every song and story is a prayer, you know.
stories are powerful.
yet no story can tell everything. in the gaps between our words and the world, there is much mystery.
-.-.-
Enna fears losing her mind. and she fears nightmares. the two fears go together, feeding each other. most of her childish nightmares are easily forgotten, banished by morning light and breakfast tea. but Enna has one nightmare that recurs, at least every winter since her 14th year.
this nightmare keeps pushing the possibility of insanity right up against her skin. for at first it is a pleasant dream-- a dream she might want to keep living in. a dream of a perfect life in Waterdeep-- perfectly happy, solid, meaningful, full of flowers and joy-- but the perfection of it is somehow thin enough to show the hag's spindly gruesome fingers pulling all the strings behind the scenes. nothing ever goes wrong, nobody ever gets hurt... but just beyond every glancing look, hiding, watching, there is something terrible waiting to tear through the lie, to break open her mind and topple the fantasy into the twigs and bone and crawling bugs it might be made of. the world in this dream is paradoxically, thoroughly, both perfect and fake, in the way that dream realities can simply be, even if it doesn't and cannot make sense. it's like the horrible dream is trying to show her how fragile she is.
since last winter, the nightmare has come more and more often. every new moon. and then every fortnight. and now every week or so lately, when she wakes up sobbing, devastatingly deep sobs, trembling and flailing for something true, Merileth must hold her for hours before the panic and fear fully fade away again. they clasp hands, Merileth calming every question, reassuring Ennagold's every doubt: I'm here, this is real, I will pinch you twice but no more. have a drink. feel your breath. remember your family, your work, the wind and the stars outside. it is only a dream.
-.-.-
Enna prays, haphazard stream-of-consciousness prayers, every morning before she even opens her eyes. then she stirs and looks around, stretching, wrapping her arms around herself and drumming her fingers on each shoulder. then she'll fish her string of charms from whichever bag or pocket she stowed them in over night and take a moment to touch each one, recounting in her mind very short, simple versions of the stories connected to them all.
for the embroidered snowflake pendant, she remembers drawing in the windowpane frost of her father's office gable.
for the small twist of braided leather cord, she remembers being trapped, and then escaping out from under the cellar of the hag's lair.
for the aqua-blue crystal in its copper wire setting, she lilts through the oldest creation myths she knows.
for the acorn, she remembers dark, empty oak trees lighting up and blossoming with leaf-buds every spring, opening their branches to be homes for the squirrels, or birds, or beetles. the stories morph slightly in each rushed remembering, and that is as it should be.
each night, she holds the charms one by one again, just briefly, and tucks them away on their cord somewhere safe before curling up as close to Merileth as she can.
-.-.-
if there's a space for songs around our campfire some night soon, Enna will solemnly introduce this latest composition, "A Thousand Prayers," and sing it in tribute to her brave grandfather.
🎶
I can imagine a thousand more meetings
where things didn't end this way
I've journeyed so long
after strains of your song
a faint hope, a mere spark
granting light through the dark
maybe you fought in a thousand dread battles
but how many ended this way?
what I wouldn't give
to know the lives you did live
near to home and afar
through the light and the dark
I can imagine a thousand adventures
and none of them end this way
now try as I might
happy endings to write
times feel so lonely, so stark
in this land cursed by dark
yet I can imagine a thousand ways forward
a thousand new stories...
a thousand adventures...
where we'll meet again someday.
-.-.-
during her evening's performances at the Inn, Ennagold had almost been
able to feel at home again. a tavern was not exactly as familiar a
stage as those at her old college, but it was at least a stage.
perhaps
only ten or twenty minutes ago she'd stepped down with her instruments
and begun to share her earnings around the table-- but hells it felt more
like weeks. the chaos, the screams and claws and teeth. what horror. and
now the ocean of pain and devastation in her right knee made it
impossible to think of how many clawmarks must surely mar her arms and
torso.
she is curled into a whimpering heap on the table nearest the stairs, gripping her leg desperately and holding her breath as if by force of will she might lesson the burning, twisting hurt. her boots and socks and trousers are thick with blood-- her own and the werewolves' both.
with each pained, halting breath she tries to
pray, whether aloud or in her mind she can't quite tell. I need healing.
need Merileth. need home.
-.-.-
the laws of stories place a balance of importance on beginnings, middles, and ends. for Ennagold, the trick is knowing when to shift the balance.
the first card Eva drew for us told of a book. for all the stories and insight and secrets it may hold for us, Enna is very interested in finding it.
for the dark, dreary weeks they've been in Barovia, Ennagold has been following her destiny. the threads of it seem to keep fraying apart, tugging her back and forth in uncertain circles. from that first wolf attack to finding out that not all children here have souls at all— from watching Strahd bite out Drusillia’s tongue just for singing to almost becoming a werewolf after the fight at the Blue Water Inn— so much has happened that doesn’t fit her plans or dreams at all. but at least she still has her people, and Gladiator too. she's doing everything she can to keep her inner light-- and the communal light of the whole party—alive and burning.
her priorities now are to get her hands
on more magical or silvered weapons of any kind, help Merileth get all
her memories back before it's too late, keep Ireena as safe as can be,
and find anyone else who knows more about the Prophecy Song in her music
box.
It will be many months before Ennagold will be ready to perform this story or even share it amongst closest friends at camp. She’ll rework it in her mind many times, stretching pieces of it this way and that way, testing out ways of framing her belief that souls are meant to melt back into the vastness of all existence.
The story is about many things and many feelings, but mostly what it means to be safe.
Once upon a time in a dark, distant land, a small band of adventurers met monsters on their way.
What safety is there to be found in a werewolf den? But Zuleika found us clean and warm alcoves where we could rest. The children and others slept while Merileth and I whispered, her memories pouring back like starfall, sparking mine along with each one, and all the joy from before we came to Barovia seemed brighter and stronger than anything.
I told her I was still sad and sorry, but glad too, that she’d followed me here. And we tried to put our worries to sleep, to trance in full trust of this brave, triumphant moment in which we had saved our lives and others’
Tragedies marched through my mind for a long time before the gods granted me sleep. The Martikov boy. The ruin of Vallaki. The way they’d tortured poor Stella. Tharimor’s fierce and noble death. My grandfather’s unquiet corpse. The way that cursed Lord of this land had brutally taken pieces from Vasilka, from Drusilia.
But I still had my sanity. My Merileth.
What safety was there to be had for a dozen outsider children in this mist-bound land? Zuleika urged us toward Kresk, the closest haven from her den and furthest from the devil’s castle keep. Some will say it should have been a simple few hours’ journey. And indeed Zuleika led us well through the woods, wending our way south, toward the bit of road that would take us to the gates of the town. Despite the clouds and shadow, we walked cheerfully. Merileth and I spoke of destiny, music, and love—all things that grow better and stronger when shared. The children showed delight at Gladiator’s coat of flames I clasped Merileth’s hand between both of mine to smile with her at their playfulness. Almost gleaming in the filtered daylight, the walls of Kresk seemed to meet our mood, when suddenly something gripped the roadside forest with chill and poison dark. Fogs furled furiously out from the trees, closing in all around us before we could breathe. Lilith produced a fan, with swift action pushing the fog away, holding a bright clearing for us and the children.
One dreadful moment later, a bloodied, raging beast leaped forth from the fog to tackle Zuleika. Two other figures coalesced from the fog to confront the rest of us—a golden-masked woman, beautiful and terribly manic, and a young man with palest visage and sunken eyes. As he stepped toward Lilith I thought I noticed some resemblance between them.
Gladiator lunged up to aid Zuleika against the wolf-beast while the rest of us tried to shield the little ones. The woman warned us, laughing, that she was not allowed to kill all of our party—but she could kill some of us.
My rallying words and bravado fell uselessly at the feet of these horrors, and my strength nearly faltered altogether at her taunts. Her cold ivory claws raked the blood from my flesh and I staggered weakly, barely able to stand between her and the others.
Lilith fought her brother, her movements fierce and relentless even as she cried “Do not make me do this!” I heard Zuleika gasping for life, Gladiator growling and whimpering in turns as he threw his flames at the wolf.
The vampire bride Volenta sneered at me, so unpleasant was the taste of my blood to her. And she turned to my beloved. With her claws she pried mercilessly into Merileth’s traveling clothes, into the skin of her arms and shoulder and breast. I pulled my own shoulders back then, standing as straight and tall as any elf ever stood, and called out over Merileth’s slumped, barely-breathing form that no evil could darken the light and goodness of our hearts that day. Even four and a dozen lowly, mortal souls could carrying a brightness that her kind could never hope to stand against. These words I delivered with all of my power and focus, and then placed my hands on my silvered sword.
The screams at my back seemed to fade then, as Volenta looked slowly, menacingly, gleefully into my eyes. “Savor this moment,” she snarled, bloodied claws tantalizing her own lips and tongue. "Savor it just for me."
The next part of this tale is not easy to tell. Some may wonder what safer ways we might have chosen or what braver, stronger, more powerful defenses we might have put to use. Some may ask what safety and justice we could have made, if only for this, or that, or some other thing…
Those stories will take their turn on the stage of the world. In this story, the vampire Volenta, bride of Strahd, spilled out the life of my beloved onto the cold dirt of a cursed forest floor as blithely as knocking a captured chess piece from a game board. As if it were nothing.
But Merileth’s memory will always be everything to me. If I could not keep her safe from Barovia’s evil in this version of our tale, I will dream and write and live the version where I and my allies have banded together, faced every obstacle, bested every threat, and finally ended all the curses of this place. And I will bring my Merileth—every piece of her beautiful soul— home again safe.
-.-.-
An untitled spoken-word poem/song/vow
by
Ennagold Lindenrill, the lost bard
[rhythmic drums, slow, soft, patient]
years before…
before these strange mists made a door
sun and rain,
love and pain
ev’ry touch between us so true
long, long ago…
farther back than it seems can be so
growing old,
dreams and cold
ev’ry moment more real with you
[heavier drum beats, still slow, but stronger, steady]
but then… that dark morn…
despite all my true promises sworn
so much death
truth’s last breath.
and no lover so faithful as you
[softer drums again, as if they might fade away entirely]
not so many nights since
and long heavy miles hence
fate's cruel cost—
my path lost—
darkness swallows all else I might do.
[drums intensify, much louder, accompanied by a few guttural lamentations]
now all the rest of my days
though I walk for all time in grief’s haze
each heartbeat,
a drumbeat
will guide me on, upward and through
[drumming evens out into a more militant, intense pattern]
how high and far we’ve come now!
although I can barely see how
hope a flame
none can tame
we must be what the light pulls us to.
here, where we stand
with the blade of the sun in our hands
my war cries
sail the skies
I must do what I've come here to do
[a few more loud, insistent beats, then a determined decrescendo into sudden silence]
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