Turnaround
Lately I've been having trouble getting into Madrigal headspace. I've missed the, as Amos put it, "quaintness" of the older days; Grum misses them too, especially now with all this talk of the end of all things. He and I have both clung to the ideal of, 'just being a guy' and it's made it really, really hard to progress into anything resembling character development. But on the way home from the last event, it finally (finally!) occurred to my dumb ass how to get him (and me) moving again.
He tried to leave three times during the night, summer wind whistling through the trees, cats yowling in the distance. Five separate farewell letters were written, stared at, and tossed into the campfire. During the sixth attempted letter, the pen broke as he gnawed upon it; ink sprayed everywhere, the letter caught fire; all was quiet, cursing pandemonium. As he daubed his beard with a rag and swore onto cooked fingertips, he felt his wife' hands upon his shoulders, her lips tickling the back of his neck. "Come to bed, and sleep by my side," she whispered, wrapping him in a hug. "And in the morning, go and see our sons."
The forest road wound away, up into the hills, away from Shadowfane, a ribbon of gravel stretching on forever. Birds sang overhead; he glimpsed deer off in the thickets, eying him disinterestedly. No one tried to kill him; no arrows rained from the trees, no spellfire crashed through the undergrowth. The warrior fingered his maul nervously, and shifted his backpack to the other shoulder. This was unfamiliar territory.
A rustling from the bushes, and he roared a battlecry, lightning spilling over him in a cascade of blue sparks. Raising the hammer high above his head, eyes flashing in the sunlight, he stood prepared, warbound, steel-toothed. The skunk waddled across the road, pausing to offer the wilting berserker a look of disdain. Watching the animal eyeball him, the mercenary blinked, embarrassed, and was totally unprepared for the spraying which came next.
The warrior met his first fellow travelers a week later. The mercenaries huddled close around their cookfire, laughing gutturally at some crude joke. All fell silent as the newcomer approached; more than one wrinkled their nose in vague distaste.
Both sides watched each other levelly for a moment or two, sizing each other up. The mercenary band was half a dozen strong, each scarred and enormous from a lifetime of battle and hard deeds. The lone traveler was small, his armor worn thin around the strappings, and sported just one long scar over the left side of his face. He carried a huge, heavy maul casually over one shoulder, and a dark brown shield over one arm. To the mercenaries, this man was an oddity, but no great concern. Another strange stranger in a world long since gone to the weird and the dark.
"Mind if I share your fire?" asked the warrior, idly setting his maul down against the grass.
"Fire's got room yet," a mercenary remarked, gesturing vaguely towards the crackling flames. "Where you out from?"
"Shadowfane," replied the newcomer, watching the warm flames hungrily. He stopped, though, as he saw the grizzled band of men stiffen slightly.
"Something the matter?" he asked, tilting his head to one side.
"You from...THE Shadowfane?" another sellsword asked, voice trembling slightly.
A pause. "Yeah," replied the traveler, grip tightening on the handle of his maul ever so slightly. "One of the older townsfolk of Shadowfane, I suppose, at that."
The mercenaries engaged in a brief huddle, casting furtive glances over their shoulders to the scarred, hammer-wielding maniac who stood before them. Eventually, the smallest, weediest man was shoved forward, no doubt as a spokesman for the rest.
"Ah," the smaller man remarked, gesturing towards the lone warrior. "We don't have any gold, or treasure...hard times, and all that..." The newcomer's eyes widened slightly.
"Also," continued the now freely-sweating man, "We're, ah..nighttime warriors...yeah...so we'll, ah, be on our way. Fire's all yours, sir..."
As the newcomer watched, the band of mercenaries broke camp in a matter of split seconds, stuffing gear into sacks and hustling off down the road at a steady jog. Grip lessening, the warrior watched them go for a moment or two; then, sighing, he took his place beside the fire.
Some days later, drifting in and out of forgotten forest roads, the man came to a bridge crossing. He hadn't been here before in his memory, which was admittedly shoddy; but he did recognize the wagons covering the banks of the stream. Brightly colored, rounded edges and circular doors; gypsy wagons, if he wasn't mistaken. The warrior stopped on the bridge, looking down at the dozen or so wheeled homes, and waited to be noticed.
Eventually, one of the gypsies looked up and saw him,. To his credit, neither man did more than smile and wave. Others from the mobile village were brought over, a few carrying spears. One woman, all red and purple sashes, cried out, "Are you friend?"
"I am Didikhai," the traveler called back, raising his hands above his head. "I bring only myself, and my stories. I am married to Sasha, niece of Bahvohl. I am trying to get to Eluviar to see my sons."
"Where are you out of?" called another man in the back, speartip waggling aggressively.
He paused. "East of here," he replied, eventually.
The red-clad woman nodded at his words, and the other gypsies dropped into more relaxed poses. "I've heard of those folk. Who are you, then?"
The warrior paused again, and shrugged. "I'm Grum."
"We can get you to the city in about a week or two, assuming the roads hold out and we're not the victim of banditry...or worse," the woman offered quietly, offering another kick to the oxen's reins. Grum held on tightly to the floorboard of the wagon as they rumbled along, eyes blinking in the sunlight. The trees were thinning out, finally; he felt like he'd been wandering the forest for weeks.
"Worse troubles?" he asked, fingering the tassels at the end of his maul. "Vampires?"
The gypsy startled a bit, eyeballing him closely as the wagon jounced and trundled. "Yes...their thralls, especially. How do you know this?"
"I'm married to a gypsy," Grum replied, shrugging. "We get word of these things too."
The wagon driver sniffed, and nodded. "All right. That doesn't scare you?" she added, glancing at his armor, his helmet. "They are fast, and strong, and tough to slay. They take one of us at least every time we are found..."
Grum shook his head. "They don't scare me. If they come, I will fight alongside you."
The gypsy sniffed again, looking down her nose at him. Then she turned back to the road.
"So you bring songs, and stories, all that?" one gypsy asked, eying Grum carefully. His gaze traced the huge scar across the warrior's face.
"Yeah, I'm a troubadour...stories are my specialty, though I do know some songs," Grum replied, smiling gamely. The cookfire spat and hissed in the gentle evening mist.
One gypsy stirred the cookpot, while the rest leaned forward slightly; a new storyteller was an untold treasure along the roads.
There was a silence, while those present endeavored to think of a story to ask for. First to speak was a young man, well-muscled and used to the road. He pointed to the warrior's face. "How'd you get that scar?" he asked, grinning. A quiet chorus of approving noises wafted up from the little crowd.
"Ah," Grum replied, smiling. "Got this fighting a demon. The Lady of the Ruby Circle was her name. Dark, and terrible, twist-winged and strong, she gave me this when she tore my face in twain..." The story faltered in his lips as he saw their gaze.
"You lived through that?" the young man asked doubtfully, alongside another man's question: "A demon? You've seen a demon?"
Grum shook his head. "Oh no, no...I died three times fighting against her. And yes, many demons...slain a few, too, in fact..."
The gypsies shrank back against one another, eyes wide with a mix of amazement and fear. Grum eyed them back, mind racing, wincing inwardly as he began to realize what he'd just said. Both sides watched one another for a few long, tense moments. Fortunately, nothing ever came from it, for it was about then that the horns sounded from the forest.
They poured from the woods, roaring from thickets and out of treetops; several fell and broke bones in their charge, stumbling over stumps and loose scree. Others fired arrows from the bushes; a gypsy warrior screamed and toppled from his wagon perch. The rest of the traveling village grabbed shovels, spears, cudgels, and made a ragged line to face the onslaught.
Grum pushed his way to the fore, hammer bright in his fists. Two thralls were bashed into pulp with the first swing; another left behind a spray of bloody splinters on the second. The berserker smashed and brawled and grabbed as he waded into the melee, roaring mindlessly. Lightning flashed from his weapon, his armor, his fingertips, and more broken bodies spun away into the darkness. A thrall buried a short blade into the warrior's back, up to the hilt; Grum yelled and swatted the offender away, more angry than hurt. Both sides recoiled from the hammerer and his whirlwind of death, the gypsies offering a few half-hearted spear thrusts into the melee. All eyes were on the center of the storm, the uncaring killer at the center of the melee. It was as well as Grum had ever fought, and it would go down in their limited history as the worst raiding attempt the thralls had ever pulled. A few more quick, snapping movements, and the marauders who were left fled howling back into the ink.
Panting, Grum stood alone in a pile of dismembered bodies and crushed skulls; he was wet from head to toe in blood, a great deal of it his own. The wagon-driver sprang forward to him, eyes horribly wide, arms outstretched.
"Grum...sir, are you all right?" she asked, voice quavering from adrenaline and not a little fear. She gingerly bent to pull at an arrow sticking into the man's leg, and gasped as the arrowhead spat itself out onto the ground; moments later, the wound closed up, seamlessly, flesh pink and clean.
Grum shook his head. "I'll be fine. Thanks, though." He jerked a thumb at the sword in his back; it was sliding out an inch at a time. "Faerie blood. Got it in me; my wounds close, mostly. Little stuff, like this? I'll be better in five minutes."
"Little stuff," the gypsy remarked, deadpan, watching as two men struggled to hold down a third, the victim screaming as his fellows tried to extract an arrow close to his heart. Grum followed her gaze, hammer sinking to the forest floor.
"I can't..." he managed, taking a cold breath. "I can't help him."
The gypsy nodded, eyes cold, still watching the bloody little drama unfold. "I didn't think so."
Eluviar was as good a place to make camp as another, the wagon driver said; she'd stay at least a night or two before returning to the wilds. Healers from the city rushed to the stricken gypsies, and the elven guardsmen stood sentinel over their homes, keen eyes watching the treeline. Grum slipped away as soon as he was able, shadow long in the afternoon sun. Wherever he walked through the camp, the village folk made to get out of his way. No one offered greetings, or thanks, though the air was thick with the scent of relief at being spared slow deaths. Some sneered at his turned back, but most just avoided his gaze altogether. He guessed they were probably pretty glad to see him go.
As soon as he left the confines of the wagon-homes, he started to run. His pace was slow at first, but quickened as he gained ground. In through the front gates he sped, the guards not giving this familiar sight a second glance. His boots loud on the silver cobbles, armor clacking against his chest, he turned corner after corner with reckless haste. Finally, deep in the gardens, he almost trampled his own sons; the Volsungs scampered out of each other's way, with the exception of Jack, who gleefully ran smack into his tutor's crotch head-first. The elven noble writhing on the ground, all turned to regard one another for a split second of astonishment. Then they fell together into one great hug, Wren and Rye babbling, Grum crying happily, Jack yelling because he could.
The remainder of the day was spent rampaging through the immaculate elven gardens; herbalists fled at the family's approach, servants chuckled at their antics. The tutor did his best to keep up-his legs had more muscle on them than last time, Grum noticed in passing-but with their father leading them, the elves never knew what hit them. Finally, collapsing outside the Queen's chambers with a pitcher of water and someone else's dinner, the four rested. Nessa chose this point to stop shadowing the family and help keep the boys in line, while Grum rambled on about the latest exploits of Shadowfane. Eventually, as the gloaming-time fell and the halls of the elves grew quieter, Grum and Nessa bundled the boys off to bed, all smiles and cheek-stretching yawns.
Jack fell to slumber first, nestled warm and safe in his own little room. Grum tucked Wen and Rye into their own beds, across the hallway, while Nessa cleared the plates from supper. The man was had just opened his mouth to begin a bedtime story when Rye interrupted.
"Daddy," Rye asked, "Where's mom?"
Grum paused, smiling. "She's back in Shadowfane with all your aunts and uncles," he replied, heart aching for a moment.
Wen frowned. "Why is she there and you're here?"
Again, he paused. "Because...because I just needed to see you boys, is all. My heart just missed you all so much. Nessa too, of course," he called into the kitchen, knowing the girl would smile.
But Wen was having none of it. "Don't you need to be there to keep her safe, Daddy?" he asked, eyeballing his father closely.
Grum shifted from one foot to the other. "Well, she has everyone in the Company, and all their friends too who'll keep her safe... I...truth is, boys, that there's somethin' awful bad comin' down the road, and I thought it might be best if I stayed here for a while, kept you all safe from it. What's coming is...just too big for your father. It's a hero's job to stop it."
Rye and Wen exchanged a look. It was one part confusion, one part fear, and another part deep concern. Rye fixed his father with a patient look. "We're really safe here, Dad," he said, carefully, the way Grum sometimes spoke to them.
Grum shook his head, helmet shifting back and forth. "No, you're-"
Wen spoke up. "There are elves here, Daddy. And the Queen. And our tutor. And the White Ghost."
Rye nodded. "There must be a legion or so of them all, Dad. You should really go see Mom, keep her safe from whatever's coming. And Auntie Klee and Uncle Roderick and all the rest."
Again, their father shook his head, stubbornly. "Boys, I'm not going back there. I'm no hero, and as far as the elves here are concerned, they're very nice, but-"
Wen's eyes boggled a bit. "Of course you're a hero! You fought the Kraken!"
"There were maybe a hundred people fighting the Kraken; I just stood with Neverwinter and guarded the exit," he said, almost ashamedly. But the boys didn't stop.
"You fought the Lady of the Rooty Circle!" Rye remarked, pointing. "And survived!"
"Died three times in that fight," he started to say, but Wen stood up, practically yelling with delight.
"You stole the Queen's sword and shield from the Mallykurge! And shot the Minotaur in the bum with a poison crossbow bolt! And became a Faerie!"
"And you sang to a mermaid!" added Rye, likewise standing, grinning ear to ear. "You made it through the Chambers of the Heart alive! And you fought the Shitra-"
"Language," Grum remarked, vaguely.
"-the Spider-Man and all his minions, and helped get Uncle Adeon out safe!" Wen and Rye looked at each other, minds racing, before both blurted out as one:
"You helped kill Kath!"
"Enough!" Grum roared, and the boys shrank back, sitting on their blankets, at once chastised but wearing smug looks on their faces.
"That's enough out of you! I'm no hero! I'm a man with some silly songs and a big hammer and nothin' else! That's all I ever was, and all I'll ever be! I am NOT a hero!"
Before anyone could say anything else, a quiet knocking split the air. Grum shook his head, rage calming, unable to look at his sons for the moment. Opening the door, a red pajama-clad Jack stood there, rubbing his eyes. He gestured vaguely at his father, who scooped him up. After a moment of soothing the woken boy, he returned to sit at the edge of the twin's bed, eyes dim.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to yell."
Jack patted his hand a few times, and the twins giggled. After a moment, Grum did too.
Rye spoke, after a time. "You do all these things, and you think you aren't a hero?" Wen nodded, equally eager for an answer.
Grum shook his head, for what seemed the hundredth time that night. "I...I don't know, boys. I can't wade into combat like the older folk, or cast great spells, or...I don't know. I don't feel like a hero."
"But you are, Mister Volsung," came Nessa's soft voice as she walked into the room. The little blonde girl handed Jack his forgotten water cup; the boy took it gently and immediately started to down the contents. "A man doesn't have to be strong, or mighty, or cast big spells to be a hero. A hero is someone normal who wakes up, gets out of bed in the morning, and does his best. Or her best, as it may be." She fixed him with a strong gaze. "Which, as I understand it, is what you do all the time."
Grum closed his open mouth eventually, and frowned at all of them. The twins were grinning, Nessa had a quiet smirk to her face, and Jack was snuggled close to him. Suddenly, without any warning, he pulled them all close to him, eyes growing wet.
"Where'd you all get so smart?" he whispered, hugging them tightly.
"Mom," said Wen.
"Uncle Locke," said Rye. A pause. "No, Uncle Amos. No, Auntie Valentine."
"The Queen," said Nessa.
"Dada," murmured Jack.
Grum waved a farewell to the gypsy as she turned the wagons around, away from the outskirts of Shadowfane. He'd done his level best not to act any stranger than anyone else, but the wagoneers still hadn't liked having him around. It was like owning a homicidal vegetable, Grum mused as he wandered along the gravel road. Good to have around in case you were robbed, but sort of dangerous everytime else.
Mind on his thoughts, Grum failed to hear the creak of the bowstrings in the undergrowth. He stopped at the guttural chuckling, however, lifting his hammer off his shoulder with practiced ease. The bandit chief sauntered out of the woods, dark sword swinging lazily back and forth.
"You're a long way from home, warrior," the bandit sneered, as his comrades laughed from the darkness. Grum snickered, and the thief's face fell slightly in confusion.
"What's so funny?" he asked, raising the sword threateningly.
"I live here," Grum said, gesturing down the road towards the dim lights of Shadowfane. "This is my home."
"You?" snarled the chief, shaking his head. "Who are you, a mushroom farmer?"
"Nah," the warrior replied, hefting his hammer into both hands. "I'm one of the heroes of Shadowfane."
The bandit paused. There was some talk amongst the other rogues, but it was too whispered for Grum to make out. He was a patient man, though, and was happy to wait.
Eventually, the chief remarked, "Well...we DO have orders to kill any heroes of Shadowfane on sight. And no, I won't tell you who sent us. Sorry, but we do have to kill you and drag you off into the bushes. No offense, mister Hero."
Grum chuckled again, and sprang forward. Truth be told, he didn't really mind.
He tried to leave three times during the night, summer wind whistling through the trees, cats yowling in the distance. Five separate farewell letters were written, stared at, and tossed into the campfire. During the sixth attempted letter, the pen broke as he gnawed upon it; ink sprayed everywhere, the letter caught fire; all was quiet, cursing pandemonium. As he daubed his beard with a rag and swore onto cooked fingertips, he felt his wife' hands upon his shoulders, her lips tickling the back of his neck. "Come to bed, and sleep by my side," she whispered, wrapping him in a hug. "And in the morning, go and see our sons."
The forest road wound away, up into the hills, away from Shadowfane, a ribbon of gravel stretching on forever. Birds sang overhead; he glimpsed deer off in the thickets, eying him disinterestedly. No one tried to kill him; no arrows rained from the trees, no spellfire crashed through the undergrowth. The warrior fingered his maul nervously, and shifted his backpack to the other shoulder. This was unfamiliar territory.
A rustling from the bushes, and he roared a battlecry, lightning spilling over him in a cascade of blue sparks. Raising the hammer high above his head, eyes flashing in the sunlight, he stood prepared, warbound, steel-toothed. The skunk waddled across the road, pausing to offer the wilting berserker a look of disdain. Watching the animal eyeball him, the mercenary blinked, embarrassed, and was totally unprepared for the spraying which came next.
The warrior met his first fellow travelers a week later. The mercenaries huddled close around their cookfire, laughing gutturally at some crude joke. All fell silent as the newcomer approached; more than one wrinkled their nose in vague distaste.
Both sides watched each other levelly for a moment or two, sizing each other up. The mercenary band was half a dozen strong, each scarred and enormous from a lifetime of battle and hard deeds. The lone traveler was small, his armor worn thin around the strappings, and sported just one long scar over the left side of his face. He carried a huge, heavy maul casually over one shoulder, and a dark brown shield over one arm. To the mercenaries, this man was an oddity, but no great concern. Another strange stranger in a world long since gone to the weird and the dark.
"Mind if I share your fire?" asked the warrior, idly setting his maul down against the grass.
"Fire's got room yet," a mercenary remarked, gesturing vaguely towards the crackling flames. "Where you out from?"
"Shadowfane," replied the newcomer, watching the warm flames hungrily. He stopped, though, as he saw the grizzled band of men stiffen slightly.
"Something the matter?" he asked, tilting his head to one side.
"You from...THE Shadowfane?" another sellsword asked, voice trembling slightly.
A pause. "Yeah," replied the traveler, grip tightening on the handle of his maul ever so slightly. "One of the older townsfolk of Shadowfane, I suppose, at that."
The mercenaries engaged in a brief huddle, casting furtive glances over their shoulders to the scarred, hammer-wielding maniac who stood before them. Eventually, the smallest, weediest man was shoved forward, no doubt as a spokesman for the rest.
"Ah," the smaller man remarked, gesturing towards the lone warrior. "We don't have any gold, or treasure...hard times, and all that..." The newcomer's eyes widened slightly.
"Also," continued the now freely-sweating man, "We're, ah..nighttime warriors...yeah...so we'll, ah, be on our way. Fire's all yours, sir..."
As the newcomer watched, the band of mercenaries broke camp in a matter of split seconds, stuffing gear into sacks and hustling off down the road at a steady jog. Grip lessening, the warrior watched them go for a moment or two; then, sighing, he took his place beside the fire.
Some days later, drifting in and out of forgotten forest roads, the man came to a bridge crossing. He hadn't been here before in his memory, which was admittedly shoddy; but he did recognize the wagons covering the banks of the stream. Brightly colored, rounded edges and circular doors; gypsy wagons, if he wasn't mistaken. The warrior stopped on the bridge, looking down at the dozen or so wheeled homes, and waited to be noticed.
Eventually, one of the gypsies looked up and saw him,. To his credit, neither man did more than smile and wave. Others from the mobile village were brought over, a few carrying spears. One woman, all red and purple sashes, cried out, "Are you friend?"
"I am Didikhai," the traveler called back, raising his hands above his head. "I bring only myself, and my stories. I am married to Sasha, niece of Bahvohl. I am trying to get to Eluviar to see my sons."
"Where are you out of?" called another man in the back, speartip waggling aggressively.
He paused. "East of here," he replied, eventually.
The red-clad woman nodded at his words, and the other gypsies dropped into more relaxed poses. "I've heard of those folk. Who are you, then?"
The warrior paused again, and shrugged. "I'm Grum."
"We can get you to the city in about a week or two, assuming the roads hold out and we're not the victim of banditry...or worse," the woman offered quietly, offering another kick to the oxen's reins. Grum held on tightly to the floorboard of the wagon as they rumbled along, eyes blinking in the sunlight. The trees were thinning out, finally; he felt like he'd been wandering the forest for weeks.
"Worse troubles?" he asked, fingering the tassels at the end of his maul. "Vampires?"
The gypsy startled a bit, eyeballing him closely as the wagon jounced and trundled. "Yes...their thralls, especially. How do you know this?"
"I'm married to a gypsy," Grum replied, shrugging. "We get word of these things too."
The wagon driver sniffed, and nodded. "All right. That doesn't scare you?" she added, glancing at his armor, his helmet. "They are fast, and strong, and tough to slay. They take one of us at least every time we are found..."
Grum shook his head. "They don't scare me. If they come, I will fight alongside you."
The gypsy sniffed again, looking down her nose at him. Then she turned back to the road.
"So you bring songs, and stories, all that?" one gypsy asked, eying Grum carefully. His gaze traced the huge scar across the warrior's face.
"Yeah, I'm a troubadour...stories are my specialty, though I do know some songs," Grum replied, smiling gamely. The cookfire spat and hissed in the gentle evening mist.
One gypsy stirred the cookpot, while the rest leaned forward slightly; a new storyteller was an untold treasure along the roads.
There was a silence, while those present endeavored to think of a story to ask for. First to speak was a young man, well-muscled and used to the road. He pointed to the warrior's face. "How'd you get that scar?" he asked, grinning. A quiet chorus of approving noises wafted up from the little crowd.
"Ah," Grum replied, smiling. "Got this fighting a demon. The Lady of the Ruby Circle was her name. Dark, and terrible, twist-winged and strong, she gave me this when she tore my face in twain..." The story faltered in his lips as he saw their gaze.
"You lived through that?" the young man asked doubtfully, alongside another man's question: "A demon? You've seen a demon?"
Grum shook his head. "Oh no, no...I died three times fighting against her. And yes, many demons...slain a few, too, in fact..."
The gypsies shrank back against one another, eyes wide with a mix of amazement and fear. Grum eyed them back, mind racing, wincing inwardly as he began to realize what he'd just said. Both sides watched one another for a few long, tense moments. Fortunately, nothing ever came from it, for it was about then that the horns sounded from the forest.
They poured from the woods, roaring from thickets and out of treetops; several fell and broke bones in their charge, stumbling over stumps and loose scree. Others fired arrows from the bushes; a gypsy warrior screamed and toppled from his wagon perch. The rest of the traveling village grabbed shovels, spears, cudgels, and made a ragged line to face the onslaught.
Grum pushed his way to the fore, hammer bright in his fists. Two thralls were bashed into pulp with the first swing; another left behind a spray of bloody splinters on the second. The berserker smashed and brawled and grabbed as he waded into the melee, roaring mindlessly. Lightning flashed from his weapon, his armor, his fingertips, and more broken bodies spun away into the darkness. A thrall buried a short blade into the warrior's back, up to the hilt; Grum yelled and swatted the offender away, more angry than hurt. Both sides recoiled from the hammerer and his whirlwind of death, the gypsies offering a few half-hearted spear thrusts into the melee. All eyes were on the center of the storm, the uncaring killer at the center of the melee. It was as well as Grum had ever fought, and it would go down in their limited history as the worst raiding attempt the thralls had ever pulled. A few more quick, snapping movements, and the marauders who were left fled howling back into the ink.
Panting, Grum stood alone in a pile of dismembered bodies and crushed skulls; he was wet from head to toe in blood, a great deal of it his own. The wagon-driver sprang forward to him, eyes horribly wide, arms outstretched.
"Grum...sir, are you all right?" she asked, voice quavering from adrenaline and not a little fear. She gingerly bent to pull at an arrow sticking into the man's leg, and gasped as the arrowhead spat itself out onto the ground; moments later, the wound closed up, seamlessly, flesh pink and clean.
Grum shook his head. "I'll be fine. Thanks, though." He jerked a thumb at the sword in his back; it was sliding out an inch at a time. "Faerie blood. Got it in me; my wounds close, mostly. Little stuff, like this? I'll be better in five minutes."
"Little stuff," the gypsy remarked, deadpan, watching as two men struggled to hold down a third, the victim screaming as his fellows tried to extract an arrow close to his heart. Grum followed her gaze, hammer sinking to the forest floor.
"I can't..." he managed, taking a cold breath. "I can't help him."
The gypsy nodded, eyes cold, still watching the bloody little drama unfold. "I didn't think so."
Eluviar was as good a place to make camp as another, the wagon driver said; she'd stay at least a night or two before returning to the wilds. Healers from the city rushed to the stricken gypsies, and the elven guardsmen stood sentinel over their homes, keen eyes watching the treeline. Grum slipped away as soon as he was able, shadow long in the afternoon sun. Wherever he walked through the camp, the village folk made to get out of his way. No one offered greetings, or thanks, though the air was thick with the scent of relief at being spared slow deaths. Some sneered at his turned back, but most just avoided his gaze altogether. He guessed they were probably pretty glad to see him go.
As soon as he left the confines of the wagon-homes, he started to run. His pace was slow at first, but quickened as he gained ground. In through the front gates he sped, the guards not giving this familiar sight a second glance. His boots loud on the silver cobbles, armor clacking against his chest, he turned corner after corner with reckless haste. Finally, deep in the gardens, he almost trampled his own sons; the Volsungs scampered out of each other's way, with the exception of Jack, who gleefully ran smack into his tutor's crotch head-first. The elven noble writhing on the ground, all turned to regard one another for a split second of astonishment. Then they fell together into one great hug, Wren and Rye babbling, Grum crying happily, Jack yelling because he could.
The remainder of the day was spent rampaging through the immaculate elven gardens; herbalists fled at the family's approach, servants chuckled at their antics. The tutor did his best to keep up-his legs had more muscle on them than last time, Grum noticed in passing-but with their father leading them, the elves never knew what hit them. Finally, collapsing outside the Queen's chambers with a pitcher of water and someone else's dinner, the four rested. Nessa chose this point to stop shadowing the family and help keep the boys in line, while Grum rambled on about the latest exploits of Shadowfane. Eventually, as the gloaming-time fell and the halls of the elves grew quieter, Grum and Nessa bundled the boys off to bed, all smiles and cheek-stretching yawns.
Jack fell to slumber first, nestled warm and safe in his own little room. Grum tucked Wen and Rye into their own beds, across the hallway, while Nessa cleared the plates from supper. The man was had just opened his mouth to begin a bedtime story when Rye interrupted.
"Daddy," Rye asked, "Where's mom?"
Grum paused, smiling. "She's back in Shadowfane with all your aunts and uncles," he replied, heart aching for a moment.
Wen frowned. "Why is she there and you're here?"
Again, he paused. "Because...because I just needed to see you boys, is all. My heart just missed you all so much. Nessa too, of course," he called into the kitchen, knowing the girl would smile.
But Wen was having none of it. "Don't you need to be there to keep her safe, Daddy?" he asked, eyeballing his father closely.
Grum shifted from one foot to the other. "Well, she has everyone in the Company, and all their friends too who'll keep her safe... I...truth is, boys, that there's somethin' awful bad comin' down the road, and I thought it might be best if I stayed here for a while, kept you all safe from it. What's coming is...just too big for your father. It's a hero's job to stop it."
Rye and Wen exchanged a look. It was one part confusion, one part fear, and another part deep concern. Rye fixed his father with a patient look. "We're really safe here, Dad," he said, carefully, the way Grum sometimes spoke to them.
Grum shook his head, helmet shifting back and forth. "No, you're-"
Wen spoke up. "There are elves here, Daddy. And the Queen. And our tutor. And the White Ghost."
Rye nodded. "There must be a legion or so of them all, Dad. You should really go see Mom, keep her safe from whatever's coming. And Auntie Klee and Uncle Roderick and all the rest."
Again, their father shook his head, stubbornly. "Boys, I'm not going back there. I'm no hero, and as far as the elves here are concerned, they're very nice, but-"
Wen's eyes boggled a bit. "Of course you're a hero! You fought the Kraken!"
"There were maybe a hundred people fighting the Kraken; I just stood with Neverwinter and guarded the exit," he said, almost ashamedly. But the boys didn't stop.
"You fought the Lady of the Rooty Circle!" Rye remarked, pointing. "And survived!"
"Died three times in that fight," he started to say, but Wen stood up, practically yelling with delight.
"You stole the Queen's sword and shield from the Mallykurge! And shot the Minotaur in the bum with a poison crossbow bolt! And became a Faerie!"
"And you sang to a mermaid!" added Rye, likewise standing, grinning ear to ear. "You made it through the Chambers of the Heart alive! And you fought the Shitra-"
"Language," Grum remarked, vaguely.
"-the Spider-Man and all his minions, and helped get Uncle Adeon out safe!" Wen and Rye looked at each other, minds racing, before both blurted out as one:
"You helped kill Kath!"
"Enough!" Grum roared, and the boys shrank back, sitting on their blankets, at once chastised but wearing smug looks on their faces.
"That's enough out of you! I'm no hero! I'm a man with some silly songs and a big hammer and nothin' else! That's all I ever was, and all I'll ever be! I am NOT a hero!"
Before anyone could say anything else, a quiet knocking split the air. Grum shook his head, rage calming, unable to look at his sons for the moment. Opening the door, a red pajama-clad Jack stood there, rubbing his eyes. He gestured vaguely at his father, who scooped him up. After a moment of soothing the woken boy, he returned to sit at the edge of the twin's bed, eyes dim.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to yell."
Jack patted his hand a few times, and the twins giggled. After a moment, Grum did too.
Rye spoke, after a time. "You do all these things, and you think you aren't a hero?" Wen nodded, equally eager for an answer.
Grum shook his head, for what seemed the hundredth time that night. "I...I don't know, boys. I can't wade into combat like the older folk, or cast great spells, or...I don't know. I don't feel like a hero."
"But you are, Mister Volsung," came Nessa's soft voice as she walked into the room. The little blonde girl handed Jack his forgotten water cup; the boy took it gently and immediately started to down the contents. "A man doesn't have to be strong, or mighty, or cast big spells to be a hero. A hero is someone normal who wakes up, gets out of bed in the morning, and does his best. Or her best, as it may be." She fixed him with a strong gaze. "Which, as I understand it, is what you do all the time."
Grum closed his open mouth eventually, and frowned at all of them. The twins were grinning, Nessa had a quiet smirk to her face, and Jack was snuggled close to him. Suddenly, without any warning, he pulled them all close to him, eyes growing wet.
"Where'd you all get so smart?" he whispered, hugging them tightly.
"Mom," said Wen.
"Uncle Locke," said Rye. A pause. "No, Uncle Amos. No, Auntie Valentine."
"The Queen," said Nessa.
"Dada," murmured Jack.
Grum waved a farewell to the gypsy as she turned the wagons around, away from the outskirts of Shadowfane. He'd done his level best not to act any stranger than anyone else, but the wagoneers still hadn't liked having him around. It was like owning a homicidal vegetable, Grum mused as he wandered along the gravel road. Good to have around in case you were robbed, but sort of dangerous everytime else.
Mind on his thoughts, Grum failed to hear the creak of the bowstrings in the undergrowth. He stopped at the guttural chuckling, however, lifting his hammer off his shoulder with practiced ease. The bandit chief sauntered out of the woods, dark sword swinging lazily back and forth.
"You're a long way from home, warrior," the bandit sneered, as his comrades laughed from the darkness. Grum snickered, and the thief's face fell slightly in confusion.
"What's so funny?" he asked, raising the sword threateningly.
"I live here," Grum said, gesturing down the road towards the dim lights of Shadowfane. "This is my home."
"You?" snarled the chief, shaking his head. "Who are you, a mushroom farmer?"
"Nah," the warrior replied, hefting his hammer into both hands. "I'm one of the heroes of Shadowfane."
The bandit paused. There was some talk amongst the other rogues, but it was too whispered for Grum to make out. He was a patient man, though, and was happy to wait.
Eventually, the chief remarked, "Well...we DO have orders to kill any heroes of Shadowfane on sight. And no, I won't tell you who sent us. Sorry, but we do have to kill you and drag you off into the bushes. No offense, mister Hero."
Grum chuckled again, and sprang forward. Truth be told, he didn't really mind.