A Land Far Away

Pale amber light outlined the man as he stood in the doorway of the small, unassuming cottage. He watched the cloud filled western sky as it faded into shades of periwinkle, brick and umber. Sparrows nestled within the hedgerow, sang their last goodbye to the setting sun. The man paused for a moment longer, breathing in the warm summer air, before turning, and stepping inside.

The cottage was small and sparsely furnished. A fireplace was built into one of the walls. Across from that stood a dusty cupboard, its doors slightly askew. On the wall opposite the door was a single shelf containing a half-empty sack of flour, a jar of salt, and several wax candles. In the middle of the room rested a sturdy oaken table with two small wooden chairs.

The man moved silently to the hearth and began sifting through the ash. He laid a fresh bundle of dry straw atop the remaining embers. With a few gentle breaths of air, a fire burst into life. Slowly he added fuel to the flames until the fire was strong and the entire room shone with a flickering yellow light. He poured water from a nearby bucket into an iron pot and placed it on a hook suspended just above the flames.

While the water heated, he unfolded a heavy linen cloth and carefully draped it over the length of the table. Reaching into the cupboard, he retrieved a rolled-up leather mat and a wooden cup and placed them neatly on the table. Moving to one corner of the little room, he lifted a loose floor board and carefully extracted an old, dust-covered bottle. He returned the floor board to its proper place then crossed back to the table. Using his tunic, he gently wiped the bottle. Pulling the stopper free, he emptied the bottle into his cup.

He moved one of the chairs next to the fire and sat down heavily. Reaching into his vest pockets, he extracted an old pipe and a small leather pouch. Using his forefinger and thumb, he pinched a generous clump of leaves and packed them into his pipe. He closed the pouch before taking a twig from the fire and lighting the pipe. He inhaled deeply and briefly closed his eyes. He held the smoke for several long moments before slowly releasing it through his nose and mouth. Tossing the spent twig into the fire he sat back and relaxed for the first time all day.

Nice.

The man sat silently staring into the fire, sucking the last bit of flavor through the cold, spent pipe. What had he done? Was this really the right decision? He shook his head, as if the act itself would chase the indecision from his mind.

Stepping to the hearth, he tapped the last of the ashes from his pipe, then tucked it back inside his vest. He stood there gazing into the flames until he heard the muffled thud of boots on his front porch followed by a sharp rapping on the door. With a deep sigh, the man walked across the room. Lifting the latch and opening the door, he stared at a tall, unkempt half-elf.

“Doogan”, the half-elf nodded, “I ask you one final time if this is really what you want? Once it is done, nothing will ever be the same.”

“The same? How can you say that? Everything has changed already. I will have her back. I will have her back, no matter the cost”, Doogan replied.

“What about the boy”, the half-elf asked, nodding towards the toddler laying on the bed?

“By the Golden Lady, I cannot care for him. I am at the docks from dawn to dusk. If you can find a home for him, then take him”.

“As you wish. Have all of the preparations been made? Once we begin, we cannot stop”.

“All is as you instructed. The cauldron boils, the poker glows brightly in the coals, and the instruments are on the table”.

“And the woman”, asked the half-elf?

“Wrapped in blankets of ice. I have not move her since you visited this morning”, Doogan replied while ringing his hands.

“Very well, Let us begin”.