Ferral-Bell: The Feral Fairy

The Old Hollow Hearth

A Story of Sprites, Sins, and Seeds of Light

Coal Hollow, Pennsylvania – Spring, 1996

The wooden floor had stopped creaking the way it used to when children ran through it barefoot. The winds that once danced through the cracks in the windows now howled like mourners through hollow halls. The Bauer family hearth, long ago lit by the joy of new life, sat like a stone beneath ash, dimmed, but not dead.

Inside the old house, two sprites still lingered.

Trudy, once vibrant and full of sass, now curled beneath a tattered tea towel tucked behind the stove. Her once bright wings now drooped with dust. Charmane, older and steadier these days, paced along the worn grain of the kitchen counter, the pads of his bare feet tracing the same circles he had walked for decades. “You feel it?” Charmane whispered, more to the walls than to Trudy.

Trudy stirred but didn’t lift her head. “Something's coming. Been feeling it all week. Woke me from a deep one yesterday. Dreamed I saw Vilora in the flames of the old stove.” Charmane’s lips twitched. “You always dream when things stir. But this... this is different. This house, it remembers. Now it listens.” They both turned toward the hearthstone, buried beneath years of grime, furniture, and forgetfulness. Once, it had glowed with an inner light. Now, it sat cool, gray, and lifeless. But not much longer, for the first time in decades, a pulse carried from the stone. Faint. Like a heartbeat under thick blankets. Something had shifted in the forest as well. Something had turned its eyes back home, Malik Bauer, the man whose cruelty dimmed that hearth, lay dying, and his family will soon surround him.

"Someone’s coming up the drive,” Charmane said, peeking between the faded gingham curtains. “More than one. It’s her.”

Trudy stirred. “Roxanna?”

“With her son, and his the two little ones”?

Trudy’s wings gave a tremble. “That means new little sprites.”

Outside, a rusted station wagon crunched along the gravel. Out stepped Roxanne, so much older now, but still bearing the grace of her mother. Her long black coat was too thin for the weather, and she carried herself like someone walking toward unfinished business. Not far behind her was Gretna, and her sons Bastion and Nora'Rik, along with Bastion's wife, and the twin's mother Vi'ella. Nora'Rik and Vi'ella are also twins, from another Hearth. Nora'Rik is like Charmane. He also lost his bonded while still a child. He is now Gretna's adopted son.

Beside her, Markis held open the back door of the car. A slender woman got out of the car and two six year olds tumbled out behind her. A little girl named Alistar, She was all elbows, like her mother, and had her eyes wide open. Then, a boy, Airies, held her hand protectively, though he looked equally unsure. But, just beyond them, only the sprites could see… two more figures. Smaller than the children. Their hair shimmered with light and their eyes glinted like river stones. Echo was all curiosity, wild, and magic. Her golden eyes too wise for her years. Ash was the quieter twin sprite, more thoughtful, shadows trailing behind his laughter.

The sprite twins, Echo and Ash... Trudy burst into tears at the sight of them. “By the moon… they’re beautiful.”

Charmane covered his mouth. “It’s beginning again.”

The old Bauer house on Coal Hollow Road groaned with age, its wooden bones aching with the cold of early spring. Snow still clung to the mountainside like breath held too long, and the slate gray sky gave no promise of relief. Inside the once long ago lively home, silence reigned. Not the peaceful kind of silence, but the heavy hush of waiting. Waiting for death. Waiting for truth. The house was use to this.

Malik Bauer, patriarch of the Bauer line, lay on his deathbed in the front room of his family home, a room no one ever used anymore. The fire popped low in the hearth, and though his eyes fluttered open now and then, he did not hardly speak a word. Roxanna, his middle child, now sat at his side, lips thin and dry as an old corn husk. Her son Markis and his two children moved softly about the house, not speaking above whispers.

The twins, Alistar and Airies, played near the stone hearth with sticks and dolls, chatting in a language no adult could fully understand. They weren’t alone, though no grown up eyes could see their companions. Two sprites sat with them, twin fairies with coppery curls and shimmering, translucent wings. One was called Echo, the other, her twin brother, was Ash. Born into the hearth of their grandmother, Gretna. These sprites had never known silence. They’d only known stories, warmth, laughter, play, and magic. Gretna, who was the only living daughter sprite of the once great Elder Vilora, had passed down every song and stitch of the old ways, every hearth blessing and rune charm. The twins were born seen, welcomed, wanted and well loved by a family full of warmth.

But this was not true for all. . .

A Hollow Once Filled

In 1951, the Bauer house was loud with life. There were seven sprites who lived beneath its floorboards at one time, behind its beams, in the crooks of rocking chairs and cupboards. Vilora, the Elder, tended the home like a sacred garden with her partner, Vokton, who helped keep the balance. Vilora had guided them all with ancient the wisdom passed through generations from the old country. She was the mother of all the Sprites who lived with in her hearth the last 800 years. Vokton, was a silent strength, towering by sprite standards, with bark like skin and eyes like burning coals.

Vilora and Vokton had ruled their household with steady, loving hands for over a century, even before coming to the new world. Sprites blessed with a long life did not measure time as humans did, they measured seasons, births, silences, and songs. The birth of a sprite was always cause for joy. But, not in 1951. . . Vilora gave everything she had to stop the darkness from taking root in what should have been a celebration of the miracle of life. She poured her soul into the cursed seed of spirit left in the woods, hoping the love would be enough to plant change and influence. Vokton, however, was never the same after the loss of his love. He became quieter with each passing moon, seldom leaving the inner rooms of the house. The fire inside him dulled to embers, and he never recovered. When he passed just ten winters later, it was not of age alone, it was heartbreak. Two losses in one lifetime were too much, even for a sprite who had lived six hundred years. That left the household in the hands of those not yet ready to lead. When Vilora died her death was the beginning of a great unraveling.

Long ago, Charmane, young and wild, had once been light footed and so brighteyed, he was bonded to Charles, the firstborn child of the Bauer family. But Charles died young . . . far too young, and the loss warped Charmane. For a while, he tried to follow Vilora’s teachings, while she lived in the Hearth it was not an issue. Polishing copper pipes in the winter, lighting the applewood incense when the hearth grew cold, drawing protective sigils in dust. But as the years passed since the loss of Vilora, and no more children were born into the house, his energy twisted inward. He became sharp tongued, protective, weary. Not cruel, never cruel,but as hollow as the hearth. He walked the rafters like a guardian mourning a child no one remembered but him.

Trudy, who was dignified, gentle, and a little smart mouthed in her earlier years, was bonded to Oddett, Malik’s wife. Oddett Bauer had always kept the house warm, even when her husband’s temper grew foul. She sang old lullabies brought from Germany, infused with prayers the sprites wove into magic. The home once smelled of yeast bread, coal soot, and clover. Sprites thrived there. Valkin, Malik’s bonded sprite, was already gone, lost during the war time years, his fate unspoken, and unknown to all. When Charles died as a young child, it took the wind from Oddett’s lungs and replaced it with silence. Malik turned harder. Sharper. He began to mistrust the warmth he could not control. Vilora tried to guide him gently, but he only grew darker, more secretive, less tethered to anything but his own shame. Trudy, never spoke of her own pain. She bore it in silence, tucked behind her calm demeanor and herbal sachets. Just like Odett did. Her human was long dead now. Trudy had spent too many decades carrying the weight of secrets. Odett’s, Malik’s, and her own. Oddett suspected what had happened the night her granddaughter was was born, even if she never said it aloud. But no sprite dared accuse a human, not then. Not even Malik.

Gretna had been born the same day as Roxanna, proud and sturdy. Gretna had always been the responsible one, bonded to Roxanna. Gretna was clever, strong willed, and sharp eyed. But when Roxanna's first born child was ripped away and led to believe the babe was sent to a town far from the mountains, Gretna’s spark dimmed that day. It was painful to think of the lost seedling and her own unnamed babe, along with the loss of her elder (Mother). These losses weighed heavy on her soul. Gretna stayed a few years after Vokton’s passing, trying to hold the hearth together with Charmane and Trudy’s help. But when Roxanne finally settled down and began her life outside Coal Hollow Road, Gretna made the heart wrenching decision to follow. A sprite’s bond does not just fade, it ached to be separated from one's human, it was like being unstitched at the soul.

Lux, a seedling barely older than a toadstool, had been born just a year before the baby that was never named. The baby girl who never got a cradle. The baby girl who was taken. Lux had only just emerged from seed when Ferral-Bell should have been seeded. Still green and unsure of the world, brand new. Without Gretna or an elder to guide him, he wandered the rooms of the house in quiet curiosity, always watching but rarely speaking, just like little Theodore. When Gretna left, Lux remained for a time. But he too drifted away when he and Teddy were old enough to run. Still, something in him stayed broken, forever wondering what had become of the ghost sister sprite who never truly born of their hearth.

The night of the unbirth still scarred the air for all who lived in the home that year, it clung like smoke clings to old curtains. The sprites remembered and could not forget. Vilora had fought fate itself that night, tearing apart ancient bindings to prevent an evil spirit from being born twisted and in hatred. She had held the seed of that sprite in her gnarled hands and poured her very soul into it, wrapping it in light and love.

Ferral-Bell had not been allowed to be born inside the house, nor even on the land. Malik had taken the body of his daughter's newborn, conceived in secrecy and shame, then abandoned it to the forest in the night. Vilora followed as quick as she could. She left the hearth for the first time in over 100 years, and for the final time. Her act broke a sacred rule, and it killed her. However, she saved not only the spirit of that sprite, but also her entire hearth and household. This sort of evil should not be born, it was her duty to stop it. She died in the snow, holding the seedling of a fairy never meant to exist, giving its only chance at life, light, and love.

The Sprites Who Stayed

After Vilora’s and Vokton’s deaths, the hearth began to crack from within. Without an Elder, the younger sprites lost direction. Gretna followed Roxanna when she left home, sprite bonded to spirit, heart bonded to heart. Lux fled a few years later with Teddy, unable to bear the weight of no memory. He never knew warmth like the good days either. But he was at least loved, wanted, and had a home. He left with little Teddy soon after Roxanna.

Only Charmane and Trudy remained. Charmane, once the light footed companion of Charles, had grown hollow. His laugh was brittle now, used more to fill silence than from joy. His bond had died as a child, and though the sprite lived on, the magic had waned in him. He tended to the mouse tunnels, to the spider silk curtains, but his songs no longer had power.

Trudy, once bonded to Oddett, remained out of love and loyalty, but also was unable to leave, she had no hearth to call home now, none but this one. Her bonded human was long dead, and her partner, Valkin, Malik’s sprite, had never returned from the war. Some believed Valkin died protecting Malik in battle. Others whispered he chose not to return, repelled by what Malik had become. Shamed. Either way, Trudy remained, stubborn as mountain stone. She still lit the protective oils, still swept the leaves with thyme bundles, still hummed lullabies to an empty nursery. But no new children came. . . .

Not until now that Roxanne and her son Markis had returned to care for him. Oddett was gone now, passed some winters back. Teddy and his grown sons were on the way. For the first time in a decade, the house was alive with human breath again. So, the sprites began to return. Charmane and Trudy, overwhelmed and underprepared, lit the hearth candles with trembling hands. Their hands didn’t glow the way they used to. The spark was faint. But the children, Markis’ twins, they felt like hope. Gretna and Vi'ella began to help ready the hearth as well, to help prepare for a Grand Gathering.

The hearthstone pulsed. It happened slowly, like the embers of a fire catching breath. Echo darted into the kitchen, unseen by human eyes, but absolutely by Charmane and Trudy. The young sprite tilted her head.

“You’re old,” Echo said bluntly.

Charmane snorted. “Well, you’re new" he chuckled. "Really, I'm not THAT OLD. . . What’s your name, little light?”

“Echo. That’s my brother Ash.” She pointed toward the parlor where Ash crouched behind a chair, inspecting dust motes with fascination.

Trudy hovered nearby, wringing her hands in her apron. “Do they know 'bout you? The children?”

“Not fully,” Echo said. “But we whisper to them at night. We teach them games. We help them dream". Ash chimed in. "They believe in us" both spritlings proudly and loudly announced. "Even if they don’t say it out loud.” Ash added more quietly.

Charmane’s eyes filled. “Vilora would be proud.”

Echo stepped closer to the hearthstone. Her hand hovered just over it, curious.

“Careful Now Ech-” Trudy warned.

But the stone didn’t reject her. Instead, just then it shimmered beneath her palms.

“We saw another,” Echo said softly. “In the woods. Like a girl.

She looked like Alistar. But... also like us.”

Charmane turned sharply. “Where?”

“Behind the tree line. When we first came, Markis stopped along the road for a walk and told the Twins a story about a Fairy" Ash spat out. "Then she actually appeared just like Markis" said. "She had red hair, like fire, and eyes like glass. She looked… sad.” Added Echo.

Trudy paled. “No. It can’t be.” she thought over and over

Charmane stepped toward the old kitchen chair and sat, slow. His wings trembled.

“She’s alive,” Charmane worried to himself.

The last Bad Days

Malik Bauer lay in his bed upstairs, the walls around him warped with age. His breath came ragged, thick with time and regret. He spoke little in his final days, only the names of the dead.

"Charles."

"Oddett."

"Ma."

Only once did Trudy hear him murmur the words, so soft it might have been wind. "Forgive me". - Trudy wept for the first time in decades.

As the family returned for his passing, the house grew louder with each passing hour. Roxanne arrived first, older now, her face lined like river stone. Markis came with her, tall and quiet, and his wife with warm eyes and twin children at her side. Teddy arrived next, Roxanne’s younger brother, bringing with him his two grown sons. One of his sons, the older brother, Kendell kept mostly to himself, he was shy and nervus. The other brother, Dillyn brought a quiet wife who looked like she had never spent a day in the holler and hated the cold, she did not come from a family with Hearth Sprites. Lux's son, London and Rome were not interested in any old time country fae folk mess. Theye came from a home with barley any guidance at all. They are both appearing young for their age due to lack of spiritual growth fairies need. Their father, Lux, was never trained in proper fairy ways. He was never part of a hearth to learn his purpose. They come from a different type of home all together.

Even a few cousins from neighboring valleys gathered, drawn by blood, tradition, and something else, something unspoken. Neighbors came also. From the woods and hills, other sprite families stirred. Hearths that had gone quiet came to see if the old house truly lived again. With them came whispers, offerings, and memories. Sprites from neighboring hollers came too, with visiting families for the Grand Gathering. Homes once filled with sprites were fading, just like this one. There was talk among them of consolidation, of binding forgotten hearths together before the old ways were gone for good. But first, the Bauer line had to be healed.

Charmane didn’t trust it, not fully. Not even the night the Human twins' began to hum. . . A song they could have only heard from a fairy, a song forgotten, a song not sung since Vilora. The two started to talk amongst each other. That night, after Malik's family arrived in full, his last breaths were little more than rattles through the thin walls. The family gathered in silence. Roxanne sat beside the hearthstone with Markis and the twins. She was quiet, eyes far away. They waited.

Echo and Ash stood behind their twins, holding their tiny hands.

“I saw her,” Alistar whispered.

Airies nodded. “Me too. The witch girl from the woods.”

Markis froze.

“What girl?” Roxanne asked softly.

“She looked like us,” Airies said. “But older, sad, she had red hair. Like fire.”

From within the Hollow Tree

Outside, in the darkness beyond the porchlight, the unnamed redhead watched. She listened. Her hands clenched into fists. She felt them speaking of her. She felt the pull, ancient and strong. It was time to return. The sprite elders stirred. The hearthstone pulsed. Deep within the forest, a fire-haired fairy began to walk toward the house, yet again. She was ready to confront her past.

Ferral-Bell stood barefoot in the moss, clutching a leaf in one hand and a memory in the other. She had not aged in decades. Her hair was fire now, red from the rage that birthed her. But her face... her face was the face of the infant left in the cold.

She watched Markis and his family from the trees.

He was older now, the boy from 1984 who had seen her for a flicker of a second when she toppled the tree to protect her raccoon family. He had grown into a father, a gentle one, with smile lines and tired eyes. She did not understand how she knew his name, his mothers name, at first. She didn't understand why she could suddenly understand the words that spilled from their mouths. But she did.

She now knew everything.

Names. Faces. Histories. Songs she had never heard. Recipes she had never tasted. Stories she had not lived. The memories were not hers. But they were inside her. Ferral-Bell stumbled backward from the edge of the treeline where she stalked the family, clutching her chest as if something might burst from it.

“Why do I know these things?” she whispered.

A voice spoke from in her heart, warm, old, familiar.

"You carry me with you now, little seedling, and all the wonders and secrets of the hearth. It was Vilora. The Elder. "You are what I could not be, you are the light in the dark. You are the new keeper of flame, the heart of the hearth. Ferral-Bell screamed, not out of fear, but because she didn’t know how else to hold so much truth.

She now understood why these humans pulled at her. At her core. Like she’d always known them. What Ferral-Bell knew now, was that she did know them. She carried the memories of the family line, for generations. Memories poured into her when Vilora gave her life. In that moment of sacrifice, Vilora’s soul entwined with the unborn sprite’s. That power… that knowing… had waited in Ferral-Bell’s bones, buried like a seed. It was time to return.

Ferral-Bell crouched in the brambles just outside the house, eyes wide, heart trembling. She felt the house calling her. Felt every heartbeat inside it. She remembered things now, the old songs, names, birth chants, stories of the old country whispered in both Pennsylvania Dutch and Appalachian tongue.

She knew Vokton’s hands helped had carved the cradle that never held her.

She knew the lullaby Oddett had hummed before Malik silenced it.

She knew the cries of Charles as he died, and the weight of Charmane’s grief.

She knew it all, because she was the Elder now. Chosen not by ceremony, but by sacrifice. Vilora’s gift had not just been life, it had been legacy. An unintended conciquence, but possibly fate.

A twig snapped behind her. Ferral-Bell whirled . . .

There, at the edge of the trees, floated two glowing lights, "Echo and Ash"? But as she looked into the darkness a path lit up. She knew what this was. The Sprites had lit the path, lighting the way for lost Fae folks. She was being welcomed home. Now, the house’s pulse called to her louder. Now, the family had returned, and with it, the flame of her purpose.

The Beginning of the Reckoning

Back at the house, the sprites gathered in the root cellar below the floorboards.They spoke in tongues lost to time. They argued. They cried. The sprites began to murmur. A neighboring cousin protested, "The Unnamed had not been born in the hearth. She was not born of light. She had lived alone, feral, stunted". "How could she even be trusted" another relative chimed in ...

“She’s close,” Ash said, "And she needs us,” Echo pleaded.

Charmane’s hands shook as he touched the floor. “What is she is the new Elder, what if Vilora didn’t die, and she passed herself on to the Seedling.”

The Elders from fellow Hearth who gathered shared their opinions on this theory. "Gretna was chosen to be the new Elder for this families Hearth, she told me so" one of Vilora's oldest friends, Baltyn exclaimd.

"That is a true statement, she told me as well" Trudy chimed in. "However, Elder Baltyn, would it be unlike Vilora to pass the flame in an attempt to sooth the soul of the babe, or even the seedling"?

The room went quiet, for all that knew Vilora, knew it was indeed possible. Most Fae in the room did know her, and all knew of her. She was from the old world, and came to this land young and new. All the local hearth sprites respected her, as they did their own Elder.

" Especially if the Passing Ceremony could not commence, as she knew she was not going to return . . . Would she let our families' histories DIE with her"? Charmane spat, breaking the rooms silence.

Then Gretna spoke up "No . . . As her chosen successor, I believe Vilora did pass on the flame to the seedling in the woods that night. Our Family hearth is not dead. We are barely hanging on, I'll not deny that. Correct me if I'm wrong Elders, if our family flame was gone, was truly dead... how is the heart of the home, the hearth still beating"?

"It has been more alive in the past few days, than it has been in years" Trudy piped up. Trudy then looked toward the woods with eyes full of tears. “She has always been one of ours,” she said softly.

Charmane’s eyes went wide. Gretna stared into the fire, her heart pounding like hooves. “It cannot REALLY be . . .” Trudy reached out and took Gretna’s hand. “If it is, we must find her. She is the broken thread. The one that never wove.” Gretna turned to Lux. “Light the path.”

He nodded. . . And then they decided: Just like that, the sprites set out into the night, whispering old words and lighting the branches with glimmering dust. For the first time in generations, a search began. Ferral-Bell did not yet know they were coming. But the wind knew.

They didn’t speak when she returned. They held out their hands. The Unnamed, for the first time in decades, stepped toward them.

The Hollow Hearth's Rebirth

The hearth of the Bauer home blazed brightly that night, burning away decades of silence. The family mourned for Malik without fanfare as he layed moments from death. There were no great speeches. Just stories passed between generations, some joyful, some bitter, most incomplete.

But in the shadows, something sacred had begun again. The sprites, worn, weary, but still faithful stood hand in hand around the hearth. The children dreamed sweet dreams. From out of the woods, a lost sprite stepped into the light for the first time.

But the question remained: Would they accept her? Or had too much time, too much pain, passed? Not even the sacred fire knew. The flames flickered, waiting to find out.

Ferral-Bell then crossed through the house like she’d never left, like she had lived there her whole life. She was following something older than memory, deeper than blood. Her hands trailed along the edges of the old hearth wall, her bare toes brushing floors worn smooth by generations.

Malik lay in the back bedroom now, as family gathered in the living room, tucked beneath a handmade quilt from Oddett’s mother. His breaths were thin and wet. The room stank of medicine, regret, and old pine. There were photographs on the dresser. . . . baby Charles, Roxanne, Teddy. But no picture of the unnamed child. No proof she ever existed at all. In the corner, full of clothes and blankets was the old family cradle that she was never rocked to sleep in. Rage consumed her.

The door creaked open, though no one saw it move. Ferral-Bell stepped inside. For a moment, she stood just beyond the lamp’s glow, a flicker of a child where shadows should be. Malik didn’t stir at first. But then his skin prickled with cold, the kind that whispers from the grave. He opened his eyes. And he saw her.

Not Alistar, though at a glance, she could’ve been mistaken for her. But no, this child had eyes like wet moss and a grief far too ancient for six years old. This was no granddaughter. This was the one he tried to erase. His biggest mistake.

His mouth opened in horror, cracking like dry river mud. Ferral-Bell stepped forward. Her small hands reached out, touched his arms. Her fingers were ice. Malik’s body spasmed, but he could not pull away. Her touch brought something with it, memories he didn’t own, pain he had never earned, but was the cause of. The cold light in her hands unspooled the truth.

The screams of a young mother in labor. The breath of a baby born, then smothered. The scream she never got to make. The warmth of a soul, tiny, human, clinging to the only comfort near: a seedling sprite, barely formed. Ferral-Bell had done what no other sprite ever had. She’d absorbed the soul of her dying human. She didn’t remember being born. She remembered being her.

The babe had no name. No cradle. But her soul was loved, fiercely, even in those final moments. And that love, unbearable, sacred, was what had torn Ferral-Bell from her sprite path and wrapped her in forgetfulness. She had walked the world with one soul hidden in another, never knowing who she truly was.

Until now. Malik began to cry. Not soft, shameful tears, these were gut deep sobs, as if every wrong he’d buried clawed their way lose all at once. His cracked whisper filled the room: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. God help me, I'm sorry…”

His voice grew louder. He shook under her touch.

Out in the hallway, Roxanne heard him. She rushed into the room. Malik’s arm shot out like lightning, grabbed hers. “Roxanna,” he gasped, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.” His hand lifted, trembling, pointing to the dresser. “There. There Roxanna. You were right. I lied. . . I . . . lied .- .” She dropped to her knees by the bed, confused and terrified. “Daddy, what let? What’re you talking about?” But Malik was no longer looking at her. He was staring at something she couldn’t see. Something just beyond the veil. Just before his last breath, he smiled through the tears.

“I see her,” he said. “I see . . . I see them all.”And he was gone.

The house exhaled. Something old and heavy lifted. The sourness in the walls faded. The flickering lights on the ridge began to dim, one by one.

The sprites were stunned. Charmane sat down hard on the floor, staring at nothing. Trudy wept silently beside a cupboard. Lux and Gretna exchanged a long, haunted look.

Ferral-Bell had broken the laws of their kind. She had revealed herself. She had acted, as Elder, as more. None of them had been ready.

But they had lit the path. They had called her home.Now they must reckon with what came back.

Echo and Ash, the fairy twins, hovered at the top of the stairs, their eyes shimmering with a light too old for their age. They had known she was coming. They had felt her before the trail was even lit.

“She’s one of us,” Ash whispered.

“No,” Echo replied, blinking slowly. “She’s more.”

Downstairs, Ferral-Bell stood alone in the empty hallway, hand still cold from touching the dying. She did not cry. She had no tears left for him. She turned to the hearth, where Vilora’s candle had not been lit in forty-five years. Ferral-Bell touched the wick, and it sparked without flint or match. The flame leapt, tall and silver blue. A new Elder had come home. The hollow Hearth had been reborn.

.