Oh sweet memories, these visions, these echoes of long past. They flicker before your eyes like rain, where each crystalline drop holds a certain image, a feeling, a sound, a smell, or everything all at once. Some come and go quick as a flash of lightning, while others linger in your view for what feels like eternity. Some are fair and sweet, some are cruel and bitter, and certain memories you’d rather keep locked and forgotten behind thick walls, while others you wish to relive again, and again, and again.
And then there are dreams. The heart-rending mares shake you to the core; waking you up in the dead of night, screaming and sweating, while the fair ones will want to keep you in the dreaming world forever. One most peculiar dream there was, or perhaps it was something more, rooted in a half-wake sleep. I cannot truly tell if it be real or not, yet it seemed the ones by my side saw the same as I.
Deep inside the mist, perched upon a flat boulder, there sat a great white wolf; its eyes a mix of glittering silver and luminous blue, and its gaze sharp and far-seeing. On a branch sat the mysterious crow that had followed us for quite some time, and in the tall grass rested two smaller white-furred beasts, their ears perked up for every rustling sound we made, and their shining eyes keenly observing our every step. So it spoke to Yllfa, this great white wolf, with the strange voice of dreams. Words you knew, words you had heard before, words in the tongue of common men came from the gaping jaws of a wolf, or so it seemed, yet the voice was not that of a man, woman or child. It just was.
And then there came forth the small white wolf, one I had seen at times before - yes, it was Isa, the wolf of my dreams, and of Yllfa’s life. By fate and chance entwined we all were, ever bound together in an eternal wreath of steel, blood, and love. This much I knew and remembered, and I felt it in my very being, and the sword I held in my hand trembled with delight to be in the presence of the cub again, whose willing blood had, in a way, given life to the cold, dead steel in years long past. Aye, I knew it to be certain then, that it was as the smith of old had said as he forged the sword Heruwargr for my father - the man had indeed bathed it in a wolf’s warm blood, and it was willingly given by the already slain cub, and blood freely given will hold a power of sort.
United with her wolf, my dear Yllfa seemed whole to me then, in a way that I had not truly seen her before. Two sundered spirits made one again, as the world slowly came back to us and the darkness gave way to the light of morning. Yet I could not remember much of anything at all when I finally woke up. I remembered that their words were kind, encouraging, and healing, and that we had a life to live, things to do, and curses to break when the time was right, yet precisely what was said felt veiled beyond the mist.
Days passed, and our journey northward together with Duncadda beckoned ever closer. On eager horses our company set out towards the northernmost borders of the Mark. In Stangard we rested for a night, carefully avoiding the seething eyes of men with little moral, honour or virtue. For Ethel I feared perhaps more in Stangard than anywhere else, for a young girl has no place in such a town. I bade her to stay with us and wander not, unless we did so together.
Upon the next morn, to the sound of early birds and crickets, the Dwimordene lay before us, a place of phantoms and the Wicked Witch of the Woods, no less. Lie I would, if I said I did not fear the woods and who dwelled there, yet Duncadda knew better, and it was to him we’d put our trust and our hopes of passing through unharmed. We rested in an old hunter’s camp, long abandoned, yet still there sat burnt-out torches upon wooden posts carved with horse’s heads. Here we felt at home, even as shadows watched us, and a song of old I sang to our company beneath the stars, knowing that ears longer than ours would hear it clear as day.
Hu seo þrag gewat,
genap under nihthelm,
swa heo no wære!
Yes, they had heard it indeed. The next morning Duncadda was gone, and a shadow unveiled itself down the road, and the tall, fair-haired elf bade us to follow, and so we did. He showed us through hidden paths within the wood, paths we’d never have seen or known, until we found ourselves under the gaze of two tall marble statues, so expertly carved and featured such life-like eyes that they might as well have been alive and watching. We reunited with Duncadda, and never had I seen him so well, so much at peace, and so happy. His reasons being his own, and perhaps he’d tell us in his own time, but for now he issued a fair and well-meaning warning that if we would let the Golden Wood bless and keep us, we’d never want to leave. And he said also that dreams would come to us, but if they be good or grim, none could tell.
With those words in mind I feared a little for my Ethel, who had already bound a wreath of bright-coloured flowers and the greenest of grass around her golden hair and humming happily to all the friendly animals that crossed her path. Content and well in body in spirit, we went to sleep to the sounds of distant song, sung by the fairest of voices from beyond the hills, in a tongue I had never heard before. Perhaps it was an answer and an echo to my song from the night before? Far their voices filled the woods and our ears alike with endless wonder, a song far more beautiful than any bard of the Mark could ever muster.
As I lay and listened, a glimpse of silver lanterns I saw through the golden foliage, far up in the trees. Was it up there they lived, I wondered? Did the elves of the Dwimordene make their homes high up in the golden trees? Who was this great Sorceress, that our people feared so much? A folk so beautiful, so fair, so gentle, could they truly be the dark, evil phantoms and witches we spin our tales around?
Yes, I remembered well the tales of Denholm, who once captured and bound a band of wandering elves in Rohan, yet I wondered how much of the truth he had actually told me, who was not there to witness it, nor see these elves for myself. Perhaps I shall ask him again one day, but not for much more did I wonder before I gently fell asleep, with Ethel and Yllfa nestled beside me. And only just had I closed my eyes as the promised dreams came to me.
I dreamed of my youth, of my wife, of my daughter, and my stillborn son. I wailed and cried as I held the lifeless little thing in my hands, as clear as the day we lost him. Then I dreamed of happier days where we all tended our little garden, while Ethel chased squirrels to keep as pets, and our cat Rags hunting mice and voles, tearing them to pieces with his sharp teeth.
Tiny drops of blood splattered the wood on our front porch, and in the next moment I held Eda in my arms as she died, and as I blinked through the tears she woke again, but it was Yllfa’s smiling face that looked up at me, a vision no doubt triggered by her recent fainting, where I found Yllfa collapsed upon the grass, almost in the exact same spot where Eda passed. Coincidence? Perhaps. Fate? Perhaps. Perhaps…
I dreamed further of a murder of crows circling above, of a white wolf hiding in the grass watching me, and of a shadowed woman in a forest much, much darker than any forest I’d ever seen, and she was clad in rags and her hair like a crow’s nest, casting unknown curses and words of spite towards the dark skies, where lightning thundered and rumbled.
Yes, many more things I dreamed, not all I remember, and some I would rather forget, yet Duncadda’s warning had indeed proven true. Thus I knew that the Dwimordene was no place for me or my kin. Nay, leave we should at first light and not look back, unless it be on our way home again once our journey is over, and then we shall pass through swiftly without regret or longing.
But for now, northward we are bound, and northward we shall ride, dreams or no, for it’s in the waking world we truly belong.
