Caeorwulf slowly opens his eyes and looks around at the place where he finds himself. Nothing is around him; all is a grey-white mist, swirling round his feet and in every direction. He is neither warm nor cold. The sensation he has is of nothingness, no pain or fear or cares. He has no reckoning, no memory of this place or how he came to be here; but as he stands in bewilderment, his thought begins to firm up and form into waking memory.
Caeorwulf remembers the battle at the last stockade; the burning tower; the shouts of victory by his comrades; then the coming of the Terror. He begins to feel the horror once more, shaking him to his heart; he shudders as the fear begins to rise. But then the fear vanishes, like smoke in the mist that surrounds him here. And a feeling of surprise and sudden gladness rises and takes its place as he hears a voice in the mist.
“Caeorwulf. Caeorwulf, see me now. Look to my voice and find me.”
Caeorwulf turns and looks around, seeking the voice, that soft sultry voice that he has come to know and as the mist parts, he sees -
“Blodcwyn! I see you! What has happened, what is this place? We were in battle, there was fire and death all around us, and then the fear…”
“And all of that has passed behind you,” comes the voice of Seregrían, as she steps out of the mist, clad in the lovely scarlet gown Caeorwulf remembers, her eyes shining with that silver-bright gleam.
“Blodcwyn, what has happened? I have heard tales of such as this. Am I… am I dead?”
“You live, but only just. I have done what I can to find you here, but the cost is great, and I cannot remain long. And now it is time to choose. Look around you now and tell me what you see.”
“We are in fog, and mist. And lo! we stand on a path, you and I together. That path behind you, that runs to a soft light in the mist, what is that?”
“That path leads you Back.”
“And that path behind me, into the deep curling mist, where does that lead?”
“That path leads you On.”
“On to… where?”
“I do not know. No Elf has ever walked that path, save one; and no report has ever been brought back. That path belongs to the kin of Men, and only you can walk its ways. If you choose to go On, I cannot go with you; no one can.”
“I am at peace here. No sorrow or fear or pain. This is a good place, a safe place, can I not stay?”
“No. This is a place that is not a place, it is nowhere, it is Between. And you must leave it, but the path you take is yours to choose. All that I know is, you came to this place not of your own will, your choice was taken from you. I have come to give that choice back to you, and you can choose to take the path Back.”
“If I go On, I go alone. I fear that path. But if I choose to go Back – the mist gathers, I cannot see the path any longer, what is happening? I am afraid, Blodcwyn…”
“The time of choosing is upon you, Caeorwulf. If you choose to come Back, I am here to guide you. Follow me, and we shall go Back together. And when you arrive, I shall be there.”
“I choose to walk the path with you.”
“Take my hand, Caeorwulf. Walk with me, and fear not. I shall walk with you.”
“I cannot see the path, the mist gathers – I cannot see you! But I feel your hand, so warm…”
“Walk with me, Caeorwulf. I shall be with you. We are almost there.”
“You are so warm, so alive. So beautiful. My guide from this place. Take me home!”
“Come back, Caeorwulf, come back… come back!”
Caeorwulf sits bolt upright, panting, his eyes unfocused but slowly coming to clear vision. He is lying on a pallet, naked to the waist, his clothes and armor and boots cast to the side. He lies in a tented pavilion and can hear the sounds of a busy camp around him; horses stamp and nicker, men move and speak in hurried voices, tools chopping wood and earth.
Caeorwulf looks at his skin, his arms and chest covered in small cuts and bruises, the signs of wounds bravely gotten in battle. His hand still clutches something, and he looks to see another hand in his, and his eyes look up to see Seregrían, holding his hand and kneeling at his side. She is clad in her travel-stained clothes, her hat laid aside, her black hair cascading over her shoulders; her eyes are their normal bright grey, the light of silver fading swiftly. The look on her face is one he has never seen, one of weariness, of exhaustion.
“Welcome back, Caeorwulf, my friend,” she says, her voice breathy and tired.
Caeorwulf cries out, a wordless sob, and seizes Seregrían in his arms, clutching her close and clinging to her, weeping uncontrollably. Seregrían holds him firmly and gently, stroking his hair with her hand as if soothing a frightened child. The tears last for several minutes until Caeorwulf’s sobbing subsides and the embrace loosens. He looks first upon Seregrían’s face, smiling with her lopsided grin he has come to know. He looks around him, and sees Burnoth, Leofdag, Hutha and Ulf standing around him, the Riders Four smiling in greeting.
“We all stood watch,” Burnoth says, “while she fought the battle and won.”
“I know a little of the healing arts,” Leofdag says, “ but Blodcwyn worked such dwimorcraft as I have never seen. The minstrels sing of the magic of the Elves, but all we ever saw was her fires – until now.”
“Welcome back, Caeorwulf,” Seregrían breathes, “welcome… back…” as her eyes roll back, and she crumples. Leofdag and Ulf catch her and carry her between them, crossing to a pallet nearby, laying her down and covering her in a light blanket. Caeorwulf tries to rise, but Burnoth stays him with a hand and offers him a full skin of water.
“She warned us aforetime what the effort might do to her,” he explains, “and we prepared for this. She told us you would thirst upon your return, so drink. She is spent, and she told us to let her sleep; she will be well in a few hours. In that time, drink and eat, and rest as well.” Caeorwulf takes one long pull from the waterskin, and gasps as he finishes.
“What… what happened to me?” Caeorwulf asks.
“The winged monster had come, and terror was upon us all,” Burnoth says. “Only Blodcwyn and Ulf stood against it. It screamed, and Ulf collapsed; but by Blodcwyn’s dwimorcraft it departed and flew off East. Even she was shaken by the fight. But we found you among the slain, your eyes wide open in terror. You breathed not, and we would have taken you for dead; but we saw some faint sign you yet lived and bore you away. Blodcwyn was already weary, but she hovered over you, one hand on your brow and the other on your heart; and she called to you, like she was walking in a forest calling someone who was lost. And in your sleep, you replied. I knew not that you could speak her tongue.”
“What is this?” Caeorwulf says. “I know not the tongue of Elves! What did I say?”
“Who knows? Ask her when she awakens, maybe she will tell you. But for now, rest. And be grateful that we know such a one as Blodcwyn.”
