The group made camp in a small meadow, covered in clovers, white and yellow daisies and some purple flowers that Alfos failed to recognize. They made no fire, the memory of the hellish night before still fresh in their minds, so they ate cold soup that the Grand Druid had saved and berries. Not even Darfin complained, but softly muttered curses in his tongue, as he put in his mouth the small juicy fruits. They ate talking little, assigned watches and, once they chose where they would spread their blankets, they fell in silence, each keeping to himself, lost in private thoughts. Soon, the soft, steady breath of the tired Ehardin was heard, the old Grand Druid finally allowing the exhaustion from his ordeal to take over him. Not long after, the loud snorts of the dwarf echoed between the trees. The moon rose, the stars glittered and Alfos, unable to sleep, stared at the night lights, trying to empty his mind from the faces of the men and the sounds of their last breaths. He was failing, he thought, and then he heard her coming.

 

The steps were soft, almost silent, even against the fallen leaves. Her body moved with grace between the bushes, missing them by as long as a hair, allowing her to enter the meadow like a ghost. But the deer had smelled and they had heard and snorted heavily, before running free to the forest. Alfos got up, looked around and saw her, his eyes widening for a shocked moment, before he reached above his head for his sword. A hand grabbed him, soothingly but firmly. He looked above and watched the winged elf shaking his head, bringing his finger to his mouth. The young prince gave him a questioning look and Celethil smiled and motioned towards her. He followed the motion with his eyes and saw a scene that would follow him for life.

 

The moon, sharp and crescent, like a scimitar against a black field of starry flowers, shone above the meadow, showering it with pale, milky light. Night flowers had bloomed in the twilight, glittering silver in the moonlight, while fireflies danced their golden blinking dance near them. In the centre of the meadow walked she, the dark body moving with feral grace, a shadow of grey and black, betrayed only by the glitter of her eyes in the moonlight. Those eyes glittered yellow, starring at the young prince, making him hold his breath, as she stopped and turned to look at the camp. Expecting a growl, the show of white teeth breaking the darkness of her face, Alfos felt the need to move, but Celethil’s calm grip kept him. That wild look was cautious more than threatening, weighing man and elf, discerning their smell, as she sniffed the air. Then, as suddenly as she had stopped, the she-wolf moved, almost run, towards Tar-en-Onek, who was sitting, back against a tree, in the other side of the clearing, a single candle lighting his face and a small book of leather cover. She reached near him and stood but whether he noticed or not, he didn’t show, as he turned a page. The wolf wagged her tail for a while, but still the druid didn’t move. She left the softest of barks, then sat, looking almost annoyed. The druid raised his head, smiled as she saw her and let the book down, as the she-wolf run, burying her head into his lap, while wagging her tail like...
 

“A pet!” Alfos exclaimed, a bit louder than he meant to. “He has a wolf as a pet!”

 

“A pet? No. Pets are for young princes who live in towers, boy. The wild holds no place for pets or their owners” Celethil whispered in his familiar cold tone.

 

“There’s no reason to be insulting” replied Alfos, in whisper now too, albeit an angry one. “I meant no...”

 

“Neither did I” interrupted the elf. “I speak the truth, however, even if I don’t dress it kindly. He is the one who’s good with words, boy. Go, ask him”.

 

“But the wolf...” he tried but the elf was already climbing back on his tree. Alfos glared at him then turned to look at the druid and the wolf again. The elf could say what he wished, the boy had played as they did with the favourite of his father’s hounds. He waited for a while until the druid had sat again, the she-wolf resting her head in his lap as he picked up his book once more and started reading in whisper. He hesitated for a moment then, with careful slow movements, he got up and walked towards them. The druid didn’t move but the wolf turned her eyes and raised her ears to him, softly sniffing the air, weighing if the boy was a threat to either. The young prince stopped as he noticed.

 

“Will it..?” he said when the wolf had her eyes turned again.

 

“She may, yes” the druid smiled, putting his hand softly on the beast’s head. “It really depends on you, you know. She is well fed and poses no threat. Do you?”

 

“No” the young man replied. “At least, I don’t think so”.

 

“Be sure. When you are, so will she be” replied Tar-en-Onek and turned to his reading again. Alfos stood for a moment then, gathering his courage, he took a few more steps. The wolf raised her head, growling ever so softly. After a moment’s hesitation, the young noble sat. She kept looking at him for a few moments then resumed her resting.

 

“It... She is beautiful” he said and the druid smiled.

 

“Flattery, young prince?” he chuckled. “Good choice. A trustworthy approach with women”.

 

“You mock me” Alfos said, boyishly.

 

“I do not”. Silence fell for a moment then the druid resumed his whispered reading.

 

“May I touch her? Will you hold her?” he asked.

 

“Very different questions, prince” the druid replied. “No, is the answer to the second, I don’t know, to the first. I am not her master”.

 

“Celethil said she was no pet. That pets are for young princes who live in towers” he added.

 

“Celethil has a harsh tongue” came the smiling reply. “Yet he spoke the truth. She is no pet and I am no owner. I do not appreciate pets, Alfos. Pets are broken things, tamed, changed”.

 

“She looks tamed”.

 

“She is not. I never broke her, I never established dominance, I never gave her food, I never chained her.” Tar-en-Onek paused and threw a glance at the sleeping Grand Druid. ”You will hear people saying” he went on, his eyes still on Ehardin, “that this is the world’s way, this is the one law life abides to: the fittest dominate, that rule comes through excellence, in whatever form it takes, be it force or wisdom or cunning or success or beauty. All this is true, I do not deny it. All I do is ask: couldn’t there be a different way?”

 

He turned to Alfos again. “Could I have tamed this wolf? I could have. I have before, with other, bigger ones, harder to tame and I did so again after she and I met. Pets I can have aplenty.”

 

“I would want a wolf as a pet” said the young man with honesty. “A huge, grey male one”.

 

“You’re not listening, prince. What you want is a huge, grey male pet. It’s not the body that makes a wolf, it’s the spirit. Big grey beasts with sharp teeth, bodies to be tamed, there are plenty to be found. Tame the wolf and it seizes being one. So, the question is, what do you want with you? Do you want a pet to play with or a companion?”

 

“Companion...?” Alfos asked, puzzled.

 

The druid smiled. “All I’m saying is this: a pet does not share my path, it walks beside me. Treat well the conquered, but reserve love for the free, those who came freely then stay freely.”

 

“We’re not talking about the wolf, are we?”

 

“We are talking about many things. You will be Count-King one day. You will have to decide whether you want pets or companions”.

 

“So this is a lesson?”

 

“An opinion. And fair warning, Prince, since we travel together. Neither my order nor I are pets. I did not speak for you in the Council, nor do I come to Lerac out of need for bargaining about our borders. I spoke as a wolf that wants to share the road with you and in the same manner will I speak in Lerac about Greenwood.”

 

Silence fell and the druid resumed his reading. The boy never moved from his spot but slowly lied where he was, listening like the she-wolf to the story. He smiled as the last image he saw in his blurred mind, was the druid surrounded by all kinds of forest creatures gathering around him to listen.

 

Time passed and Tar-en-Onek felt tired. He got up, smiling at his friends sleeping, and walked towards the others to wake up Celethil.

“It is the strong leader and necessity that keeps the pack together” Ehardin said, when he was near “not respect of choice. You weakened a King tonight.”
 

The druid stood still but said nothing.

 

“What is it, Carel?” the Grand Druid went on. “I know you are not weak, as your uncle would claim, and I know it is not the effort you shun away from. Is it ego, self-righteousness? Must we all be wrong and you right? Do you know better than Fahartha, the Father, than creation itself? Or is it perhaps fear of confrontation?”

 

The young druid smiled bitterly, looking down, his eyes starring away. “Perhaps I am just cruel, Master” he said, ever smiling. “Perhaps I simply cannot respect the conquered, I lose interest in them.”

 

“Some say so, you know” came the reply and the druid smiled anew before Ehardin continued. “Is that it then?”

 

“Does it matter?” he said and looked bitterly at the Order’s head. “In the end, we are what others think us to be. No matter where your heart lies, no matter your motives, people will treat you depending on how they see you. I cannot spend a life time trying to explain my actions. I just act, interpretation lies to each who witnesses.”

 

“Then I ask. Which is it?”

 

“I weakened a King tonight, you said it yourself, Master. Tomorrow that King will be easier to handle.”

 

“I could name you with many names, devious would not be one of them. Why lie?”

 

“Why ask? If I wished you to know, I would have spoken openly. I reserve the right to lie when asked things I don’t wish answered. You want the truth? Ask her” the druid replied, motioning towards the wolf.

“Kid not yourself, young man. She doesn’t stay for why you think. Wolves follow the strongest, Carel! You know this and fool is another name I wouldn’t name you with.”

 

“Perhaps I simply like wolves that stay, then” he shrugged.

 

The old druid shook his head. “You are no fool. And you are not weak. You are a dreamer, Carel. That’s all.”

 

The druid sighed and turned his look away, his scar smiling like a second crescent moon. He looked at the boy.

 

“You all give names then take them... Perhaps I am all those names, perhaps I simply can’t abide someone who wears a collar I would not stand to wear myself. But I see no weak King lying there. I see a prince from a tower sleeping surely with a wolf, in the forest, almost touching, while two druids stand watch. You want to name me something, Master? Name me Tar-en-Onek.”

 

 

 

 

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

 

“How did he tame the wolf?”

 

They had left the meadow and were now only a day’s walk away from the main road that would bring them to Lerac by next day’s noon but the young prince’s mind was still on last night’s encounter. Now, as he asked the question, he was looking at Celethil’s firm expression, feeling the shame people feel when they think their questions will go unanswered from indifference or, worse, will be answered with scorn. But the boy had much to learn about people and he understood Celethil or Tar-en-Onek little.

 

“He didn’t” the winged elf replied softly. “I thought he told you yesterday.”

“I know but... I don’t understand. Why doesn’t he tame her?”

 

“Now, boy” the elf said and a smile covered his face. “Now you ask the right question.” Celethil stopped and turned to look at the boy. His dark hair played with the wind and there was a glitter in his eyes which Alfos had never seen before. Fondness, he thought it was, or deep friendship for the druid.

 

“Did you know he carries many names?” the elf asked. “Carel he was named when born, a mockery towards the lineage of his father, who was your countryman. Lerac – Carel, same word but in reverse. See his mother was forestborn, a true child of Greenwood, and that dirty blood in his father’s veins she could never forgive. Then, after his parents were destroyed, he was called Kesmrash, the ill born, for it was said among the Circle that it was his games that brought the trolls to their house and ruin to them. Then again, as he joined the order, he was called Kri, the angle, and what does an angle have to do with a Circle?”

 

“Now, see, he carries a guilt. That he is less than was expected, that he brought ruin to his family, that he doesn’t belong, that he is selfish and his selfishness brings ruin. And he has built an ego, for what man who feels always in the defence doesn’t need walls? All this have made him feel he is a sinner, a cruel and bad man.”

“Is he?”

 

“Does it matter? He believes he is but doesn’t want to. Now, because of this, he thinks that every time he does something for himself, he brings ruin. So he now struggles to be what was expected, Carel the forestborn. He fights to honour their name, so he is called “Kesmrash” no more. He tries to blend with the Circle, so “Kri” is forgotten. But at the same time, because of his ego, he doesn’t want to become what he needs to to achieve those things.”

“I don’t understand, didn’t he want to be a druid? And what does all this has to do with the wolf?”

 

“No. He wanted to serve the forest, which is not the same thing. And let me finish. Now this man wants a wolf. He doesn’t want to tame it, because conquest is war and wars are won by ego. And he fears that if ego comes to play, then it will lose interest once the war is won. And he doesn’t want to change and become a wolf himself, for his guilt, his belief that being selfish brings ruin, forbids it.”
 

“So...How?”

 

“The wolf must come and ask him to be wolves together. That way it’s not conquest, that way it’s not selfish.”

“So that’s what happened.”

 

Celethil paused and looked at Tar-en-Onek.

“Is it?” he asked. “I do not know. I fear she comes when he has food to offer or when she roams away from her pack. But I am a suspicious man, mistrustful. He has a dreamer’s heart.”

 

They resumed their walking, catching up with the company with hasted steps. Darfin threw a sideways glance at them, muttering something about elves whispering to princes’ ears but Celethil ignored him while Alfos was too deeply covered in thought. He found such riddles much easier to handle than the troubles of his father and his people and the weight of guilt about the men he had killed.

 

“What does Tar-en-Onek mean then?” he asked almost in whisper after a while.

 

“The deer over the wolf or the deer inside the wolf. It is the name he chose, more or less.”

 

**********************
 

 

 

The demon horse neighed, flames roaring from his nostrils, fiery eyes glaring threatening at the young knight. The lake behind was still boiling from when the Nightmare had immerged and the heat was getting unbearable. The man raised his shield to cover his face as more flames rushed towards him, the other hand readying the rope the shaman had given him. Under his helmet his mind was going mad, as images of the Abyss, suffocation, pain and suffering flashed forcefully in his thoughts, the Nightmare sharing the pain of its dark heritage. Alfos grinded his teeth, struggling to keep his senses.

 

“Come!” he almost screamed. “Come, damn you, and I’ll show you who the rider and who the mount will be!” But he stopped. Among the images of the demon’s mind he saw something and somewhere in the memories of his, he remembered. He looked at the horse then at the rope. He took a few steps back, lowering his shield but not his guard.

 

“Listen” he said, with a calmness in his deep voice that surprised even him, more so as something inside him screamed with terror for him to stop being a fool. “I need you to cross the Path of Water. One way or another that will happen, be it by riding with you or by riding a mount there. Ride with me and you shall be my equal. Make me ride a mount and I shall treat you as one.”

 

The flames calmed, suspicion dancing blue in the demon’s eyes. The boy noticed. He let the rope fall but not the shield. The Nightmare starred at the fallen rope, then at the boy.

 

“They say you roam the world of dreams. They say you were born in the darkest depths of the sea, where water and fire are one and dreams are born, and that is why you can ride on water, that with your flames you bring the worst of images to sleeping men. They call you Nightmare. But I saw behind your fiery nightmares. I saw dreams.”

 

Silence of sound and image, but the whispers of the fiery mane, then the drop of the shield.

 

“I’ve seen all I love burning. Between us, what terror your fires may cause falls on you, they hold no fear for me and thus I shall ride them. But it is your choice. What shall I name you? Mount or Nightmare?”

 

Silence again. Then a hiss was heard, like water thrown on a big fire, and the flames on the steed’s body started to change into the deep, warm colour of the ocean.

 

Dreamwalker, the images in Alfos’ head whispered. Name me Dreamwalker.