I have no idea what my nearly semi immortal characters did in the past.

I've done living history with the likes of the Longship Company, the SCA, and some black powder/early America groups over the years. Sure, it's fun taking a bath in a horse trailer after you've hauled the wood, stoked the fire, and warmed a bucket of water you had to carry from the buffalo (no, not a critter, a water tank). It's fun whacking large guys upside the head with swords while wearing armour in August in PA...

Meanwhile, back at the ELF, Bran is asked where he got that magic sword. When? Where? 

Things not to ask Elves: look at a clock, follow a calendar, and remember what century that was...

Skyfire

​or
​ how I died and got a magic sword

"When? Where? You humans always want to nail it down, carve it in stone, fasten it to a piece of earth that has shapeshifted into something else by now, to a time marked by calendars that aren't even accurate." I stared at the woman, beautiful in the ways deer and trees and horses and solid earth are. A line of Elvish script spiraled up one arm, it read, in English, 'luminous beings we are, not this crude matter', and I always heard it, and repeated it, in Yoda's voice when I saw it. "It's all dust now," I said.

Rain peered over her enormous coffee mug ("I only snap before coffee"), light from the woods outside poured through the big windows, across the hand carved wood of the table. "A pebble launched into an ocean, but it still made ripples."

Rainger, Rain, Rainy-rain, she's the Ranger, I'm the Elf. Her parents were almost as nerdy as she is... as I am... when they named her Rainger. But they had no idea she'd end up with the Earth Life Foundation...yeah yeah, bad pun acronym, talk to the Dwarves about it... helping kids turn over rocks and identify macroinvertebrates in the stream, lecturing about ravens to bored teens, and fighting evil in Washington by being a very adamant advocate for our environmental concerns.

"Ripples," she repeated, staring into my eyes. It was almost disconcerting. Not many people other than my own kin could do that without taking on an expression as if they'd fallen into the space between the stars.

"Dust." I said.

"THAT'S not dust." She touched the miniature sword hanging at my throat, along with the raven necklace. "And you most definitely are not dust."

"Ehhh." I had been. More than once. "A long time ago in a galaxy..." by now she was matching me word for word. Nerd for nerd.

"...far, far away." she finished.

"Or not so far. Or not so long, as my folk count things."
​
"We do not count the running years, not for ourselves," she quoted.

Legolas, LOTR, lost at length in the library that's my left brain, or is it the right one? "I don't know the when. There was no gunpowder. There was steel, or was it just iron? Depends if it was Elf-made or Dwarf-made or human smiths. Tiny villages. Hill forts. Sheep, cattle, goats, horses. Men who want power. Power, heh, what is it and why do they want it?"

"With great power..." Rain began.

"Comes great privilege, or so they felt. And they did not want to lose their privilege. They wanted more, always more."

"Clearly Spiderman needed to show up a few millennia earlier."

"Welp, they got Eoin and a Ravenkin."









"What?" Rain was leaning forward. "Bran...WHAT?" She smacked my forehead, "Reset!"

"What?"

She let out a breath, "Ergh! Elves, and their fluid sense of time. Five minutes of silence and glazed eyed gazing into the past does not a story make. Nor can I read your mind unless you do the Elven mind meld thing."

"Oh. Sorry." Not all memories are clear. Now is what matters, not the dust of the past. Where? Was it the place you call Scotland? Or Ireland? I could almost hear the lilt of the language. "It was a village. On a hill. You call them hill forts now, what's left of them. A village of farmers, smiths, craftsfolk, children, livestock, gardens. Well armed men wanted its resources, and cast wanton eyes upon its women. We had a band of defenders, a few of my folk, some villagers we had trained, Eoin's kin."

"By the look on your face, he's important."

"Swordbrother."

"You've had more than one? I mean Ian, now, but..."

"No. Eoin, Owen, Ewan, Ian, he keeps finding me again, every time he returns to the circles of the world." I paused, a moment, a heartbeat.

"You're doing it again."

"What?"

"Bending the space time conundrum." She glanced at the wall clock, something I utterly ignored 98% of the time. "If this was a podcast, all your subscribers would be gone. Dead air doesn't work. So, Oh-wen... Ian... who else did you have for defenders?"

"Ardeen." I studied the woods beyond the windows. The protected forest of Hawk Circle, the E.L.F.'s Pennsylvania base. Somewhere deep in the woods crows called. Corvids, kin to raven and chough, magpie and rook. The memories began to fade from black, to blur, to focused, like the beginning of a movie.

"Good name." Rain said quietly, studying my eyes, waiting for me to say the rest.

"Ardeen... meant Great Forest, as Rainger means Guardian of the Forest. She was versed in healing and other arts, often wandering the Great Forest alone, finding herbs and... other things... useful to her craft. She honored the Morrigan, she of many names, and the Dragon Grandmothers."

"Sounds like Seven Samurai. Band of warriors defending a village from bandits."
​
"Magnificent Seven." My eye fell on the action figure collection in the cabinet behind Rain, "That Mandalorian episode. The same story plays out everywhere, everywhen. The memory was focused now, mostly... " We beat back the first band, a scouting party, well armed and armoured. They retreated, and perhaps not because they were outmatched. They returned, in more numbers."




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~






The storm silver raven circled once, kraaaaacking out a hoarse call. Ardeen looked up from her work, laid the potion jar on the table and ran out to meet the bird. She held up a hand, but he banked in mid-turn and vanished in a swirl of rain and earth and leaves. Bran shook a few leaves out of his storm silver hair and walked toward her, swiftly, a look on his face that was anything but Elven calm.

"A day's march, that way, they'll be here by highest sun tomorrow."

Ardeen swore, more fiercely than the mariners down by the sea whence her mother had come. "We cannot fortify any more, we cannot FIND any more fighters, and I need more time..."

"We'll go back down the road, those of us who can travel swiftly. Use some raven tricks, split them up, lead them off. Fewer will show here, at least. Eoin should stay here, you'll need another healer, and he is wicked with a sword, in need."

"You and your kin can't carry weapons in raven form..."

"Eimhir can carry them in horse form, pookas run swifter than any steed, and our enemy is on foot. Mostly. Berard can ride, and when we get there..."

Ardeen let out a breath, "our bear man would be better here."

"He'll be back, don't worry. Your people's cooking is so good you'll probably be stuck with him for life. And I have three other Ravenkin, enough to nip at the heels of our foe and turn them like sheepdogs turn sheep."

Ardeen turned back to her potions, "I hope you're right." She paused, turned and met Bran's deep sky eyes. She touched his face, lightly, like the brush of feathers. "You'd better come back... to...us."






Brianan the Rook, Aislinn the Magpie and Eadan the Chough flew ahead with Bran. Eimhir thundered behind, throwing up divots from his great black hooves, while Berard perched among swords, bows, and one entirely too Dwarvish battleaxe, sheathed, but banging uncomfortably against his thigh. Why the Elvish chough needed a bloody battleaxe was beyond him. As for himself, all he needed to do was to change from a rather intimidating human to a more intimidating bear. At least the pooka, for all his great black hairy size, had a decent gait and the odd magic that kept any rider glued to his back.

The pooka, for his part, was going to have a conversation with Berard, if they lived, about Berard's riding skills.

The Ravenkin, all four of them, had vanished to specks in the distance. A harsh call from the road ahead showed they had left at least one within shouting distance of Eimhir and Berard. The rest had risen high and spread out to better see the lay of the land, and anyone on the road.

The sun sailed a handsbreadth across the sky, then another few fingers width. Finally a kraaaaaaaack! from a raven. He circled, flared and landed. Dust swirled, stung Berard's eyes, and caused the pooka to lay down some skid marks as he slid to a halt.

"They are ahead, in greater numbers, armoured and carrying shields."

The other Ravenkin emerged from the distant sky, and shapeshifted back to Elven form. Eimhir the Pooka turned his head to glare at Berard, then Bran.

"Not you," Bran said, "Don't shift. We really don't want to have to pack all of that again." He found a leafy branch, brushed flat a piece of earth and drew what the Ravenkin had seen. A curve in the road, trees, open space, a narrowing, a stream, a rise... a place for an ambush. "They are trained to fight in the open, in formations. We on the other hand, can fight with stealth, from hiding." Bran eyed the giant pooka and the bear-serker. "Most of us, anyway."

Plans were laid.
​
And quickly, like many other things, their ambush shapeshifted into chaos.






Mere horses seemed to teleport, if something startled them; here one moment, then suddenly the rider is left hanging in midair while the equine vanishes. Pookas had refined this art to actual teleportation, and once Eimhir had relieved himself of the weaponry he avalanched into the marching army, grabbing armed men in his teeth and vanishing with a clap-bang of displaced air. It sowed chaos among the few horses in the army, and they ran in all directions at once.

Then the bear stormed out from the trees.

The four Ravenkin had faded into the woodwork, hiding among branch and leaf, bows at the ready. Even with a giant rampaging draft sized pooka and a bear thrice the size of the native bears of the land, and arrows flying and panicked horses and men running hither and thither and yon, the Ravenkin's arrows found marks. Eadan the Chough grumbled at having to sit in a tree while his axe lay idle in his belt, but his bow was singing as loudly as any.

Eventually though, bows run out of arrows.

Now the Ravenkin were running among the branches, dropping down to use sword or axe or dagger, and vanish again. Berard roared by Bran long enough to gift him with the half dozen arrows stuck in his dense hide. Eimhir reappeared, gasping, to take up a bow, a quiver of reclaimed arrows in his hand. "I can't 'port any more. But I can shoot!"

The armoured army had scattered. It was impossible to tell how many were still functional. A few last stragglers ran into the woods. Bran heard the roar of a bear, then silence.

Bran motioned, Brianan and Aislinn shifted, took to the sky. They returned with news of a scattered force, much reduced. "We'll pace them, keep just ahead. Harass and nip at them as long as we can."

"Until the land opens up." Brianan pointed toward the lowering sun. "Too open there."

"Then we'll have to work harder here."






They moved through the trees on foot, on the ground or by branch, picking off any who wandered too far from the reforming ranks. Eimhir dropped back, scavenging arrows. Berard could run as fast as a horse in bear form, so he stayed in that shape, loping through the trees, sniffing out soldiers, emerging to snatch an unwary armoured form.

It was a good plan until they ran out of trees.

Now they loaded their weapons back on Eimhir and the Ravenkin took to the skies, the pooka thundering behind them. Berard stayed in bear form, ready to fall back and smite any of the army who advanced too far. He could run for a thousand strides or more, which would put the army well behind them, but he would eventually have to ride again. His ancestors had chosen Bear for his strength, not his endurance.
​
They flew down the road, in the skies and on foot. They would not be able to stop what was left of the army until they got to the hill fort.






Ardeen and Eoin saw them coming, specks in the clear sky. Even with mere human eyes, Eoin could pick out each one even at this distance by their overall shape and the way they moved; he counted four: chough, rook, magpie and... he let out a relieved breath, one raven. The others were Bran's kin, but Bran was his kin, swordbrother, raven to his wolf.

The Ravenkin landed, and not far behind them was the thunder of oversized hooves, and the heavy panting of a massive bear in full charge, for Berard had leapt off the pooka and shapeshifted into battle ready form.
"They are fewer, and scattered and battered, but they are still coming." Bran said. He ran to the pooka to retrieve his weapons... clattering to the ground as Eimhir shifted shape to Elf form.

Horns blew, the hill fort fell into readiness, the sky was empty of birds except for the distant echo of crows.

"Battle Crows." Ardeen said softly..

Bran and Eoin glanced at her.

"I have woven the protections as best I can. I have created potions. I have called upon the Goddess."

"Which...one..." as if Eoin had to ask.

"Morrigan, Warrior, Battle Crow."






Goddesses do not usually literally come to battles. Bran knew, that even with his kin's deep connection to that Goddess, this mortal fight was up to a bunch of mortals, and a handful of Elves, and one human who could turn into a bear. The army was reduced, but it was still potent.

And it came on like a storm.

The arrows ran out too fast. Bran could catch a few aimed at him, or at Eoin fighting alongside, there was barely time to grab any from the ground. Eoin fought, solid as a rock and measured as a wolf taking down an elk. Bran wheeled around him, flipping into the air as often as lashing out from the ground. In mid-leap he saw Ardeen, bow on her back, staff in hand, shouting invectives at the invaders, hammering helmed heads with a flash of green light from the staff. Beside her was a girl of not more than fourteen, wielding a sword almost as big as she was. The battle seethed around them, a raging sea, and one well armed man leapt at the kid...

Ardeen stepped between them, blocked, ducked, missed, tumbled, rolled back with the man's sword aimed at her head.

Bran's sword clanged into the man's sword, blocking him inches from Ardeen, a step, a twist, and the sword flew into the melee...

Ardeens' sudden panicked shout, "Bran, behind..."
​
...and he felt the odd sensation of a sword piercing his heart.






She froze, for a heartbeat, for forever. She dropped, crouched over him, protectively, but her healer's hands and eyes knew, he was gone. Only this shell remained. She howled, there was no curse in any language she knew fierce enough for the enemy who did this. "MORRIGAN!" She howled. She found Bran's sword where it had fallen, a long, light Elvish blade. With it in one hand and her staff in the other, she stormed into the melee, wreaking havoc on all sides, mowing a path of devastation, in full Battle Crow mode. No one stood before her.






He blinked, his eyes didn't seem to want to work, it was dark, blurry... wait... light... shapes... blurry...shapes... a... someone... sometwo... no...three... what?

The shapes coalesced, focused.

Bran stood in a hall, a wide, spacious, vast cavern, with a smooth tiled floor, carvings along the walls... were those...dragons? Three women regarded him: two tall, strong looking, wearing scaled armour; one in blue, one in purple... strange...colors, hard ones to make in dye or paint. The other woman was shorter, compact, voluptuous and hard muscled at the same time, clad in black armour, scaled... no, it looked more like...feathers.

Her hair was red. Blood red.

Behind them in the shadows... something...another carving... giant carving.

It moved, breathed and spoke.

"Hail, Traveler. Welcome to our hall."

"What?" He took a step. Floor...felt... funny. Or maybe it was his feet. As in they didn't feel at all. He looked down, caught sight of his hand, raised it.

He was looking right through it.

He looked down; hand, arm, leg... everything... see through. And the see through did not include clothes.

"What!" He looked up, and the giant shape in the back of the hall moved into the light. It was a dragon, golden, iridescent with subtle rainbow light and great golden eyes. "Grandmother!" he whispered and bowed, knelt. Dragon Grandmothers, he was in the hall of the Dragon Grandmothers, and now he remembered the battle and Ardeen and blocking a blow and a sword through his heart and... "I must be dead." he said out loud. He'd never heard of anyone going to the Dragon's halls when that happened, you went... between, to the Otherworld, and if you were Elvish, some day you would be re-embodied. You would re-enter the world through the womb. What happened to humans, he was not sure, though Eoin had certainly been re-embodied a few times. Ardeen... Ardeen was still there, fighting... or was it all in the past now? These places had a tendency to be outside of normal space and time. "Ard.. No. Ardeen. Nooooo." He looked up, imploring, into the Dragon Grandmother's sun eyes "The... others. I need... I need to. "

She remained still and silent.

The woman with the blood red hair walked up to him, eyed his spirit form up and down.

It felt to Bran as if she could see who he had been, not just his physical form, still recorded in this spirit form, but his whole nature, his whole spirit, flaws and all. He really really wanted some armour. Or at least clothes.

She spoke, in the straight forward way of his own people. "It was Ardeen who summoned me."

"Summoned...Morrigan? Goddess." He knelt again.

"Rise, Ravenkin. Long have your kind served me."

He stood, finding it hard to meet her eyes. "Ardeen." he implored, "And Eoin. I need to...protect them."

"She called on me to protect you... then invoked me again as she picked up your sword and devastated your foes."

"Ah." He could all too well imagine her pain, her rage, her ferocity before which no one could stand. "Is she... are they..."

"It is well. For now. But the battle is not over."

"Ah." His face showed pain, distress.

Morrigan studied him, "You do not have sorrow for yourself, only them." She turned, traded silent looks with the Dragons.

The great golden Grandmother moved forward till her head was nearly touching him. The floor vibrated under her great clawed feet, somewhere in the shadows an immense tail swished across the tiles. Her head was the size of the great standing stone at the edge of the village, the one no one knew how it had been moved or set. Her eye, the size of an eagle's wingspan, peered straight into his soul. It was like standing too close to a fire. She spoke at last; "Then receive this gift, Ravenkin" She breathed in, then out in a great gout of golden flame.

It surrounded Bran, poured through him, seared him, every cell of his non existent body was on fire, he didn't know if it was the roar of the flames or his own voice...voice...voices... something howling in his head, no, singing... searing...singeing, singing...

Then silence. His head echoed, hurt. Hurt. How could he hurt if he was still dead. The great dragon sat on her haunches studying him. The red haired Morrigan ran her eyes over him and lifted a blood red eyebrow in approval.
He followed her gaze. Raised a hand... a solid flesh and blood one that could wield sword or bow. He touched his chest, his face, and then his hand went to the thin braid under his hair, the braid that held one stormsilver feather. It was there, as it always had been. "My ladies..." he gasped, wide eyed.

The blue dragon, still in woman form, stepped forward, "you can't go naked into battle." She handed him a carefully folded pile of scales. He unfolded it and found underclothes and dragon scale armour like hers.

"You'll need a sword." The purple dragon stepped forward, handing him a sheathed sword.

He took it with a reverent bow, and unsheathed it halfway. It glowed blue with a fierce light, like the sky on fire.

"Ah!" He stepped back, nearly dropping it.

"It will cut through anything... except its own sheath of course." Purple eyed him, "and it's master. You. It can also be carried in stealth, in miniature, on a cord around your neck, so you can carry it in raven form. And if laid down or lost, it will come to your hand."

Another voice, "But you are one of the Elvenfolk, and a Ravenkin, so the bow is your true weapon, it flies with the feathers of our kind." Morrigan stepped forward, with a bow and quiver, arrows fletched in black. She pulled one out, flicked it into the tile floor, it sunk deeply and flashed into blue flame. She reached out a hand, and the arrow returned to her hand like a bird in flight, "Archers are always running out of arrows," she said, "this should solve that problem. You have only to do what I did, reach out your hand, and they will come to you." She sheathed the arrow in the quiver with the others. "And you may have need of fire beyond that sword."

"Ah. Ah!" Bran bowed to all of them. "Ahhhh!" He who was often the one to tell the stories, who could outsing most bards, who had been accused of using too many words at times, could find no words.

"The battle is not yet lost." Morrigan said.

"Time flows differently here." Blue Dragon said, "You will appear where you left."

"Ah..." He did not know how to say it, his eyebrows knotted...nice new eyebrows, good to have them back, really. "...the ...old... body. It would be..."

"Very strange for both of you to exist at once." Morrigan said.

Purple gestured to a raised stone behind Bran. It was empty, but bore the marks of fire. "We lifted you from the field. The old body is gone, consumed and transformed by fire..." she gestured at himself, now, "into this."

"Ah." Again words failed him.

The dragon woman made one last adjustment to his armour, and handed him a helmet. "One more thing. Sing the song."

"Song?"

Dragon Woman Blue looked at Dragon Woman Purple, then at Morrigan.

Morrigan sighed. "Men, no matter the time period, no matter the species."

"The song echoing in your reconstituted skull." Blue Dragon said.

Bran frowned, it was dancing away from him like a new colt... he grasped at it, found it, watched it skitter away again. Morrigan stepped in front of him and smacked his forehead with her hand.

"OW!"

"Reset." she muttered.

"Ah...AHHHH!" Now he could hear it, he began softly, repeating the sounds in his memory, then louder, and stronger.

In front of him a stretch of air shimmered and became a frozen snowscape.

"What?" He stepped toward it, reached out to it, cold air was flowing through it into the hall. "Is that a Gate?" A Dragon Gate, the ones the Grandmothers had made, the ones the Dragonkin walked through without thought as easily as one walks down a road.
​
"Yes." Purple said, "But it helps if you visualize where you want to go first."








Chaos shimmered into existence before him, he leapt through, sword drawn, into a hurricane. Skills honed over centuries assessed the placement and movement of forces, both from the hill fort and from the invaders. Without looking he blocked a sword blow aimed at his head, the blue fire sword slicing through the blade of the attacker. The armoured man let out a cry and scuttled backward, away from the fiery blade and the grim expression of the one wielding it.

Bran cleared a path through them, eyes and other senses looking for Ardeen, Eoin and the others. A block and slash, a young villager saved, wheel, leap, kick, a girl broke loose from an armoured man and added her own fierce kick to his fall. Eimhir raged out of the melee, back in giant horse form, 'porting enemies to goddess knew where. A hundred strides away came the roar of a very annoyed bear.

He found her, with a tight group of defenders, against a rampart, facing off dozens of attackers. He brought a wheel of blue fire into their midst, from which those not touched ran. He paused, breathing hard, Ardeen staring at him.

"My lady..." he began.

"I have no idea who you are or whence you came, but we thank you... and we need a new plan..." she turned to her companions, "Blow your horn," she called to a young girl, "gather here..." she looked back at the strange man with the sky fire blade.

Bran froze. She did not know him. Do I look the same? Is even my aura different? She could see past the surface of things...what? Why couldn't she...

Oh, the helmet... bloody... helmet. He pulled it off.

She stared at him, and her eyes widened. Then narrowed, "are you a shapeshifter?"

"Of COURSE I'm a shapeshifter!" Bran said with a wild combination of sheer joy and annoyance, "I'm Ravenkin!"

"No," she said fiercely, stepping toward him, "I mean one who can assume the appearance of others."

He reached out, touched her cheek, "Look at me."

She glared back, still filled with much of Morrigan's battle rage.

"Look," he said softly.

She met his eyes, her own widened, softened. "Ohhhhhh. How..."
​
"Ah. YOU are the one who summoned the Morrigan, and who speaks to Dragons. Now. We need a plan, Lady Ardeen. What's the plan?"






Bran raised the bow. Light, lighter than any he had wielded before, but he could feel the immense power in its length of tree and sinew string, gifts of the earth. The bow sang and the black feathered raven arrow flew, buried itself in that earth and sent up a gout of blue flame. Another, yards away, and the flame became a fence, a sheepcote gathering the enemy, herding them toward...

The Gate that he sang into being. There was a certain mountain pass he knew, treacherous, one edge leading into a vast abyss. He had a very clear memory of that pass, and it was not a pleasant one. He sang it into being, and the invaders, fenced by blue fire, and hounded by defenders, ran into it.

The field fell silent, except for hushed voices, calls to missing friends, someone sobbing over one lost.

A few remained of the invaders, surrounded by villagers, they laid down their arms, and took off their armour. They were freed to go back with a very clear message; trouble us again and meet your doom.

Out of the devastation came Eoin, he stopped a stride away, studying Bran. He eyed the armour, the bow, the black feathers and the new sword sheath. He cocked a questioning eyebrow.

"You missed the part where I died and got a magic sword."

"Ah. I was rather busy." He closed the space between them and caught Bran in a great hard hug. "You know... I felt it. I couldn't..."

"Yeah, I know." Bran didn't let go, "there are sons and daughters who lived because of you."

Ardeen touched his arm, he turned to face her. "I..."

"...know." she said. "There are things..."

"I should have spoken of..." Bran said, his face had a shadow of sorrow and longing.

"Sooner... before it was too late." she said.

Bran sighed. "We have another chance." Ardeen touched his face, behind him, he could feel Eoin smiling, damn Wolfbrother, he knew all along. He should have said something, sooner, louder, for the dense skulled Ravenkin. "I don't think..."

"...I can live without you." Ardeen finished.






Ardeen and Eoin, and the others who practiced healing, tended to those who needed it. A storm of crows and ravens hovered around the fields and woods for days, but bodies were buried or burned, with a few, fallen in hidden places, left to Morrigan's children. Items left by the invaders were distributed, most were of good quality and could be made use of.

Bran spent a great deal of time in a bath, or the stream, washing off blood and grime and death, and considering his new old body. It seemed to work as well as ever, perhaps better. Certainly Morrigan had approved of it. Ardeen seemed to as well. Very much approved. But other than being able to open Dragon Gates, he didn't seem to have gained any superpowers.

A few weeks later riders appeared on the road, one tall man on an unusually tall horse, her withers reaching Bran's nose. Two riders flanking on each side. From the hill fort Bran could see the flanking riders were very very young. They all wore the clothing and armour of the former invaders, but the standard they carried was different. They rode to a respectful spot and stopped. A rider on the flank raised a horn, but Brianan had already seen and alerted Ardeen and a small delegation, well armed. Bran leapt down from his perch, caught up the sword, and strode out to meet them. Above him, his three kin flew out past the visitors to see if there were other, hidden forces on the road.

The leader was old enough to have the wisdom to win wars, or stay out of them. He regarded Ardeen and her delegation, then his eyes fell on Bran. He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. The horse remained still, eyeing Bran with curiosity. Bran walked up, held out a hand to the horse, it was nosed, sniffed. The rider's eyes followed Bran, eyebrows knotted.

"Who are you?" Ardeen demanded.

"Seitheach, of Beinn na Caillich. My cousin, Dughlas is dead. He was a man of... impetuousness, hubris, belligerence and warmongering. Many of our kin are being mourned," he glanced uncomfortably at Bran, "because of his madness. I am Chief now. We come to parley, to assure you that you will not need to decimate more of us."
Ardeen looked at Bran, it was the look of an eagle, of one who knew and could read the man in front of her, but also wished for Bran's read on him.

"Your horse says you are a truthful and honorable man, it is good you are Chief."

Seitheach stared down at the Ravenkin, "...my...horse?"

"Animals don't lie." Bran said. He went down the line of ponies, all short, sturdy fell and dale and marsh ponies of a type that would keep easily in hard times, and travel readily and far over difficult roads. He met the young eyes of the riders, some looked away as if they'd fallen into the space between the stars, others met his gaze briefly. The boy on the roan kept staring in a kind of wonder. "We thought you were naught but legends," he finally said.

"Hah." Bran chuckled quietly, "We are not so different from your folk. We want this," he gestured at the green hill behind them. "To live, to love, to grow things in the fertile earth, to sing, to dance." He put his hand on the roan pony's head. "Your pony says you are a kind man. Peace will be good for both of you."

The riders followed Ardeen, Bran and the delegation to the Great Hall. Ponies were left to graze. Riders were led to food and drink and parley. Songs were sung, stories told. Slowly, the villagers of the Hill Fort and Seitheach's riders came to an understanding.

Bran noticed the young rider who had looked him in the eyes was limping. Had he been part of the running battle on the road?

"I broke my leg in a fall many years ago, it did not heal well. I am slow on the ground, but I can ride better than most."

"You have no healers?"

"Some. Not as good as yours...unless your stories are exaggerated."

"No, they are true."

"We used to have many, old women who knew things, but Dughlas put an end to it."

"Why?"

"They had power. It frightened him." The kid paused, "It was a woman who killed him. Eochaidh saw it. A woman who raged through our ranks shouting the name of the Death Bird, the Battle Crow."

"Ah." Bran glanced across the hall, he could see Ardeen talking with great animation to another of the young riders. He turned back to the boy, "How would you like to have some of our healers look at your leg?"






~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




"Did she heal him?" Rain asked.

"Yes, she and Eoin. He stayed awhile to learn the healing arts himself. Others of his tribe came to us for learning. Their women regained their knowledge from ours, as well as their agency. Peace reigned. We traded cattle for ponies. Craftsfolk traded knowledge. Someone found a good way to make purple and blue dyes. But Ardeen told me I needed to name my sword and keep it handy. Blue sky fire had saved us that day, so that became her name. Skyfire. She was not needed for a very very long time."

"You loved her." Rain said.

She did not mean the sword.

I let out a breath. "Deeply. And to the end of her days."

"Badass witchy warrior woman who could invoke goddesses and heal all wounds."

Subtext; I will never be that.

"Mmmm. Well...she keeps finding me again." I lifted her chin and looked into her brown earth eyes.

Her eyes widened.
​
I traced the line of Elvish script on her arm, "Luminous beings we are..." of course I did it in Yoda's voice.