Though she had not said a thing to the human, Adelun had gifted her with more than a mere boat. For to reach the Isle of the Crow, one should travel for days on end, and die of thirst and hunger while doing so. So the Dame had used the last spark of her power to fold space on itself, shortening the distance to the Isle which stood over the horizon, between the ocean and the Outer Sea.
And the girl, stormed by sea and sky, raged for long hours, for a day, for two, so as to reach the Isle of the Black Witch. She had left under a fair sky with a dozen dryads of able build, who had assumed the shape of elves or dwarves or fauns, but now clouds were rumbling and boiling over their heads, drenching them under icy pricking raindrops that fell in dense sheets as if the sky itself had fallen and suffocated them. They fought on, focused on the crimson pearl barely visible over the horizon, that cold disk of blood like light that tore through clouds and waves and lightning so as to keep them going. It stood there, threatening to dive beneath the waves with each passing hour, while the rest of the world fell into darkness.
For the sun had fallen dangerously low, so low many feared it was truly setting. Despite what she had told the girl, it seemed like Adelun had given up.
And it showed all over the Garden, as autumn died in a whisper, exhausted, and frost came from the north to cover the woods. But it was not winter that came with the cold wind, not really. In its stead, shadows crept under the canopy, slithered further and further into the Garden despite having been kept at bay for so long. They climbed up trees and soaked into the soil, into the fur of beasts and reached into their mouth and their heart, and slowly they changed, becoming hungry, lonely, afraid. Their eyes reddened, their fur or feather or scales darkened, their fangs grew and their claws sharpened. Vines began to slither like snakes, trees to creak as they searched for preys with flesh to tear and bones to break. Wolves began to howl in an under tone, luring in their preys with songs that mimicked all too strangely the words of the fae, while boars and bears growled ancient curses between their tusks and fangs, so that shadows wrapped around them and swelled, and grew, making them all monsters of rage and agony.
But one sound in the whole Garden would have sent shivers down the spine of any beasts or fae sane enough to hear it, had there been one. For the horse chestnuts that had kept the Dreamers imprisoned for so long were starting to rot and to break. None knew, not even us, what madness would be born out of centuries of shameful imprisonment.
While the human journeyed, the Dame remained in her Garden, waiting, withering. Her light faded gradually until remained only a silver flame above the glade; not enough to keep the night away. Adelun had sent away the dryads, despite their protests, so that they may escape this fate. For where she was not, life was thriving yet, and it gave no such power to our Maestra. Maybe they could escape the fate of the Garden, maybe they could again assist the girl if she emerged victorious from the first stage of her quest. For if Adelun did all she could to maintain the sun above the waves, the girl had yet to cross the seas. She had to face not one of her foes, but two, and they maliciously and violently fought against her, waves and wind, seas and skies, and together they became rage and tempest.
As the human endured this torment, the Dreamcaster watched and waited from her domain inside the moon. She saw all corners of Evelda from her cave of crystals, as time flew by and light died away; we heard her gloat with joy when she saw that at last her night had come. She cared not for those amongst the beasts and fae who had longed for this day, and cared not when they chanted her name as they understood their time was nigh. She cared not for the girl either, and maybe both sea and sky did not kill the human because they were unsure of what to do with her. No, our Maestra cared for naught else but her sister and her pain, and her gaze remained solely focused on the Garden and its Dame, fading away with the dying dusk.
Yet we, however, could not ignore that frail beast, fending off the forces of nature from the sheer force of her will. The rocking waves slashed furiously against the boat, shaking its passengers with insane ferocity. They desperately tried to hold on to something but the boat was not made for such desperate situations. The waves towered above their head and the rain lashed so hard, they couldn’t distinguish between sea and sky. It was roaring all around them, the wailing waves beneath and the bawling wind above, both inviting the crew to join their macabre dance for the eternity to come. But hope never wavered in the eyes of the girl, and that was maybe the reason they came to shore at last.
They sailed above sunken islands where jutting rocks nearly broke their hull, amidst floating corpses of a forgotten age, resurfaced to bring them into the deep. The wind raged against them, bending their mast and nearly tearing their sail, yet powerless to stop them at all. Roaring like a mad beast, the aden of the sky threw blinding spears of white fire at them, to sink this puny ship that defied the storm; yet it could not. They sailed still.
Some dryads had lost their spirit early on, and jumped into the sea, seduced by the alluring calm of the depths. Others lost their mind to the stench and sight of the floating dead, some of which they had known in a distant and peaceful past. Some again were struck by the white fire that tore the sky in half, and their spirit remained anchored in the wood of the ship, forever doomed to sail across this graveyard between the worlds. But some remained true to their heart and kept their wits about them, and sailed forward with the human.
For through all of this, the girl never lost sight of the shard of daylight glinting far, far away at the edge of the world, painting the storm red and furious. In her eyes burned the last sun, and she barely blinked as they sailed, as if in fear that if she missed it for one moment, it would fall not to be seen again. She saw in this bloodstained path a glimmer of hope, and she told so, screamed so to the dryads over the storm, so as to empower them, as if everyone and everything that had been sacrificed were now guiding them through this maelstrom. Even when lightning finally landed and tore the sail, even when the rocky and treacherous fingers of the sea cracked their hull, she did not lose hope. She rowed with all her strength and so did the dryads who were with her still, with a kind of vigour born only out of the inevitable peril of death. They cared not about the odds, because they had to.
So, they sailed.
We could not tell then why the sea eventually submitted to their unyielding resolve, but as their ship was sinking, full of holes and water and blood, a strong wave going against the current bore them high above the raging storm and threw them onto the shore.
There our sight was blurred, for they had reached the Isle of the Crow, the secretive and intimate domain of Venelia, aden of death.
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