Aetherra; by Isaac Ostlund; Chapter 2, Reunion, Part 4

Brant was not entirely surprised by their response. First shock, then doubt, and finally fear. Honestly he was not sure how he felt about it himself; he was too tired to really give it much thought.

“How long ago did you see this?” Yara asked for what Brant felt was the tenth time.

“This is the dawn of the third day since that night,” Brant told her, trying to keep weariness from putting an edge to his words.
                “Brant, you’re probably the best woodsman I have ever seen, but to travel that distance in such a short time...” Dima said.

“I stopped only once, sleeping for a few hours, and then pushed on. I am quite tired.” Brant said simply.

“Incredible. You live worthy of your token. No one has made that journey in such a short time. It is well that you are so capable,” Dima said, then turned to the rest of the quorum. “We need to confer, there is much to discuss. If the serpent finds us and decides to attack I fear there is little we can do.”

“Brant, you are obviously exhausted and deserve rest,” Gevan said. “We will have more questions for you but they can wait. Go, Niri is no doubt wondering why I am still here, tell her I might be a while.”

“Tell her nothing about the Dragon, Brant, we need to have a plan before we scare the whole village,” Dima warned. “Pon, you as well, speak of this to no one.”

They both nodded and left the hall together.

Brant turned to the young girl, “Show me your token when I wake up? Maybe in a week?”

She laughed and then looked up at him, “You didn’t hear what it is?”

“No, I must have missed that part,” Brant replied.

Pon smiled mischievously, “You’re gonna love it.” 

It was a strange place. The grey sky seemed to stretch forever in every direction. Even down? Yes, some of the time. Brant looked around and found he was standing in a field. Colorless grass waved back and forth in a soft breeze.  In the distance he saw tall dark pines silhouetted against the bright sky.  Usually a place of danger, somehow he knew the forest held no horrors for him today. He walked toward it and suddenly was at a pond with the forest still in the distance. A dark plant with rich green blossoms was growing around the murky water. What strange flowers! Brant bent over, reaching to pick one of the buds.

He was in pain. Black vines wrapped around his arms and legs, cutting his skin and pulling him to the ground. He fought against the plant in vain. Each time he snapped a vine the severed fragment grew with increased vigor. Tendrils wound up his arms and legs to his torso, sharp thorns digging into his flesh. He could not move. He screamed, feeling his throat burn with the effort but only silence escaped his lips. Everywhere  the plant touched felt on fire. It kept constricting him tighter, hopelessly stronger than he was.

“You’re in quite the pickle, aren’t you?” A light, almost whimsical voice asked above him. Brant looked up, forgetting his horror for a moment.

A small feminine figure sat above him, resting on a branch of a tree that definitely had not been there before. In his mind Brant called her a Fyelin, or brownie, somehow just knowing what she was. She stood about two feet tall with rust brown skin. Green hair like untrimmed grass fell across her face. She wore a strange brown coat and a skirt made of roots and twigs.

“Hmm, guess you can’t really talk can you?” The small fey giggled, it sounded like chimes in the wind.

“Every time. They can’t move and they can’t talk,” she said, counting the two things on her fingers.

“Ah! Let me help you!” She said excitedly, hopping to her feet. “Everyone knows you gotta ‘pologize. We just call ‘em Follies, but I think they’re called Pride’s Folly by those all proper-like. Just say sorry and suddenly it ends, just like that!” She said matter-of-factly, snapping her fingers.

She put a finger on her chin, tilting her head to the side, “They probably came from some man’s guilty feelings huh! Never matter, now they’re all over the place! Best of luck to you!”

And then she disappeared, or had she jumped away? Something happened, and the Fyelin was lost in the grey shifting . The pain came back now that he was alone, sharper than before. Brant began to struggle all the more. Panic set in. He could not move! He could not breathe. The nightmare consumed every thought. I am going to die.

Doing anything other than fight against the pain was difficult, like he was wresting control of something on a set course. He knew what he should do but each time he tried to act the world pushed back, compelling him to kick and pull at the folly instead.

Thoughts slipped through his mind like water through grasping fingers. He focused, trying to keep what he wanted to do clear in his mind. Finally he seized the idea firmly, and in that moment he pulled, forcing the course to change. It worked. The dream shifted; he was free. The folly still held him, cords like sharpened steel gashing his skin, but now he was in control. He wasn’t sure if it really was his fault, but if apologizing was the way to end this suffering he might as well try.

I’m sorry. He tried to say, but no words came out.

He tried harder. I’m sorry! Still no sound. Just pain, and the tightening of death.

Suddenly he realized maybe it really had been his fault. Was he too curious?

I am so sorry! I’ll be more careful next time!

“I’m sorry!” Brant shouted, sitting up in his bed.

With shaking hands he wiped the sweat from his face. The memory of the gripping vines and burning cords lingered on his skin. He tried to take a deep breath but it caught in his throat. He sobbed, tears falling to his sheets. He sat alone in the darkness, weeping silently and wondering what he had done wrong until he finally fell asleep.