Thanks to her Muggle-Repelling Charms, Oleandra and Wanderer swiftly left the hillfort, Sherwood Forest, and the country of Cameliard far behind them. Wanderer was deeply upset when Oleandra denied him his chance to make the Muggle Lord pay for torturing him for months before condemning him to be hanged, but when she threatened to leave him behind, he relented at once.
Once they had put sufficient distance between themselves and the Muggle army, Oleandra unilaterally decided to make camp beside a babbling brook for the night. She wanted to ensure she would be at her strongest, should Wanderer prove untrustworthy and attempt to murder her in her sleep.
After all, she had been leading him on all this time—helping him find the way to the Isle of Apples, knowing full well it was the land of the Fairies, yet withholding the fact that she was one of them. Having witnessed him murder a man in cold blood, she felt justified in harbouring her reservations about him… especially since most Greater Fairies were known as enemies of humanity.
"We need to talk," said Oleandra sharply, when Wanderer returned from his hunt.
But to her surprise, Wanderer was strangely forthcoming.
"You want to know about my mission, don't you?" Wanderer said casually. "Ask away."
Oleandra looked at him suspiciously.
"Whatever happened to being sworn to secrecy?" she asked.
"We don't have Fairies where I come from, just Elves and Frost Giants," Wanderer explained. "My clan tasked me with opening a rapport with the Seelie Court of Britain, so naturally, it would be unreasonable for me to keep that a secret from them. Now that I know that you're not a human but a Fairy in disguise, I can naturally share the details of my quest with you."
Oleandra pursed her lips.
Wanderer was offering her too many details, and they were all truthful, making it almost seem as if he were trying to put her at ease! If there was a truth he wanted to obfuscate, then she would have to find the right question— then, she'd be able to catch him in a lie.
"Are your intentions peaceful?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Is there anything you're not telling me?"
"Yes."
Perhaps that had been too vague.
"What is the purpose behind your quest?" Oleandra then asked. "Why does your clan want to meet with Britain's Fairies?"
"To overturn the prophecy of Ragnarök," said Wanderer very seriously, looking her straight in the eye. "To save my clan, the Aesir, from destruction."
Oleandra frowned. She had an inkling that she had missed something, but what?
"What are the contents of the prophecy?" she asked. "And what do Fairies have to do with it?"
"I can't tell you."
After centuries upon centuries of fortune-telling— from humble Soothsayers and Seers to the renowned Oracles of Delphi— the magical world had learned one enduring truth: prophecies had a habit of always coming true, one way or another.
Consequently, the Ministry of Magic's standard operating procedure was to keep all prophecies secret from the general public, so as to prevent widespread hysteria whenever the end of the world was foretold. Only those who had heard the prophecies firsthand, and the workers within the Department of Mysteries, would ever learn of their contents.
"I understand," said Oleandra, her frown deepening. "But you do know that prophecies always come true, right? Knowing the future doesn't mean you'll be able to change it."
It seemed like the magical world of this era hadn't understood that fundamental truth yet. But without knowing the contents of the prophecy, it would be difficult for Oleandra to offer Wanderer any meaningful advice.
"Oh, and I nearly forgot," said Wanderer, flashing a boyish grin as he extended his hand towards her. "My real name isn't Wanderer, though you've likely guessed that already. So, allow me to properly introduce myself: I am Wōden, son of Bor, and heir to the Aesir Wizarding clan."
After a moment of hesitation, Oleandra accepted the proffered hand and shook it.
"Well met, Wōden," said Oleandra, before reintroducing herself in turn. "…Viviane."
Just as she had suspected, the boy before her was indeed a youthful Odin. He bore no resemblance whatsoever to the bearded, one-eyed elder portrayed in the old history books she had read; but then again, the artists and authors who came long after him had doubtlessly taken some creative liberties.
For instance, Odin clearly wasn't the inventor of runic magic like the legends claimed he was, given that he had once mentioned that he learned the craft from his father. It seemed like the magic of the stars predated even the Bronze Age…
At any rate, Oleandra could tell that Wōden was withholding something from her, though whether it was simply the contents of the prophecy he was forbidden to reveal, or something rather more sinister, she could not say.
…
Throughout the night, Oleandra debated abandoning her travelling companion and calling the whole thing off. She owed him her life, but she had never made him any promises, after all. But when she weighed her misgivings about Wōden against all the obstacles they had already overcome, she decided against it.
Fate had brought them together, and the Isle of Apples was the culmination of their shared journey. For better or worse, she would follow that path to its end, if only to see what lied beyond.
…
The following morning, Oleandra and Wōden resumed their journey south.
From Sherwood Forest, they followed the River Trent, which led them south-west to the small settlement that would one day grow into Birmingham. From there, they maintained their bearing until they reached the Bristol Channel and the Atlantic Ocean, taking great care to avoid Muggle settlements as if they were the very plague.
All in all, it had taken them just under a week to reach their destination on foot. Had they not been captured near Sherwood Forest, which had cost them months of progress, the entire journey from the northern reaches of Scotland to the southern shores of Wales would not have taken them more than three weeks.
At last, they had reached the final stretch of their journey.
Oleandra breathed in the brisk, salty air of the ocean as she walked along the shore, her eyes straining to catch the tell-tale glow of Avalon that Viviane had once spoken of.
"There it is," Oleandra said, her voice trembling with emotion as she pointed to a faint green glow on the horizon over the water. "The Isle of Apples… home."
After enduring so much pain, loneliness and hardship, she had finally reached the land of her Fairy ancestors before its destruction.
She was home.