Willow's End - Jera Skyspear
Elvish words/phrases linked to Glossary OR hover mouse to see translation.
Curious Correspondence part eight

At the end of the day, while preparing for sleep in her own home, Jera thought again upon the page she had not yet deciphered. Eventually she sat cross legged in her bed, leaning toward the candle and trying to make out the words on the curious page. The script was quite irregular in places, as if penned and then, by spills or drips or... Jera shifted the page and found that parts of the parchment were rather glossy and the ink feathered there. Other parts were crisp edges of dried ink, although the entire thing was faded quite a bit.

At last she got the page to an angle where the candlelight allowed most of the writing to be discerned. She quickly fetched her writing board and prepared to transcribe what she could read. Slowly, with much patience, Jera was able to piece through it. It read like a fable, or as the author of the missive noted, a bard's tale.

There is a legend told among the humans here, a bard's tale of a time when men and dwarves and elves shared peace and prosperity under a mountain. In seasons, the mountain rumbled, for it rested upon the back of a sleeping dragon they say, and he oft had thoughts of treasure which excited his dreams. While he slept, his dreams of fortune filled the caverns neath the mountain with precious gold and silver none could match.

While he slept and dreamt, the men kept vigil in the valley so nothing would disturb the dragon's slumber. The elves sang upon the mountain, sweet lullabys to enrich his dragon dreams. The dwarves drew respectfully from the hoard swelling within the caverns, and all were paid from it, for their service toward the dragon's repose. Or so it has been told.

Again, as the humans tell it, the elves abruptly stopped singing. The dragon lay quietly but dreamt not, and the treasures came no more. The peace among the peoples was soon broken. As with many such tales, there was famine and war and loss too heavy to count on all sides. Some said, among the dwarves and men, that perhaps the elves planned to let the dragon awaken so he might trample all who lived below, then, singing him to sleep again, they could have all the dreamt treasure for themselves. None could know for certain, though the dragon sleeps there still.

Yet one way or other, the elves had been the traitors to the pact and so were chased from the mountain or otherwise brought to a just end. In time, the dwarves left as well, moving on to some other hoard as they are wont to do. But the humans, they are proud to say, stayed to live and mend. They were of course blameless for the trouble and, through their bravery and ingenuity, weathered it well. It seems the dragon minds them not, e'en though he dreams no treasures for them. Or so it has been told.

Jera of course knew this story, despite the fanciful way in which it was recounted. She recognized the leaning of it too but many things had been shifted in this way. That in itself was a story older than the rise and fall of her own clan at Raumo Korda. Yet, it seemed to have nothing to say about the bow. She knew the link between, though still it troubled her how the bow may have found its way into the world.

While her thoughts wandered she rested back against a pillow and held up the page of faded writing. The candlelight was now behind it and there was nothing unusual in the light and dark irregularities of the paper fiber itself, but something else was in it, through it. She leaned up again and let the candlelight shine stronger through the page. She saw writing without ink, or so it seemed, perhaps a bit of something oily soaked into the paper? Certainly the streaks and mottling they'd seen in different light, now appeared to be much more.

It was difficult for Jera to filter out the other words, yet wedged between each inked line was a line of... wax? Was it possible that the invisible scripting was written in wax or tallow? She was growing sure of it as the candlelight continued to flicker through the more transparent fine shapes. Perhaps baking the thing in the sun or using heat to blot the excess, had faded the ordinary ink as well? Jera vowed to experiment, but for now tried to make sense of the illuminated curves and lines among the darker shadows of ink.

As Jera concentrated, she tilted her head then grinned. She turned the paper over, then completely around, top to bottom. Ah yes, now the translucent scrawlings were more familiar and Jera began to pull these other words from the page into her mind and then scribe them out legibly in her own hand.

This is the tale the bard tells, often rousing those who hear it. But the tale is suited to them, so a verse here and there is left out or added in. Whether done to please or incite, I know not.

I do know that when he sings among some, and only ever in the tongue, he decries the guilt of the fairer ilk who fell at the foot of the mountain, though I am unsure what honor there is in detailing their gruesome demise. He further tells how the humans recovered their losses, as ruthless scavengers sweeping through the remains. They went up onto the fearful mountain of the elves, and searched for treasures left behind in haste. They went down into the caverns of the dwarves and picked through bones to find anything of value. The rest they scorched, above and below. They used or sold or bartered what they'd collected and carried on.

It is in this version that the bard calls to point a symbol from the skies, a jagged bolt of lighting within a circle of power, for the mark was found on objects atop the mount and beneath it. Picked clean of any metals, items have been sifted away from the mountain as trade allowed. But some say, some warn, that a few are passed with purpose and watchful eyes until the living remains of the mountain folk are found, for a small company of dwarves and men seek those who once knew the dragon song to sing the treasure into the caverns once again.

Though I have not seen it, I would wager this is the elf clan sigil upon the bow. Whomever may be bold enough to bear or claim such a sign, may have due rights to the weapon itself, but may also own more trouble than it was ever worth. On the other hand, while memories are long for promises of fortune, those seeking it may be no more than bones themselves.

Pray, ask not after me, nor of the bard. I know only what I have told. I make my way as best the times allow and care not to stir a sleeping dragon.

May the stars protect you and welcome you at the end of your days.

Jera finally folded up the page and lay it aside, then blew out the candle. Yes, best to let the dragon sleep, she thought, and she herself should do the same. She slipped beneath her warm blankets and sighed, looking along a streak of the half moon drawing a silver-blue line over the bed, onto the floor, and up one wall. She would not concern herself with watchful eyes. From the sound of it, the whole thing had fallen into tall tales of lore. Perhaps that was the best place.

She thought back through the journey and to the whole idea of home... and it was not Raumo Korda, nor the Green Silences. It was here at Willow's End and in Camelot and wherever she happened to be, particularly in the company of Ashevathallion, who was likely now asleep under another beam from that same glorious moon. It was this comforting thought which eased her mind and allowed her to drift off as well.

DHP and Bill West © Jan 2003

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