Ionia frowned, surveying the village. Tidy earthen huts seemed to grow along with the trees. Only a patch of packed earth centered around a stone suggested civilization.Vegetables and herbs grew wildly, leaving narrow, well-trod footpaths to and from the well.

“Great Mothers, Shelini,” Ionia said, “I’d never have imagined such disorderly gardens would dare grow in your presence.”

“They ain’t disorderly,” Aga said, kneeling to examine a tangle of leaves. “These is elvish gardens. Fixed so plants help each other, feedin’ up the soil, shadin’, all that. Gran tried to keep said they was a right bear in this realm.”

“Ah-ha, such a wonderful eye for botany,” Shelini exclaimed, beaming with approval. Aga struggled to remain cross in the face of Shelini’s cheerful praise. “Elvish gardens are rather central to our ideology.”

“Which is?” Ionia sniffed.

“Ooh, well, it’s not as if we’ve a manifesto,” Shelini said. “More guidelines? We’ve written a five-thousand year plan.”

“Five thousand years is a right long time,” Aga said.

“Yes,” Shelini agreed. “But, it took five thousand years for things to grow so dire as they are these days.”

“‘Bout how far into this plan are y’all?”

“Oh, eighty years, give or take?” Shelini said, counting her fingers.

Aga narrowed her eyes, turning to Ionia.

“My ward has wisely chosen not to question your timeline nor how old-realm gardening might solve the empire’s numerous problems, questions I happen to share,” Ionia said.

“The timeline is a rough estimate. Five thousand years of damage ought to take five thousand years of repairing damage done by the empire, the lich, the pollutants thereof,” Shelini counted on her fingers. “Like an elvish garden, everyone supports and contributes to growth and healing by use of their own, unique abilities. A village well populated is a safe, sustainable village.”

“That’s well and good,” Aga said in a tone implying Shelini’s plans were neither well nor good “But there’s been all manner of catastrophe over them five thousand years. Seems like ya’ll are doin’ a lot of tail-chasin’.”

“We would be, if we weren’t open to change. Plant clover if the soil nitrogen gets low, nasturtiums for insect control. Methods change, people join, hearts change. Quite simple.”

“Nonsense. Utter, complete, nonsense,” Ionia said. “As if every settlement doesn’t need a good weeding--”

“That tears it!” Aga interrupted, stamping her little foot. “You two keep talkin’ gardening metaphors, and you,” she turned to Xagar, “act like you stepped on a puppy’s tail when you was the one what got stabbed. Them That’s Listenin’ What Cares, I swear I’ll light out on my own if all ain’t explained to me in real short order!”

“Ah, but what is ‘all’? Where to begin--” Shelini began, cut off by Ionia.

“Shelini’s been the matriarch of a resistance undermining the Empire and then the Lich for going on eighty years, Xagar’s a war criminal, and this is Pravama, rumored center of ‘reconciliation’,” Ionia snipped. “Do I omit any significant information, Shelini?.”

Aga reeled, turning to Xagar, who would not meet her eye.

“Matriarch?” Shelini tutted. “Well, there’s a bit of nuance to it, but broad strokes?” Shelini wobbled her head--yes, no, maybe-so.

Aga dropped to the ground, crushing someone’s holy basil, holding her head in her hands.

“Begging your pardon, my lady, lady Shelini,” Xagar spoke, hunched, head bowed. “You speak of reconciliation? My friend requested her scrying stone to deliver us to redemption.”

“Ah! Only Shelini, I am no lady,” the elf smiled, patting Xagar’s uninjured shoulder. “Ooh, and stand up, Xagar, I do not fear you, nor do your friends. You needn’t shrink before us.”

“You are too kind, My--Shelini,” Xagar corrected himself.

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“Don’t wound yourself,” Shelini chided. “I am well connected. I know you and your crimes. But look, look where your feet stand! You are among friends.”

Xagar looked down, studying the ground with puzzlement.

“Boy, don’t fall to fantastical thinking. Aga’s scrying didn’t lead us anywhere,” Ionia scoffed. “Shelini’s rather gauche Wayfinder spell did.”

“Hmm-mm,” Shelini’s eyes sparkled. “I might agree with you, Ionia, but only Aga’s most suggestible scrying stone responded to her request for redemption. Many things may be true at once.”

“Does Pravama offer redemption to regretful travelers?” Xagar asked.

Shelini shook her head.

“Oh, your pain is apparent, Xagar. Redemption and reconciliation are not one in the same. One may lead to the other, but as they say, the way is sharp and steep. How blessed you are in having support.”

“My lady, my friend,” Xagar said, his eyes still fixed on Shelini’s feet, “if I may make a rare request, I would like to speak with Shelini and her people.”

Ionia opened her mouth to protest, interrupted by Aga.

“It’s gettin' late. At any rate, Xagar’s shoulder needs proper seein’ to before we leave.”

Ionia grumbled.

“I suppose I could eat,” she conceded.

The village split between elves and ogres with a smattering of humans and dwarves. Xagar was reasonably certain waifish, green-skinned, dark haired youths playing on the outskirts of the circle were ogre-elves--a genetic combination too rare for a proper name. He’d never seen one live past infancy. Moreover, he’d never seen one answer a call to sit and eat with elf and ogre parents.

Dinner was a communal affair. Villagers sat in the clearing, sharing a cauldron of spiced bulgur with roots and whole fire roasted fish piled onto broad leaves.

“How is everything, my friend? The bulgar smells lovely,” Xagar asked.

Aga scowled.

“Could’ve tol’ me,” she snipped. “Whatever you done, could’ve tol’ me.”

“Leave him be,” Ionia scolded, little more than a reflex, her attention focused on Shelini.

The rainbow trout on Xagar’s broad leaf stared with flat, dead eyes. Restraint was self-flagellation. Aga would know the worst of him soon enough. He popped a fish eye from its head and into his mouth.

“My friend has been kind to me,” Xagar said, his voice a whisper. “She would not have, if she’d known.”

“I don’t know, so I ain’t bein’ kind,'' Aga seethed.

“You are correct,” Xagar said, his fist clenched, hardly noticing the sting of straining stitches in his shoulder. “You know nothing of me beyond my compulsive deference. How easy it is to show kindness to a pet.”

Aga turned, embarrassed and wounded; interrupted by a small, dark-skinned elf boy.

A hush fell on the villagers as Athanka approached.

“I, Athanka of Pravama, offer apology for my actions,” the boy recited. “In my anger, I chose to harm you. I sought vengeance, not peace. I ask for your forgiveness, Xagar Greengrass. Please, take the knife I used to injure you, a token of my remorse.”

Xagar fought tears. He had not cried in twelve years. He did not deserve the indulgence.

“How kind, Athanka. I accept your apology as I accept responsibility for your anger. My forgiveness is yours. I do not wish to deprive you of a useful tool. However, if my intuition is correct, your offering is integral to your apology. May I propose a trade?” Xagar tilted his boning knife from his belt slowly, its blade pointed at his own abdomen. He laid his hand flat, offering the handle to Athanka. “With the promise it shall never taste blood more sapient than a fish’s?”

Athanka turned to Shelini, who gave the boy a nod. Boy and ogre swapped knives, bowing to each other.

“On my heart, on our reconciliation, this knife will never taste sapient blood,” The boy intoned, looking up at Xagar, expectation in his dark eyes.

“I beg your pardon, little friend, but your words have the ring of ritual. I am ignorant as to a proper response.”

Xagar followed Athanka’s eyes, turning to Shelini.

“Mmph,” she held a hand in front of her mouth as she chewed and spoke. “Whatever you say will be fine, so long as it is honest.”

Xagar nodded.

“On my heart, on our reconciliation, I forgive your act of aggression. I hope, in time, you may forgive me for my trespasses against your people.”

Athanka ran back into the crowd, received by a cream-skinned elf whose left arm ended in a ball-jointed wood and metal facsimile of a forearm and hand. Xagar held his breath, meeting the man’s eyes in mutual recognition.

“With respect, Shelini, how much longer are we to maintain this charade?” the elf demanded.

“Well, I hoped until at least after dessert,” Shelini replied, a half-note of annoyance in her voice, though a placid smile remained on her face. “All right, everyone,” Shelini called.

“We’ve a pilgrim who wishes to drink the bitter root. He shall introduce himself on his own terms, as is our custom, yes? Xagar, stand. Tell them who you are, why you wish to drink the bitter root.”

Ionia glared, first at Xagar, then at Shelini.

“Drink the bitter root? I’ll not have you poisoning my gaurd!”

“Of course not,” Shelini said. “It’s only our reconciliation ceremony.”

“Poisons’r bitter as anything,” Aga snapped. “I’m right annoyed with him, but you’ll not hurt Xagar, no matter what he done.”

“Peace, Xagar soothed. “I have chosen very little in my life. If I am more than a pet to you, you will support me in this choice.”

Ionia shot a glare at Aga, who looked away.

Xagar stood, pulling himself to his full height.

“I am Xagar Greengrass, disgraced son of good Veridak and Zijal Greengrass. Many call me ‘Xagar the Butcher’ or ‘The Lich’s Butcher’, titles I regret for their accuracy and cruelty. I humble myself before faces I recognize and those who recognize me.” Xagar paused, clearing his throat, legs trembling. “I wish to ask forgiveness. Undeserving of your grace, you bless me, unworthy as I am your hospitality and civility.”

With a shuddering sigh, Xagar knelt, head bowed, eyes closed.

The villagers stared.

“Excellent,” Shelini clapped her hands. “All who wish to be heard and drink the bitter root, meet back at, oh, about there tomorrow?” She pointed to the spot where the sun would hang when they met again. “All in favor?”

“Aye,” said the wooden armed elf, followed by a chorus of “aye”s.