Celestial Writes Medieval Fics

[Celestial]

*edits* Yep, I reserved this date for a reason, and that reason was because I wanted to post Absy-fic. ^^ So here it is. He is a little bit older in this, and a bit more settled. Also, it's from Ivar's POV. That should give you a clue.

The Start of Summer

Part 1

SPOILER: Click to show

May 10th, 752

Birdsong hung in the air around them, and the leaves of the forest trees that surrounded their way were greening: spring was turning into summer. The path they had been following was a wide, well-travelled one, a mercy compared to the wilderness they were used to on their journey. A journey that was about to end soon.

Ivar took a moment to glance sideways at where Absolon was walking beside him. The white-haired man was staring ahead, his chest rising and falling as his breathing quickened. His pace also began to speed up.

“Are you alright?” Ivar asked, concern edging into his voice.

“I’m fine, Ivar,” his beloved smiled at him before gazing back to the path. “This feels familiar, somehow. It’s like I’ve been here before.”

A frown wrinkled the blond man’s forehead. “Do you remember why, or when?

Absolon shook his head. “I suppose it does not matter now. Whatever the path was before, now it will be the way to the abbey.”

Ivar nodded, studying the road ahead. Even from here, it was easy to see the signs of construction that had been taking place. Trees had been cut down on all sides for materials and their stumps uprooted to make room for nascent vegetable plots. The wide path bore not only human tracks, but also the signs of beasts pulling heavily-laden carts. Here and there, they glimpsed stray bits of thatch or stone that had been discarded during construction. The Dux had kept his word.

An enormous smile spread across Absolon’s face. “I cannot believe there is going to be an abbey, here! The first ever abbey in the north!”

“It’s all thanks to you,” the blond pulled him close, planting a kiss on his lips and smiling. “I must say, I am looking forward to settling for a little. Seventeen years of travel has been exhausting.”

“Yes..” Absolon pulled his one hand free of Ivar’s and rubbed his neck. “I feel so tired, Ivar. All of my limbs ache.”

“When we get to the abbey, you can rest as much as you wish,” Ivar grinned at him. “Or as much as you can, Abbot.”

A blush spread across the other man’s cheeks, creased by an awkward smile. “It feels strange that that’s going to be my title. Abbot…” Absolon dug his fingers into his white hair. “Back in Corvus, I did not even dare dream of being an abbot.”

“You deserve it,” Ivar took his hand, gazing into his eyes. “Without you, we would not even know of the Woo. Now all the clans look to Him- and to you- for guidance. You’ve changed our lives, and saved countless others,” he leaned forward, kissing him again. “I think that deserves some recognition.”

Absolon smiled shyly. “I suppose,” he sighed. “It still scares me sometimes, how much has been placed on my shoulders. But it is the Woo’s will: he gave me this task.”

“And I think he would be proud of how well you did it and how quickly. Change here normally takes centuries, not seventeen short years,” the blond man cupped his face in his hands. “In my eyes, you are nothing short of a miracle worker, and not just because of your magic.”

If he was blushing before, now Absolon flushed bright scarlet. Despite his embarrassment, however, his gaze was full of love. “Thank you,” he leaned into the blond man’s chest, putting his arms around him and closing his eyes. No doubt he was enjoying listening to the colour of his heart beating. “Your words mean so much to me, Ivar. I’m happy to have had you by my side.”

“Me too,” Ivar murmured, kissing him. “Me too.”

They remained intertwined for a while until Absolon finally pulled away. For a moment, Ivar’s arms hovered around the air where he used to be.

“Shall we keep doing?” he asked.

Absolon nodded, falling into step beside his beloved. Together, the pair walked on, cresting the hill until, at last, they arrived at the very top.

There was a gasp from Absolon. Ivar turned to him, his heart leaping into his throat as for a moment he thought something had happened. Instead, he saw his beloved standing stock still, his brown eyes wide as they took in the sight in front of him. He was not hurt; far from it: he looked awestruck. The blond man smiled, briefly taking in the sight before he turned, looking towards where Absolon’s eyes were pointed.

The trees opened up to reveal a wide clearing. Clustered within it were several buildings, each of varying height and size. Some were connected by covered corridors, while others stood alone. Most were only one or two storeys and made out of earth, wood and thatch, as was common in the Roan lands. The only exception was the great building in the centre. Its grey stone walls loomed over its neighbours, topped with a large round tower that peered over the treetops. Scaffolding still hugged it: even though it had more than likely been built first, stone took a long time to work.

Absolon sharpy drew in breath. “The chapel.”

Ivar smiled at him. He remembered that winter, sixteen years ago, in the Overo lands, when Absolon first realised that the landed needed a centre for Wooism to take root. Not just a place of worship, but somewhere where the religion could be maintained by the faithful. Based on childhood memory, he had drawn the plans and sent them at the first spring melt to the Dux of Roan. Judging by the flurry of activity that was going on even now, he was right to believe the Dux would deliver.

“Is it really like the ones you have back in the south?” he asked, reaching for Absolon’s hand.

The white-haired man shook his head. “Ours are bigger, and they’re made fully out of stone. But in Corvus they’re found everywhere. This...this is the first one here,” he turned back to gaze lovingly at the abbey. “That makes it special.”

“And it’s all yours and ready for you,” Ivar kissed his cheek. “As we all are.”

“Yes…” Absolon breathed. His expression flitted between fear and excitement.

“Come on, let’s go take a closer look,” the blond started down the path. “We should also let everyone know you’ve returned.”

Nodding, his beloved followed him. The closer they got to the abbey, the quicker his pace became. By the time they arrived, he was almost running, his excitement palpable. As he passed, people stopped their work and stared at him. Murmurs rose from them like wind in the reeds.

“The Bringer of Spring!”

“He’s here!”

“He’s returned! At last!”

Normally such comments would cause Absolon some embarrassment but when Ivar turned to look, it did not even appear that he had heard them. Either he was too entranced by the abbey, or seventeen years of hearing such things had finally made him immune to them. The blond man suspected it was a combination of both.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. Ivar stopped, looking in the direction of the abbey church. A young man, probably no older than seventeen or eighteen, was running towards them, his dirty blond hair streaming out behind him. He raced up and stopped in front of Absolon and Ivar, panting. Once he had caught his breath, however, he looked up the former.

“It’s you! You’re finally here! It’s an honour to finally meet you,” the boy bowed deeply before he looked up“I thought you would be taller.”

As soon as he blurted it out, he clapped his hands over his mouth. “I mean...uhh…”

Seeing his discomfort, Absolon responded with a shake of the head. “I get that a lot.”

“Oh, thank Woo. I thought I’d insulted you!” the young man laughed and smiled, his expression full of admiration. “I’m Amund. My parents have told me so much about you, Bringer of Spring.”

“Your parents..?” Absolon blinked, peering closer at Amund. Sudden recognition dawned on him. “You’re Seisyll and Ulrika’s son?!”

“Yes!” Amund exclaimed, grinning broadly at being recognised.

With the benefit of that knowledge, it was easy to see the connection. Amund resembled his father in face and figure, but his hair and eyes were definitely his mother’s. Seeing this, Ivar could not help a faint twitch of nostalgia for Eo. Even if he had no truly good memories there, it had been so long- almost literally a lifetime- since he had been there. In a way, it was a lifetime: Eo was his old life, one that ended when he-

Ivar looked at Amund again, a chill of realisation running down his spine: this was Greta’s brother.

He swallowed and subtly took a few steps behind Absolon, dipping his head so he would not have to look at the boy. The white-haired man glanced back at him, concern flitting across his face. Ivar shook his head, shooting him a reassuring smile. Though not entirely convinced, it was enough for Absolon to turn his attention back to Amund. “How are your parents? It has been so long since I have seen them.”

“They are well, along with my brothers and sisters,” the young man grinned as he noticed Absolon’s surprise at the fact. “After me, they had five more children: two boys and three girls. All of them healthy and thriving. My youngest sister was born just last year, in spring. The elder baptised her like you showed.”

“That’s wonderful!” Absolon exclaimed, his face lighting up with joy. “After all they have been through, they deserve that.”

“They say it’s all thanks to you and the Woo. You brought them peace,” Amund stated this with a reverential tone. “After hearing all their stories, I knew I wanted to meet you and repay the debt my family owes you. So when we got the news about this abbey, I had to come here!”

“And your parents..?”

“Gave me their blessing. How could they not?” the boy looked at the man in front of him, eager and expectant. “So now that you are here, what is going to happen?”

A wide smile formed on Absolon’s face. “We are going to continue spreading the Woo’s teachings from here. People now know of Him, but from this abbey we will continue informing people about Him and His way,” his voice was breathless with joy. “There will be a community of people, all dedicated to the Woo, spreading His word, guiding people, helping them, creating works of art, making peace among the clans…”

Ivar gazed lovingly at Absolon as he spoke. He had listened to his beloved speaking about his plans for the abbey almost every night and still he was not sick of it. How could he be when it made Absolon so happy? It was almost as if he was talking about plans for his child, which, in a way, he was.

Judging by the way Amund’s eyes widened, he was enraptured by Absolon’s descriptions as Ivar. Even after the white-haired man finished, it took him a few moments before he even remembered to breathe.

“That all sounds…utterly amazing!” he cried. “I can’t wait to get started! It will be such an honour to help you!”

“It will be a joy to receive your help,” Absolon replied. He gazed over Amund’s head at the abbey, smiling serenely.

With the conversation seemingly over, Ivar putting a hand on his shoulder. “Come on. We should see what the inside is like instead of just admiring the outside.”

“Yes, let’s,” the white-haired man turned to Amund. “Could you please let the Dux know we are here? We tried to look for him back at the fortress but they told us he’s with the abbey.”

“Oh yes, I saw him earlier! I’ll get him for you!”

“Thank you,” he bowed his head in gratitude. “We will be in the chapel.”

With a nod, Amund ran off. Absolon reached out, taking Ivar’s hand. “Let’s go. I want to see it!”

He beamed, squeezing back in affirmation. Together, they walked side by side through the complex towards the stone building. Though the ground was smooth, Absolon walked slowly, and on occasion, he stumbled.

“Easy,” Ivar grabbed him under the shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“Mhm,” the white-haired man mumbled. “I don’t know why, but I feel tired.”

“We have come far,” the Roan planted a kiss on his cheek. “We can rest soon, don’t worry. Let’s get to this chapel first. See if it’s everything you imagined.”

“Yes,” his beloved replied. He did his best to quicken his pace, though Ivar could feel a shakiness to his steps. He suppressed the stab of worry in his abdomen: they had a long journey to get here. Of course Absolon would be exhausted.

They arrived at the chapel, and Ivar opened the door for them both, gesturing for his beloved to come inside. Clasping the wooden feather hanging from his neck, Absolon did just that. As soon as he stepped in, he gasped. A pang of excitement fluttered in Ivar’s heart: the inside must have been magnificent to elicit such a reaction. Curious to see for himself, he walked into the chapel.

In structure, with its high ceiling and wooden beams, it resembled the great hall of the Dux of Roan’s fortress, albeit narrower. Tapestries depicting scenes from the Book of Woo were hung in between narrow windows. Beams of warm May light streamed through them, highlighting the dust motes that hung in the air. Occasionally, they fell on wooden benches that would not have looked out of place in the Dux’s halls, only instead of being tucked away at the sides, they were in the centre, facing the front, towards a great stone altar surrounded by two high candles. Unlike the rest of the stones, it was brightly painted, with swirling patterns representing birds, feathers and clouds. A white cloth hung upon it, embroidered with only a single image: the Woo, spread-eagled.

Absolon stood in the centre of the space, his brown eyes wide and his smile running from ear to ear. Falling to his knees, he muttered a quick prayer before lifting his arms up to the sky. Joy overtook him and he spun around, his robe flaring out around his ankles.

Ivar could not help but grin: he should have known by now that the Woo’s influence was strong enough to cure exhaustion.

Heavy footsteps, followed by a booming voice, sounded behind him. “What do you think, Bringer of Spring?” the Dux asked. “Is it similar to what you have in the south?”

Absolon stumbled again, obviously thrown off-balance by the sudden invasion of colour in his eyes. Ivar rushed to his side, but the white-haired man managed to right himself just in time to avert a fall.

“My apologies, did I startle you?” Ragnarr asked. “I should have remembered about your problems with sound.”

“No, it’s alright,” Absolon shook his head before looking back around the chapel. “This is different than what I remember in Corvus: it’s less ornate, there’s no stained glass, and I noticed there is no baptismal font at the entrance, among other things.”

“Oh,” the Dux’s tone was full of disappointment. “I am sorry.”

“Please don’t be,” the white-haired man smiled. “People in Corvus are different from you; they have different tastes and different needs. This is exactly how a northern chapel should look. I wouldn’t want it any other way. It feels right,” he gazed up again. “Besides, the Woo values sincerity of faith over appearances anyway.”

This earned a smirk from Ragnarr. “Well, we have no shortage of faith in Him,” he gestured around the space. “This used to be the grove where we…” the Dux’s head lowered. “Delivered her sacrifices. We considered turning the stone where they were placed onto the altar but it did not feel right. Instead, we laid it into its foundation.”

Ivar scoffed. “Good thing too. The Woo has no use for an altar that’s been bathed in blood.”

Absolon, however, stared at the Dux, wide eyed. “So that’s why the path was so familiar...” his hand reflexively drifted to the burned stump of his hand. “It’s unrecognizable now.”

The blond man frowned. Was there a hint of sadness in his beloved’s voice?

He put his hand on Absolon’s shoulder, squeezing it. “It’s for the best. People do not need reminders of her. Besides, the Woo will make better use of this space than she ever could.”

“Yes. I am glad that the Woo has this place now, and that she is safely sealed away where she cannot do any more harm. But-” the white-haired man dipped his head. “-it feels wrong to just forget a deity.”

“Even one as bloodthirsty and cruel as her?”

Absolon nodded, slowly but definitely. “Yes. People need to remember her horrors so they never feel tempted towards her again.”

Ivar opened his mouth to protest but he was cut off by Ragnarr stepping forward. “If you think we did something wrong, Bringer of Spring-”

“No, not at all! I am happy with all of this. You and your people people did an amazing job, Dux Ragnarr. I am beyond grateful,” Absolon bowed deeply. “I was merely contemplating our way forward from here.”

“Well, unless plans have changed, you are to become Abbot of this place,” the Dux grinned. “So for one thing, I am going to have to get used to sharing power with you.”

The white-haired man gave a strangled choke. “I would never undermine your power, Dux Ragnarr! That’s not my intention.”

“Relax, Absolon, I am only joking,” Ragnarr laughed, slapping his own belly. “It won’t be a problem. A Dux’s lot is far less spiritual than what I understand you’ll be dealing with.”

Absolon relaxed, even smiling now that he got the joke. He nodded. “My job will be to maintain this place, and to keep the Woo in people’s minds and hearts. But I do want to help people in more than just spiritual matters. Back home, an abbey took in the sick and orphaned, and helped the poor, among other things. I want to do all that here!”

The Dux smirked. “It seems like you have everything figured out, Absolon. I look forward to a great partnership and to seeing what you will do. The people of Roan will also do what they can to help you. I can tell you they are certainly keen!”

“I know: I already met one of them,” the white-hair man remarked. “But I will not just be working for the Roan clan; it will be for all clans.”

“Oh?” Ragnarr raised an eyebrow. “You certainly are ambitious.”

Ivar cleared his throat. “It’s more plausible than you think, Sire. The Bringer of Spring is a highly respected person across the whole north, both in the lowlands and the mountains. If they will listen to anybody, it will be him.”

This earned a chuckle from the Dux. “That I will not question. However, this is not my domain. I trust you, Bringer of Spring. Do what you believe is right,” he bowed his head to Absolon before a hearty grin crossed his face. “But all that work can begin tomorrow. What say we test out the kitchens by getting them to cook you a feast? They are already in working order, but they’ve not had to prepare food for so many people.”

The white-haired man remained silent, and Ivar glimpsed a hint of hesitation in his brown eyes. Nevertheless, Absolon nodded to the Dux. “If you wish. That would be nice.”

“Excellent! Then I shall get everything arranged,” Ragnarr exclaimed, clapping his hands.

“Thank you, Sire,” Ivar bowed deeply to him. “But until then, perhaps Absolon could do with some rest? We have had a long journey.”

“Of course! I shall leave you,” the Dux said and walked out of the chapel, leaving the two alone.

Absolon sighed, sitting down on one of the benches. “Thank you, Ivar,” he breathed, smiling up at the blond man.

“You’re welcome,” Ivar sat next to him. “You seem exhausted. You have been for a while.”

“I am. I don’t know why,” Absolon shook his head. “I don’t feel ill, just tired.”

The blond chuckled. “There’s no spell that can prevent tiredness is there?”

“Not that I know of. The only cure is simple rest,” he leaned on Ivar’s shoulder, closing his eyes.

“Then it’s a good thing I am here,” Ivar wrapped his arm around Absolon, kissing the top of his head. “You have so much to do. Get some rest. I’ll take care of you.”

“You always do,” the white-haired man murmured, nuzzling into his shoulder. He rested his one hand on Ivar’s leg, getting comfortable.

The blond man sighed, gazing around at the tapestries and the altar. Between them and Absolon’s warm presence by his side, he was totally relaxed. This was finally here. They were finally here. Things were going to be alright.

***

Relaxing at the chapel helped to an extent. Despite Ivar’s fears, Absolon did make it to the feast, with the blond man following behind him. Neither of them, however, were prepared for the sheer mass of people who were there to welcome Absolon. The dining hall had been built to hold many, but even it could not occupy those who wanted to see the Bringer of Spring in person. Some were familiar, but most were new faces, all drawn by a desire to meet the man they heard so much about, even if they could not get a seat at the table.

As soon as they saw the white-haired man, they rushed towards him, almost tripping over themselves in their haste.

“Bringer of Spring! Do you remember us? You came to our village!”

“Did you really get the Woo to stop the fighting between Clan Dun and Rabicano?”

“How did you manage to fly when the Sabinos threw you off the mountain?”

“Is it true that the Shifter of Seasons is really bound? Forever?”

The questions were relentless. Under their barrage, Absolon began to wither. Seeing this, Ivar stepped in front of his beloved, shielding him from the onslaught of people putting his hands over his ears. As soon as he did that, the white-haired man sighed with relief, though his eyes remained firmly shut.

“Silence!!” Ragnarr’s voice broke through the rabble. A hush fell over them as they bit their tongues. Ivar shot the nearest ones a glare and they leapt back like rabbits in the sightline of a wolf.

The Dux strode to the side of the two men. “If you are going to ask questions, do them one at a time. He might be the Bringer of Spring, but that is even less reason to mob him like a bunch of magpies.”

Cowed, the crowd shrank, if not in size than in stature. They shot glances between each other: after the chastising by their leader, none dared to speak.

It was Amund who eventually stepped forward, stopping a respectable distance away from Absolon and gazing at him with admiring eyes. “My parents always spoke in high regard of your magic. Could you please demonstrate it for us?”

Ivar suppressed a grin: as if his beloved needed any encouragement. He let go of Absolon and pushed him gently forward. The white-haired man nodded eagerly to Amund and took out his red wand. “What do you want to see?

“Anything!” the boy exclaimed before thinking. He clapped his hands. “What about the bird? The bird that you summoned in the middle of a battle that brought peace?”

Absolon blushed. “It wasn’t just my magic that brought peace. But I can show you the spell,” he looked around the hall. “Though maybe not on such a grand scale.”

He shut his eyes, his brow furrowing with concentration. The tip of his wand glowed spring-green. With every passing moment, the light grew stronger, growing a head, a tail and finally wings. The bird detached from the wand as if taking off from a branch and flew over the heads of the crowd. They gasped in delight, with a few even reaching out to touch the construct.

Ivar’s eyes, however, were on Absolon. He gazed at him with a mixture of awe and adoration. How long his beloved had worked himself to the bone to master this hybrid of fairy magic and his own, and now, he could do it at will. The knowledge of this magic had served him well in other areas: it was this ability that gave Absolon the idea to use what he knew to create a binding for the Shifter of Seasons. Combined with the Woo’s protection, she would never bother anybody ever again. The thought gave him great satisfaction.

He looked back at the bird construct only to glimpse it as it curled it on itself, fading away. Absolon opened his eyes just as the attention of the crowd turned back towards him. They were staring in wide-eyed awe. Clearly uncomfortable with the attention, the white-haired man shifted in place and drew towards Ivar.

“That was amazing!” somebody cried out.

“Show us more!” another voice joined in.

“Bringer of Spring, can you do healing magic too?” a woman waved to him. “My husband has hurt his leg.”

More voices joined them, calling out praise or cheers as well as calls for more displays of power. Ivar squeezed his hand. “They all love you.”

“Yes…” Absolon gasped.

The blond gently pushed him forward. “Go on,” he shot his beloved a smile. “Go meet your admirers.”

Absolon turned to gaze at him with pleading eyes. “Only if you come with me.”

Ivar gave his hand a brief squeeze. “Always. You know I follow where you go.”

Absolon grinned widely. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of magic demonstrations and listening to eager people chatter at Absolon, either to tell him their life story, talk to him about the Woo or simply to thank him for all he had done. He listened to each person equally and when asked for help, he did his best to provide what he could, be it magic or prayer. All those wishing to speak to him barely left any time to eat, so Ivar dedicated himself to fetching food for them both and shooing anybody away whenever Absolon wanted to eat.

As time wore on, however, despite his efforts, Ivar noticed his beloved beginning to flag. Instead of talking, he preferred to let other people speak, and when he did reply, it was only a few words at best. Not even a delivery of food or drink seemed to relieve him. Reflexively, he watched to see if the mage was flexing his fingers or rubbing his arms, indicating the phenomenon he called the Pull but there was no such actions. It was just the same ordinary tiredness. Despite himself, the blond smiled: it was nice to be reminded of Absolon’s humanity sometimes.

Nevertheless, he quickly extracted him from the conversation with a talkative older woman who had neatly segued from thanking him to more general chatter about her grandchildren. Absolon did not say a word to Ivar but his brown eyes were wide with gratitude.

They approached Ragnarr, and Ivar tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention. “We’re heading away,” he gestured with his head at Absolon, who gazed up at the Dux with an exhausted look.

Ragnarr nodded, understanding immediately. “Amund!” he called. The boy ran over, eager as a puppy. “Take them to the sleeping quarters. To the room we’ve prepared.”

“Yes, Sire,” Amund replied, bowing.

Satisfied, the Dux turned to Absolon and Ivar. “Go get some sleep, both of you. I’ll disperse this lot. Don’t worry,” he smiled. “There is always tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Sire,” Ivar bowed his head.

“Yes. Thank you,” Absolon nodded. “For everything you have done.”

“It’s a small thing compared to the debt we owe you, Bringer of Spring,” Ragnarr stated. “Go now, before we hold you back longer. Good night.”

Once they left the hall Absolon leaned on Ivar, resting his head against his shoulder. Amund led them towards the room that had been set aside in the dormitories. He wanted to help more but Ivar insisted it was fine; he would take it from there. Reluctantly, the boy complied. Once he left, the blond man closed his eyes his shoulders relaxing.

They entered the room, which was sparsely furnished as per custom, containing only a chair, a candle, a washbasin and a bed, as well as the few belongings they brought with them. Absolon broke away from Ivar, making a beeline for the bed, collapsing on the straw mattress. The blond man followed him, removing his beloved’s shoes and cloak as well as his robe, his wand and the Book of Woo that he carried attached to his belt. Everything was placed on the chair, except the woven cord from which Absolon’s wand hung. That he placed on the bedpost: one never knew when it would be needed.

Removing the outer layer of his clothes, Ivar got into bed besides Absolon. He pulled the blankets over them and put his arms around him, to which the white-haired man responded by cuddling into his chest and giving off a contented sigh.

“I’m so happy to finally be alone with you,” Ivar whispered. “I don’t mind you giving your time and attention to all those other people who love you, but this...this is special.”

“Mhm, I agree,” Absolon murmured. “I am happy to be with them. I know how much I mean to everyone in the north. But you...you mean so much to me.”

The blond man’s heart raced as he heard that. “And you to me,” he kissed Absolon. “I doubt any of them love you like I do.”

A smile formed on the white-haired man’s face. “No. And while I love them, it’s similar to the love that the Woo feels for all people,” he rolled over, putting his arms around Ivar. “It’s not like that with you.”

Ivar grinned. “You don’t love me like the Woo does? Or does the Woo not love me?”

Absolon looked up in panic but relaxed as soon as he saw the playful twinkle in the blond man’s eyes. He slumped back against him, a smile curling his lips. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Ivar murmured, stroking his back. “And I am grateful.”

For a few moments, nothing interrupted the silence in their room save for their breaths and their heartbeats. Then, Absolon spoke.

“Ivar?”

“Yes?”


“Thank you for staying with me all these years.”

“How could I not?” Ivar kissed the top of his head. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. You saved me.”

Absolon sighed. “You’ve done the same for me many times over,” he lifted his head up towards the blond man. “Will you continue to be with me as I work on this abbey? I know it probably won’t be as exciting as our adventures but-”

“You don’t even need to ask,” Ivar grinned down at him, lifting his hand up to touch his cheek. “I told you: I’ll always be there for you, Absolon. I’ll help you however I can with whatever you need.”

The mage smiled softly, closing his eyes. “Thank Woo,” he rested against the blond man’s chest, putting his arms around him. “I love you, Ivar.”

“I love you too, Absolon,” Ivar hugged him tightly. “I’ll always love you.”

They remained intertwined even as Absolon’s breathing shallowed and slowed. Ivar remained awake a little longer, lovingly gazing at his beloved’s features until his eyelids began to droop. Lulled by Absolon’s warmth, his heartbeat and his breath tickling his skin, it was not long before Ivar also fell asleep.

He awoke to the sound of rain against the shutters. Weak light streamed into the crack between them: dawn had broken.

For a moment, he tempted to stay inside but quickly dismissed the thought. Even if the weather was poor, it was time to get up. There was so much to do.

Ivar’s head rolled to the side and he gazed down at Absolon lying still in his arms, still smiling from last night. It figured; he never woke first.

“Absolon? It’s morning,” he gently shook his shoulder.

The white-haired man did not stir. Ivar frowned slightly. Absolon liked to doze, but he was usually a light sleeper.

“Come on. You can’t sleep forever. You have work to do, Abbot,” the blond said a little louder. Still no response.

He must have been very tired last night to sleep through speech. There was, however, one thing that never failed to wake him up. Carefully, Ivar leaned down and kissed his lips.

They were cold. There was also no trace of breath.

The blond man recoiled, feeling his stomach churning. He touched his palm to Absolon’s cheek. It was also icy. Panic began to swirl in his head. Ivar pressed his ear to his beloved’s heart. Not a sound.

His breathing hitched. The roar of his pulse deafened him. The man recoiled from Absolon’s prone body and the mage’s arms fell unresisting over the space where he once was. At no point did he so much as stir.

This was not happening. Ivar stared at his beloved on the bed beside him, shaking his head in denial. “Absolon?!” he cried but as before, there was no response. He grabbed his shoulders, shaking him violently, but as soon as he let go, Absolon’s head lolled back. That smile, which before had always warmed his heart, now seemed like mockery.

“Woo, this cannot be…” he whispered, gripping his own woocifix. “It’s not…”

At any moment now, he would wake up and everything would be fine. It was all going to be fine. All this was just a nightmare. Just a...

No, it was not a nightmare. Ivar’s chest tightened. His entire body was numb. Cold permeated to the depths of his stomach.

Absolon was dead.

A myriad of thoughts and emotions competed in his mind. Ivar gripped his hair, tearing at it. He tried to think of something, anything he could do to fix this, but he knew there was no power in the world that could undo the truth of what had occured.

The love of his life was dead.

Unable to do anything else, he screamed.

Part 2

SPOILER: Click to show

The air around the abbey vibrated with the sound of many voices raised in song. Haunting, melancholy notes swirled through the halls and out of the windows into the forest. Though the melodies were different, each had one thing in common: they were only sung in times of death.

Clan Roan was grieving.

Ivar’s voice, however, was not among them; his throat was too worn from screaming. Instead, he sat slumped behind the altar, his eyes glazed, staring into space.

He had hoped they had put Absolon here, in the chapel where he belonged, but that hope had been in vain. The body was not here. The blond man had thought about going to look for him but could not summon the energy. Instead, he remained within the stone building, trying to find solace in the Woo’s presence, wherever He was.

His upper arms ached: the men who held him back as Absolon’s body was removed had been strong. No doubt the pain would eventually manifest as bruises, but somehow he could not bring himself to care. It was not like it mattered. Nothing mattered anymore.

The chapel door creaked open, causing Ivar to freeze. He listened, trying to determine who had intruded upon him. Heavy footsteps slapping against stone approached the altar. The Roan’s heart sped up as he prepared to bolt but whoever was approaching him changed course, sitting down among the pews instead.

“Thank you all for coming,” a voice rang out. The Dux. “I know this is...a terrible time for us all.”

“An understatement, Sire,” said someone he did not recognise. “The Bringer of Spring, our protector from the Time Tree, is dead.”

“It is not him who protected us, Elder Harald; it was the Woo,” a woman spoke this time. “We have not seen the Bringer of Spring for seventeen years and yet, we have not had to give any children to her in the meantime. The Woo still watches over us.”

“How long will that last? Wasn’t the whole purpose of this place for him to guide us on how to worship the Woo? What will happen now?” a third voice, this one male, joined in.

Ragnarr sighed. “We will figure it out. We know the basics, and from all I have seen, Absolon was right in that his god is a kind one: He will surely understand.”

The man identified as Harald scoffed. “A kind god, and yet he took the Bringer of Spring so suddenly from us.”

“Harald!” the woman once again chided him. “Perhaps so, but we must trust the Woo. We cannot afford to lose our faith, not now when it’s all we have,” her voice grew harder. “I refuse to return to the old days.”

“None of us are going to, Aoife,” Ragnarr confirmed. “That, however, is discussion for another day. Right now, I have called this council to discuss a more pressing question.”

“With all due respect, what could be more pressing than our fates, Dux Ragnarr?” the third man asked.

“We have managed without the Bringer of Spring while he was away, Ualan. We can manage a little longer. Summer has not even started yet: we have time to decide,” Ragnarr replied. “What concerns me more is what to do regarding his funeral.”

“Isn’t that easy? Simply build a pyre for him and have it be done with,” Harald exclaimed. “Nothing to discuss.”

“If he was only of Clan Roan, we could do that, but it is not that easy,” the Dux sighed. “He means just as much, if not more, to the other clans. They would want to mourn him too. How would they feel if we do not tell them that the Bringer of Spring has died?”

Silence fell over the assembled people as the implications sunk in.

“You are not suggesting then that we invite them here to mourn him?” Ualan finally remarked, skeptical. “The clans have not gathered together under one roof for centuries, and for good reason.”

Aoife laughed. “Oh Woo, can you imagine what kind of chaos we’d have with the Duxes of Clan Tobiano and Grey here? Or Grullo and Cremello?”

“Aye. That’s why I’m not keen to invite them,” Ragnarr said sardonically. “But to snub them could cause even more chaos. And this, lest we forget, would be directed at us.”

Another thoughtful silence settled over the Dux and the elders. It was Harald who broke it “It seems to me the simplest thing is to send word out and let the clans decide themselves for what they want to do. After all, how many of the mountain clans do you think will drop everything to come this far?”

“Some might,” the Dux said quietly.

“And what of his body?” Aoife asked. “We cannot keep it long, lest it attract anything evil, but if the clans ask to see him, or wish to mourn him..?”

“Perhaps then we can place a marker on the site where we cremate him, or where he died?” Ualan suggested. “Let the clans who wish to come pay their respects there.”

“Yes, we can,” Ragnarr assented. “We cremate him as soon as possible, then allow the clans to come see in their own time where the place of his death was. “

“And if they want proof of his death?”

“We could keep an artefact, perhaps? Place it beside the monument?”

“Perhaps,” the Dux nodded. “I think that is a fine compromise.”

“His extended wake might even be a good opportunity for you to curry favour, Sire,” Harald chuckled.

Ragnarr was silent for a few moments. “We shall see, Elder Harald.”

They continued to discuss minutia, such as couriers, who would write and the wording of the messages. Eventually, the Dux and his advisors departed, leaving Ivar alone in the church.

He was shaking, his fists were clenched and his eyes had hardened into steely points. The more he had listened to their conversation, the more the numbness in his chest was supplanted by fury. It was fair to let the other clans know- he would want the friends they had made over their travels to find out- but turning it into a grand diplomatic affair?

He imagined it, the clans gathering to mourn, and Ragnarr and his counsel speaking to each one in turn, trying to eke something from them. Absolon would not have wanted that. Peace was his goal, not one clan’s supremacy over the others. Certainly he did not deserve to be made a pawn in their games!

Worst of all, Ivar thought with a scowl, he would have not wanted to be burned. The blond knew all too well from his days serving Cebeline that burning was a safeguard against the body attracting evil. As if Absolon could ever be a lure for any such thing! To imply so was an insult. Even if he was not, Wooists were usually buried. The Book of Woo said their body was of the earth, so after their soul returned to the Woo, it had to return to the earth.

The Dux and his people knew nothing! They would never give Absolon the proper respect he deserved! None of them knew him like he did. They must have known that, and yet, he was not even asked to attend this accursed meeting of theirs!

Ivar snarled. They did not care about Absolon; all they cared about was their agenda.

He was not going to let them use him! His beloved might have been dead but it was still his duty to protect him. If nobody else was going to do it properly or ask Ivar how to do it, he would take care of Absolon’s body himself.

The blond stood up, storming out of the church. With the abbey was still being a building site, it was not a difficult task to find the tools he needed: a shovel and a length of rope. All he needed now was Absolon’s body. Ivar had not seen where it had been taken, but now, with his head cleared of the fog of grief by rage, he could begin to figure it out. If he knew northern tradition, it could only be in one place. It was impossible to believe the Dux would not include it in the abbey’s design.

It did not take long before he found it. With wooden log construction, low roof and the high chimney that jutted out of it, the sauna could not be anything else. There were no bars to block the way, and a sauna usually locked from the inside, so Ivar pushed the door open. It swung open without resistance. Pale light filtered into the entrance along with him, illuminating the inside.

The furnace was unlit, its stones lying cold within it the grate. Opposite it, as per the norm were two benches laid out in layers, one higher than the other. On the lower, longer one, beneath a white shroud, lay Absolon.

Ivar felt a lump in his throat as he looked at the shape beneath the white cloth that he knew was the body of his beloved. Dropping his pile of tools, he kneeled by Absolon’s side, fighting to hold back tears. His hand hovered over the cloth covering the other man’s face before he drew it away: there was no time. If anybody noticed him, his attempt to give Absolon the funeral he deserved would be ruined.

Instead, the blond man reached for the length of rope. Still kneeling, he shifted Absolon’s body along with the shroud onto his back before tying him in place.

Using the shovel, Ivar pushed himself upright, balancing himself to account for the extra weight. Once he had adjusted, however, he grabbed the shovel and crept out of the sauna. Taking care to shut the door behind him so his theft would go unnoticed for a little longer, he snuck around the building’s wall until he faced the forest. Ivar took a deep breath and took off running, not stopping until the trees had covered him.

Only when he was sure that he was not in danger of being seen did the blond man slow his pace. He needed to save his energy. Shifting Absolon on his back to better spread his weight, he trekked deeper into the woods.

How many times had he carried his beloved like this? Absolon was the first of them both to grow tired from the long, hard treks they had to undertake, especially in the mountains. When that happened, Ivar offered him his back to ride on, and it was always accepted gratefully. Resting against his shoulders with his arms wrapped around his neck, Absolon allowed himself to be carried, sometimes even falling asleep on Ivar’s back. It was just like this now, except his beloved was cold to the touch, and there was no chance Ivar could ever feel his arms around his body ever again.

He stopped in his tracks, biting his tongue to fight back burning tears. There was no time to grieve, not before he had found a place and dug the grave.

Taking several deep breaths, Ivar took a step, and then another and another. He forced himself to focus only on where he was walking, disregarding everything else. After all, the last thing he wanted was to trip on a stray root and break his leg. Then his task would truly remain unaccomplished.

Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot. The blond man continued to walk through the woods, even as the sky above him grew heavier with dark clouds. Breathe in, breathe out. Watch where you put your feet. Climb over the fallen tree. Only focus on what was immediately in front.

Eventually, the leaf litter and shrubs beneath his feet gave way to grass. Ivar looked around. He was standing on the edge of a clearing, in the centre of which grew several thin birch trees.

His heart gave a leap. Absolon’s first wand was made of birch wood. This had to be a sign from the Woo!

Ivar found a patch of vegetation and fell onto his side, working to untie to the rope. As it slackened, Absolon’s body rolled off his back, coming to rest on the grass. The blond man gasped with relief at the weight being lifted off his shoulders. For a few moments, he simply lay in place, catching his breath.

His stomach rumbled. Ivar remembered he had not eaten since yesterday. Oh well. It was not like he, a northerner who lived through Cebeline’s tyranny, was unused to hunger. Right now, there was work to do.

Clenching his fists, the man pushed himself upwards. Taking a moment, he glanced over to where he had deposited Absolon’s body. The white shroud had shifted, exposing the stump of his hand, his white hair and-

Ivar grabbed it and pulled it over Absolon’s face, covering the other man’s body entirely. He was not fast enough, however, to avoid the emotions he had been so trying desperately to ignore. They welled up within him, bubbling over and sending into into a fit of sobs, sobs which birthed fat, undignified tears. Ivar collapsed onto his knees, crying like a child.

Raindrops tapped on his back, shocking him out of his grief. Above, the clouds had finally burst. He sighed, allowing the freezing rain to pour down his face and soak through his clothes, washing away the hot sweat and tears that had kept him warm. Before long, he was shivering. Good: if he focused on being cold, he would not have space in his mind for anything else.

Once he felt calmer, Ivar glanced towards where Absolon lay. The rain was dampening the white shroud, making it cling to his features. Standing up, the blond man unpinned his cloak and spread it over his beloved. Even if it was soaked, it would provide some measure of protection. Besides, the cloak would hinder his digging anyway.

Ivar picked up the shovel. He walked over beneath the birch trees and violently shoved its point into the ground, severing the roots of the grass that grew there. Pushing beneath the plant layer, he flung the turf away, exposing the dirt beneath. A start.

He continued working in rhythmic strokes. Shovel into the ground, scoop up the soil, deposit it, repeat. Focus only on the immediate task ahead. Don’t get distracted by anything else. Shovel into the ground, scoop up the soil, deposit it, repeat.

The rain soaked him, making his clothes and hair stick to his skin. Despite that, he kept working. Shovel in, scoop up the soil, deposit it, repeat. The damp made the dirt clump together better but it also had the side effect of making mud dribble down the walls to the bottom, making his task all the more lengthy and exhausting.

Nevertheless, Ivar pressed on. Slowly but surely, a sizeable hole began to manifest. Its edges were ragged and sloped due to the constant effect of chunks of mud collapsing into the pit. It would even be a stretch to call it an oval, but that hardly mattered. All that was important was whether it would accomodate Absolon’s body.

By now, the pit was too deep to keep digging from the side. Without hesitation, Ivar leapt into it and continued to work. Shovel into the ground, scoop up the soil, deposit it, repeat. His breath was growing ragged but he refused to stop, knowing that if he did, he would never finish. Was the hole deep enough? No, not yet. It had to be inaccessible to any scavengers who dared to try digging up the body.

He dug, ankle deep in mud, dirt flying into his eyes and face as he flung it out out of the pit. Once again, he thanked the Woo for the rain to wash it away. Shovel into the ground, scoop up the soil, deposit it, repeat.

The edge of the grave reached above his head. That was probably deep enough. The blond man chucked the last of the dirt out and threw the shovel out of the side, gasping for air. His muscles cried out in pain but there was no time to rest. Fighting against the slippery mud that threatened to imprison him, Ivar climbed out of the pit and stumbled towards where he had left Absolon’s body.

Tenderly, he scooped him up, glad for the red cloak to hide the muddy stains his hands left. Cradling his beloved to his chest, Ivar walked towards the gravesite. He sat down at the edge, lowering his feet in before he jumped. Mud splashed around him, though to the man’s relief, none of it got onto Absolon.

With the utmost care, Ivar kneeled and lowered the body of his beloved onto the ground. For a few moments, he sat there, staring down at the cloth and the lumps beneath.

Only yesterday, those lumps were the living features of the man he loved. His brown eyes. His white hair. His sweet smile.

Ivar let out a loud wail. He fell forward, resting his forehead on Absolon’s chest, wishing against all hope that he would feel a comforting hand running through his hair, turning all that had come before into a sick nightmare.

There was nothing but the patter of rain.

Sobs continued to rack his body until he ran out of strength to cry anymore. Ivar remained hunched over the body of his beloved. His muscles ached from exertion and there was a horrible gnawing in his stomach.

He had no desire to climb out. Perhaps he could stay here, with Absolon, until the muddy walls collapsed onto them or hunger consumed him. Then he could be with the man he loved again.

No, no, he could not do that. To die now would be to waste the life that Absolon gifted him that day. He would have wanted Ivar to live, even if that seemed like the hardest thing in the world right now.

Shutting his eyes, the Roan forced himself up. He glanced at where Absolon lay. Sighing deeply, the blond man pulled away the cloth from the face of his beloved, wishing to gaze on him one last time.

Absolon was still smiling. Raindrops fell on him and rolled down his face but he did not so much as flinch. He looked at peace. Indeed, why should he not have been? Finally, he was with with the Woo. The Woo would take care of him. That thought alone was enough to still the grief swirling in Ivar’s mind.

A tiny smile appeared on the blond man’s face. He leaned forward, cupping Absolon’s head in his hands and planted a soft kiss on the forehead of his beloved.

“Goodbye, Absolon,” Ivar murmured. “I will always love you.”

For a brief moment, he imagined the corners of Absolon’s mouth twitching. Ivar sniffed, wiping his tears with his sleeve, inadvertently leaving a grimy mark on his face. With a heavy sigh, he picked up the edge of the shroud and slowly drew it over Absolon. The settling of the cloth on his face felt grimly final. Ivar would never see his beloved again, not in this life.

He lifted up his head, gazing up at the clouds and clasped his hands together. “Lord Woo, take his soul. He has always loved you more than anything else in the world. Grant him the peace he deserves by your side.”

With the prayer done, a heavy-hearted Ivar scrambled out of the grave, pushing against the muddy earth with his feet. In his exhausted state, it was not easy. By the time he got out, the Roan collapsed onto the cold grass, gasping for air. As soon as he caught his breath, however, he forced himself up. It was not finished yet.

Picking up the shovel again, Ivar pushed it into the accumulated pile of earth and took a full measure, throwing it back into the pit. He did not look where it fell: as long as it went in, he did not want to see more.

Shovel, fill, repeat, shovel, fill, repeat. As before, the repetition of the task kept him focused. Just as well: he could feel the last fumes of energy he had being rapidly consumed.

At long last, however, he had finished. Even the turf he had removed was now laid over the grave: if one did not know it was there, it would have been almost impossible to spot. The rain was just beginning to ease off, though that hardly mattered to Ivar: he was soaked to the skin, though he was no longer shivering. Even if had sapped the last of his strength, the physical labour had at least warmed him.

His exhaustion, however, hardly felt important. Absolon has been buried just as he deserved. A weight lifted off his shoulders. He sighed, lifting his head up to the sky. It was done.

Picking up the rope and shovel, Ivar began to stumble back in the direction of the abbey, or at least where he thought the abbey was. It was a laborious effort to drag one foot in front of the other. All his concentration had to be on making sure that he remained walking and did not sink into the soft fronds of the ferns that lined the path, even if, moment by moment, they looked softer and softer.

Slowly, however, the foliage at his feet began to thin out. Ivar did not realise what it meant until a voice barked at him to “Stop right here, wha- whoever you are!”

Blinking, the Roan looked up. A man stood in front of him, one arm hovering over his dagger and his other hand holding out an iron woocifix.

Ivar could not help but chuckle. “Woo, do I really look that bad?” he wiped a hand across his face, trying to some of the mud off. That only seemed to result in smudging it more. “Sorry for startling you. I mean no harm.”

The man frowned, skeptical, until recognition dawned on his face. “Ah- you’re Ivar,” his expression grew hard almost immediately. “We have been looking for you. The Dux is especially frantic.”

“Really?” Ivar sighed, a bitter smile forming on his face. “What about?”

“At first because you were missing, but when Absolon’s body was also discovered to be gone…” the other man’s eyes swept over Ivar’s mud-covered form. “The Dux said you were supposed to be brought straight to him as soon as we found you.”

The blond gave a humourless laugh and folded his arms. Maybe he should have been worried, but right now, he could not bring himself to care. “Fine. You want to take me to him, or shall I go find him myself?”

The man pondered this question, his eyes darting back and forth. “I’ll take you,” he drew up beside Ivar, poised to attack. Clearly he thought the other Roan was going to run. “Come with me.”

With a shrug, Ivar complied, ambling along beside the man at a leisurely pace, something which caused the latter to give him occasional nervous glances. He was led through the cloister, towards the dormitories, eventually stepping into the private room of the Dux.

As soon as he saw Ivar, Ragnarr’s eyes went wide. “For the love of Woo, where have you been? Where is the Bringer of Spring?” his gaze hardened as he took in the blond’s dirty clothes. “What did you do?”

“I respected his wishes. I gave Absolon a Wooist funeral,” Ivar met the Dux’s stare.“One that includes burial, not cremation.”

“You what?!” Ragnarr touched his forehead, rubbing it. “Oh Woo, I had no idea. In all this chaos, it never even occurred to me that Wooists did things differently.”

“You could have found out if you had asked me,” Ivar’s man’s voice was steely. “But you did not even see fit to include me in your counsel.”

“We thought about it but you were grieving; we were not sure if you were in any state to discuss anything, let alone funerary preparations,” the Dux sighed. “If only I had known you would do this, I would have reconsidered.”

“You talk like I’ve committed some kind of crime,” the blond man remarked, tilting his head. “All I did was bury the man I loved according to how he would have wished.”

“We all loved him, Ivar.”

He looked the Dux right in the eye. “Not like I did.”

Ragnarr looked surprised before understanding dawned on him. “That does not mean your grief is all that matters.”

“I knew Absolon best. I should get to decide what happens to him.”

“Maybe you did, but he was important to us all. Don’t you think other people should get some say in what happens and how they mourn him?” Ragnarr’s tone grew sharp before he seemed to deflate. He lowered his head. “This doesn’t matter now anyway. Will you tell us at least where you buried him?”

Ivar snarled. “Why? So you can build a monument and parade the other clan Duxes around it while trying to wring out favours from them? I don’t think so.”

“That’s a low way of think of your leader, Ivar of Roan,” the Dux narrowed his eyes. “The Bringer of Spring united the clans as nobody has done before. His resting place could continue to serve that function. Isn’t that what he wanted?”

“He would not have wanted to have been made into some diplomatic pawn,” the blond man stuck his chin out. “Question me as much as you want, it won’t work. The place where he was buried is between me and the Woo.”

“So you can continue to be selfish and wallow in your grief like a child?”

Ivar flinched. He opened his mouth and closed it, trying to come up with some rebuff for the Dux. “You wouldn’t understand. You don’t know what it’s like for me right now.”

Ragnarr snorted. “The same response I would expect from a child,” he shook his head, pity in his eyes. “You’re grieving, and your emotions are clouding your judgement, Ivar. I have better things to do than try to reason with you.”

The blond laughed. “Like what? How to play your political games without Absolon as a pawn?”

Ragnarr leapt to his feet, his eyes flashing with rage. “I have to figure out what am going to say to the clans, what to do with this abbey and how to make sure we prevent the Shifter of Seasons from reestablishing her grip on us!” the Dux cried, his face going red. He scowled. “Even in your addled state, you would do well to remember who you speak to!”

He opened the door and called out. A short while later, two men appeared. “Yes, sire?”

“Lock him in his dormitory,” Ragnarr waved at Ivar with resignation. “Bring him food, water, whatever he wants, I don’t care. But don’t let him out.”

The two men nodded and clapped their hands on Ivar. A brief idea of resisting flickered across his mind but it was just as quickly snuffed out by numbness and exhaustion. His shoulders sagged and he sighed, resigned. Without another sound, he allowed the men to shuffle him out of the Dux’s presence.

As Ragnarr ordered, they took him to a dormitory. His escorts guided him inside and promptly left. The metallic grate of a lock against a chain let Ivar know he was thoroughly trapped. Not that it mattered: he hardly felt like going anywhere.

The blond man turned, taking in his surroundings. It was a dormitory like any other except- his heart gave a leap. The Book of Woo lay on a chair. The men who had taken Absolon’s body must have left it when they took his clothes.

This was where he and Absolon slept the night before. It had been cleaned in an attempt to erase what happened here but he still could feel the presence of death lingering like a stray animal.

He ripped his muddy, sodden clothes off himself and let them fall into a pile in the rushes. Tugging the blanket off the bed, Ivar wrapped himself up in it. A familiar scent struck his nose: Absolon. He took a deep breath. Tears filled his eyes.

Turning, Ivar looked at the bed. Memories of the morning flooded his mind. Absolon’s cold skin. His own heart pounding in his chest. The screaming tearing at his throat.

His stomach churned and the blond tore his gaze away. Digging his hands into the straw mattress, he pulled violently, tearing out the straw and throwing it onto the floor. He continued this until there was a sizeable pile of bedding into which he gladly sunk, feeling his muscles go limp now that they did not have to exert the effort of keeping him upright.

Ivar reached for the Book of Woo, hoping to read it and take comfort in its words, but his hand fell before he could touch it. There was no point: the sun had set, rending the room without light. It could not have been later than mid-morning when he had set out to bury Absolon. How long had he spent in the forest?

It did not matter, nor did he care: he just wanted the day to end. Ivar lay down, turning his head and staring absently at the bed. His eyes caught something hanging off the bedpost. Something long and thin. Reaching out, the blond man lifted it off and pulled it closer to examine it.

Absolon’s wand and its holster.

His heart beat faster. Of course: he had taken it off the night before and it was not on his body when he buried him. Perhaps he should take it to him…

No. How could Absolon take a physical object- made of that accursed tree’s branch too- into the Woo’s heaven? It was better for him to keep it. This was the only thing of Absolon’s Ivar had left.

Hugging the wand tightly to his chest, Ivar lay down in the straw, tears running his eyes. His exhaustion, combined with the familiar scent and object, meant it was only a few seconds before he collapsed into a deep sleep.

Part 3

SPOILER: Click to show

Unlike the previous day, he awoke to a bright ray of light streaming through the gap between the shutters. Ivar turned on his side only to feel a wave of pain roll through him. His muscles were still overtired from digging yesterday. He groaned, wrapping the blanket tighter around his body and burying himself in his makeshift bed.

Eventually, despite the pain, the man dared to open his eyes again. The room swam into focus. Absolon’s wand lay beside the straw pile; it must have rolled out the night before. A fresh jug and bowl of water, as well as a cup, a comb and a pile absorbent moss lay on the rickety table opposite the bed. Somebody must have brought it while he was asleep.

A good thing too: he was parched. Shaky as a newborn foal, Ivar stood up, taking care not to move his sore limbs too suddenly or too much. He poured some water into the cup and chugged it in one gulp, repeating the action several times until his thirst was quenched.

As the water settled, Ivar caught sight of his reflection. Dirt streaked his face and his long hair had been matted with mud, staining it a sludgy brown. No wonder the lookout had mistaken him for some fairy creature: he looked terrible.

Ivar dipped his hands into the bowl, scrubbing the worst of the grime off his arms and face. Tearing off some moss, he wiped off the rest before starting work on his hair. Slowly and carefully, using his fingers to work out the matted clumps, the blond washed the mud out. Once his hair had regained its former colour, he picked up the comb and sat back down in his pile of straw, running it through the strands.

Ivar stared into space while the comb moved rhythmically through his hair, untangling the knots in it. His hands knew what they were doing, allowing his mind to wander.

Today would be the first day of the rest of his life without Absolon. What was he doing to do? He had given his beloved everything. Without him, he was nothing.

Swallowing the painful lump in his throat, Ivar put the comb down and reached for the Book of Woo. He flicked through it, his eyes scanning the familiar passages. The Woo gifted humanity free will, so each may decide what they wish to do-. No, not helpful. He turned to another page. The freedom life grants may mean that the children of the Woo stray, but it also means they can return unto Him and be forgiven- No.

He continued searching through the Book, flicking through its pages at random, but there was nothing. Grief mingled with frustration, pouring out of him in the form of tears. With a cry, Ivar shoved the book aside onto the bed and doubled over, digging his fingers into his hair. Woo, I know your children must decide for themselves what to do but please, make an exception for me. Tell me what to do. Without him, I’m lost.

A soft knock jolted the Roan upright. Wiping his tears, he wrapped the blanket tightly around his legs and torso. “C-come in?”

There was a rattle of a key before the door opened and Amund peaked in. “I brought you some food,” stepping inside, he held out a bowl of steaming hot porridge resting on a plate which also held bread and cheese. Simple food, but just the sight of it made Ivar’s mouth water.

“Thank you,” he replied, holding a hand out to receive it. Amund placed the plate in his palm and Ivar dug in. The porridge burned his tongue but in his hunger, he barely felt it. It was warm, rich and filling, soothing the ache in his stomach so by the time he came to the bread, he was much less savage in attacking it.

Ivar was half way through when he noticed Amund still standing there, his head dipped and his hands behind his back. “What is it?”

The boy jerked up. “I just...I was thinking…” he sighed. “I shouldn’t bother you. I’m sorry.”

“No, tell me,” intrigued by the boy’s comment, Ivar tried to sound as gentle as he could. “Usually you’re better off speaking than staying silent.”

“Alright,” Amund swallowed nervously. “I had...so many questions I wanted to ask. Of Absolon, I mean. It’s part of the reason I came here, to meet him and speak with him but I couldn’t before...” he gestured feebly with his hands.

A lump formed in Ivar’s throat. The bread in his mouth suddenly tasted ashen. He sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping. “I’m sorry,” was all he managed to mumble, his voice shaking.

The boy gave him a nod of acknowledgement. “But I was hoping…” he looked up at Ivar. “You were with him from the first day. You even knew how he wanted to be treated after his death. You must know his better than anyone else.”

Ivar thought about this. “I would like to think so. We shared everything: our thoughts, our lives, our fates…” his face scrunched up in pain. “So I think I knew him very well.”

“Then...if anybody can give me the answers I want, it will be you,” Amund dipped his head. “If you’re willing to talk, of course.”

Was he? Absolon’s death was still so recent, and even the mere mention of him was a stab through the heart. However, this boy had come to him. He was counting on him. Absolon never turned away any earnest questions and Ivar did not want to start now that he was gone.

He sighed, putting away his half-eaten bread and wrapping his blanket tighter around his body. “I’ll do my best to answer. What do you wish to know, Amund?”

The boy did not smile but his eyes lit up brighter than the sun. “Thank you,” he bowed before sinking deeper into thought. “There’s so much I wanted to ask. My parents always spoke highly of the Woo and Absolon, of how he forgave them even though they had done the unforgivable. They don’t say more but I know what they mean. Other people in Eo told me,” Amund’s expression grew darker. “They offered my sister to the Shifter of Seasons.”

Ivar suppressed a shudder, though he could not stop his heart from racing. However, if he noticed his discomfort, the boy did not mention it. “I have lots of siblings, but I always wondered what it would be like to have an older sister. Nobody in the village wants to talk much about her, and I understand why: they are ashamed. Still, they told me Absolon used to be friends with her. So I was wondering if he could tell me what she was like.”

“He could have done. This was something you were best asking him,” Ivar shrunk into the blanket, avoiding Amund’s gaze. “I remember your sister well, but talking about her...it would be wrong of me to-” he closed his eyes. “-considering I was the one who led her to her death.”

The boy frowned before understanding dawned on him. “Of course. You were the Time Tree’s priest, before then,” he swallowed, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I understand if you don’t want to talk about it. It must have been...”

“It was one of the worst things I ever did,” Ivar finished for him. “Like your parents, I thought I never could be forgiven for it. And yet, Absolon found it in his heart to not just forgive me but love me. He never blamed me for what happened, even though it was clear he missed her.”

Amund smiled a little. “I always knew Absolon was a forgiving man. This is just more proof.”

“Yes, he i- was,” Ivar’s tone sank as he corrected himself. He took a moment to fight back tears. “He was so many things. Devout, hardworking, loving…” his eyes glazed over in reminiscence. “Sometimes idealistic to a fault, but even that was something I loved about him, even if we...didn’t always agree on that front. He saw the best in everyone, even those who did not deserve it.”

The man looked up at Amund. “I am sorry, I am getting away from the question you originally asked,” he paused, deep in thought. “When he spoke about your sister, he always spoke of her fondly. As a sweet, kind girl with a lovely, sky-blue voice-”

Amund blinked. “Sky blue voice?”

“Yes. He saw sound as colour. He loved my voice because it was, according to him, a rich, deep indigo,” Ivar smiled before shaking his head. “But he also told me that your sister was like him: she had magic. That’s why she was thought of as a changeling.”

“A mage?” the boy frowned. “But how?”

“It...is probably best I don’t tell you. Absolon explained it to me, but it is personal to your family. I have no right to speak of it.”

Amund looked down at the floor, thinking about this. “ I am old enough to know the truth and my parents will never reveal it,” he gazed up at the other man. “Please, tell me.”

Ivar nodded. He clutched the edges of his blanket. “Your sister was...only your half sister. You did not share the same father. When I asked, Absolon would not tell me more, but I could see from his expression that it was a terrible thing that happened. Enough that the memory of it led your mother to take it out on Greta.”

The boy listened carefully. At the end of the story, he exhaled, his eyes wide with grief and shock. “I...I see. Maybe someday I will ask my mum about this. I know her: she will never keep a secret if someone knows it already,” his gaze flickered downwards. “I wish I could have met my sister. But if she did not die, would Absolon have still stayed in the north and spread the Woo’s word?”

“No. He told me that much too: he would have gone home with Greta to teach her magic as soon as spring came.”

“Oh,” Amund bit his lip, his blue eyes dulling suddenly. “So...if she had not died, then Absolon would not have spread the Woo’s word and protection to us? We’d have all kept living under the Shifter of Seasons?”

Ivar blinked. Seventeen years had passed and it never occurred to him that things could have been any other way. He shuddered at the thought. “Yes. I suppose so.”

The boy swallowed. “Then is it a good thing that my sister, half or otherwise, died before I could even get to know her?”

“I…” he frowned before sighing deeply. “No, it is not. But I cannot deny that a good thing came from it. Your sister did not die in vain.”

Amund bit his tongue, his racing thoughts almost palpable. “Do you think…” he lowered his eyes. “Absolon...will good things come from his death?”

Ivar flinched, gritting his teeth and looking away. He huddled the blanket closer around himself, breathing in the lingering traces of his beloved’s scent. “I...I don’t know, but…”it was agony to say this. “I believe that it will. The Woo may do things that hurt us, maybe more than we can bear, but it is always for a reason. I have to believe that.”

“Because you have faith?”

“Yes.”

“Even when bad things happen?”

“Especially when bad things happen. Faith is believing even if it is hard. You might not understand why something is happening but you need to believe that it will all be well, the Woo is with you and you have the strength to get through the difficult times,” Ivar sighed fondly, closing his eyes. Somehow, even hearing himself say those words was a little comforting. “Absolon also taught me that.”

Amund smiled a little. “He was such a good person. I wish we could have spoken more,” he looked up at the older Roan. “You were always with him, weren’t you?”

“Always.”

“Was he as kind and wise as everyone says he was?” the boy asked, his eyes wide and reverent.

“Yes. That and so much more,” adoration bled into Ivar’s tone. “He had unconditional love for everyone, even those who sought to do him harm. His faith in the Woo was unshakeable, and he drew so much guidance and wisdom from His words. I suppose that can count as wise,” the corners of his mouth curled upward. “When he spoke of the Woo, he always had this passionate, awestruck tone of voice, so much so that sometimes he would not even pause to take a breath. I don’t think any of us can ever love the Woo like he did.”

Turning to see the boy enraptured by his words, Ivar took it as a sign to continue. “He was honest and earnest in everything he did. His kindness knew no bounds, and he would give everything he had just to help someone in need. Not to mention he could do things others would only dream of,” he shook his head “He said he was a mage but I firmly believe he was a miracle worker. Even if it is common in the south, nobody could do what he did.”

He stopped, taking a pause for breath. Taking his chance, Amund spoke “He really must have been a great man. And you sound like you loved him a lot.”

Ivar bowed his head, hiding his bitter smile. “More than words can describe.”

“He seemed to have that effect.”

The blond man laughed softly. “None of them loved him like I did,” he deflated, huddling into the blanket. “Though, technically, we were married, even the word ‘husband’ is too domestic and banal for what he was to me. ”

“You- oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise,” Amund bowed his head. “I’ve never been married, obviously, but I know if one of my parents died, they would be devastated. I can’t imagine how much it hurts for you.”

The man shut his eyes to stop them stinging. “I miss him. I would give anything for him to come back.”

Amund nodded. “I don’t think it’s just you, even if you probably want him back most of all. Things would be so much easier with him. With him gone...who knows what will happen?” he sighed. “Even the fate of this abbey is now uncertain.”

This was like an icy slap to Ivar’s face. He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“The Dux called for his council again to speak about what they will do with this place. Nothing has been decided yet, but we think it will be reused for something else, or taken apart for materials.”

“What?! They cannot do that!” Ivar cried. His fingers clenched around the blanket. “The abbey was Absolon’s dream, his legacy! They cannot just tear it apart!”

His breathing grew rapid and panic began to rise in his throat. If this abbey disappeared, then there would be no centre of Wooism in the north, and the work that they did these past seventeen years…

“Amund, I’ll go talk to them!” the words spilled from his mouth before he was even aware. “Take me there!”

The boy blinked. “But...you can’t. The Dux said you have to stay here. I would get in trouble if I let you out.”

“I’ll cover for you. If the Dux wants to punish anybody, it will be me,” Ivar’s voice had hardened to an edge. He rose from the bed. “Just get me some clothes and show me where the council is. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“But-”

“You’re not stopping me,” the man leveled a glare at him. “If you don’t help, I will break out of here myself and go to them as I am.”

Amund swallowed, studying the other Roan for any sign of waver but there was nothing to him but steely determination. Arguing was pointless. “Alright,” he nodded. “Please wait here. I’ll be back in a moment.”

With that, the boy dashed out of the room, his footsteps rapidly slapping on the ground as he ran. Ivar sat back down on the bed, holding himself to stop himself shaking. Adrenaline coursed through him at the thought of the battle ahead. He would fight tooth and nail to protect every scrap of Absolon’s legacy. No way would he allow the Dux to shut the abbey.

It felt like forever until Amund returned, bearing with him a shirt, a fresh pair of trousers and boots. The clothes were basic, but they were a decent fit and right now, that was all that mattered. Ivar threw his woocifix around his neck and grabbed the Book of Woo from where it lay. He drew in deep breaths and flicked through it, searching for a particular passage to steady himself.

Persevere and have faith, even against the tide of adversity. The Woo shall aid in an endeavour if the cause is a righteous one. What could possibly be more righteous than preserving His hold on the north?

Burning those words into his mind, Ivar tucked the book into his belt and nodded to Amund. Nervousness flickered over the boy’s face but nevertheless, he turned and opened the door, peering out. Once he was sure it was clear, he gestured to Ivar, and together, the two springed out of the dormitories.

This time, the Dux was not holding counsel in the church but a small room off the cloister. Had Ivar not been shown where it was, he would have never found it. Amund stopped beside the door and bowed his head, clearly unwilling to go further. Nevermind; the boy had played his part.

“Thank you,” Ivar smiled at him and pushed the door, praying that it was not locked.

The Woo was on his side. He burst into the room, facing the startled expressions of the Dux and his council.

“What are you doing here?” Ragnarr exclaimed, rising to his feet. “Who let you out of your room?”

Outside, in the corner of his eye, Ivar saw Amund flinch. He himself had to resist the urge to bolt. Nevertheless, the blond man remained resolute, looking him right in the eye.

“I heard you were deciding the fate of this abbey. Is this true?”

Ragnarr clenched his jaw. “Yes.”

“What have you decided?”

“This place cannot exist without Absolon,” the Dux said with a grim finality. “We cannot have the abbey.”

“No!” Ivar cried, his hands forming into fists. “This is his legacy, his dream! You cannot!”

“Do you think we have a choice?” the man known as Harald barked. “The Bringer of Spring was to be the abbot, the leader of this place. Without him to guide us, there is nobody else.”

The blond’s breath caught in his chest. It was true: one could not have an abbey without an abbot. Even if somebody could be the same kind of leader as Absolon was, nobody in the north who had the knowledge and faith in the Woo that he did.

No, there had to be a way! Ivar gritted his teeth together, trying to think. All he and Absolon worked for could not be undone by such a little thing.

“But what...maybe if…” he opened and closed his mouth. His mind remained stubbornly blank. Tears of frustration stung his eyes.

“Pardon me,” Amund’s voice sounded behind him, small as a mouse. The boy swallowed, bowing deep to the assembled council. “Perhaps...we do have someone who could serve as abbot instead of the Bringer of Spring?”

Ragnarr quirked an eyebrow. “And who might that be?”

Amund’s turned to Ivar. The blond man frowned, casting a glance behind him, but there was nobody there.

Oh Woo… “You cannot mean me, Amund?” he swallowed, fighting to control his breath. “I am not worthy of such a position.”

“But you travelled with Absolon, didn’t you? You shared everything with him, and you seem to have as much faith as in the Woo as he did,” Amund gazed at Ivar pleadingly. “Please. Who else is there?”

The blond man reached for the woocifix around his neck, gripping it tightly. His mind raced. Him? Abbot? He had always envisioned Absolon in the role. Imagining himself filling those shoes seemed almost blasphemous. He was not Absolon: he could not do miracles, nor did he have even half of the compassion, love, kindness and idealism, to name but a few, that his beloved possessed.

And yet, Amund was right: who else was there?

Ivar straightened out his back, his bright blue eyes looking ahead. He turned to Ragnarr, who immediately raised a hand.

“The boy is not wrong, I will say that much. If it was only an issue of faith and knowledge, I would have thought of you myself. However, it’s not just about that,” he leveled his gaze at the Roan man. “You have proven yourself impulsive, quick to anger and not willing to think of anybody besides yourself. These are not good qualities in a leader.”

He looked away, withering under the Dux’s gaze. Silently, Ivar cursed himself: his unrestrained grief might have cost Absolon’s entire legacy.

“You’re right, Sire. I have done nothing to show my worth of such an honour,” he spoke softly, picking every word with care. “But you said to Absolon yourself that a Dux’s lot is far less spiritual than an Abbot’s, and you are right. Given that fact, could you perhaps consider me based on the qualities that I do possess?”

“And what are those?” one of the counsel, Harald, interjected.

Ivar kept his head bowed and his hand on the Woocifix, digging through his thoughts. “My faith. My knowledge of the Woo’s word. My long years by Absolon’s side as his disciple. The fact that I know the southern language and can read the Book of the Woo. If you have any doubts, I can demonstrate each of those I can demonstrate to you.”

The Dux and the elders exchanged glances, talking amidst themselves. It was Ualan who lifted up his head, his expression flat and his tone impassive. “Tell us then: Absolon spoke of the Woo as a kind god, one who cared for His followers. Yet, when we needed him most, He took Absolon from us. It almost contradicts what the late Bringer of Spring told us.”

Aoife glared at him. “Ualan-”

“I want to ask him,” the elder barked back before pinning Ivar with his gaze. The blond man almost gasped at the sadness in his eyes, especially compared to his calm face. “Tell us then,” Ualan’s voice shook a little. “How do you keep your faith and believe what the Bringer of Spring said, even if...recent events seem to disprove all he ever preached?”

The blond man caught Amund’s eye; he had asked him a very similar thing earlier. No doubt the question was on a lot of people’s minds. Therefore, his answer was crucial. He paused for a while, thinking about every word and keeping every syllable even. “Because life is never easy or fair. Like a good parent, the Woo will not do everything for us: we have to do much ourselves. To abandon faith at the slightest chance of hardship means that faith is not real. Perhaps the Woo is testing the north now that we are united under His wing. Perhaps He wishes for us to forge our own path forward, without Absolon. Or perhaps, this is simply a cruel trick of life, independent of the Woo’s will. Or maybe...”

He shook his head. “I don’t really know why this happened, but it doesn’t matter. Whatever the case, we must hold steady in our faith. To do otherwise would be-” he swallowed the lump in his throat. “-would be turning our back on Absolon and everything he stood for. I can’t do that!”

The elder sat in place, his eyes downcast, deep in thought. “An interesting answer,” he finally stated. His tone wobbled along with his expression. Shutting his eyes, Ualan seemed to hold back a tear. “I want to believe it. So I won’t contradict it.”

Ivar sighed with relief, his shoulders falling.

“A good thing too, Ualan,” Aoife remarked. “I am keeping my faith no matter what. The alternative is…” her voice hitched “It’s too awful to even bear thinking about.”

“Even if you do, Aoife, with the death of the Bringer of Spring, many people will have the same questions I have. If this man can answer them,” the elder nodded to Ivar. “Then I think, for all his faults, he can carry on Absolon’s legacy.”

The blond man could not help with smile widely. “Thank you,” he bowed deeply. “It means a lot to me to hear that.”

“Nevertheless,” Ragnarr continued to frown. “Should you become abbot, Ivar, you will not be running this abbey alone. You will also be dealing with the other clans. Just that thought alone concerns me.”

His joy was replaced by a desire to scream with frustration, but Ivar refrained: to do so now would only further serve the Dux’s point. Instead, he kept his head bowed, trying to reign him emotions in. When he finally felt he could speak calmly, he asked “What would it take for me to convince you, Sire?”

Ragnarr sighed, thinking deeply. “What would you do if I told you that no, I would not grant you this position, and for however much I respect Absolon’s legacy, I would dismantle this abbey.”

Ivar opened his mouth-

“You can’t!” Amund stepped into the room. “This abbey is vital! It is a symbol of hope, for a chance for the people of the north to unite around the Woo and the Bringer of Spring’s beliefs!”

“I am not asking you, Amund of Roan!” the Dux cried, glaring at the boy with eyes sharp as blades. “And if you wish for this abbey to survive, I recommend you stay out of this.”

The boy had burst into tears but he wiped them away with the back of his hand. When he looked up, his red eyes bore a spark of defiance. “As much as I wish I could, Sire, I cannot. The Bringer of Spring meant so much to my family. I want to see his legacy continued. I am sure many others believe it too.”

“Would you be happy even if it was not done by Absolon himself, but by this man?”

“Yes,” Amund did not even hesitate. “Because he is the Bringer of Spring’s disciple. He was always with him. Even if he is not Absolon, I trust him. I know he would strive to be as close to Absolon’s ideals and beliefs as possible.”

Ragnarr sighed. “You say good things, boy, but you are young. Ideals are not enough to carry an endeavour.”

Ivar could not help but grin. “You would not say that if you had travelled with Absolon as much as I did. His ideals very much carried him for seventeen years. Maybe Amund is young, but,” he glanced at the boy. “Absolon was the same age when he began his work. When I first came to know him.”

The Dux shot him a glance and for a moment, Ivar’s heart leapt into his throat. “Yes, I remember,” Ragnarr smiled a little. “And I thought he was a foolish idealist too. But he proved me wrong.”

His shoulders slumped and suddenly, the Dux looked twenty years older. Exhaustion coloured his expression. He looked around the assembled elders. “Does one of you have more to say?”

“Yes, in fact,” Harald spoke. “My question is the opposite of our Sire’s, Ivar of Roan. Say we would entrust you with this abbey: what would you do?”

Every elder and the Dux turned their eyes on him, pinning him in their gaze like an eagle pinning a rabbit. Ivar paused, blood rushing in a roar through his years. He tried not to hesitate too much, even though the words were being mixed up in his head. Why were the most important things the most difficult to say? It was not like he did not know the answers! If only they could stop looking at him.

But often Absolon was just as nervous when he spoke, and yet, he always managed. Ivar paused, taking a deep breath and imagining his beloved by his side, holding his hand, just as he himself had done to Absolon so many times. Slowly, his thoughts began to coalesce into something more coherent.

“I would...I would strive to do what Absolon had hoped to: build a community in this abbey and continue to strengthen Wooism in the north. Not just here but among all the clans. I would not interfere with their leadership,” here, he shot a glance towards Ragnarr, “Only their spiritual side.”

“Indeed…” the elder tapped his finger against the desk. Despite Ivar’s nervousness, he seemed to accept the answer. “And such a position would be one of great influence and power. What would you do with that?”

“Only what I need to,” Ivar ground his teeth. “I am not doing this for personal glory, if that is what you are implying, just as Absolon did not. He was always humble even as he was lavished with fame and praise. I intend to be the same. If anybody deserves the credit, it’s...” his voice wavered. “...it’s him.”

He could feel a fresh wave of grief washing over him and dug his fingernails into his palms, using the pain to distract himself. No, he would claim no glory for himself. Absolon deserved it all: he was a better man than he by several thousand miles. “I would...also make sure to preserve his memory. I would make sure the clans know who it was who saved us from the Shifter of Seasons.”

“Only fair, since you were the one who did not give us the time to mourn him,” Harald snorted, but his softened gaze indicated he was pacified. “What do we have to lose, Sire?”

“Anything to keep the old way of life from coming back is fine by me,” Aoife concurred.

“And he certainly has the faith and knowledge needed to keep Wooism alive. Maybe even, someday, as the Bringer of Spring could,” Ualan added.

Ragnarr’s eyes flitted between the three elders. “It seems I am outvoted. However,” he cast his gaze back towards Ivar. “I cannot let go of my discomfort over giving this position to you.”

The blond man took a deep breath to steady himself. “I understand,” he said, even if he did not. What more did the Dux need?

“If I may speak, Sire?” Amund chimed in. The Dux nodded, allowing the boy to continue. “Ivar will not be alone in this endeavour. There will be others. I want to serve to help this abbey, as many others I have spoken with here do as well. You must know this. We can offer our services and advice to the abbot if he will take it,” he glanced at Ivar hopefully. “After all, you have your council and the elders to guide you? Surely Ivar could be given the same.”

“I will take any advice that will be given to me. After all, I spent so long as a disciple, not a leader,” Ivar remarked with a smile.

“Then hear this: I will allow you to become abbot, but,” Ragnarr lifted up a finger. “One condition: I will watch what you do carefully, and will advise you as time allows. And if I see that your leadership is endangering clan Roan, I, or my son who inherits this position after me, shall remove you from your post. Do you accept?”

Fury churned in Ivar’s stomach but he knew he had no choice. “I do, Sire,” he bowed, trying to hide the grinding of his teeth. “And I thank you for giving me the opportunity.”

“I pray to the Woo, for all our sakes, that you prove worthy of it,” Ragnarr sighed, relaxing a little. “Then it is decided: this abbey will remain open, and Ivar of Roan shall be its abbot instead of the Bringer of Spring. We continue as we had planned.”

It was as if a great weight had been lifted off Ivar’s shoulders. Had he not been in front of the Dux and the elders, he would have fallen to his knees and cried out with joy. Instead, he bowed deeply, trying not to fall over. “Thank you so much, Sire. I swear upon the Woo, I will prove myself worthy to you.”

“That I will judge by what you do” the Dux stated. “In fact, here is your first task as abbot: you will be the one to inform the other clans of Absolon’s death. Do it however you see fit.”

“Yes, Sire,” this time, Ivar’s tone was much more subdued.

Ragnarr nodded slowly. “You may go, if you wish, Amund, Ivar. I am sure you have much to do and much to think about.”

The blond man did not need to be told twice. With a final bow, he walked out of the room, Amund following behind.

They barely exited the cloister before the boy gave a tiny cry of joy. “Thank Woo! I am so happy they accepted!” he smiled at Ivar. “You get to be abbot! It’s such an honour.”

“Yes…” Ivar murmured, staring off into the distance. It should have been Absolon’s.

Above them, the high spire of the church loomed. He gazed up at it wistfully. “I do appreciate your help, Amund. You standing up for me back there was vital, so please, don’t misunderstand,” he murmured. “But right now, I want to be alone.”

The boy frowned, but just as quickly, understanding dawned upon him. “Of course. I am sorry,” he nodded, stepping away. “If you need anything, please find me.”

“I shall. Again, thank you,” the blond man dipped his head down to him again before he turned away. At first he walked slowly, but by the time he approached the church doors, he was almost running.

Thankfully, it was empty. Ivar slammed the door shut behind him and leaned on it, catching his breath. The eyes of the many Woos on the tapestries watched the man and under their gentle gaze, he relaxed. Slowly, he peeled away from the door and walked towards the altar, finally falling to his knees in front of it.

“Lord Woo, I don’t know why you have placed this challenge before me. Absolon would have been a better choice by far,” his voice quivered. “In every aspect, he was a far better man than I could ever hope to be.”

The church remained silent. Ivar brought a palm up to wipe the tears off his cheek before clasping his hands together.

“I will take on this task, since you have deemed me to be the one who has to carry it out. I only ask for your wisdom to guide me and for the strength I need to do this,” he murmured. “Even if I do not feel worthy, I want to make you proud. To make Absolon happy with the work I do. If I must do without his help then I ask that you help me all the more.”

He looked up at the altar cloth, taking in the minute details of the embroidered Woo. Its eyes gazed out at him, unmoving and unblinking. Even though it was not the real thing, it was strangely reassuring: Ivar felt as though he was being listened to.

A sigh escaped him and his shoulders drooped. “I don’t know what I am doing. But Absolon didn’t most of the time, and he managed. Maybe I am not a mage or a good man like he was. All I can do is what is within my power,” he smiled a little at the embroidered Woo. “But I promise I will do no less.”

He pushed himself up to his feet, clenching his fists in determination. There was no time to waste: so much had to be done if this abbey was to live up to Absolon’s dream. First thing was to do what the Dux ordered him to: the other clans had to be notified. No doubt many of them, especially the friends they had made on their journey, would want to know the Bringer of Spring’s fate.

Part 4 (collaborated with Shinko)

SPOILER: Click to show

The message to each clan was composed personally by Ivar before being given to a courier to memorise and be dictated to the recipient. Some were kept short and simple, but others, meant for good friends, were given much more detail.

Jarle,

I hope this message finds you and your family well. I wish I could have written to you with better news but fate has not deemed it be so. I will not mince words: Absolon is dead. He died in his sleep late in spring.

Don’t fear: his work will continue. Before he died, he laid out plans for an abbey- a place where people gather to dedicate their lives to the Woo- here on Clan Roan’s territory. Please do not read into it: Roan was only chosen because it was the first territory to be converted. Regardless, I have taken over its management. I will continue what Absolon left behind.

The other clans know: given how important he was to the whole north, it would be wrong for us not to tell them. An invitation has been extended to them to come here if they so wish, but I want to make a personal plea to you: come to Roan Abbey. It does not have to be this year or next year. I understand you have obligations to your family, and possibly as Dux. However, as you can imagine, it has been difficult for me lately. It would be a pleasure to see an old friend.

Please let me know when you are coming so I may make arrangements for your arrival. Give your wife and children my utmost blessings.

Sincerely,
Ivar of Roan,
Abbot


The Dun capital of Nez-Gata being in the northernmost coastal reaches of Dun territory- on almost the opposite end of the clan territories from Roan- Jarle didn’t receive Ivar’s message until mid-July. The message he sent back with the courier was one of empathy but regret, confirming that he could not make the journey immediately. It was too late in the year, and he would be lucky to even arrive in Roan territory before the snows of winter closed in.

However, early the following May, a road-weary party astride shaggy mountain ponies came down the road towards the abbey. Riding at the head of the pack was a man with thick, curly brown hair down to his shoulders. He had old scars across his right cheek, and bright silver-blue eyes set in a handsome face slightly tanned from long hours spent outdoors.

Sitting in front of him astride their shared pony’s back was a small boy, eyes an identical color to Jarle’s drinking in his surroundings from beneath a mop of red-brown curls.

As the forest around them opened, the party spotted people dressed in woven grey robes tending to patches of vegetables or looking after animals. Upon seeing the Duns, the few who were not engaged in any particular task quickly broke away, running in the direction of the abbey.

When Jarle and the others finally made it to the clearing where the abbey buildings stood, a sizeable welcome party was waiting for them with Ivar at its head. Unlike the people in grey around him, he was dressed in a robe of pure white, with soft feather embroidery running around the hems of his sleeves. Against this plain background, the wooden woocifix hanging around his neck stood out like a dark void.

“Jarle!” he exclaimed when he saw his friend. Smiling, Ivar stepped forward towards the Duns, spreading his arms. “Welcome! I’m glad to see you! It’s been so long! ”

Jarle laughed, swinging out of the saddle and hugging the abbot. “Ivar. We were starting to wonder if the marvels of the north had made you forget about little old Dun.” He grinned, making it clear he was joking. “Oh, let me introduce you to someone.”

Jarle turned, hefting the child who was still sitting on the pony and setting him down at his side. Putting an arm around the boy’s shoulders, Jarle went on, “This is my son- Búi. He just turned eight last winter.”

“‘Lo,” the boy said, nibbling on his lip and averting his gaze bashfully.

“Hello, Búi,” Ivar replied, keeping his tone gentle. He gave the boy a wave and a small smile. “I’m Ivar, one of your father’s friends. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

He looked back to Jarle. “I’m happy you have a son now. He seems like a sweet child, if a little shy.”

“He’s soft-spoken at the best of times, but I think also a bit overstimulated,” Jarle mused. “Neither of us has ever left the Dun mountains before, much less come this far south and west. And he doesn’t even have the benefit of decades of maturity to brace against it.” Glancing around himself, the Dun added teasingly, “His first remark once we got down as far as Bay Clan lands was ‘everything’s flat, Papa!’”

“It is,” the boy groused defensively, lower lip protruding slightly. “It’s weird!”

Ivar laughed. “Then the hills here ought to be welcome relief. Though up here is as high as it gets. Roan Abbey is built upon one of the highest points in the lowlands. But I would be happy to give you a chance to rest from the journey and work through all the impressions. Food has been prepared and quarters arranged,” as he pointed with his palm back to the building, he chuckled slightly. “Why yes, you’d be correct in guessing I have been looking forward to your visit.”

Jarle followed Ivar as one of the abbey’s devotees turned to guide the Dun bodyguards to a pasture where they could tend their horses. In an undertone Jarle remarked, “I hope you don’t mind that I brought Búi along. He’s at the age where he’s ready to begin training as my successor, and I thought the experience of seeing more of the world could be good for him. I promise, he’s independant enough to manage with the guards I brought along for a few hours at a time if you want to speak more privately.”

“I would like that. However, I don’t mind that you brought your son along. In fact, I am happy: I want the next generation to know of this place and understand it’s significance. This is, after all, the seat of the Woo here in the north,” the Roan gazed up at the church spire, his blue eyes full of reverence before he turned back to Jarle. “I hope the guards will be decent company for him, however. There aren’t many children his age here, at least not within the abbey grounds.”

“I hand-picked my escort. Many of these men are fathers themselves,” Jarle replied. “They can keep him occupied, just let me know when.”

“When you have rested,” Ivar put a hand on his shoulder. “When you feel like it, come find me. There’s a hut behind the church where I do most of my writing. You’ll know it when you see it. For now, I’ll take you to the refectory where you can have a meal, then show you to the rooms for you and your men.”

“Re… what?” Jarle blinked.

“Ah, sorry. I’ve gotten so used to everyone around me knowing what this meant,” Ivar gave him a reassuring smile. “Our communal dining room. If you like, I can show you the plans later. They lay everything out,” the spark in his eyes suddenly disappeared as he lowered his head. “Absolon...drew them up.”

“Ah- I see.” The Dun put a hand on Ivar’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Come on then, let’s see the Woo’s new homestead. I’m sure you are keen to show it off.”

“I am,” Ivar nodded and gestured for Jarle, Búi and the other Duns to follow him. “Come on. We’ll finish in the church: it is the most impressive part.”

***

Ivar remained an enthusiastic guide as he showed the Duns the ins and outs of the abbey. Some parts were familiar staples, found in every building of note in the north, but those that were not, he took the time to explain what they were and what they meant. Though he spoke with great enthusiasm, occasionally, a melancholy look would appear in his eyes, one he did his best to hide.

Jarle was suitably impressed by the structure, asking questions and encouraging his son to do the same, so that they could have a clear understanding of this powerful new place and its role in the lives of the northern clans. Búi, once he got over his shyness, proved to be a very sharp and perceptive little boy, often framing his questions in the context of a guess at the answer- and while he was not always correct, he was usually at least on the right track. Ivar for his part, was always encouraging of the child’s attempts at guessing, praising him for correct answers and gently correcting wrong ones.

Eventually, there was no more to show and the abbot let the Duns go so they could eat and rest. He retreated to the wattle and daub hut that he used as a separate space for writing. For an abbot’s dwelling, it was small and sparse, containing only a bench and a table. Everything, however, was covered in parchment and birch bark paper, nestled among which were candles, quills and bottles of ink.

When Jarle came, Ivar cleared some space on the other end of the bench so he could sit down. Within the hut, he seemed smaller, more subdued. “I really do appreciate you coming, Jarle, despite the distance you had to cross. Even if I suspect seeing me is not the main reason for your visit,” the Roan man said quietly. “Nevertheless, it has been good to see you and to know you are doing well.”

Jarle brushed at the scarf he was wearing around his neck- one made of woven brown and black animal hair. “I would have been obligate to come regardless, if only for the purpose of affirming Clan Dun’s place in this new order of the north. But you forget, Ivar, I know loss. Of course I’ll help you, in whatever way I can.”

“That is kind of you. Though I think you know there is only so much someone can do when it comes to fighting another person’s grief,” Ivar sighed, closing his eyes. “It’s been a year since he died now. The loss has not gotten any easier to bear.”

“Ivar… what happened?” Jarle asked, his voice cracking a little. His fingers came to rest over the small wooden feather that was half-hidden behind his scarf. “He wasn’t that old, was he? When we met twelve years ago I wouldn’t have pegged him as being much beyond his early twenties. Yet you said he died in his sleep; was he ill?”

“N-no,” Ivar’s expression cracked and he doubled over, cupping his face in his hands. “I don’t know what happened, Jarle. He was only thirty five! The only thing was that he was tired the day before, but I put it down to the long journey. He had such great plans, for this abbey, for the clans, for the entire north and then-” his words were broken off by a sob.

Jarle said nothing- instead he put an arm around the Roan man’s shoulder, pulling Ivar towards him. Ivar leaned on his shoulder, wiping the tears off his cheek.

“Thank you,” he finally whispered after a while, though he did not pull away. “Not a day goes by when I don’t miss Absolon. All I’m doing, the abbey, all this-” he gestured around at the papers scattered around the hut, “-it’s all just so I can keep remembering him. So I can feel like he’s still with me somehow, even if it’s just in memories and legacy.”

“Knowing him, he would be very embarrassed,” Jarle mused. “But it helps, to feel like it wasn’t all for nothing. To feel like their life still means something.” His familiar deep, baritone chuckle sounded in Ivar’s ears. “You should visit Nez-Gata sometime, when things have settled more here. Father commissioned an elaborate tapestry in honor of our efforts to end the war between Dun and Rabicano. It hangs in the banquet hall right over the fireplace. I think you’d like it.”

“If it’s anything like the tapestries here, it would be quite a sight,” Ivar forced himself to smile. “I will come visit eventually: that’s a fact. After all, even if this is the Woo’s homestead, as you said, it cannot be the only place where He is. But there is still so much to do here, and Dux Ragnarr is still not convinced I am the right fit for the job so he is watching me like a hawk,” he sighed, shaking his head. “I cannot blame him. I was never supposed to hold this post.”

“We paid a visit to Dux Ragnarr before heading out here,” Jarle said. “He seems a reasonable man- I imagine you will be able to prove your worth to him with time. Just don’t take after my example and hit him when he makes you angry, hm?”

“Oh Woo, if I did that, he’d strip me of my position!” Ivar laughed, though it was an uncomfortable one. “No, he is reasonable enough. He knows that besides me, there is nobody else who can lead this abbey,” he swallowed, a sudden lump forming in his throat. “I have to remember that. Even if I constantly feel second rate.”

“It’s not so different from becoming Dux, then,” the Dun said. “You have to step into the shoes of someone you respected and loved, and try your best to fill them- even if you feel like you will never quite measure up. But you do it anyway- not just because you want to make them proud of you, but because of the countless others who depend on you. Búi- ‘to live.’ Because of what you have wrought here, so, so many who would have died will live.”

The Roan nodded. “That’s why I assumed this position, why I keep going: because somebody has to do it, for everyone’s sake. It heartens me that people like your son will live never knowing the tyranny that the Shifter of Seasons brought, and I intend to keep it that way,” Ivar’s tone suddenly grew sharp, causing him to bite his tongue. “You sound as if you speak from experience, Jarle. I realise I never asked about your father…”

Jarle sighed, rubbing his face. “He died this past January- though we both already knew it was coming by the time you contacted me last year. He had this dark spot on the back of his shoulder that we couldn’t get to stop bleeding, then his neck started to swell and he got sick…” The man looked away, his silver-blue eyes glazed with sadness. “He stepped down in favor of me the winter before last, when he knew his health was getting bad. By mid-autumn he wasn’t… wasn’t really even coherent anymore.”

Jarle swallowed thickly, but managed to keep his voice more-or-less level. “That’s… another reason I brought Búi along. I didn’t want him to be without me for such a long time while he was still grieving for his grandfather.”

Ivar gave off a long, slow sigh, his eyes closed. He gripped his woocifix tightly, murmuring a prayer under his breath. “I’m sorry, Jarle,” he put his hand on the Dun’s shoulder, squeezing it. “I know you and Sindre had a difficult relationship, but even so, it must be hard, for you and your children.”

The Dun said nothing for a time, his gaze distant. “We always thought that Time was Her domain- but it isn’t, not really. Time doesn’t need Her and it never did. Spring will come, children will be born and their elders will… will pass on.”

He swallowed hard, but kept going. “The journey we took together was a foundation for a future we can only guess at. Before too long we’ll join the ones we’ve lost in the Woo’s domain, and our descendants will inherit the world we’ve left behind. We’ll just be stories- and maybe someday, not even that.” He smiled thinly. “But that freedom to shape their own futures is the best possible gift we could leave behind. It will outlast even the memory of us.”

The Roan bowed his head, pondering Jarle’s words. “Yes. You are absolutely right. The greatest gift the Woo has given humanity is free will. It is up to us to make use of the time we have in the best way possible.”

He sighed, resting his elbows in his palms. “I don’t know what the future holds. Maybe everything I care about now will be taken away from it again. But I know what I want it to be: I want young people like your son and my pupil to never have to know her tyranny and instead feel the Woo’s love. While I am still alive, I will do my best to fight for that future,” he smiled at the Dun. “Will you help me with that?”

Jarle tilted his head. “In what way?”

“Do what you are doing now: set an example to your clan, and to your children in loving and worshipping the Woo. Where a Dux goes, his people follow. I will assist you in that task however I can, both as your friend and as abbot. After all, it’s what all this-” Ivar gestured all around him at the abbey, “-was set up to do.”

“Of course I will,” Jarle replied. In a dry voice he added, “Even when angry vengeful rabbit-horse-monsters make things more complicated than they need to be.”

Ivar blinked, confused for a moment before he burst out laughing. “Oh Woo, you were busy after we left. You will have to share that story!” he grinned. “In return, I’ll tell you about the time I was almost killed by a lake monster. That was an adventure.”

“Well, apparently the local friendly pooka get a lot less friendly when you inadvertently burn them with Wooist iconography,” Jarle replied with a laugh of his own. “But I’ll take you up on that offer- one good tale deserves another.”

“I’ll ask for some ale to be brought for us. Wouldn’t want our throats getting dry from talking too much,” the Roan grinned. “But if this story is good, I might just ask you to tell it to everyone else at supper.”

“Ha! Guess I’d better make this my best retelling yet,” Jarle mused. “Alright then; it began about five years after you and Absolon left Clan Dun…”