Exiles

A coarse rumbling came from Solbrim’s throat - a growling furnace that crackled and spat. His vision was sharp - even in the dim light of the forest - and he could clearly see the figure he pursued as it wound and dashed among the trees. However, it was not the vision of the figure that guided his flame, but rather the incessant, cackling laughter that came from its mouth.

Solbrim lept from tree to tree, his honed claws tearing into and shredding the bark, his forearms and hind legs tensing and releasing like great springs of muscle and bone. It had taken a long time for him to even consider this method of travel and longer still to adapt to it. His wings - though broken and twisted long ago - still held their pride, having never forgotten their purpose. They burned for flight, taunting him with their remembrance.

“You’re slow today, Ape!” Kindling sang, the lilting cadence of her speech painting her mockery with deceptive sweetness. “Are you weighed down with fleas?”

“This is the only sport I get,” Solbrim replied, his voice like tumbling coal, “If I were to actually try, you would be ash and cinder and I would be bored.” He shot a gout of liquid fire towards her, which she dodged gracefully, spinning upwards with translucent wings.

Kindling was a blight. A failed experiment of the forest fae made from both flesh and root, she was a worse version of each. Her skin was dry wood and bark marked with thick thorns on her forearms and shins. Her wings resembled cracked maple seeds which creaked as she flew. Around her head were petals dripping with rot which hung down around a face pocked with bore-holes, the deepest of which held two glittering black eyes. She was about five feet tall, only the length of one of Solbrim’s legs, but she was fiercely agile.

She smiled, showing sharp teeth which bore a sharp tongue, “Perhaps this is some elaborate plan to fool me into thinking you have gotten weak and lazy? If so, your plan is working!” She laughed again, darting away from another fiery blast which charred the bark of a tree behind her.

They fought this way for some time, Kindling leading and laughing, Solbrim chasing and burning. There was no need to take care with his aim; the sentinel trees that made up the forest could not catch flame, and they were the only thing that grew in the cursed ground. There were no birds, squirrels, or grubs either; no wolves, deer, horses or boar. All that lived in the forest had been exiled there, and the exiles kept their distance.

The height of the sentinel trees was immense, rivaling the ostentatious towers of Almwell and topped with a dense collection of leaves and vines that stretched out and tangled in and around each other, blocking all but the most tenacious light from getting in. Each tree was exactly fifteen feet in diameter and grew in diagonal rows exactly twenty feet from each other. There were no branches until the very peak of the trees, and the bark was flat and smooth from trunk to crown. They stretched for seemingly endless miles - stark columns that marched stoically, fading into inevitable darkness in every direction.

The growing sound of rushing water told Solbrim they were nearing the Spine. He paused his pursuit and perched upon the side of a tree, cursing. The Spine was a river that ran straight through the forest, and it was the only source of water to be found. It had been five days since he’d last chanced upon it, and there was no telling when he’d find it again. Hunger and thirst came slow to those who lived among the trees, and slower still to a dragon such as Solbrim, but it did come.

He watched as Kindling darted away, knowing that as soon as he lost her to the encroaching darkness, there’d be no way to pursue her. He could try following her, go in the direction of where he last saw her, but the darkness he’d pass through would be different than hers and would take him to an entirely different place. The same went for the river - if he followed Kindling and lost the sound of the water, he could turn around immediately and not find it again for another five days, or longer.

With a grimace, he turned to the water, but not before spitting a spiteful ball of fire towards where Kindling was still zipping about, laughter pouring out of her, oblivious to Solbrim’s retreat. He was poised to leap when he saw movement above him. He stilled, startled at how easily he’d been caught off guard before realizing it was nothing more than a leaf, tumbling casually from the canopy above.

Solbrim’s wide eyes followed its descent until it landed directly on his snout. He stared at it, cross-eyed, confused. In the first year of his exile, he tried escaping through the upper canopy of the forest. He burned, slashed and tore at the leaves and vines, but somehow never made a dent, never found a way through. Plenty of leaves had fallen from his efforts, but in the years since he’d never seen one fall of its own accord. He scanned the dense foliage fifty or so feet above him, looking for who - or what - could be lurking there.

A sharp pain bloomed in the tender scales just above the calf of his hind leg. Numbness grew into the wound at an alarming rate, creeping into his foot until he could no longer grip the bark of the tree he was perched on. Cackling, giddy laughter covered the sound of Solbrim’s curses as he found new purchase on the tree, his right leg dangling uselessly.

“Your new strategy is a bad one,” Kindling said matter-of-factly, her wings crackling as she hovered mere feet from Solbrim’s snarling, smoking maw. Dark blood mixed with thick, creamy sap oozed from her arm where she had pulled off the thorn that was now lodged in Solbrim’s leg.

She cocked her head, seemingly hearing the water for the first time and her grotesque features filled with understanding. “Oh, I see. It is time for your bath.” She looked at him with pity and continued, “I do not know if it is possible to wash the stink from you, but—“

Solbrim lunged at her, but she expected it and dodged his strike easily before flying towards the water, calling out “But it is worth trying!”

Heat radiated from Solbrim as his insides filled with liquid fire. Despite the numbness in his leg, he was still quite agile, stumbling only slightly on his path towards Kindling, determined to repay her tenfold for his wound. His hands and working foot left sizzling, blackened imprints on the trees he lept from until he finally came upon Kindling as she wound up, down and around one of the trees at the water’s edge.

He wasted no time. On that one tree they fought, exchanging fire and thorn until the tree was coated in dripping flame and Solbrim’s thick hide was speckled with thorns and stained with poison. None of the thorns pierced deep enough for the poison to effect him, but they still itched and stank on his scales.

Kindling hovered above the river. The sap dribbling from where she’d torn her thorns was slowing her, and the pure heat that emanated from Solbrim’s fire would cause her to ignite if she got too close.

Solbrim glared at her, his eyes filled with sparks, daring her to engage him. The tree was engulfed in flame which spun and danced, holding him close and encouraging destruction. His inner-heat was dissipating, the fire he held almost diminished. He would need to rest for some time before he was filled again. Knowing this fight could not last much longer, he readied himself for one final bout, tensing his muscles, preparing to leap.

CRACK!

The sound echoed throughout the forest, cutting through the darkness and bouncing off the surrounding trees. In the entirety of Solbrim’s exile, he had never heard an echo. The forest’s curse kept all things close and insular - sound was no exception. One could sing, shout or cry and it would fall away in the heavy, oppressive air, taken by the surrounding darkness just like everything else.

Solbrim froze as the tree he was about to leap from began to fall towards Kindling and the river beneath her. Her face wore an expression as shocked as his own. Fire billowed into the air, enveloping her before her senses could tell her to flee. His claws gripped the tree tightly, suddenly more panicked cat than dragon, as his own mind tried to comprehend the situation.

Sentinel trees do not fall.

The ground rushed towards him and instinct told him to leap.

Sound does not pierce the darkness.

Water erupted around him as he crashed backwards into the river, his wings taking the brunt of the impact. The breath was knocked out of him, and the sudden chill caused him to gasp. He choked as he inhaled the icy water, panic pumping through his veins. He flailed his three good limbs, trying to stop himself from tumbling in the current, trying to find the surface.

Dragons did not swim, but they still had the instinct. However, it was not his instinct which saved him, but rather his pride. The thought of him drowning could cause Kindling to die of laughter, but even her death would not be recompense for his shame. Dragons did not drown. He curled into a ball, letting himself sink, ignoring the tightness in his chest, the pressure in his head. At last he reached the bottom and, despite having only one good leg, he lept upwards, finding and breaking through the river's surface.

He swam pitifully to the shore, coughing and sputtering before collapsing on the dry, dusty dirt.

He lay there for a couple minutes before a rattling voice said, “Maybe not such a bad strategy after all.”

Solbrim looked up and saw Kindling sitting a few meters away at the water’s edge. Embers floated in the air, but she paid them no mind. Her skin had already been burned away, leaving a spongey, slimy white skeleton. He could see her fast-beating heart and her lungs which were wrapped and supported in a membranous veil along with a variety of other unnatural anatomy that turned his stomach. Her posture was taut, as if poised to strike, but she was looking away from Solbrim, towards the opposite side of the river.

Solbrim snorted. The numbness in his leg was fading, but it was hard to tell due to the cold that still clung to him from the water. He did not think Kindling would attack him, but kept a wary eye on her as he began to breath deeply, stoking his inner-flame to bring heat back to his body. His back was sore and he was bitterly thankful that his wings could not be broken any further.

“Have you ever seen such a thing?” Kindling asked, her eyes distant and dreamy.

It was a bit hard to understand her now that most of her mouth had been burned away, but Solbrim managed. “No,” he said sharply, “sentinel trees do not burn. They do not break or fall either.” Heat was already returning to him, and soon the pain of the thorn in his leg blossomed anew. He frowned at Kindling, “Have you ever seen a leaf fall from a sentinel tree?”

“I’ve never seen such a thing,” she said and began to sing a soft melody. It sounded like a lullaby and, in spite of the rasp in her voice, was beautiful to the point of being unnerving. Solbrim gaped at her. She’d always been mad, but this was new. Her eyes were still glazed and fixed - not on the flaming debris of the tree, but on something else on the other side of the river.

He followed her gaze - cautiously in case this was a trick - and saw the third and fourth impossible things of that day.

There was a human child on the other side of the river, naked and sitting in a patch of grass. Solbrim had no idea how to tell the age of a human, but considering how it laughed and stuffed the clumps of grass into its mouth, he assumed it couldn’t be far from the womb. It heard Kindling's song and looked their way, its face becoming slack, its eyes glassy.

When he found his voice, Solbrim said, “We should take it to the witch.”

For the first time, Kindling looked away from the child and hissed, “Why? So they can pat your head and keep it for themselves? You may be content eating the bugs from your fur, Ape, but I want a meal.” Drool fell from a mouth that was now mostly just sharp teeth and sinewy jaw.

“Impossible things are happening,” Solbrim said carefully, “we could be in danger - the witch needs to know.”

Kindling pouted. “At least let me have the blood - the witch will not need the blood.” She began creeping towards the river, her voice filled with longing, “I haven’t tasted the blood of an infant since—“

Her voice cut off as a shadow of fear fell over both of them, as sudden and unexpected as a flash of lightning in the desert. Kindling’s face was pure terror, but a hint of bitterness crept in as she said, “You owe me a meal, Ape.” She smiled then, “Maybe I could feast on your wings - you have no use for them unless you need to break more falls, yes?” She jumped into the river, laughing, letting the current carry her away.

Solbrim wasted no time. His tiredness forgotten, he sped towards the fallen tree which now acted as a bridge. No longer numb, he found it easy to run across the still burning wood and reach the child on the other side. It looked up at him bemused. A thick black patch of hair sat upon its head and it was holding a flower in its chubby hand. Solbrim picked the child up with his tail and ran up the river, towards the current as fast as he was capable.

***

Madness haunted Sentinel Forest. It came when two or more gathered, when one person lingered for too long, or when someone took the life of another. Sometimes, if you were unlucky, it simply stumbled upon your path. It had many names: Behemoth, Outcast, Exile of Exiles, Shadow. Solbrim called it Madness because that was what it represented. Confined to the forest, it wandered, seeking the exiles for an unknown purpose. It was heralded by fear, an instinct deep within your bones that told you to run until you could only walk, walk until you crawled, crawl until you collapsed and prayed it found different quarry. If it got too close you’d feel an overwhelming compulsion to look at it, and once you did you went mad. Most died then and there, but some wandered further, broken and shattered until their bodies withered and died of starvation and thirst.

Solbrim fled from Madness, never looking behind him and keeping constant focus on the child he held in his tail, partially to ensure the child was still there, partially to ensure he didn’t crush the infant in his fear. He was following the only sure path in the entirety of the forest, and that was the path to the witch. All one had to do was travel up the river and eventually they’d find the darkness a little less oppressive, the air a little warmer. It could take minutes, hours or days, but one would surely find the witch’s home.

In Solbrim’s case, it took an hour of running before the river’s current softened and the light began to grow. Only once the cottage was in his sight did he begin to relax and let the weariness of the day return to him. Madness sometimes avoided the river, but it always avoided the witch.

The cottage was circular and built on the only section of the river that was calm, its current gentle and welcoming. Cobbled stakes, beams, dams and scaffolding held it above the water. Its walls were multi-colored stone and topped with an unfinished roof - half wooden frame, half straw-thatched. Crooked wooden steps led up to a thick wooden door. A single chimney stuck out from the thatched portion of the roof, a thin plume of smoke rising from it.

This was the only place the trees broke their pattern, their numbers thinning, canopies opening up to allow the sky to be seen above the witch’s home. Though tempting, escape was impossible here. Whomever gave the witch this gift of sky had done it with the condition that they let no one escape that way, and Solbrim had seen what remained of those who tried to escape anyway. He would rather be taken by Madness.

Sunlight shone strongly and Solbrim couldn’t help but pause for a moment, taking in the warmth he could rarely remember from a sun he feared he’d one day forget. He limped towards the cottage, no longer able to ignore the pain in his leg, but unable to reach the thorn.

As he approached, the door cracked open and a grey, hairless, harrowed face peeked out from the darkness. Suddenly, the door opened all the way, revealing light from within as the witch, wearing a fine, silk blue robe, took a step outside and performed a deep bow saying, “Welcome, Bright One, to my home.”

Solbrim barely stopped himself from growling, but he could not hide his scowl as he said, “Do not mock me, witch.”

The witch looked aghast, “My eminence, I would not dare. Your luster may be gone, your wings mangled and atrophied, your horns dull and unruly, but I can still smell the royal blood that pumps in you.” This last was said with a hint of greed on their ingratiating smile.

“Yes, thank you,” Solbrim sighed. He had visited the witch a dozen times in his exile. Each time they spoke to him like royalty, and each time he asked them to stop. The cottage was a safe haven, a place for exiles to rest with no fear of Madness, and maybe even feel a breeze if they were lucky. For Solbrim, the witch only asked for a thimble of his blood in return. It was a bargain, in spite of the constant scraping and bowing.

The witch was about to go on, but faltered and began to pointedly sniff the air, “yours is not the only blood I smell.” Their eyes narrowed on Solbrim, suddenly uneasy. The air became thick and the edges of his vision melted into blurs and vague interpretation. The witch’s face grew sharper, more detailed and their voice was firm and demanding, “who do you bring to my doorstep?”

Solbrim wanted to look away but couldn’t. He answered by moving his tail - with some effort - and the child to where the witch could see it.

“Oh!” The witch gasped as the world returned to normal. “May I?” They reached out and took the child from Solbrim with great care. “Please, come in as you can,” they said before hurrying back into the cottage and closing the door behind them.

Solbrim could not fit comfortably in the cottage. Instead, he climbed onto the precarious beams that held it in place and worked his way to the open section of the roof. Once there, he nestled his body in a narrow gap in the scaffolding and poked his head inside.

Tinctures, potions, herbs, grimoires, staves, crystals, robes - the witch’s cottage was cluttered with sights and smells. A faded, frayed carpet covered most of the stone floor, and tapestries covered with symbols and scripture lined the walls. The child was stumbling about the room, unable to comprehend any of it but appreciative nonetheless. A pile of corpses were pushed against the far wall. The witch covered them with a blanket before turning to Solbrim and saying, “Funny you should come here now. I was just entertaining the Direform when we heard a loud crack echo among the trees. Startled the tea right out of our hands - neither of us had heard such a sound in decades. We thought that perhaps the Lost One took a tumble.”

Solbrim shook his head and told the witch about all that had happened - the leaf, the tree, the fire, Kindling’s hunger and the pursuit of Madness. The witch gasped and laughed throughout, demanding every detail and finding mirth, awe and sorrow in each. By the end, the witch was rapt, pacing on the floor, nearly shaking with an emotion Solbrim could not determine.

Finally, they asked, “What do you want, Solbrim? What is your intention here? You’re correct, this is a human child - no older than two - and she doesn’t belong to the forest.” They looked to the empty sky, “perhaps you mean to ask what I could give you for her?”

Solbrim swallowed, trying not to follow their gaze, “I learned the rules of the forest long ago. If the rules are changing, I need to learn them again. If this child is a part of that—”

“Rules?” they frowned, “you’d ask for rules rather than knowing the game you play? You’d ask how to better live imprisoned rather than how to be free? Stop that!” The child was grasping at the door handle, trying to undo the latch that led outside. The witch grabbed her and sat her down on a pile of dried leather which Solbrim hoped, for the child’s sake, was strictly animal hide.

“I only ask for what you can tell me.”

“Oh,” the witch said, “That I can do.”

They strode to a bookshelf and pulled out an especially large tome bound in a shining, scaled red leather that made Solbrim bristle. They began leafing through the pages and explained, “Every life is a story, and when you enter this forest, your story effectively ends. The curse takes the threads of your life and holds them aloft, away from the course of the world. This child is not bound by the curse - her story is just beginning. She will grow, and as she does the curse will continue to falter and weaken. Not only that, but as her life progresses, her threads will tangle with those she interacts with, with those she bonds to. They will be torn from the grip of the curse and free to craft their own stories again, freed from the darkness.”

Solbrim snorted, “All I have to do is befriend the child and I’ll be free?”

“Befriend her, yes. Protect her, help her, teach her, love her, care for her. If she dies, so does your escape. If she lives, it won’t just be you who leaves this forest. There are many exiles here, and yours will not be the only threads that get tangled in her story. Once those on the outside see the curse begin to falter, you can be assured that they will take action to prevent it. She will be a target. But as she lives, the curse will continue to weaken. Flowers will grow, bushes and trees, nuts and berries. Some day this cursed land could be a proper forest.” The witch set down the tome and began rummaging through a weathered chest, its lock long-broken.

Solbrim shifted in his makeshift seat, leaning further into the cottage. The child reached up for him and began babbling. He spoke softly, “How did she get here?”

“I have no idea,” the witch said, turning from the chest with a silver dagger in their hand. “That’s something for you to figure out.”

“I do not think this visit calls for my blood, witch,” Solbrim growled, tensing at the curved blade.

“I agree completely, but it is not your blood I plan on taking.”

The beams holding the cottage aloft groaned as Solbrim put his full weight on them, filling the space and putting himself between the child and the witch. He felt lighter and warmer inside the cottage, the magic outside apparently dispelled. “Do you value your own freedom so little?” He asked.

The witch shrugged, “Very much, actually. Caring for the child is enough to entangle your story with hers, but killing her? It’s all but guaranteed - and much quicker, too. The problem - for you - is she can only be killed once.”

A rumbling came from deep within Solbrim. “Why tell me about the curse? Why not tell me she’s dangerous and send me away as a fool?”

“Because I value good conversation, Solbrim. I’m a witch, I find all this interesting; I like talking about it. Besides,” from their sleeve, the witch pulled a small vial filled with a dark, red liquid, “I have your blood, remember?”

Solbrim lunged at the witch, but they snapped their fingers and ice formed around the vial in an instant. Just as quickly, Solbrim froze where he stood, his neck extended, head sideways, jaws open on either side of the witch’s head. His blood felt frozen, and there was not a single part of him he could move.

The witch jumped at the view, but ducked under his jaws and began peering around his massive frame in search of the child. “Where’d you go, little one?” They called, knife gripped in one hand, the vial stowed back in their sleeve. They continued to search, and Solbrim could only listen as they cooed, cursed and fumbled about the room.

After a few minutes, the witch asked, “You didn’t crush her, did you? I’d be mad, but I have to admit it’d be pretty funny considering…oh gods and monsters, the door latch is undone. Solbrim, it’s a good thing I’m killing this child because you clearly aren’t cut out for it - you turn away for one—“

The door opened and a chill deeper than the witch’s spell forced its way into Solbrim’s soul - a fear stronger than any he’d ever felt. The softest of gasps escaped the witch’s mouth as they stood in the doorway, and Solbrim did not have to guess what they saw, what had followed him all this way.

Despite his fear, Solbrim tried to turn and face Madness. It called to him, itched at his mind, clawed at his eyes to turn, turn, turn like a morbid curiosity gone rabid. The spell binding him felt like more of a curse than his decade of imprisonment - the desire to look at Madness was unbearable, and knowing he wasn’t able to was even more so. He envied the witch and wish he’d let them kill the child, if only so Solbrim would be free to gaze at the creature behind him, to know the unknowable.

A minute later, the desire was gone, and so was the fear.

He heard a creak as the door opened once more, then rapid footfalls, a thud, more footfalls until finally the child peeked up at Solbrim, gazing into his frozen stare, worry on her face.

Solbrim gathered all the strength he had left, calling upon his inner-fire which still burned, though very weakly. With a great effort, he managed to blink. Once. The child cocked her head but eventually smiled, apparently satisfied. The child left his vision once more, returning a few minutes later with something dark and glistening in her hand: the thorn from his leg. There was a moment of panic before Solbrim realized the poison was long gone, and the only danger was the sharp point at the thorns edge. The point the child was poking with her finger.

For the next three hours Solbrim slowly thawed as the child played around the room. She tore off most of the tapestries, knocked over a table covered in crystals, and tried reading a book to the pile of corpses before finally taking a nap in a seemingly spare, empty cauldron in the corner.

When Solbrim could finally move - albeit slowly - he grabbed a few of the fallen tapestries, scooped the handle of the cauldron the child slept in with his mouth and climbed back out of the cottage. As he did, the beams began to snap and the scaffolding came loose. The stone walls crumbled under his weight and he had to jump to avoid falling into the river. Thankfully, the cauldron merely swayed on its handle, not buffeting the child, but certainly waking her.

She peeked her head above the rim and watched as the cottage collapsed into the river, its contents washing away in the lazy current. Solbrim set her down and she crawled out onto the dirt.

“What is your name?” Solbrim asked her as he filled the cauldron with the tapestry he took.

“Puh,” the child said.

“My name is Solbrim. I will not call you ‘Puh.’”

The child stared.

“Fine. Come along, Puh. Let’s see if you can get any berry bushes to grow. If you could get some deer to show up I'll let you have one of my scales."

Puh smiled and crawled into the cauldron, rubbing her belly. Solbrim carried her onward, into the darkness, turning the very first page of a story that would one day be known by all.