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The Lost Stars ChronicleChapter 9: Grievous Homecomings
It was a short journey home, mainly because the Wolfpack were spurred on by a gnawing homesickness.
“Well, old friend and companion…” Willem said to Graygon, “Home at last. It has been so long. I think it is coming on a year since we left here. So much has happened, companions come and gone. Fewer Wolfpack remain, and our power has waned. But at least there is peace between most factions. For a time, at least.”
The Wolfpack slowly and solemnly entered the citadel of the Wolf’s Fang, weighed down by painful memories of comrades lost. Willem already felt the weight of leading so many broken souls tearing at him. The war had been so costly for the Wolfpack - so many soldiers dead, spy networks depleted or run out, and a severe lack of gold in the coffers.
The absence of Lord Blackcloak had also taken its toll - the Wolfpack were still deeply divided since the rebellion, and many different Wolfpack political factions vied for power. Willem would have his work cut out for him to simply stay of the Throne of Three Daggers for more than a fortnight.
Radjar’s face was pale and ashen. His hands shook, his throat choked up. By his side was Rosa, grim and sad. Behind the pair were the Dark Forest soldiers, tired after a days march, and now depressed beyond belief. Hemlock Stronghold, pride of the Dark Foresters, was gutting, destroyed, ruined. It, unlike Drullen Bell Keep, had not been protected by a ring of drenched and dug up swamp. The Dark Foresters had had no time to defend, they simply had to run to survive the flames, leaving their homes to be consumed.
“I never thought…” Radjar began, then stopped.
Rosa knew what he meant, what all Dark Foresters had hoped for. The Stronghold was constructed mostly of stone, a material usually safe from the hungry flames. However, the timber inside had turned to ash, and the heat had become so intense metal had buckled and stone had cracked. Hemlock had not been detonated like the Fire Breathing Fortress, instead it was now like a shriveled jack-o-lantern time to be thrown. The walls were either caving inward or out. Towers stood crooked, and gatehouses were piles of rubble. Sadness seeped from every person like a plague. Rosa could almost taste it.
“Once,” Rosa said quietly so only he could hear, “A fire burned the only home I knew. But is wasn’t a destruction, it was a rebirth. Hemlock will rise again Rad.”
Slowly, she slipped her into Radjar’s limp one. It was the first time she had called him Rad. It was also the first time she had really touched him.
The first night was the miserable. Every single Dark Forester was disheartened beyond belief, and to make matters worse, they had almost no food. Water, unfortunately, they had aplenty, for it had begun to rain, which quickly turned into slushy snow.
Huddled in a semi-protected corner where a sagging tower met a crumbling wall were Rosa and Radjar, both in a fitful sleep, both unknowingly pressed close together to cling to what body warmth they had. A plop of snow that had been loosened from it’s perch on a stone ahead fell wetly on to Radjar’s forehead, running down into his eyes and collar. He awoke with a start, cursing under his breath. His began to get up, then realized Rosa’s close proximity to him. Startled, he lay back down, and hesitatingly put his arm around her chilled shoulders. She did not react negatively, instead she press closer to him unconsciously. A slight smile touched Radjar’s lips. As he closed his eyes his thought, Tomorrow we’ll return to Bjarn, then in the spring Hemlock will be rebuilt.
The ivory-white snows blanketed a sleepy city. The blackened ruins of Hemlock Fortress loomed over it like a grim storm cloud. And it was two nights before the Yuletide. The holiday was not commonly celebrated among the rustic and hardy serfs of the Dark Forest, and this year it seemed there was little to celebrate, anyways. Two wars had crippled the land in the same expanse. And the mighty avatar of their empire was now a lonely, charred husk on a scorched hill.
We come from the land of the ice and snow,
From the midnight sun where the hot springs blow.
How soft your fields so green, can whisper tales of gore,
Of how we calmed the tides of war. We are your overlords.
Radjar could not do anything but feel helpless. After all the bloodshed came glory, after glory came hope. Hope had dissolved into lethargy and bitter solitude. He stood in the spot where his great mahogany throne had stood waiting to comfort him, merely a pile of ash now, scattered upon the dark stone floor. The walls around lacked the furbished wooden beams that once supported them, and stones crumbled as he stood. The whole castle could fall on itself, and take him with it.
He outstretched his arms and looked to the ceiling, eyes closed. Snow fell from the gap in the ancient roof, onto his pale, shaved and tall face and into his long garnet hair. This was what he had left behind. But what had he came back with? Rosa.
When the mountains crumble to the sea,
There will still be you and me.
She grasped his shoulders and he lowered his arms and head, turning towards her with a loving gleam in his eye. She smiled at him.
Her face is cracked from smiling, all the fears that she’s been hiding,
And it seems pretty soon everybody’s gonna know.
And her voice is sore from shouting, cheering winners who are losing,
And she worries if their days are few and soon they'll have to go.
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