Into Forbidden Lands

They continued to follow the Woedim through the forest for seven more days. As darkness approached, the forest folk would stop to create a clearing, so that the humans could eat and rest before resuming their journey at dawn each day.

Throughout those seven days, Illiom watched the Woedim, captivated by their sinewy elegance and graceful movements.

On the morning of the eighth day the forest began to open up. Sunlight now shone bright upon them. The terrain had grown increasingly uneven over the past few days with spurs of bare stone jutting up from the forest floor.

Suddenly, the land dropped precipitously away to reveal a deep, broad, forested valley far below. Great lakes shimmered amongst the lush emerald green of the Werewood.

The cliff upon which they stood seemed to encircle the entire valley like a protective bastion. Nearby, a great river plunged from the upper lands to vanish into a haze of mist, creating a rainbow to mark this a hallowed place.

The trees below reminded Illiom of the Majesty trees of Altra. Their extraordinary girth supported massive branches that reached out as if to gather the entire Werewood under their aegis.

They followed the Woedim along the edge of the cliffs until the forest folk suddenly disappeared from sight.

Stunned, the party cautiously approached the precipice and peered down to see a fern-covered ledge some six spans beneath them. The drop was more than enough to maim or even kill anyone foolish enough to leap, yet the Woedim stood unharmed, looking up at them.

The Woedim directly beneath Illiom raised a three-fingered hand in an unmistakable gesture.

Was it really asking her to jump?

Appalled at the prospect, Illiom shook her head and quickly stepped away from the edge, only to have the Woedim leap effortlessly up to stand right before her.

Gazing into the creature’s eyes, Illiom had just enough time to notice the tiny green glow in the centre of its pupils before it unceremoniously lifted her into its arms and, without warning, leapt.

A volley of curses and screams informed Illiom that her companions were sharing the same experience. Breathless and gasping, she felt herself being deposited with great care upon the ledge.

Tarmel came quickly to her side.

“I hope we do not have to repeat that too often,” he said, but the sparkle in his eyes belied his words. He had enjoyed it.

The journey down the cliffs lasted most of the day, and whenever they reached impassable terrain, they would once more be carried down by the Woedim. Illiom found it unnerving every time.

They finally reached the valley floor and stopped to rest at the shore of a lake. With the onset of dusk, the land around them was bathed in a golden glow.

For the second time since this journey had begun, Illiom felt the pure wonder of a land that, like Altra, was entirely unspoiled. Here she felt whole and uplifted, reconnected with the most pristine aspects of herself.

The Woedim encircled them, as they did each night, but this time none of the forest creatures communed with the earth. Instead they stood, watching the humans, as though waiting for something.

Iod was setting over the western cliffs; the shadows were already lengthening when two strangers, both unmistakably human, approached the circle. They wore strange clinging garments the colour of dark lichen.

The older of the two had long, fine white hair with deep green streaks running through its length. The other’s hair was dark brown and braided. The old man’s eyes were as blue as the waters of the lake, while his companion’s eyes were brown.

Like the Woedim, their skin had a green tinge to it, although not the same vivid viridian hue of the forest folk.

The Woedim admitted the pair into the circle.

Using gestures, the old man sent several of the forest folk into the woodlands before turning his attention to the party.

“I am Hocri,” he said, “and this young man is named Nuan. He has few words to offer, for he favours communion through silence.”

Hocri, with a weary sigh, settled down upon a patch of grass, leaning comfortably against a boulder.

“I am the keeper of histories and my words are like fuel; they keep the fires of the past burning. Without them…”

He shrugged.

“We welcome you to the Heartwood.”

Introductions followed with Azulya translating his words.

Hocri eyed the party pensively.

“You should know that you are privileged to be here. The fact that you have come thus far tells me that you have not sought to harm the Wood. It also tells me that the Wood has accepted you in ways that it seldom accepts the red-sapped, but maybe I jump ahead too quickly.”

Hocri glanced in the direction that the Woedim had gone.

“I have asked our forest kin to gather wood for a fire to warm you. Being green-sapped, they do not comprehend the human need for warmth, and regard fire as one of the weapons of their enemies, so you must forgive them for not offering you the warmth of the flames before now.”

Some were already returning, bearing great armloads of fallen branches which they deposited in the centre of the circle. As the humans looked on, the pyre grew until it stood taller than Azulya.

Nuan approached and, striking two stones together, ignited a handful of tinder. In no time the flames roared, dancing up towards the darkening sky.

“You man and he man is too,” said Undina. She then gestured towards the forest folk. “But what they are?”

Amusement danced in Hocri’s eyes.

“They are Woedim,” he said. “They are the green-sapped children of the Wood.” He paused to gesture towards the trees. “But more than that, they are the hands of the Wood itself.”

Illiom glanced at Kassargan, but the descrier’s face was expressionless - she was scrying.

“What is going on?” asked Malco. “They have been herding us for days without as much as a word of explanation. Where are they taking us? What do they want?”

Hocri turned his calm gaze towards the Blade.

“The Wood has spared you, but now it wants to meet you. This is more noteworthy than you may know, for the Wood has learned not to trust humans. In the past it has suffered greatly at their hands. Tomorrow you will be escorted to the Soultrees, so that they may pass judgement upon you for your transgression, and to determine what your fate will be.”

Sereth laughed.

“I have never been judged by a forest before.”

No one else laughed.

Eyes narrowed with fury, Malco made to speak, but Azulya stilled him, pressing her palm against his chest as she stepped forward.

“What transgression?” she demanded. “We have done no harm. What does the Wood need to judge us for?”

Hocri nodded.

“For entering. The Wood’s greatest defence is the reputation it has grown over time. Those who enter regardless, either harbour ill-intent in their hearts or are desperate enough to ignore the warnings. The Wood will decide which of the two you are.”

“Why does the Wood trust you?” Scald asked. “Like us, you are red-sapped, are you not?”

A smile appeared on Hocri’s lips.

“Yes, we are red-sapped, but we are not like you. We are Elleyadim. Our lives are pledged to the Heartwood.”

A silence followed, then Azulya spoke again.

“We are strangers to this part of the world. We come from far away and know nothing of these lands, of this Wood, or of your histories. How can we be held responsible for something that we could not possibly know?”

Hocri nodded.

“We do not know what the Soultrees’ judgement will be, nor what the Wood will say, for that time is not yet. All we know is that the Wood wishes to commune with you. For more to be revealed, the night must first pass.”

“Well then,” Scald said, as he picked up his pack and began to rummage through its contents. He paused and glanced at Pell. “I am hungry. Is anyone else hungry? We have a fire. How about something hot to eat for a change?”

Pell and several others began to unpack their remaining provisions.

Pell slivered the last of their smoked meat into a soup, then added some mushrooms he had foraged for earlier. The smell of cooking made Illiom realise just how famished she was.

“You are welcome to join us, if you wish,” Azulya said to Hocri and Nuan. The two Elleyadim exchanged glances, then nodded.

The food was shared out in complete silence.

“Does anyone know what today is?” Sereth asked after a time, looking up from his meal.

No one replied. Sereth smiled.

“One year ago, as Iod set, we all walked into the Delve for the gathering of the Triune Counsel.”

“No! One year ago?” Elan looked bewildered.

“One year?” Scald mused. “If anyone had asked me, I would have sworn that was at least five years ago.”

Grifor laughed.

“The Triune…” Azulya murmured, her gaze becoming distant. “Where it all began.”

Sereth nodded.

“The day my world started to unravel.”

Illiom looked at Tarmel, remembering how overwhelmed she had felt in that hall, under the scrutiny of the Lords.

“Argolan and the Riders sat behind us…” she recalled.

Even then you had my back, she thought, turning to glance at her Rider.

Tarmel smiled playfully in response.

“You were a handful back then,” he said.

Illiom, momentarily surprised, soon joined in the general laughter.

“I was not!” she protested.

“Are you implying she is any less of a handful now?” Azulya asked.

“Why are we focusing on me? What about Scald? Surely, if anyone was a handful…”

“Me?” Scald looked up at the mention of his name. “A handful? Really!”

His face twisted in exaggerated hurt, drawing more laughter.

“I have missed this,” Sereth said. “I cannot remember the last time we laughed.”

Malco made a dismissive sound.

“It disrespects the dead,” he pronounced, shaking his head.

“No, Malco,” Azulya contradicted. “Laughter honours the dead. If we are still here to laugh it is because we are alive, and we live because of their sacrifice.”

Malco shrugged.

For a moment Illiom thought he would speak further, but he appeared to think better of it.

Good choice, Malco, she thought, and in that very moment the Blade looked directly at her, as if she had spoken the words out loud.

Illiom looked back unflinchingly, despite the sudden rush of energy that coursed through her.

Had Malco actually heard her?

What was passing between them caused her to maintain eye contact with the Blade. Then, with a sudden dizzy spell, her vision momentarily blurred. As it cleared she no longer saw the Blade, but instead saw… herself.

Illiom gaped in astonishment at the vision of her sitting opposite herself, flanked by Tarmel and Azulya. What she was seeing was impossible, even as she noticed the same reaction in her reflection.

Reflection? She looked down at her hands.

These were not her hands.

They were the hands of a man.

The garment that covered her body was replaced by a coarse vest over the dull sheen of a cuirass.

Was she … Malco?

Illiom snapped her gaze back at the woman sitting opposite … at herself. She became utterly still. Her thoughts ceased. The world seemed to pause.

In that moment she knew.

For a short span she had literally fallen into Malco, becoming him.

Now she knew him, completely and utterly. All his thoughts, all his feelings, and everything there was to know about him. She had seen his heart and his indomitable spirit. She had breathed his determination and his consummate loyalty. She had felt his resolve to never, ever disappoint anyone again.

With a convulsive start her vision darkened, and a moment later Illiom returned to herself.

Stunned by what she had just experienced, she took a long, deep breath, becoming gradually aware of the muted conversations around her.

Gently resting a hand against her back, Tarmel spoke quietly.

“Illiom, are you all right?”

She nodded after a moment, casting a quick glance at Malco. The Blade sat staring at the fire, obviously troubled.

“There is something I need to do,” she said and, standing up, quickly bridged the distance between herself and the Blade.

He looked up and then away as she settled herself down beside him.

“I saw you, Malco.”

He nodded without turning, but Illiom felt relief wash over her - she had half expected a denial.

“You go out of your way to irk people,” Illiom continued, “but I saw you and I know that is not who you really are.”

He turned towards her then, his eyes searching.

“What did you see?”

“That you are hiding. And it was more than just seeing … for a few moments I became you. I felt what it is like to be you and I know that your antagonism is just a mask you hide behind.”

Now that the words were out, they surprised even her.

Malco looked away, shaking his head.

“No.”

Illiom seized his hand to reclaim his attention.

“Malco, you cannot do what we just did and then go back into hiding.”

She waited till he turned to face her before she spoke again.

“When Mist was killed and Scald was forced to drop his mask, it seems to me that you picked it up and have been wearing it ever since. Today I saw the falseness of that mask. The Malco you want us to dislike is a fabrication, he is not real.”

She peered into his eyes, to see if he was truly hearing her.

“I have seen you,” she repeated. “I have been you, and I will not forget what I now know. I will not pretend to understand any of it, but I trust this knowing as I trust my own soul.”

Illiom let go of his hand, preparing to leave him be, but his next words filled her with curiosity.

“I know exactly what you mean. I was also you, remember? Just like me, you are not the one you show to the world. You are much more than that.”

Illiom waited, but he said nothing more.

This spontaneous meld had been so much deeper and more powerful than any before. She could see it mirrored in his eyes.

After a moment Malco looked away and Illiom rose and returned to Tarmel.

“What was that about?” Tarmel asked softly.

Illiom looked at her Rider and sighed, but in the end she just shook her head.

“I will tell you later, my love,” she answered.

Tarmel nodded, and Illiom felt that simple acceptance reach deeper than he could possibly know.

“…no one can measure their age with a count of years; they are believed to be far older than human knowledge…” Hocri was saying.

Illiom nodded towards the old man as she leaned closer to Tarmel.

“I have missed much of this conversation. What is he saying?”

“He is telling us about the Werewood,” Tarmel whispered. “The Soultrees that we are going to meet tomorrow.”

“…so it is not known when the Wood first became as it is now. But our presence, the presence of the Elleyadim within the Wood, is much more recent and that story is known to us, for it is the tale of our ancestors.”

Illiom peered into Hocri’s blue eyes.

The fire behind him roared.

“That tale began a long time ago, when a terrible war between the Light and the Dark devastated the western reaches…”

Azulya turned and caught Illiom’s eye at these words, and raised an eyebrow.

Everything seems to come down to this conflict, she seemed to say, and Illiom did not know whether the words had come from Azulya or from her own mind.

“It is said that countless folk fled that conflagration, for it undermined the very order and sanity of the old world. Among them was a young princess from one of the shattered kingdoms. As fortune would have it, she had been travelling with her entourage, visiting distant lands when disaster struck. When word of what had happened and of the abominations, unleashed by the war, reached them, they fled east and so in time her people stumbled into this Wood. Being strangers, they were unaware of the Wood’s antagonism towards the red-sapped and of the many perils that could ensnare them within its domain. Yet, despite the forest’s daunting appearance, they were not as frightened as they might have been. After all, had they not themselves just emerged from lands ravaged by devastation and death? Indeed, they considered themselves fortunate and blessed to have found shelter in this vast forest and looked forward to discovering what lay beyond its eastern reaches.”

As the story unfolded, Hocri slipped into the cadence of the inveterate story teller. Pausing to look around the clearing at the forest folk encircling them, he continued.

“The Woedim had not yet come into being at that time, so the Wood had to resort to other means of protecting itself. It had learnt through bitter experience that to offer resistance at its fringes, where it was weakest, proved ineffective. It had grown in cunning, and so it allowed the fleeing exiles to reach deep into its territory by providing an easy path for them to follow, before trapping them and turning on them.”

Illiom stole a glance at the darkening sky. The fire continued to rage, the only light in the encroaching night, and darkness reigned beyond the crackling flames.

“Encircled and threatened, many drew their weapons and prepared to banish their terror through violence. It is said that it was the princess’ words alone that stayed their hands. It is also said that next, it was her plea to the Wood that stopped it from subjecting them to the same fate it had inflicted upon countless other humans before them.”

Sitting next to Hocri, Nuan, his dark-haired companion, hung upon every word with the wonder of a child, even though he must have heard this story many times before.

“The Wood was much slower to respond in those days, so it took its good time to ponder upon this development. It waited whilst the humans argued and vacillated. The longer it took, the more fearful the humans became, but the princess’ resolve did not waver. She persisted in curbing her servants from harming the Wood and, in the end, the Wood relented.”

Hocri paused and gazed around at his audience before continuing.

“One day the people awoke to find a sapling growing in the exact centre of their circle. Within a single day the sapling grew into a small tree and on the third it dominated the entire space with its majesty. On the fourth day a ghost breeze whispered through the tree’s fronds and, amidst the rustling and swaying of its leaves, a voice was heard by all.”

“I am the messenger, the tree said, its voice so intimate as to be inseparable from the sound of the humans’ own thoughts. I speak for the Soultrees and this is their decree: all who enter the Werewood may never leave it again alive.”

“The princess was the first to recover her wits. ’I am Elleya’, she announced. ‘We are a group who have survived a great evil in the place beyond where the sun sleeps. We are peaceful and mean you no harm. We just wish to make our way safely through this forest. We seek rest and shelter and food. We did not mean to intrude.’ “

“But intrude you have, the tree countered. Yet the Soultrees sense your heart-peace and know the truth of your words. We have felt this evil that you speak of. Deep in our roots we have felt the land’s suffering and we wish you no harm – for you alone, of all the humans who have ever set foot in our domain, have not sought to harm us. But the law is irrevocable and we are its guardians.”

“We are the protectors of the saplings that are the Wood’s morrow. We cannot allow you to leave and live, for it is said that because humans have no roots, they cannot be trusted. Not being rooted, you do not have to live with the consequences of your actions, but are free to abandon a land which you have despoiled and move on to seek another.”

“The wind and our friends, the birds, have whispered that this is so. The humans lie, they say, but the worst lies are the ones that they whisper to themselves, for when they speak such lies, they appear to be speaking truth, just as you do now. Of this they have warned us: do not trust them to remember their oaths, for they forget. Their lives are too short. In time their stories become legend, then their legends become myth, and finally their myths become nothing more than whimsy. We are the Soultrees and we forbid you to pass.”

Hocri paused in the telling and searched the eyes of his audience.

“‘What then will become of us?’ asked Elleya. ‘Is your law so rigid that it will allow you to kill innocents?’ A long silence followed the princess’ words, one filled with a murmur that could be felt and heard all around the clearing. The messenger tree trembled and its leaves quivered.”

“Your words are true, and so we must make a new law. Therefore, this is the decision of the Soultrees. Because of your restraint from violence, we shall spare your lives; even so, we still will not allow you to leave the confines of this Wood. We offer you the hospitality of the Heartwood. Here you may live in peace for the remainder of your days. This is our only offer, Elleya of the survivors. Accept or refuse, no other offer shall follow.”

“It is said that Elleya was appalled and yet knew that to attempt to bargain further was futile. Perhaps she thought that, in time, escape from the Wood might still be possible. Although she agreed with the Soultrees about the treachery of humans, she did not relish spending the rest of her days in this forest. She looked at her companions and saw a mingling of relief and despair, yet they urged her to accept the offer. In the short term it seemed preferable to death. The princess turned back to the messenger tree. ‘We accept,’ she said.”

“The tree quivered in response. Your decision is noted, but remember this, humans, you cannot deceive us. If at any time you should try, you will pay with your lives. And with this grim statement the agreement was sealed. Then, before their astonished eyes, the messenger tree burst into flower. Stunning yellow buds opened to reveal turquoise and magenta petals, and a heady fragrance filled the clearing. In no time the flowers gave way to ripe, scarlet fruit.”

“The Soultrees ask that you eat and drink. This is the first food that the Werewood has ever offered a human. May it heal and strengthen you. In the morning we shall lead you into the Heartwood.”

“Tentatively, they complied. The flesh of the fruit astonished them with its rich, sensuous taste. Its juice dripped from their hands and the despair they had felt only moments earlier dissolved like a wraith-mist before the sun’s warming light. Afterwards they felt not only sated, but quenched as well, and experienced a mellow tiredness that claimed their eyes and their limbs. For the first time since their ordeal had begun they slept for many hours in deep repose.”

“The Wood stayed true to its word,” Hocri concluded. “It led the princess and her people to this, the Heart of the Wood, and once they entered its sanctuary they never sought to leave. They learned to live in harmony with the beauty of the Heartwood and came to cherish the precious gift that fate had granted them.”

“When they were troubled they sought guidance from the Soultrees and in time their relationship with the Heartwood deepened. They lived out the span of their lives here, and all the cares that had haunted them in their previous existence never troubled them again in this green domain. So it was that their children and their children’s children never found cause to question their origins or to seek a way out of the Werewood, for it became their beloved home.”

Hocri’s eyes were damp with emotion.

“To us, the Heartwood is the most precious of places, where the soul knows itself as it truly is: a part of a glorious and greater whole that nought could ever substitute or match. The Wood, too, learned to rely on its new children to do what it could not. When foul things attacked from the west with steel and fire, it was the Elleyadim who met this peril, for by then their loyalty had been established and was unquestioned, and their actions were swifter than those of the forest.”

“I have told you this tale that you may better understand us and our allegiance to the Wood. We are Elleyadim. We are the red-sapped servants and protectors of the Heartwood.”

Illiom stole a glance at Malco and caught him staring back at her. He did not look away, but sustained her gaze unflinchingly.

For her, one question rose above a forest of others: what had the Blade seen whilst he was her? She had seen him divested of the mask he unknowingly wore.

“Something has certainly happened between you two,” Tarmel said, and Illiom detected a troubled note in her Rider’s voice.

She found that she had to break her link with Malco before she could respond.

“Yes, something did happen,” she replied, laying a hand against his cheek. “Though it is nothing that you need to be worried about, my sweet Tarmel.”

She held his eyes until he smiled and nodded.

“Well and good!”

Illiom returned his smile, then turned to look at the Blade once more. Malco was still looking at her, but even from this distance she could see a softening in his eyes. Something stirred within her, but soon slipped away.

Never mind, she thought.

Something was definitely awakening and in time would undoubtedly reveal itself.

Pell did his best with their diminishing supplies and managed to concoct a small, but surprisingly edible meal from strips of salted meat, oats, and some tubers he had dug up. It was a noisy meal, for the Chosen related to the others all that Hocri had told them.

They shared food with Hocri and Nuan and it was some time before Illiom noticed that there were no forest folk within sight.

“Where are the Woedim?” she asked.

“Every act of the Woedim is an act of the Wood itself,” Hocri answered. “If they are gone, it is because the Wood has decided that they are no longer needed here. But fear not, they are close by.”

“Sounds like trust, a good sign,” Scald said. “But tell me something, how did the Woedim come to be? You mentioned in your tale that at the time of the princess they did not yet exist, so…”

Hocri nodded.

“You do well to ask. Long before Elleya’s arrival, the forest had occasion to experience the nourishment provided by the death of the red-sapped. Not only animals, but many humans came to grief in the forest, and the Wood took sustenance from their death. But when the first of the Elleyadim began to die and their bodies were offered back to the earth, the Wood was faced with a new choice, and a new and wondrous magic came into being.”

Hocri paused and stared into the fire for a few long, silent moments.

“Perhaps the cause can be found in the deep bond that had grown between the Elleyadim and the forest, or maybe it was because we both shared the same love and the same passion – but whatever the reason, the Wood did not merely absorb the corpses of our dead. Instead, it breathed new life into them. It replaced their bones with the toughest hardwood. Vines, corded together for strength, replaced muscle tissue. Their skin became supple leaf membrane, layered and smooth but also resilient and tough. The Wood replaced the red sap with the green and this is how our own dead gave birth to the Woedim and they became just as you see them now.”

Illiom squeezed Tarmel’s hand. Hocri’s tale had moved her deeply.

“Each Woedim literally grows from the remains of a fallen Elleyadim and often retains some of its host’s physical features. But as a Woedim, the new incarnation is infinitely stronger, and powerful in a way that human flesh can never be. They are also much more flexible, agile, supple and utterly graceful.”

Illiom had already witnessed both the Woedim’s speed and their terrifying strength. She held no doubt that, by contrast, humans were incomparably fragile and much more perishable than these extraordinary beings.

“Our character traits – the nuances that distinguish one human from the next – fall away in this transformation. For the greatest quality of the Woedim is that they are not separate from each other or from the forest that spawned them. Just as fingers are not separate from a hand, the Woedim and the Werewood are inseparably one. They are driven by one will and one consciousness, and there is never conflict nor disharmony amongst them. This is why, on the rare occasion that they do speak, they do so with one voice, simultaneously. And they only speak for our benefit, not their own, for clearly there is never any need or reason for them to talk amongst themselves.”

“So every time one of you dies, you become a Woedim,” Scald said, summarising Hocri’s account with awe. “How long does that transformation take?”

“It is slow and varied, but usually within the return of the same season it is done.”

“Beautiful is,” Undina whispered. “I would like to a Woedim become!”

Hocri smiled at her.

“We all look forward to the transformation, though we do not wish for it before its due time. We are happy to live as red-sapped, but will readily embrace the transition when the time comes.”

Illiom had a sudden insight.

“So if all the Elleyadim since the time of Elleya have become Woedim, the princess too must be amongst them.”

“Indeed she is! Elleya herself is long gone, but her forest form still lives.”

Sereth interrupted.

“But wait, that would make her … do the Woedim not die?”

“They do die, but they are long lived. Many have fallen in battle, but the number of fallen is insignificant compared to the enemies they have killed.”

Illiom translated Hocri’s words for Tarmel. Argolan, listening in, asked a question of her own.

“What is the present number of Woedim?”

Hocri shook his head as Illiom translated for the Shieldarm.

“No one can say exactly, but they must easily be more than one hundred times one hundred.”

Malco laughed.

“That is an army!”

Argolan nodded pensively.

“An army indeed…”

“Before we can make plans we must see what the Soultrees have in store for us,” Azulya said, then turned to Hocri. “You said that we are to go to them tomorrow?”

Hocri nodded.

“At noon.”

He hesitated, momentarily thoughtful.

“You must understand that the Wood accepts humans as a sentient and valid expression of life. That is why it allows us to live in its hallowed glades. The greatest problem is that the forest does not comprehend the absence of oneness in humans. To the Wood, the word for ‘one’ and the word for ‘many’ is the same. So, aside from the Elleyadim, the Wood generally mistrusts humans and their words, for how can beings who believe themselves separate be trusted?”

Malco looked at him with a pained expression.

“But, the fact remains, we are separate,” he said. “Unlike your forest we are not one, we are many.”

“An assessment that may well turn out to be entirely incorrect,” Azulya remarked.

The discussion ended there.

After the meal, when the party retired to their bedrolls, Illiom and Tarmel went to sit together further along the lake’s shore, hidden by a scattering of small boulders and a stand of reeds. The forest was less than three spans away. All around them was the soft drone of insects.

“One year,” she said, stroking his cheek. “Who would have guessed?”

He smiled, and taking her hand in his, kissed it before pressing it to his chest.

“One year. You looked different then,” he said, and looked at her slantways.

“Oh, and how so?”

“Well, if I remember correctly, you had hacked your hair with a knife, your clothes looked like they had been stolen from the body of a dead beggar, and your smell, well … phew!”

She smacked his arm lightly.

“So much for first impressions.”

He nodded, his eyes playful.

“Aye, and that is notwithstanding the fact that you welcomed me with an arrow pointed at my heart.”

“Well, you were a total stranger.”

“Good thing I was completely taken by your eyes.”

“Really,” she teased. “You saw potential in them, did you?”

He nodded.

“And then, after you bathed and I bought you those new clothes…”

“Did you suddenly find me comelier?”

Now Tarmel’s voice became serious.

“I found you irresistible,” he said. “The moons that followed were absolute torture.”

“Truly?” she asked, in complete surprise.

Tarmel nodded and she cupped his face with her hands.

“And now?”

He kissed her again.

There, under the full moon, on the shores of a nameless lake in the heart of the Werewood, Illiom and Tarmel surrendered their separateness for a while to become one being, one heart.