The Broken Truce: When the Forest Weepeth

By Eleawen Galathiel

« The wind doth carry the lies of men, yet the forest doth whisper truth. »

A sennight. Seven brief days during which swords did fall silent, banners did cease to flutter, and the mothers of Durakiss did believe — for but one fleeting moment — that their children would return whole. A truce, ’twas told to me. Temporary, they did add, as though Death himself did take holiday. Yet the truce, good folk, was a jest without moral. And jests without moral, as the proverb doth say, « may be drunk, yet they warm not the soul. »

The March upon the Lost Land Forest

At dawn of the seventh day, whilst the mist of Durakiss did yet dance upon the quays, the hosts of King Alak Averruncus Maeviir Marin and Queen Jula Marin Maeviir did strike camp. Their course: the Lost Land Forest, that ancient wood where the trees bear names older than our dynasties. Their aim? The Arche Gate, that mysterious passage of which ’tis whispered it leadeth to the mysterious Arche Tower. « Lightning war », a drunken captain did breathe in a harbour tavern, his wine staining a map he ought not possess. « We shall reclaim the whole forest ere the ravens do sing. » I did smile — for the ravens of the Lost Land Forest never sing. Only spirits there, and they watch. And they remember. The columns did march tight, banners in the wind, boots striking the earth like a war-drum. The forest, for its part, did answer with a silence that only trees do command — that silence which doth say: « I behold thee. And I forget not. »

Meanwhile, in the desert…

Whilst all eyes were turned toward the green shadows of the Lost Land, another stage did blaze. The forces of Sambrune — those warriors of sand whom are known for their bravery and ferocity — did strike their own Arche Gate, there where the desert cleaveth the earth like an open wound. And they did reclaim it. « One dust, one battle, one victory », a scout returned to Durakiss did tell me, his face cracked by sun and salt. « But at what cost? The sand doth drink blood as well as the forest doth drink rain. »

Two gates. Two fronts. Two forests — one of green, one of dunes. And at the heart, a truce in shards, trampled like a flower beneath iron boots.

The truce is a jest that kings do play for crowds, yet war is the price that trees do pay for silence.