From any which way the roads span, The Dark Boughs were feared by all. It was known for its secrets. Tales taller than castle spires spoke of its newfangled beasts and curses. One claim recounts a colossal floating eye, the Sin Knower, appearing from nowhere by the opening of its hidden eyelid. It’s said to peer into its victims, recalling to their mind every iniquity they’ve committed, grave or small. Those who’ve tempered a mind of steel flee from its grasp. Having weathered their own iniquities, they are said to be gifted the same ken of kin. Some, becoming wretched of trust, retreat to the wilds and live the remainder of their days alone. Others wield this ceaseless insight to their advantage, rising as magnates through extortion. 

Each tale that escapes the deep woods makes them better known for their hush and blind. Though in this tale, their sleepy, shadowy trees find themselves disturbed by the yap of a queer troop of adventurers. This merry band comprised a golem, a fae, and an elf aimlessly cutting the air with a canting steel. The Sword sang:

..and one now hewn of stone

spewn forth of hearth

whose brambled barb’s been shed

to break the curse

we journey now

to return elves

from solemn dearth-

The Golem interrupted the song in a fit.

“Must you always speak in insult, you loatheful rex? Spite! You haven’t had subjects in ages, yet you cast down even your own tone with your tongue! Or dare I say the lack of!

The sycophant sword sings shrill. 

See! I can rhyme too Ote-”

The Golem roared in his doubled voice, carried into his own fire at the Sword’s supposed impingement of his character. His stature is between a half-finished statue and rock upon rock. The impression of a face is only implied by the angle and arrangement of stones. On his forehead lies a ruby horn. The ground shook with each step he took, unearthing plants or grubs in the outlines of his feet.  “Do you envy the quiet of these deep woods, ye oaken foot? Even if you were to grant me quiet enough to hear our lord’s song, the ground still shakes. Worse than even the less affable half of your old namesakes.”

Said the Elf, interrupting the Golem. He’d taken on the stately and dismissive tone of their friend, the Sword. The Elf made long and elegant strides on the damp wood path. Donning sage attire of simple weathered wool draped from his tall, treelike posture. In his hand was the singing sword. A blade of black that denied all light. A hilt and handle are made from knots of emerald-colored roots, each curl and tail firm as metal. On the face of the handle was a large white gem that swirled with black and white whisks of fog. It glows white or black with the height or depth of tone in his song. 

“Well, I’d have at least your silence vine beard! Let us old men share a clack and gabble. You’ll understand when the moon can turn enough times for ya!”

Roared back the Golem. His tone was one of snide self-assurance. 

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The faery among them flutters her wings, then lands upon the Golem’s shoulder. She beams with the mirth painted across her face, indicating she enjoyed the chiding. Her rainbowed wings split out from underneath her white, snug silk robe. The bottom of which was lined with sequins, the shape of stars. A depiction of the moon was sewn in a purer white above her chest. She rests her hand, not much bigger than a man's ear, to the side of his face. She stroked where his beard used to be. Then, in a whisper, calm and jestful spake 

“Old? That blade is as old as it is young stoneskin. And the moon? You mean where we fae are said to hail from? Was your knowledge lost along with your beard to the lyre? I can seek its crescent council if you desire stoneskin.”

Fire, then a hasty deference fell upon the Golem’s cragworn face. He gritted his teeth, then spoke like a child does to a mother who holds his heart.

“Thou art just.”

Creaked the Golem. He continued in a sunken rumble he thought only he was privy to.

“I miss the days when it was common for you to be quiet.”

The Elf and Sword he wielded let go a shrill laugh. The Faery floated from his shoulder, twisting and dancing through the air. She hovered in front of the Golem’s face. Then, for a moment, she became the depiction of innocence. Hands behind her back. Eyes closed. A welcoming grin. The Golem thought himself free of the sequel of his retort. Then she waved an outstretched finger and plopped it on the gem horn on his forehead. A dark red light bathed the faces of the party. Then, a crack, as the golem split at every seam of stone. A pile of smoking rubble where he once stormed. 

A rupture of laughter filled the woods.

“No better jester than the fae! I’d have you in my court!” said the Sword in the haughtiness of royalty.

“Still with the claw of the cat after all these years,” spoke the Sword again with the sanguinity of accomplished youth. 

“You fae are certainly life itself!” said the Elf in his short, chuff laugh. 

The Fairy, still hovering in the space where she dismantled the Golem, snapped her fingers. At her beckoning, the rocks climbed back up upon themselves, one by one. With the final gem horn rolling into place, it resumed form as the Golem.

“I’m sorry”

Cried the Golem in a chastened voice.

The Elf approached the Golem, stroking his branching and braided beard perched towards the Golem, adding to the taunt. The morning dew hung on the tiny blooms sprouting from it. Even the sun seemed to join the jab by placing its light upon the beads of water to be reflected in the Golem’s eyes. 

Then, in a mockery of genuflection, the Elf presented the singing sword to the Golem, who continued to croon. Reluctantly, the Golem took that blade-locked bard into his hand and let free a sigh of scorn and relief. He accepted his temper had gotten the best of him, as it often did. 

Then the Elf produced the selfsame lyre strapped to his waist which the Golem looked upon wistfully.

“My liege, may our lyre gift a grave and lively importance to your wit with song. Resume your lauding carols of our deeds, that our travels remain as wistful as the wisdom you impart.”

Then the Elf began to strum a mellow tune. The melody was rife with such solemnity that it betrayed his insincerity. The Golem and The Fae joined in their earthy and aiery hums. The forest fowl added their drumming yawn. Then, the wind spun by to lend its howl. The fruits ripened, the dew shined, and the boughs swayed; then The Sword sang again:

Golem recall to me

Your love’s first peril

Towards his wings

Whose own blood stalled

His ‘wakening”

Sword recount to me the doubts

of your kin and master

and resecured

whim and laughter

Elf serenade me of your rescue

from the realm of dreams

and your oath eschewed

That we now draw

Near to

Then I will sing of the maker

Of the jewel 

That keeps me here

With you