Obedient to their orders, the Rangers press the attack, some pausing to shoot while others advance past the fallen.
Slumped against the wheel of a rough-hewn Goblin cart; collapsed and abandoned in the mud, Tonwen chokes and coughs up her life-blood with an equally rough-hewn Goblin arrow in her breast. She tries to think of the forest; to think of starry autumn nights when the leaves are golden-orange and the forest floor crisp and crunching under the feather-light tread of bare Elven feet; or summer days when the air is a-buzz with busy life and the flash and flicker of gossamer wings and bright insect and animal bodies. She knows she owes her immortal life to the forest’s power, and, though the pain is great and the sense of loss is bitter, she knows her fate has always been to one day return that which was given. Today is as good a day as any other.
Not all are capable of such stoicism: As young Ceridwen lays dying, not yet ready to give her life to honour the ancient bargain, she looks up pleadingly to Eiriol, her friend and kinswoman, and sobs for help that Eriol knows she can not give. The forest does not care if she is not ready: It will have its due from willing and unwilling alike.
PicardJean-Luc
2025-02-05 23:52:32 +0000 UTC之平 赵
2025-01-27 07:09:14 +0000 UTC