The next few days’ travel was much the same as the day before. Tristan would walk until nightfall, return to the Fey Realm, rest up, and venture out the next day. He and Felicity did not speak much, as he was focusing all his willpower on spinning his essence crucible. Every day, he felt the little trickle get just a little bigger.

After a week, they reached the inner lands of the kingdom of Bhant. The weather had begun to get slightly warmer. Tristan saw the familiar signs that told him he was back around his childhood home. The orchard where Mr. Perry would grow his apples along the edge of the Anorox property line. As a child, he, Bertram, and Gisele would go pick them for a little bit of coin – and for free apples.

Not that they needed the coin. Minor nobility were still nobles, and his father and grandfather before him were paid well for their roles in saving the kingdom in the past. But their father always extolled them to work hard and learn what it was like making an honest day’s coin.

Well, before his Elf side became apparent. Then his father shunned him.

Continuing past the orchard he turned onto the firm dirt road that led to the estate entrance. A chest-high wall topped with metal spikes marked the perimeter of the family’s countryside home. A place that Tristan was well acquainted with. They only went to the townhouse in the city for monthly court appearances. This was his home.

And that is because they needed the space. His grandfather had constructed an enormous building for his dragon-puppets that his child and grandchildren could practice fighting against. And, as proper nobles, they had a number of horses as well. His father’s prized possessions were horses, and he loved them almost as much as he loved his children. Well, not all his children. He loved those horses more than he loved Tristan.

As Tristan was thinking on this, Felicity tapped him on the head, “Hey!”

“What?” he replied as he was pulled out his memories.

“Does your estate wall thing have a gatehouse?”

Tristan looked down the road and felt panic rise in his chest. The gatehouse, normally manned by a few hired mercenary guards that his father had met in his adventuring days, was occupied by The Black Company. “What are they doing here?” he wondered aloud.

“Oh, that’s not normal then.”

“No, it is not,” Tristan replied.

Felicity clicked her tongue, “Well…I could go take a look and listen. See what is going on.”

Tristan nodded, “Yeah, please do.” He cut to the side of the road as Felicity lifted off, and he made sure to stay out of sight of the gate house. Waiting patiently for a few minutes, his mind raced with possibilities. Maybe they’re doing a wellness check of some type? They could be here to train with grandfather? Lots of possibilities. Doesn’t explain why dad’s friends aren’t there.

Felicity returned and her face was downcast. “Umm…you’re not going to like this-”

Tristan felt his chest seize up slightly in panic, “What?”

“They’re guarding and keeping an eye out for someone who looks an awful lot like you.”

“Why?” Tristan asked, honestly flabbergasted. “The Black Company we fought a few days ago did not have a communication mirror as far as I saw. And those things are big, I would’ve seen it.”

She shrugged, “They want you. And getting in looking like you isn’t going to be possible.”

Tristan pushed his way through the trees and growth surrounding the walls and fence. Going down the line of stacked stone, he got to a small spot where the land sloped up slightly. Well-worn grooves and footholds had been knocked out by Bertram and him when they were younger and closer; they had made a way to escape the confines of home and roam the countryside if they wanted to.

Finding the familiar handholds, Tristan hauled himself up to the top of the stonework, and then gingerly stepped over the spiked, metal railing, before dropping down into a roll on the grassy slope on the other side. Glancing around to make sure he wasn’t noticed; he ran across the unkempt pastureland. Weird. Father would never let the horses stay cooped up. This would all be a lot lower. Something is definitely wrong.

Reaching the house itself, Tristan made a beeline for the cellar doors. He only stopped to check under the small tuft of grass that he had buried a spare key under when he first left on his two-year journey. Ripping up the growth, he found the bronze item, and fitting it into the lock, he found to his satisfaction that it clicked open.

“Make sure you go quietly,” Felicity said. “And duck your head! I’m up here, don’t forget.”

Tristan gently opened the doors revealing a dusty set of cellar steps. “That’s not right,” he muttered. “We have servants living here. They’d be going up and down this for deliveries.” Something is very, very wrong. Creeping his way down the steps, he winced slightly as every step caused his armor to shake and make some noise. “Is there anything I can do to mute myself?” he asked.

“Sound is not a spell type you or I have. Sorry.”

“Might be worth taking the armor off then,” he muttered. “Felicity, do you mind scouting through the house and seeing if anyone is in here before I do that?”

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She saluted and flew off. Tristan walked over to the pantry and opened it, his nose wrinkling as he smelled rotten and gone-bad fruits and vegetables. The grain looked fine enough. Going into the pantry and opening the door leading down to the meat cellar, he also was hit by the sickly-sweet smell of rotting carcasses. No one has been here for some time, he thought.

There was no way the family had abandoned their home in favor of the townhouse in the capital. And it wasn’t sold; otherwise this area would see some foot traffic. Heading back upstairs, Felicity came dashing over to him and fluttered in place in front of him. “We have to go. Now.”

“What? Why?”

She put her paws on his shoulders and pushed him ineffectually, “You don’t want to see what is up there.”

Tristan felt that tension in his chest grow cold. “Is anyone here?”

“No,” Felicity replied. “And if you go up there, you’re not going to like what you see.” Tristan pushed past her and walked up the steps. “I’m telling you, Tristan, you should turn back.”

I need to see whatever happened, he thought. Going up the stairs and entering the dining room, he cut across the dusty space and into the main entry hall – freezing in place as soon as he rounded th corner. His stomach leapt up into his chest, and he leaned over and retched.

All the house servants had been butchered and their bodies thrown into a pile in the front room. He could make out the horrified and partially rotten faces of their head servant, Mildred, who was like a second mother to him. “No. No-no-no this can’t be real.” He looked at Felicity who was flapping just behind him, “You’re doing an illusion. Please tell me this is some sick trick!”

She frowned and shook her head, “I’m sorry, Tristan.”

Mother! He ran up the stairs and made a beeline for his mother’s study. The place where she spent the most time. He passed by his old bedroom and paused. The door was completely shattered inward, blown off its hinges by someone smashing it down. The room had been completely ransacked. Shaking his head, he kept running until he found the same type of treatment had been done on his mother’s study door.

Going in he sucked in a sharp breath. She was sitting in front of an open window, the cool air gently blowing in. But he could see her hand dangling down. Withered. Decayed. Slowly walking forward, he walked around to confirm what he knew. He throat had been slit, and the dark, dried blood had stained her lounge-about dress.

He fell to his knees and sobbed; grabbing at the hem of her dress as he rubbed his face against it. “What happened?” he asked through the sobs. “Who did this?” he whispered through the tears.

He felt the warm touch of Felicity’s paw on his cheek, “Take all the time you need.”

Tristan cried into the fabric for what must have been an hour. His mother and grandfather were the only two people in his direct family that cared about him. His father disliked and even said on one occasion that he hated Tristan. His brother and sister had grown distant as they grew older, taking after his father.

He slowly stood up, intentionally averting his eyes from his mother’s face as he could not bear to look at it marred in any way. He untied the choker around her neck. An item of artifice. He knew exactly what it did.

But Felicity did not. “Why was she wearing that?”

Tristan held the choker in his hand, “She…when father’s first wife died, he went adventuring for a short time.” He wiped away his tears and felt the sorrow begin to blend with anger at the man. Not an unfamiliar emotion when it came to his father. “He saved her life, and she swore to be eternally loyal to him. This…this kept her quiet when he did not want to hear her.”

“Oh. Misogynist?”

Tristan nodded, “Father thought that a woman’s place was to bear children and raise them. Grandfather refused to let father keep my mother as a plaything, forcing him to marry her.” He looked at Felicity and felt that anger build up inside, overshadowing his sorrow. “Non-Humans and half-breeds are looked down upon in Bhant. As soon as my mother had me, father did something to her with the help of an alchemist. I was her only child.” Tristan cursed his father’s name and looked away from Felicity.

“That’s horrible,” Felicity whispered with genuine shock and disgust on her face.

“I need to bury her,” Tristan said as he began pouring essence into his ring. “We’re taking her back to the Fey Realm.”

----------------------------------------

The hour passed in silent sorrow as Tristan held his mother’s hand. Gently, as to not damage it. He was trying to think of why someone would want to hurt her. Butcher the household. But he could not think of a reason. Grandfather would have never let this happen without a fight. Once I put her in the Fey Realm, I need to find him. He felt the cold grip of dread begin to go up his spine. But…what if he’s dead, too?

The white light surged around him, and he was in the Fey Realm once more. Fairy dragons swarmed him, and he shouted out, “Bring The Matriarch!” His voice cracked, and he went silent as he realized his throat was parched.

Sitting there on the ground, holding his mother’s corpse, he couldn’t help but look at her face. It was withered and sunken, but the regal cheekbones and elegant jawline were still there. He forced himself to look away, setting her down on the ground as gently as he could. The Matriarch’s enormous wings flapped mightily as she landed and walked over. “Lord Tristan?”

He gestured to his mother. “She’s dead.” He looked up at The Matriarch, “I need to bury her.”

The Matriarch dipped her head down in respect, and the rest of the Fey creatures did as well. “Of course.” She looked at a few of the fairy dragons, and thirty of them immediately flew over and gently picked up his mother’s body. “Come, follow me. She will lay with her ancestors. I smell her bloodline; the same as you. My sincerest condolences.”

Tristan followed The Matriarch down into the roots of the tree once more, and she led him to a room that was seemingly dug into the spire supporting the tree. There was a bubbling pit of sap, almost like a living organ that was slowly beating. “This is the Queen’s Wood’s heart. The center of the Fey Realm. Tradition dictates that the closest of her kin puts her into the sap.”

“I…I wanted to bury her.”

“If you wish, we can do that instead. But the old way of the Elves is to submerge her in the sap and allow the tree to nourish itself. Giving herself back to the land, in a way. As the first Elves emerged from such trees, it is only natural to give back.”

Tristan nodded and gently took his mother’s corpse from the fairy dragons, setting her down into the sap. It graciously accepted her, and she sank down into the slightly bubbling liquid. “I…I need…” He felt lost. Isolated and alone in a sea of sorrow that stormed within his chest as the pain of loss welled up inside. He heard a roaring in his ears, a wailing of sorrow – and realized a second later that it was him.

Tristan felt someone hug him from behind. A person. And wheeling about, he saw a young woman who looked like a mix between a fairy dragon and a Human. “I’m so, so sorry,” she said in Felicity’s voice.

“You-”

“I can shapeshift,” she said as she held him in a comforting hug. “I know people like hugs when they’re sad.”

Tristan held her and buried his head into the crook of her shoulder and neck, grieving at the loss of the person who brought him into the world. Taught him everything in books. Played with him as a child. Nurtured his interests. Built up the connection between him and his grandfather.

A rush of memories flooded into him, and he simply wept as the tumultuous tempest of the past rushed through his mind.