The sun rose over Thistle. Her journey had begun earlier that day, an intense need to get home to her mother hurrying her steps. Pulling back her hood, she peered through the branches at the white dawn overhead. Autumn was Thistle's favorite season in their wood. But something was different that year. The burgeoning scarlet and orange was not as vibrant. The chill in the stagnant air felt unnatural.
Thistle inhaled as she entered the glade where she had been born. The sharp scent of grass mingling with the morning mist swirled around her. Her mother preferred the quiet of her home to any other setting. In contrast, as soon as she was old enough to be on her own, Thistle had wandered. Independent, wildly curious and impulsive, Thistle had always felt different from her mother and her grandmother, Meridun. They carried themselves with such wisdom and surety, leaving those they met with in awe.
She slowed her pace as she noticed horse tacks by their home. With a frown, she studied them. They were fresh. She shrugged and headed towards the door.
Though it was rare, her mother did occasionally entertain a traveling mage or hermit. Thistle's favorite guest was a wild haired mage named Avol Redeyed. He always brought trinkets of the outside world.
Thistle pushed open the door to find her mother gathering dishes from her morning meal. smiled though her eyes remained unfocused. Thistle grinned back suspiciously.
"What are you up to?" She asked, closing the door behind her and removing her cloak.
"What kind of greeting is that, beloved?" Lirare asked innocently, setting down the crockery and approaching her child.
Thistle wrapped her arms around her mother, breathing in her earthy scent. Her wavy hair, the color of finished mahogany, smelled of smoke from the morning fire. Lirare pulled back and studied her daughter.
"What is it?" Thistle laughed as Lirare smoothed her black curls.
Though she had her mother's full lips and angled chin, Thistle was as different from her mother as red clay from river water. Her aquiline nose perched strongly on her square face, hemmed by tight, dark curls. Where her mother's eyes were the color of rich, summer moss, her own were clear blue.
Lirare had never spoken of Thistle's father. Seeing as Lirare did not know her own paternity either, it never concerned Thistle. Though she had sometimes wondered what kind of man he was to give her such striking features and a restless nature.
"I'm just relieved to have you home for a little while." Lirare gave her daughter another enigmatic smile before returning to the hearth. "How was your journey through the moors? Did you find the eagles?"
Thistle sank into a chair at the table. The air was heavy with an unfamiliar smell for her mother's home. A heady mix of sweat, pipe smoke and the open road, something more common in public houses she supposed. Her mother set a mug on the table steaming with tea. Thistle cradled her chilled hands around the pottery.
"The King found me right outside the treeline. His ill hatchling is much better now," Thistle replied as her mother sat before her.
"I knew you would be able to handle it by yourself."
Thistle decided it would be best if she didn't speak of her trouble on her journey home. The large, heavily tattooed Clansman, who had slain the giant with his ax, was named Varin Bonetalon. Once she had gotten her bearings, they built a fire and shared a meal of venison, which would definitely not be mentioned to her vegetarian mother. After a merry evening, they bid each other farewell the next morning.
It was odd though. Before he had turned to leave, Varin had studied Thistle in the clear morning light. When she asked him what was wrong, he merely shook his head. He said for a moment she had reminded him of a friend.
"Did you have any visitors while I was gone?" Thistle asked casually, glancing up at her mother.
Lirare shook her head. "No, I'm afraid. Give me a few decades and I guarantee I'll be as batty as Epgar the hermit on the edge of the wood."
Thistle rolled her eyes with a breathy laugh. As convincing as she sounded, a strange note haunted her mother's voice. Scratching came at the closed door. Lirare walked over and opened it to the wolf pup.
"Thistle, would you mind getting some leftover stew over the fire for our visitor?"
Retrieving a wooden saucer, Thistle walked over to the bubbling pot. As she picking up the serving trowel, she glanced at the mantel. She paused. Reaching out, she picked up a fine, clay pipe. It was evidence enough to prove her mother was hiding something. If she didn't eat meat, Lirare surely didn’t smoke a pipe. A strange crest was carved on its side.
"Thistle, our friend is hungry." Her mother's voice startled her out of her musings.
Thistle tucked the pipe into the fitchet hanging from her waist. She knew Lirare would never admit to it at that moment. If she waited, she might glean some clues from this mystery.
The wood around Meridun's home was especially ancient. Thistle loved her grandmother but the place made her uneasy. While her mother was gentle natured as a lamb, Meridun was feral and unpredictable. The forest reflected this, trunks twisted in strange contortions, translucent yellow leaves giving the air an eerie shimmer. Her boots kicked up dried needles and crinkling foliage.
A flash of feathers dove in front of her. Thistle halted hard. A horned owl glared down at her, a sparrow caught in it's beak and fluttering it's wings as it died. A light laugh trembled the leaves.
Thistle's gaze fell on a mossy oak tree . The north side was hollowed and dead. Thistle waited as a mirage fell over it. The edges rippled like water and sucked closed, the rotted inside hidden in a gown of rich green. White gold curls fell over where craggy bark used to be and Meridun rose to her full height. No longer a tree, but now her grandmother.
“Don't be too disturbed by Nacken.” Meridun gestured a lithe hand towards the owl. “All creatures need to eat. You know this lesson, grandchild.”
Thistle exhaled, feeling more comfortable seeing her grandmother in her human form. The river goddess opened her arms with a genuine smile. Thistle embraced her and breathed in her strangeness.
“It has been too long since I saw you last.” Meridun pulled away, brushing back Thistle's hair as her mother did.
Thistle peered up into Meridun's evergreen gaze and gave a weak smile, feeling cowed in her presence. “Mother has been sending me farther from the wood on errands.”
"Just as you hoped she would let you do. Haven't run into any trouble, I hope?”
Thistle still hadn't told her mother about the giant. Yet she could never keep a secret from Meridun. “I ran into a giant on the Eastenwell Moors.”
Tucking her hand in the crook of her arm, Meridun led her granddaughter towards her home. “I'm going to assume you made it back safe by the looks of you.”
“Yes, I had some help.” Thistle swallowed with a shrug. “A barbarian- well... a western Clansman."
Meridun paused at the misty river bank, swaying tendrils of willow framing her statuesque form. Her eyebrows lifted in interest, mouth a relaxed but firm line. “A Clansman? Now that is news.”
Before Thistle could ask why, Meridun waved a hand over the willow strands. The door to her house rippled into view, hidden by her magic from mortal eyes. Taking her granddaughter's hand, she opened the round, golden door. “Come, I want to hear more of this adventure, dear one.”
Meridun's house was fairly common on the inside. A straw broom was propped on a sand stone hearth, glossy shells from the river bed decorating the mantle. Meridun glided over to the fireside and blew the dying flames to life with a single breath. A trio of shelves over the fire were arranged with various bottles. Meridun rarely used magic except in every day, simple matters. Those bottles and their contents were kept for emergencies.
“I have some dried dandelion root left. Let me make you some tea. Sit, sit.” She waved towards the table, her skirts rustling on the splintering wooden floor. Thistle obeyed, wringing her hands in her lap.
She had gone to her grandmother for a reason. A week had passed since her return from the moors. Ever since, her mother had been acting strangely. Lirare's mind would slip and she would stand motionless, her gaze glued to the window as though she were waiting for someone. Thistle had thought it might be the darkness that was touching the outside world, the shadow of which her mother had warned her. The pipe in her fitchet told her otherwise.
At night, after Lirare's breathing evened in sleep, Thistle would hold it up to the faint moonlight and study the crest on it. It wasn't a symbol of any fine house of the Woodland King's court. It was roughly hewn. A savage crow, it's hooked beak sharp as a dagger with one talon raised in defense. If she didn't know any better, Thistle would have sworn it was a symbol from the Clansmen.
“Clansman?”
Thistle jolted with a wide eyed stare in her grandmother's direction. Maybe the woman's powers did include mind reading.
“Excuse me?”
Meridun gave a patient smile as she carried two steaming cups of tea toward the table, “You said you met a western Clansman on the road-”
“Oh yes, I did. He saved my life.” Thistle gave a whisper of a smile as she cradled the cup in her hands.
“How did he manage that?”
“The giant caught me unarmed on the road. I would have been slaughtered for sure but the Clansman- Varin was his name- he slayed the monster.”
“Your mother sent you on the road without a weapon?” Meridun leveled her with a stare. Thistle shifted in her seat. sipping her tea. Meridun sighed. “That daughter of mine and her idealistic view of this land. Things aren't what they used to be. These are strange days.”
Thistle winced at the sting of the hot liquid and Meridun echoing her mother's warning. Strange days. Both of them had the uncanny ability to be right about most matters. Thistle didn't want to think what their foreboding vision meant.
“I'm grateful for this man. What was his name?” Meridun asked. Thistle met her grandmother's direct gaze and felt like her question wasn't as nonchalant as it sounded.
“Varin of the house Bonetalon.”
“Clan. Barbarians use the term Clan to signify their family line, not house. Yes, I have heard of that family. They are distant cousins to their king. Or the man who was once their king. They have been overthrown for some years now.”
“My mother told me they were conquered right before I was born.”
Meridun's tinkling laugh filled the quiet room.
"The Clansmen will never be conquered, something King Gendall will never understand. Restrained, humbled maybe but only for a short time. There is too much fire in their blood. I quite admire them for it.” Meridun set her cup down. Her eyes cut straight to Thistle's core. Her heart set to pounding, her sight growing fuzzy with light from the hearth. The flames grew. “I quite admire the fire in you, granddaughter. You are very different from your mother and I. Your path will not look like ours. You were made for these days.”
Thistle remembered to breathe. “These strange days?”
Meridun chuckled and the spell broke. “Yes, quite strange indeed. Now, do you have a reason for your visit here or did you just miss your grandmother?”
The pipe in her fitchet felt heavy. Thistle wondered at the prophetic nature her grandmother's words and was a little intimidated by them. “Yes and I wanted to see if you had any remedy for mother. Shes been weak and she complains of a headache.”
Thistle decided for now to keep the secret of the Clansman's pipe to herself.
Meridun mixed her an elixir of sorrel for fever and some colts foot to dispel the chill from Lirare's lungs. She saw her off at the edge of the wood, holding her hand as they walked. With her grandmother in her human form, Thistle found the forest much more inviting. The horned owl named Nacken who kept company with Meridun swept down to a lower branch as they paused at the river's edge.
“Please send word if you need any more. I know your mother would never complain to me herself, silly woman.” Meridun shook her head.
Thistle laughed as she took a couple steps towards the fallen log that served as a bridge across the water. She peered back at Meridun as Nacken landed softly on her shoulder. The setting sun illuminated her wild, firebright waves into a halo around her elfin face. She was at once ancient and ever young. A chill of awe raced up Thistle's spine as she nodded her farewell.
Stepping across the tumbling current, she glanced back. Her grandmother had disappeared into the mist. Only Nacken watched her from a high branch, yellow eyes intent on her. When she was little, the bird's gaze felt predatory. She now realized it was only predatory towards any who would harm her. Nacken watched over her as she made her way home.
Twilight's purple light painted the windows of their home, white smoke from the chimney dissipated in the chilled air. Thistle rubbed her hands together and breathed on them before she pushed the door open. Lirare stirred by the fireside where she had dozed off in her chair.
“I'm sorry, I didn't know you were resting.” Thistle whispered as she walked over to her mother.
Lirare blinked up at her in the faint firelight. “I don't know what's come over me. So many things to be done and here I am sleeping.”
Thistle squeezed her hand, noting how cold and clammy her palm felt. She knelt down and stoked the flames to life. “You are nearly frozen over here.”
“Its been cold today-” Lirare coughed into her fist.
Laying her head in her mother's lap, Thistle tried not to be disturbed by Lirare's condition. Though her mother was immortal, Lirare's father had been certainly human. He had lived an unnaturally long life for a man, as all mortals did in their land between the eastern wood and western mountains, but he had died long before Thistle's birth. Because of their mixed blood, Lirare and her daughter could live like immortals for many years but the sword or fell magic could end them. Certainly a simple cold couldn't hurt her.
Lirare ran her fingers through Thistle's wild curls. “How was your grandmother?”
“She said you were unwise to send me on the road without a weapon.”
“Of course she did.”
Thistle took the small bottle of medicine from her fitchet. “She also sent this for your headaches.”
Lirare gave a sigh of relief. "She didn't have to, I'll be fine.”
“She said you would say that as well.”
Taking the bottle from her daughter, Lirare patted Thistle on the head before she rose to her feet. “My mother knows me too well.”
Meridun knows everyone too well. Thistle mused as she fingered the hidden pipe. Facing the fire, she took a deep breath. The mystery was too much for her. Even if she might not receive the full truth, she needed to hear what her mother had to say about the barbarian's pipe.
“Mother-” Thistle turned towards Lirare where she was mixing herself the medicine at the table. She paused, her heart lurching up to her throat.
Lirare was hunched forward, a hand gripping the chair back and the other cradling her forehead. She swayed, her breathing husky. Thistle started forward but Lirare held up a hand, “I'm fine, I'm fine. Just a little dizzy.”
Gathering herself, Lirare took one step towards her herbal cabinet but collapsed in a trembling heap on the floor.
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