some broken rations. Then he turned to waken the wounded dryad but as he did so, he could the reflection of her violet eyes in the fading light of Sehanine, and he froze momentarily at their piercing beauty.
Blinking the thought away, “Well, it would appear that there is no need to wake you. Is there anything . . .” He trailed off, somehow sensing the dryad’s frustration.
“It does appear that I am in need of your assistance for the morning ablutions.”
“Of course,” then he paused, looking around, “ah, not sure how far we can get without the . . .”
“Just right over there is fine,” she interrupted again, pointing to a spot just a few feet away from the bedding away from the small fire.
Thankfully, Corydaliss proved extremely light and petite because the pain from trying to lift her with a shattered arm, even just enough that she could put the barest amount of weight on one foot made sweat instantly bead across his face from the pain, but nonetheless, he steadieed her and assisted as she needed with her ablutions and re-dressing before half-carrying, half limping with her back to the fire for breakfast.
“Hand me a few of those berries before you stir them in,” she said, pointing at the small pile of blackberries he had gathered the night before. He cautiously picked them up with one hand, dumping them into her gathered palms where she murmured in the mystical language of the fey over them, until they glowed briefly with a ghostly light. “Put two in each of the bowls and the rest in the tea, and add enough water to fill your empty flask of wine so we have it for the journey.”
He quickly did as instructed, “Let it steep with the tea for about five minutes. Its not a powerful affect, but it will last several hours in muting the pain of our wounds slightly. You will need more given the exertions you will have to inflict on your body for us to complete the journey in time.”
They finished their breakfast, and whatever she had done to the blackberries had indeed muted the pain into a constant throbbing ache instead of the ragged sharpness of the earlier pain as the shattered pieces of bone rubbed together, which allowed him to move a little more quickly while picking up the remains of their camp, and then sliding her onto the travois just as the dawn light burst into fully glory.
He did not know how, but she used some sort of magic to weave the branches of the travois into a not uncomfortable harness around his waist and one good shoulder, an effect he had not thought to be truly possible. It still hurt of course, as they got moving, but not more than walking would have been in this condition, albeit walking slowly. They would be very, very lucky to travel the fifteen kilometers by dawn tomorrow, a distance that previously would have taken no more than a morning.
He paused, shuddering for breath. His sweat felt clammy in the warm night under the stars, the light of the full phase Sehanine’s glory dappled within the old forest that they now traversed, unfortunately moving up into the smaller foothills to the north of the Thunder Peaks. Even this small splinter of the forest ran for miles, but by his and Vaelorn’s navigation, they had to be closing in on the dryad’s circle, which was good, because he no longer could feel his legs, not really, and it was less than four hours until dawn. He took out the wineskin, draining the dregs of it and the magical herbs Corydalis had suffused it with what seemed like a week ago.
As his blurry one-eyed vision stabilized, he spotted a mild purple light leaking through the breaks of the foliage perhaps a hundred paces away. In his fevered state, it reminded him of Corydalis’s hauntingly beautiful eyes. He began trudging slowly in that direction, if it were not the guide he needed, or the spot he sought, hope was lost for his companion had lost consciousness prior to dark, and he could feel the infection rampaging through his own body. Without some mystical dryadic means, they would both be dead soon.
As he entered the copse, a feeling of being watched settled over him and he wondered if the dryad’s fey allies would attack the wounded, because even for the Or-tel-quessir the emotions around a wounded fey could be unpredictable. However, while Kymil had never officially finished his druidic training, the mystical light surrounding the most impressive tree in the circle provided obvious clues to the tree linked to Corydalis. Unfortunately, although he dragged the travois to a wobbly stop in front of it, it took long minutes for him to disengage from the bindings she had woven the contraption around him, in such a way that he finally had to kneel down and crawl from under them before building a small nest of blankets next to the trunk of the tree, and slowly pulling her from the travois to rest upon them, and he gently arranged her has best he could so that as much of her body physically toughed the bark or upper roots of her tree.
As he stood from his task, and turned to unload their limited belongings, dizziness swamped him, the purple light flashed. Through one or both reasons, darkness closed on him, and he collapsed bonelessesly to the ground.
Five Days Later
Fever shook him again and again, shivering although lying next to fire on a warm spring night. He knew not how long it had been since he had made it with Corydalis to her grove, although she answered his questions of time and events repeatedly over the last three days, fully recovered from the iron poisoning suffered at the hands of the orcs and their Zhentarim overlord. Her attempts to heal his shattered bones, and other wounds, when successful at all, seemed to only provide temporary relief, as if his body fought the healing instead of the infection, or as if the magic of his broken blade did. She had attempted to remove the portion from his eye, but his screaming had overwhelmed her.
So instead she prayed for guidance in the hopes that she could in turn save her savior.
The whispering voice did not startle her out of her prayers, instead its calming tone soothed her agitated mind, and a glance at Kymil provided evidence that his tremors had eased as well. “A fine catch to provide strength to your line, assuming the magic does not kill him first, young one.”
The dryad blushed a greenish purple, shocked at how easily her thoughts had been read by the lady, but still she focused her thoughts on healing, “Yes, my lady, but I have not been able to heal him of his wounds, and the infections are ravishing his body, and mind. I do not understand how the magic of his blade has infested him, it was shattered a week ago and should have dissapated.”
She sat back on her heals, still dwarfing the petite dryad. The dryad dared look her straight in the eyes, “Can you save him?”
The antlered lady, all ten feet of her without the antlers, knelt beside the dying copper haired wood elf, smiling briefly as the rainbow eagle Vaelorn settled onto her antlers above her friend. “Normal magic would not have adhered so, Cory, however, this was no normal magical sword.” She probed the wounds gently, “I remember when it was forged, and its burst a few days ago is what drew me to you.”
The goddess did not smile, nor did her eyes provide any hint of emotion, “I can mute the magic for a time, so he can adapt to it, and I can heal the direst of his wounds.” She sighed, “But you must understand, he will remain no more than six months while he heals. Old prophecies align with the breaking of this ancient weapon, dire prophecies that few will remember.”
“I understand, my lady.”
Meilikki smiled sadly, for no mortal being could understand. “Very well, it is good that he is unconscious, because his memories of the pain of healing will be lessened by that lack of awareness.” She bent over his head, and began to chant, and instead of pulling the fragment of the weapon from his eye, her magic softened it, letting his run down into the eye, and Kymil’s screams pierced the night as the magical substance was aborbed by his eye socket, before the eye reformed itself, the colors just a shade different than the right eye.
“He is your charge until he heals and gathers his strength Corydalis,” she paused, “and as to the original topic of discussion, you must follow the old ways with fruits that might arise.” She paused again, and in a softer voice, “You must.”
Last Dreams 