"I'm so sorry," he murmured once more, his voice trembling with the weight of his act as he leaned close to the now-still form. This apology, though softly offered to the departed beast, seemed to beg forgiveness from the world itself.

Beneath the bull's lifeless form, the ground softened and yielded, transforming into a pliant bed that slowly swallowed the beast. Vines, not passive spectators but agents of nature’s will, wrapped around the body and drew it into the nurturing embrace of the soil until the animal vanished without a trace.

Carlos, rooted to the spot, observed Baruch with a mixture of astonishment and a kind of horror that was not born of fear but of an overwhelming recognition of the druid's power. It was a horror that any might feel in the presence of such primal force.

Regaining his stature, Baruch rose, his voice, laden with the weight of untold ages, broke the silence. "Rest in peace, my brother," he intoned, his words a benediction for the departed spirit of the beast. His gaze then turned to Carlos, who, despite his years and wisdom as the head of the settlement, appeared as a pupil in the face of nature's raw lessons.

"You are alive and will continue to live, and that's what matters. Is there anything more valuable?" Baruch's question, rhetorical yet profound, hung in the air. Carlos could only nod in acknowledgment.

Baruch cast a guilty glance at the aftermath of his hesitation: the silent ground, sanctified by the final breath of a creature that had once basked in the sun's warmth. With a thousand curses echoing in his mind, he turned away from the village, striding toward the forest. His form stood as a towering silhouette against the twilight, each step reverberating like distant thunder.

Carlos, guardian of the village's hearth and heart, trailed in the wake of Baruch's retreating figure, his steps a restless dance as he tried to keep pace with the deliberate strides of the druid’s long legs. “Where you going, Maestro?” he called out into the deepening twilight, his voice heavy with concern.

“To end this,” the druid's voice carried the gravity of his resolve, his words echoing through the gathering dark. "I have to clean the forests from this curse,” He declared.

Carlos, his words laced with concern, pleaded through the encroaching night. "The woods are dangerous at night, even for you!”

The truth in Carlos’s words pierced the veil of Baruch's resolve, and his march, once steadfast as the old oaks, faltered, slowing to a halt. ‘I don’t know the source of the curse. Even the forest may not be able to protect me,' the druid mused. Yet within him, the blaze of duty burned fierce, a flame against the dark.

“Let's wait till dawn, mi Maestro. Tomorrow, we'll gather the men to stand with you,” Carlos’s voice was a salve to Baruch’s churning spirit. The laughter and songs floated across the fields, a vibrant tapestry of sound weaving from the village. "Listen…" Carlos's voice carried, warm and inviting. "People leaving cemetery's now; everyone heading to the plaza. Please, join us. Your presence would honor her grace Aelithra and all those who’ve passed. Please, join us. Your presence would honor her grace Aelithra and others who’ve passed," he urged. The mention of Aelithra, once a celestial guardian revered by all, anchored Baruch's feet to the ground with the weight of his unmeasurable respect for her.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

The question Carlos posed, a gentle inquiry tinged with the sorrow of remembrance, pierced the fog of recent anger that enshrouded Baruch's spirit. “Do you hear this song, Maestro? It's for those we've lost. You know how many we lost, right? Tonight, we sing for them." The warmth in Carlos's voice, imbued with the melancholy of loss, reached Baruch as a beacon through the tumult of his concerns.

"Your folks got traditions like this?" Carlos continued, pulling Baruch’s thoughts away from the forest.

"In the Golden Valley, this festival, Noche de las Almas Pasadas, serves as a bridge between the realms of the living and the departed," the druid reflected, his gaze sweeping gently over the serene village. "This gathering is not a mourning of death, but a celebration of the enduring connections that not even death can sever."

"We, Yoshvei haYa'arot," Baruch added thoughtfully, "do not dedicate a specific day of the year to honor the deceased." He paused, letting the gravity of his words permeate the quiet that hung between them. "Instead, their memory is eternally woven into the consciousness of the living through our prayers and rituals. Each ceremony strengthens the ties between those who remain and those who have passed, reaffirming the perpetual cycle that unites us."

Baruch continued, his voice imbued with a poignant resonance, "In essence, our entire existence pays homage to our ancestors. We live and remember, and through our deeds, the spirits of those before us continue to shape the world."

"Then you understand the importance of mourning the dead. We need you, Maestro," Carlos implored, his plea underscored by the sincere respect.

The tension between justice and vengeance stirred in the druid’s heart, but thoughts of his wife and son softened his earlier fury. Their love was a balm, cooling the fire within. "Tomorrow, our courage will be tested. Tonight, I reunite with my family. Let us return." Baruch declared after a deep breath that seemed to draw in the night itself. He turned from the beckoning shadows of the forest, his expression as warm as a midsummer's breeze in the Golden Valley, and faced Carlos.

With a friendly clap on the druid's back, Carlos guided him away from the lurking shadows of the woodland, leading their steps toward the village. With each step, the sounds of celebration grew louder, enveloping them in the village's jubilant spirit.

"And there’ll be plenty of food!" Carlos declared, his voice brimming with the solemnity of his small victory.

Baruch, his features etched with the day's trials, regarded Carlos with a blend of amusement and inquisitive concern. "But moments ago, you spoke of hardships with provisions?"

Carlos leaned closer, the playful spark in his eye undimmed by the looming darkness. "But you and Maestro Tabitha will help us, right?" he suggested with a panhandler's gaze.

Baruch exhaled, weariness etched into his face. ‘This village is nothing but trouble,’ he mused silently. Out loud, he remarked, "We, Yoshvei haYa'arot, abstain from meat, so I'm afraid the feast's offerings may not align with our practices." His gaze settled meaningfully on Carlos. "How do you plan to resolve this?" he asked.

Carlos, with a wave of his hand as if to dispel any doubts, proclaimed, "What's got you worried? My daughter-in-law makes the best pumpkin soup in the land! Not a speck of meat in it, te lo prometo!”

"It’s great," replied Baruch, his visage softening into a gentle smile, a rare bloom of warmth in the cool twilight.

Seizing the moment of camaraderie, Carlos began a tale about his son, a young man of twenty-three winters, yet still a boy in matters of the heart and responsibility. "He shies away from marriage like it's a ball and chain," Carlos shared, his voice tinged with both amusement and concern for the future that awaited his reluctant heir. "And the idea of becoming the village steward after me? He acts like I'm asking him to wear a crown of thorns."

Baruch’s thoughts, however, had strayed from the conversation. ‘What was that desolation I felt earlier? I've never felt such a void before…’ he pondered, his thoughts as dark and profound as a winter’s night, pulling him away from the warmth of Carlos's narrative and into the frigid grasp of his own introspections.