A Stranger Among Ash Trees4a
The forest had changed, though Alan couldn't say when. The trees were no longer ordinary; their bark shimmered with faint silver veins that pulsed with life, and roots stretched across the soil like enormous, twisting fingers. Every step he took felt heavier than the last. Even the air pressed against him, thick and unwelcoming, carrying a weight he couldn't name.
Time had lost meaning. Hours? Days? Perhaps longer. The sun's weak light barely filtered through the dense canopy, casting fractured patterns on the forest floor that danced like broken glass. Alan's body ached, his scar throbbed faintly, and his shadow seemed to cling to him in ways that were almost alive.
Then came the voice. Human. Agitated, frustrated. "—No, no, no! That's not how they do it—Ugh!"
Alan froze. He had grown used to the snarls and growls of beasts in this land, but this… this was different. It was imperfect, clumsy, undeniably human.
He pushed through the brush, careful not to make noise, and stumbled into a clearing. A young man, a little older than Alan, was swinging a battered sword at a crooked straw dummy. Each swing was clumsy, reckless, and much too loud. The dummy didn't even shake.
Then the boy tripped over a root and fell face-first into the dirt with a soft grunt. Alan blinked.
"Don't just stand there. Help me up or let me die in peace," the boy muttered, half-buried in grass.
Alan hesitated, then extended a hand.
"I'm Edward," the boy announced proudly as he dusted himself off. "Defender of the innocent. Slayer of one rabbit. Breaker of swords—accidentally, but only once."
Edward wiped a smudge of dirt from his cheek and stared at Alan. "Wait a second," he said, squinting. "What are you doing out here? You look… terrible. Tired, hungry, and—" he waved at Alan's torn clothes and dirt-streaked boots—"basically like you've been dragged through the forest by a pack of wolves."
Alan said nothing, only stared at the ground, his chest rising and falling unevenly.
Edward tilted his head, his grin softening. "Hey. Don't just stand there. Talk to me. You're not going to die in silence, are you?"
Alan swallowed hard. "I… I have no home," he admitted finally, his voice quiet. "I'm… lost."
Edward's grin softened into something almost serious. "Ah. That explains a lot." He stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on Alan's shoulder. "Don't worry. We'll fix that. Or at least… start figuring it out. You're not alone right now."
Alan blinked. The words felt strange, foreign, and comforting at the same time.
Edward crouched, tapping the ground with a finger. "Look, I don't know your story, but I do know this: staying here, sitting and staring at the trees, won't help. Come with me. I'll get you some food, some water. You'll rest. Then maybe you'll tell me who you are, or at least where you came from."
Alan hesitated, glancing back at the dense forest, the silver-veined trees looming like silent watchers. He felt like a shadow clinging to the edge of someone else's world.
Edward straightened and extended a hand. "Trust me. You'll survive better with someone else for a change. Come on. You look like you could use a friend… and maybe a guide who doesn't fall on his face every other minute."
Alan's lips twitched. A faint, almost imperceptible smile appeared. Slowly, cautiously, he reached for Edward's hand.
"Good," Edward said with a satisfied nod. "Now, let's get you out of this… frost trap forest. You follow me, and I'll show you where life is a little warmer."
Alan allowed himself to stand a bit taller, brushing dirt from his clothes. The forest still loomed, strange and intimidating, but for the first time in days, he felt a small thread of connection. Someone was looking out for him. Someone was willing to help.
Alan let out a small chuckle, the first sound he had made in this strange land that didn't taste of fear. Edward grinned, pointing at him. "There it is. You do have teeth. Wasn't sure before."
Edward waved toward the forest path. "Come on. If we stay here, the trees might decide we're snacks."
Reluctantly, Alan followed. The forest seemed alive, whispering around them. When they finally broke through the thick canopy, the sight of Nareth Hollow made him stop again.
The village was carved into the roots of massive, glowing trees. Lanterns swung from ropes, casting a soft light that made the roots glimmer like captured stars. Children ran barefoot along the winding root paths, laughing as villagers carried baskets or tended their homes. Smoke spiralled from hollow chimneys, carrying the scents of wood and herbs.
Alan whispered, "Where… am I?"
Edward's face softened. "Nareth Hollow. Edge of Velmoria. And no, you're not from here, are you?"
Alan shook his head.
"You walk like a soul that fell out of the sky," Edward said quietly. "Maybe one that forgot it belonged anywhere."
Alan felt exposed. All his life, he had moved through familiar streets, but here, every glance seemed to weigh him. Yet Edward nudged him lightly. "Relax. Most people mind their own business."
They walked along the wooden paths, Edward pointing out villagers. "See that? Mirren spins silverleaf silk. That's Balven, good with a hammer, bad with words. And that old man? Norrik. Claims he's older than the first roots, but I don't believe him."
Alan absorbed every detail, names, routines, and customs. Even the stares of villagers were less threatening than he expected. Edward leaned closer. "Don't mind them. You look… different. But different isn't bad. Just… noticeable."
Eventually, Edward led him to a small hut at the village's edge. Inside, a woman lay on a bed, pale and frail. Her hair, dark with streaks of silver, spilt over the pillow. Her breathing was shallow.
"My mother," Edward whispered, wetting a cloth and pressing it gently to her forehead. His hands trembled slightly, but his movements were careful, precise. "I've been training," he admitted. "Fighting. Swordplay. I'm not very good yet. But I'll get there. I have to. If I don't…" He let the thought hang.
Alan's throat tightened. Survival wasn't just about strength; it was about will and determination. Edward's resolve mirrored something deep inside Alan, something he hadn't acknowledged yet.
Edward glanced at him. "No one's born strong, right? We learn. Or we die."
Alan couldn't answer. He only nodded slightly.
Edward smiled faintly. "For now… rest. Eat. Learn the rhythms of the village. You've made it this far. That's more than most could."
The black clothes came next. Edward disappeared briefly and returned with a folded bundle. "For blending in. Shadows, dirt… bad luck. You'll look less like a wandering ghost and more like someone who belongs. Maybe."
Alan held them carefully. They smelled faintly of smoke and herbs, yet also of Edward's determination. He changed quietly, the fabric soft but sturdy, fitting snugly after a few adjustments. Edward studied him. "Not bad. You don't exactly scream hero yet, but you'll survive."
That night, Alan sat by the window. The forest beyond glowed faintly, lanterns twinkling in the branches. The village hummed softly, alive and quiet. A black feather rested on the windowsill, delicate and still, pulsing faintly with energy. Alan touched it carefully, and it seemed to respond subtly, like it had been waiting.
Edward noticed his attention. "Feathers don't usually pick favourites," he said lightly. "Unless someone's watching. Or maybe it's a coincidence."
Alan didn't answer. He slipped the feather into his pocket, unsure why, but knowing he needed to keep it close.
Sleep came fitfully, filled with shadows and whispers. A fleeting figure of a woman appeared, her face hidden, yet somehow familiar. Her presence was comforting yet distant.
Morning brought soft golden light. Villagers began their day: children played along root paths, merchants prepared goods, and the blacksmith's hammer rang in the distance. Alan adjusted the black clothes. They felt less like garments now and more like armour, a small protection in a world that still felt vast and unpredictable.
Edward guided him through the village, introducing him to the villagers. Mirren gave a polite nod, Balven raised his hand, and Norrik grunted in approval. Each interaction, though small, wove Alan subtly into the fabric of this place.
Edward leaned close. "See? Not so bad. People notice, sure. But they won't bite if you don't give them a reason."
Alan nodded. He felt the weight of the black clothes, the feather in his pocket, and the echoes of his dreams. Somehow, he knew his path in Arathen was only beginning.
By midday, Alan began to understand the village's rhythm. Children's laughter, the smell of bread baking, the metallic clang of the blacksmith—it all blended into a strange comfort. He felt less like an outsider and more like a cautious visitor in a living, breathing world.
Edward clapped him on the shoulder. "Tomorrow, you'll meet the elder. He'll know what to do with someone like you. But tonight… rest. Eat. Maybe you'll start to feel that this place isn't so hostile after all."
Alan gazed at the silver-veined trees outside, their lanterns swaying like distant stars. The feather pulsed faintly, silent and watching. He didn't know who left it or why, but one thought crystallised clearly: survival wasn't just about strength. It was about will, observation, and the courage to move forward, even when the world seemed immense and unwelcoming.
He exhaled, tightening the folds of the black clothes, and for the first time in days, allowed himself a single, fragile hope. Maybe the forest hadn't rejected him. Maybe the shadows, whispers, and even the feather were part of a story meant for him to face—and to write.