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The Lost Stars ChronicleChapter 4: Rebirth
Anardan stared out over the dust clout the tramping feet of the Forestmen kicked up.
“Is that the Forestmen border? I so long to sit by rock and tree and stream again...for too long we have wandered the dusty roads of other realms, ever wandering...the sight of our home gladdens my heart and releases it of a great unrest long residing there.”
Elacil just nodded.
Bjarn shifted in the makeshift bed and sighed. He felt tired, but every time he attempted to sleep the tyco cart would dip into a hold and rattle him painfully. Each time this happened Bjarn gritted his teeth but said nothing. The Forestmen were weary enough, they did not need their leader shouting at them for something they could not fix. Shainya’s talk with him had calmed Bjarn, and had seemed to seep all of the anger out of him. She was right. He was now physically different in many ways, but the person inside was the same. Bjarn shifted again, resolving to never loose control of his emotions again.
“Brix and Blox, Bjarn, ye look fine today!”
Bjarn sat up and grinned at the green-clad figure of Jack Craft, who displayed a wide smile in return.
“You don’t happen to have a bottle of that Classic Rye Ale, do you Jack?”
Jack put a pained look on his face.
“It pains me to inform ye that the last bloomin’ bottle was consumed by meself and Fox yesterday!”
Bjarn chuckled. “Alas, I have to suffer with herbal tea while you two guzzle the night away…”
Jack raised an eyebrow and glanced around furtively. He withdrew a bottle from his cloak and passed it to Bjarn. “Mum’s the word, but here’s a sample of a brew ol’ Jack found. Seems to be quite an old bottle of strong Wolfpack brew.”
“Excellent, anything to dull the pain.”
Bjarn swigged the contents of the bottle, then choked half of it up again.
“Megabloks, strong indeed!” he sputtered, tears running down his cheeks.
Willem Blackcloak and Graygon sidled up, grinning.
“Aye, Bjarn, that be a mighty powerful brew to down for an amateur like ye!” grinned Willem, who grabbed the bottle and drank half without flinched.
Graygon finished it off with a grin. Bjarn shook his head in amazement.
“Some things only Wolfpack can do.” he grinned.
“Aye.” agreed Graygon, “Anyway, we’ve just come from the front of the caravan. We’re about to enter the Forestmen lands, but that mage Bourne stopped us before we could continue. He says work needs to be down and wounds need to be healed before we - what was it Lord Willem?”
Willem finished, “We tread through the forests of old again. He seemed quite adamant.”
Bjarn shrugged. “What he has planned I know not, but I trust his word. Besides, it is nearly dark. Have the caravan set up camp and we’ll continue on tomorrow, or when Bourne is ready.”
The two Wolfpack members nodded and left to spread the word.
It was midnight, and the moon shone bright. Unnoticed by all, Bourne the Earth Mage crept out of the caravan camp and crossed over the Forestmen/Classic LEGOland border. For half an hour he walked, his silent footsteps even more muffled by the sodden ash of what once had been the wide expanse of forest that covered the Wolfpack, Dark Forest and Forestmen territories. At last Bourne stopped. He plunged his staff into the abused earth and stood stalk still, extending his senses in every direction; tasting, feeling, smelling, hearing, seeing the crippled expanse. Deep down in the earth, where the breath of the god-dragon Eroth Gamus had not scorched, where tiny seedlings of grass and tree, bush and vine, flower and bramble lay, slowing reaching upward to reclaim the forest. Their quest was noble, but it would take them over a hundred years on their own to truly heal the forest. But they were not on their own. Bourne was there. Bourne would help them.
It will be never known what happened that night, while the caravan slept, while the rest of Dametreos recovered, all that was known was that when the Forestmen and Dark Foresters and Wolfpack members awoke in the morning, a mass of growth greeted them. Trees, thick and tall, had sprouted overnight, accompanied by flowers and shrubs. Vines crept, grass grew, fern opened wide, welcoming the morning sun. Rivers flowed, and a multitude of animal life had returned, lured back by some unknown force only generated by the powerfully supernatural. When Voolmark tested the Mana, he found it full and untapped. Something else, something much more powerful had revived the forest.
When the caravan discovered Bourne was missing, and intense search commenced. Expanses of trees were scoured to no avail. Bourne has simply vanished, and no one else would ever see him in Dametreos again. He had done his part. The forests were healed. Slowly, Dametreos was returning to normal.
Arardan had searched for hours with the Forestmen under his command for any trace of Bourne. Now he scoured a sunlit glade, searching, although he knew it was in vain.
“A last gift, a wonderful gift...trees of five score years sprouted in majestic glory in but several hours…”
The caravan soon reached the remains of their home. While the forest was revived in splendor, Bourne’s powers spread not to the reformation of the petty wood and stone creations of Humankind. The cellars of every remaining fortress were searched, the woodlands scoured, and the bowstrings of the Forestman archers twanged to bring meat, bread, and ale to the tables of a feast. Such a feast was sung of by bards for generations to come, and such a toast was made on good ale in honor of the blessed woodlands, the gallant fallen Forestmen, and the last contribution of Bourne that the last kegs of brown ale ran dry. The Forestmen set aside their weapons and replaced them with goblets and platters in a heartfelt Thanksgiving for all that they had, for all that they lost, and for all of the good encompassed in their world.
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