User blog:TylwythTeg/Requiem in the snow

''16 Wintumber, Year 7 of the Sixth Age. The Elven kingdom of Tirannwn.''

Mild autumn had ceded swiftly to sudden winter, and as Fynnien stepped out of the southern gates of Prifddinas, already snow lay everywhere two inches deep, and her breath turned to mist before her eyes. It was hardly the day to venture into the forest; but she had an appointment to keep.

Even if it was with a convicted kidnapper and confidence trickster who had already fooled her once before.

Some thought must have been driving her on however; for she raised her pale grey hood, drew her winter cloak more closely about herself, and set off down the path from the city into the forest of Isafdar.

Moments before she disappeared into the treeline however, a figure in a dark grey cloak and hood slipped out from behind a rock near the gate, and silently followed.

Dusk came early. It was mid-afternoon when Fyn had set out from the city, but it was twilight among the snow-laden pines by the time she was drawing close to the part of the forest Eric had specified. Progress was hard work, wading through the deepening snow; and although Fyn knew these woods as well as anyone, Isafdar was vast, winding, intricate, and still riddled with lethal traps laid by both sides during the Civil War. Many of these, in the snow, were almost undetectable until triggered, further delaying progress. By the time she was drawing near to Eric's clearing, despite the freezing temperatures, she was hot and bothered, and had stowed her cloak in her pack. Even so, her sleeveless top clung to her skin stickily, and the sweat ran down her arms into her gloves in rivulets.

Her concentration was waning; her brain was tired of constantly on the alert for traps. All the same, she knew this was no time to be incautious. She would not trust Eric to so much as shake her hand without somehow trying to rob or deceive her. As soon as she could see the clearing through the trees, she dropped down behind a thicket to examine the environment minutely.

The forest all around was silent. There was nothing but the sound of falling snow. Although the light was fading fast, the blanket of snow reflect the moonlight beautifully and she could see surprisingly well. There seemed to be no one else hiding in the woods nearby - not even a beast or a bird - and although it was certainly possible there might be one or two hiding too well for her to spot, there certainly couldn't be enough for a major ambush...

And, she reminded herself, where would Eric get such a company anyway? He was still an outlaw, on the run from the Ardougne authorities - and, although undeniably charismatic, he was no Robin Hood.

She turned her attention to the clearing itself. It was difficult to tell, through the trees and in the half-light, but it appeared to be empty save for a single, scruffy leather tent, on the far side from her. There was no smoke or fire; and curiously, no footprints of any kind which she could see. That suggested either that Eric had not left the tent since the last snowfall - in which case, why no fire? - or that he was not there at all. Or that he had very skilfully hidden his tracks, in which case, he could be anywhere.

That sounded more like him.

In any case, there was nothing for it. She had come this far to see him; had decided to risk the possibility that it could be a trap. She may as well find out if he was there.

By now, she had cooled off a little, and her damp clothes and hair, wet from sweat and fallen snowflakes, combined with the falling temperature now that the sun had set, were beginning to cause her to shiver a little. She did not put her cloak back on however. This could still be a trap; and, if so, she would need all her freedom of movement and peripheral vision.

She deposited her pack, containing just her cloak and a few supplies, at the base of a tree; rose to her feet; drew her long crystal daggers - one in each hand - and began to advance steadily on the tent.

Nothing moved as she approached. The snow crunched quietly beneath her boots, while all around, it continued to settle silently. The moonlight from above was weak, but, amplified by the wintry blanket on the ground, it gave the whole forest the eerie impression of being lit by a ghostly glow from below, causing shadows to shrink and fade.

Fyn paused at the edge of the trees, giving a final glance around - but, still seeing nothing, she cautiously broke cover, and made hesitantly for the low tent, part-buried in the snow.

It looked abandoned...

As she approached, she found the remains of a campfire, the charred wood thickly dusted with snow, seeming to confirm her suspicions - and for a moment she felt a flicker of concern. What if Eric had died out here, waiting for her? Had frozen to death? Humans were not as hardy as Elves - could not withstand as much for so long...

Impulsively, she reached out a hand for the tent flap.

At the same moment, from her left and a little behind, a resonant, feminine voice reached out to her through the stillness.

"Hello, Fynnien."

Startled, Fyn spun around - relinquishing the tent flap.

A figure in a black cloak stood near the edge of the treeline. She must have been lying in wait, just out of sight. That in itself did not surprise Fyn - but there was something... very unsettling about her presence.

Fyn adjusted her grip on her daggers nervously, and called out.

"Wh-who are you?"

Silently, with purposeful strides, the black-cloaked figure began to advance on her. Wistfully Fyn thought of her bow, newly resung and attuned for her by Tristan, lying propped uselessly against the wall in her room in her grandmother's house back in Prifddinas.

"D-don't come any closer!"

The black-cloaked figure ignored her for a few more paces, then stopped, facing her, about fifteen feet away. She placed her hands on her hips, parting the folds of her cloak to reveal the fine armour of an Elven ranger beneath, although in the snow-light Fyn could not make out the clan-colours. The hood of the cloak was still pulled so far forwards that the entire face was in shadow.

Fyn's throat was dry. She wasn't sure why. She licked her lips and tried to speak. No words came out.

The figure spoke again; softly, but with deep authority. Her tone was gently mocking.

"Oh, Fyn. Don't you remember me?"

Come to think of it, there was something familiar about the voice - but Fyn didn't have long to think about it, for the figure was already lowering her hood to reveal the fatal, beautiful face, mischievous, violet eyes, and long, dark tresses of Marwnad, High Priestess of the Elven death-cult, the Keepers.

Fyn did not know her by that name; but even after a hundred years, she would have known that face anywhere. She heard herself gasp.

"Mother??!"

Marwnad smiled warmly at her.

"Hello, darling. Did you miss me?"

Then she made a signal with her left hand; and before Fyn could react, someone had seized her from behind, pinning her arms uselessly to her sides with one huge arm, and with the other pressing a foul-smelling rag over her nose and mouth. As she drew breath to scream, a wave of blackness swept over her, and she went limp in her assailant's arms.

Marwnad spoke curtly.

"Beautifully handled, Peredur. Mind you don't hurt her, and mind she doesn't wake up."

The big elf holding Fyn bowed his head chivalrously.

"Of course, my lady."

Marwnad and he exchanged a quick flirtatious glance, but Marwnad was already issuing her next order.

"Cynan. Get out of there. Time to pack up."

A second male elf, much smaller than the first, began to scramble out of the tent flap as quickly as he could. Marwnad barked at him to hurry up.

"Be quick Cynan. Everything must vanish. No trace must be left."

As Cynan scurried about obediently, cramming the tent into a bundle, and brushing fresh snow over their new tracks, as well as Fyn's, and then his own which he had just made chasing down the others', Marwnad and Peredur watched him in silence. Peredur occasionally checked on Fyn's breathing. Marwnad repeatedly scanned the treeline for any sign of pursuit.

In a few minutes, Cynan was done. Marwnad produced a small purple crystal; and in a flash, all four of them had vanished, leaving nothing but three pairs of footprints where Marwnad, Peredur (with Fynnien over his shoulder), and Cynan had last been standing.

The snow continued to fall, ambivalently. Then a few moments later, the figure in the dark grey cloak, who had followed Fyn from Prifddinas, emerged from the treeline in the direction from which she had originally come. He must have watched where she had dropped her pack, for now, as he walked slowly to the centre of the clearing, he carried it in his hand.

There, Tristan lowered his dark grey hood.

Putting his hands on his hips, he turned slowly, surveying the clearing, his expression tight-lipped. Then he turned his face upwards to the stars and the snowflakes; and shook his head.

"Oh, Fyn. I hope you know what you're doing."