Rune

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. Or selkies in the sea or pixies in the ponds. But they came, drawn to the magic of the Oracle, the slippery nature of fates luring magic seekers towards this sacred place of restoration and enchantment.


The dragons came in search of magic for their pearls, their magic having been siphoned to nothing by the Earth Mother seeking balance. Hundreds of years later, the stories of the druid dragon kings are closer to tales of myth than ones of memory. 


And here in the valley, the dragons found what they had lost. Their pearls filled with magic once more, and their druidic powers returned.

My mother and father were drawn to the Oracle for a magical blessing of a different kind. 

The summer after their wedding, my mother had fallen from a ladder while painting the barn. Even my father, who had been there to see the Fall, can’t remember exactly what happened. His memory, too washed by the searing visage of his new wife, lying prone on the ground with a broken spine, her eyes wild and glassy, her hands desperately clutching her belly swollen with life. 

Everyone knows about the valley of the Oracle in the same way that everyone knows about ghosts. Still, if you’ve never seen one, the notion feels more like a heart’s knowing than gospel truth. For it is fabled to be the only magical place left in the Greater Realm.


The dragons were lured here first. The Ancients among them had foreseen the Fall, a time when all magical creatures would lose their gifts, their status, their magic. Dragons had ruled as emperors and kings with cunning intelligence. Their powers of persuasion and prognostication made them supreme beings in a world of mortal flesh and minor magic. 


But when the dragons’ pearls lost their warm swirling hues of umber, jade, and lapis lazuli, turning to cold ebony under their tongues, their lightning and fire, and ice drying up and leaving their chests as empty as dry husks, they knew the falling of their race was imminent. 

The draconic Ancients sought restoration of their druidic powers in a final effort to save their race. And they abandoned their homes and lands in the hopes of finding the mythical valley that held a seer’s promise of a new source of magic. 


And so the dragons were the first to find the Oracle. 

They named their new home Trolldom, a place of magic bound. 

Very few of the Ancients chose to stay behind, a small horde of dragon lords with them, too proud to give up their kingdoms without a fight. But the dragons also lost the most crucial of their gifts, the ability to mentally commune with humans. Thus, they began to be treated as inferior beasts, their seats of power eventually lost to those with words and fingers and mighty swords.

My father once told me the story, in spoken whispers around crackling embers, of the dragon he had seen as a boy. It had been alone in his grandfather’s fields, grazing alongside cows and donkeys, roughly the size of a giant boar, its mighty wings tucked in tight, its sharp teeth tearing into patches of grass. A strange and unsettling sight for a creature of such might and magnificence. 

My father had crept closer, pulled by a spirit of reckless curiosity as young boys are wont to do. He stopped and crouched a short distance away, observing the beast’s careful grace. He shook his head at the memory, for only the ignorance of youth had granted him this rare encounter. 


Acknowledging his presence, the dragon had peered over at him like a cat considering a mouse. My father had locked eyes with it, unable to look away from the glossy yellow orbs with their inky black pupils. After the Fall, dragons were treated with as much reverence as a prize stead, but my father knew those weren’t the eyes of an ordinary beast; they held ancient, fathomless wisdom. 

The dragon allowed him to creep closer until he was just about a perch away from it. Its scales were unpolished, a hazy blue beneath layers of grime and storied scars from battles won. He beheld its long snout, with nostrils that flared with curiosity and something more sinister. My father knew dragons were no longer born with pearls beneath their tongues if they were even still born at all. Yet, the dragon stared at him with such longing, as if an ancestral memory of speech played at the fringes of its consciousness. And then the dragon broke the spell, its wings filling the air in a rush of dust and wind and cracking bones, and it was gone. 


While his memory still lingered in the air like a bird caught in a current, I asked my father why the dragons of the valley never returned to reclaim their thrones once their magic was restored. “Every living creature must pay the cost of magic, my daughter,” he replied softly, settling his heavy hand tenderly on my shoulder. And I remember thinking how so sad he had looked in that moment. So old. 

Soon after the dragons left for the valley, never to return, humans and other once magical creatures made their own way to Trolldom. 

Selkies went in search of waters that would return them to their seal bodies or to shed their skin to human form once again, having lost their ability to transform. Pixies had their wings but lost their magical swiftness and songs of charm and thus became easy prey for mortal beasts. So their colonies split across the continent in search of the valley, seeking the path paved by dragons, listening to the gossip of the grasses and the whispers of the trees to find their way.  

And so the pixies and the selkies joined the dragons in the valley. 

For humans, magic was never an inheritance bestowed to them; it had always been something to be begged and bargained for. And so when it fled, sucked back into the earth from whence it came, magic became a beautiful thing of lore, just a once exotic flower now extinct. And without magic, the balance between races began to shift, humans seizing control of thrones through mortal skill alone.

And so humans went in search of the only thing that merited magic– miracles.

My father knew my mother would die and my unborn brother with her. There was nothing their village doctor could do, leaving only one choice. And it was less of a choice and more of a fated inevitability that led my father to pack up their meager belongings and lead our gentle cow across the realm on a journey to change their future.  

My mother was healed the moment she stepped into the waters of the Oracle. My brother came several days after on the shore of Lake Trylle, a healthy and beautiful baby boy. Ecstatic about a future with their new child, my parents tried to leave the valley to return home, and it was then that they learned the true cost of their blessing. They found they couldn’t pass through the entrance of the valley, a narrow passage sculpted by two sheer cliffs, a ward that flowed one way and barred the other. For once one entered the valley of the Oracle seeking its magic, one could never leave its embrace. 

And so my family made their home in Trolldom with those who had come before and those who would come after. My mother never lost that wild, glassy look in her eyes. Even the Oracle can’t remove the scar of darkness left by death’s claws. But they were happy.

I was the first to be born in the valley, with hair as black and glossy as a selkie’s tale, eyes as bright and golden as a dragon’s pearl, and they said I was made of the valley itself. 

I’m not like all the other children of Trolldom, conceived from cities and villages rooted in mortal soil. My first sip of life was thick with magic. They named me Rune, a name my mother said was whispered to her by the dragons.

My father told me there used to be cities in the Greater Realm of Halsar, beyond the valley, where humans and magical creatures all lived together in relative harmony. And if he was telling this story, he would start there, with what was. But alas, my father is not the one telling this story. 

And my story starts in the valley, with what is. Because the valley is the only place I’ve ever known. 

I slip out the front door of our longhouse, minding the loose board at the entry that squeaks in the center, and ease the door shut behind me. I move silently through our small village like a wisp of wind, winding my way to the edge of town, the homes I pass still breathing with the steady rhythm of sleep. The valley is full of secrets that awaken when the world is sleeping, and I know where to find them all. 

It is still very early, the sun only just beginning to rise, casting meek yellow rays on the rocky sides of the valley. But, if I stand here long enough, I will see glints of orange scale, blue scale, gold scale as the sun begins to pop its rays into the dragon caves pressed into the mountain. 

I can now see the rough-hewn wooden Gates in the distance, set into the shadows of the two mountains that stand sentry. The Gates were my father’s idea, and they’re not really gates at all but an arcade of three arches supported by tall columns that meet the mountain wall on either side. They mark the entrance to Trolldom, a place from which you cannot leave once you’ve set foot. A warning and also a welcome for those who accept. My father believed everyone should have a choice in their fate, blessings or not. I have yet to be convinced that anyone has a choice in anything. 

It’s been quite a long time since we’ve had someone pass through these arches. Years since a human arrived with that hungry, desperate, but hopeful look in their eyes. Maybe the myths of the valley have been distorted over the years, or perhaps they guessed the true price of magic and realized a life of solitude wasn’t worth the reward.

My mind wants to conjure the last person who attempted to cross, but I shrug off the memory like an itchy sweater, and as I reach the Gates and pause, a tingle of warning and exhilaration weaves through my fingers and up my arms. 

Before I can change my mind, I take a step closer to the laurel green gates, and another, and another. My footsteps are suddenly thundering in my head, every step cracking through me like a bridge foothold about to snap. I glance behind me, certain someone has heard or seen, but the valley is as quiet as its ever been. I take a deep breath that catches in my diaphragm, held tight around my ribs in anticipation, and I step through. 

I feel the tug of the Oracle behind me like a fish hook caught in my spine, reeling me back. But it lets me go. 

It always lets me go.

And in the breath of a step, I’m through the Gates.

There are many secrets that reveal themselves in the space between darkness and dawn, and this is mine. 

I can leave the valley. 

Those words have played soundlessly on my lips more times than I can count, but I’ve never let them pass through my teeth. But secrets find new keepers in other ways than words, and I have not always been so cautious. 

Just beyond the Gates, I see the point of a long flat rock, mostly hidden by a thicket of shrubs. I make my way over to it and see a small patch of sweet cloudberries. They don’t grow in the valley anymore, the pixies having eaten them into oblivion, and it’s one of the many small delights I’ve discovered beyond the valley. 

I have other reasons for crossing today, but my family knows I’ll be gone until dusk on a mission to retrieve animal bones for the change in seasons. And so, I take a moment of indulgence to fill my pockets with cloudberries and eat as many as I can before moving on. We will use the bones to strengthen our swords in preparation for the Winter troll raids, and no one needs to know the true destination of my scavenging.

I feel a familiar prickle of fear and glance out at the plains, but the sun has now filled in all the predawn shadows, and there is nothing there. But the moment throws me back into the memory I’d been fighting off all morning, of the boy who had hidden in this very thicket two years before. 


I had seen a patch of cloudberries that had grown just out of reach beyond the arches, and like a fool, I stepped through the Gates without making sure I was truly alone. I had been about to cross back through, my stride straddling the magical ward, my mind muddled by cloudberry haze when I heard a voice behind me. 

Fearing the boy’s knowledge of my secret, I had told him about the Gates, and the Oracle, and the valley. I told him the price of magic and that he could never leave once he entered. 

“But you can leave. I saw you step through.” He had said doubtfully, not trusting my words. 

And he had… I hadn’t seen him crouching just out of sight, scouting the entrance before attempting to make his own crossing, but he had seen me. 

I shrugged with a nonchalance that didn’t reach my twitching fingertips. “Well, I’m special,” I said, with as much arrogance as I could muster.  

He had stepped closer to the first arch and said loudly, “Maybe if I yell loud enough, I can learn how I can be special too."

My mind stumbled for a convincing lie, anything to get him to leave this place and take my secret with him. And so I said the only thing I could think of that might convince him to leave empty-handed. “What you need is a relic,” I rushed to say before he could take another step. 

“A what?” he said, his brow furrowing. 

“If you can find a draconic relic beyond the valley, from the time of the Ancients, I can fill it with magic for you. You won’t need to pay the Oracle’s price.” 

I knew he’d never find a relic. Any magical item had fallen to dust when its magic was drained during the Fall. There was no chance anything still survived from that time of destitution. But by some free miracle of the Oracle, the boy had believed me and left in search of a thing I knew he’d never find. 

I don’t cross over very much anymore. The risk of being discovered too heavy a burden to make a handful of sweet berries or strange flowers worth it. But today, I’m here for something special. 

I’m pulled back to the present by a whisper on the breeze and turn my head towards the plains beyond the valley. At first, I think it’s my mind playing tricks on me, still caught up in the memory of the boy and his foolish wants that put my own wants at risk. But the vision only grows larger, becomes clearer, and I realize there is a man headed straight towards the Gates. 

Headed straight towards the valley. 

Headed straight toward me. 

I turn quickly and race back into the valley, a warm pop of magic in my ears the only indication of my crossing. I hide behind one of the gate’s supporting columns and watch him stride purposefully up to the Gates.

The man takes a seat right in front of the Gates and waits. I glance back towards our village, smoke is starting to curl up from chimneys, and soon his presence will alert someone. 

I look back at him, and he’s calm, making no moves to cross, and I realize he’s waiting. 

As the familiarities of his face pull together in my mind, I grasp the sides of the column to support my weight as I sag against it. I know this face. It’s slightly older, sharper, and covered in fresh stubble, but it sides into place like a missing puzzle piece. 

And I know he’s waiting for me. 

His head swings to find me when I step through the Gates as if sensing the air shift with magic. If he’s surprised that I appear so quickly, he doesn’t show it. We stand looking at each other for a moment, silent. I gesture to the thicket that hides the cloudberry bush, but he has a strange hesitant expression on his face; is it fear that holds him so still? No, he isn’t scared of me.

But maybe he should be, I think to myself. 

No, he’s just studying me as if trying to find what makes me different, to root out the source of the strangeness that clings to me like moss on a cypress. 

I take the opportunity to examine him in return. His brown hair is longer than when last I saw him, curling rakishly around his jaw. He’s grown taller, I think, and his musty green eyes seem to belong to a man of many more years as if they’ve seen something long before they ought.

Finally, he’s the one to break the silence, “Rune?” he says softly. My name on his lips makes me shiver, and I suddenly feel wary, like I’ve just stepped onto a frozen lake at the end of Winter, and cracks are beginning to spider around my feet.

“Aric?” I say. A question but also not a question. My voice sounds almost breathless. The air is different on this side of the gate. It’s easy to breathe and fresh, not thick with preserved magic that will leave you lightheaded if you breathe in too quickly. I relish the feeling as his name flows out between us. 

“Come, we mustn’t be seen together.” I start to move to the small clearing hidden by thickets, where I had just been stuffing my face with cloudberries, and thank the Oracle he follows me without question. 

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” I say, my voice strengthening as I will my fear to retreat now that our meeting can remain clandestine. 

Aric arches an eyebrow at me, his face falling into the boyish softness I remember from our brief first encounter. “You set me to quite the task. But I may have also lost my choice in the matter since last we met.” 

“Which matter?” I ask, taking a step closer. 

“Hmm, well, in all matters, if I’m being contrite.” He replies slyly. 

“You’re in good company, for I lost all assumptions of the contrary long ago,” I say, and a prickle of a smile tickles his lips. But as our banter loosens something in my chest, I remember he knows my secret, and I push down the ease I’m beginning to feel creep up. 

“I don’t know what you think you’ve found that has made you return, but you need to leave. Before anyone sees you.” 

“What are they going to do if they see me, Rune? Throw rocks at me through the Gates?” He cocks his head at me in contemplation, and I feel like he’s picking at the knots that hold my secrets and wants and fears. I shiver and retreat to the cloudberry bush to distance us. 

“No one in Trolldom knows you can leave the valley, do they?” He asks carefully as if I’m a horse he doesn’t want to spook. 

I say nothing but pop one of the vibrant amber berries into my mouth. It is perfectly ripe, and the smooth skin bursts easily between my teeth. I focus on the sweet and sour flavors that blossom on my tongue as he tries to pull my gaze to his. 

“That’s not my secret to reveal, Rune.” 

“No,” I replied, “But it is yours to keep. And I don’t–“

“Trust me, Rune. I don’t know why you want no one to know, but I won’t take that choice away from you. Just don’t get caught.” He smiles at me, all white teeth and glittering eyes, and I feel fingers curl inside my stomach.  

When I don’t reply, he just nods at me and sets his pack on the ground, taking my silence as admission. “I brought you something.” He begins to rummage in his leather bag, and I sit down across from him, my curiosity getting the better of me. 

He pulls out a small bundle wrapped in wax paper tied with a string. He passes it to me, and I accept it jerkingly, my excitement taking control of my body. I pull the string, and the paper falls away, revealing a pastry with gooey pink icing.

“It’s a cloud cake.” He says with a grin. “Try it.” 

I should be more cautious with this strange man I’ve barely spoken with, but the icing has dripped onto my finger, and before I’ve had the thought, my finger is in my mouth, sucking off the drip. It’s sweet but refreshing, like when mother adds fruit to the water pitcher on our birthdays. 


I take a full bite, crumbs tumbling down my front, and my eyes flutter closed as a rush of moist cake, and seedy jam hit my taste buds. When I open my eyes, Aric is watching me, the corners of his mouth pulled back in that boyish smirk I’m finding I like very much. 

“The first time we met, you were devouring cloudberries like it was the last thing you wanted to do before you died. So I thought you would like cloud cake; it’s very popular where I’m from.” 

“I… thank you.” I don’t know what to say. No one had ever brought something just for me before. I know I can’t bring the cake home with me, so we spend the next few minutes in companionable silence as I finish the cake. 

I wipe my fingers in the wet grass still damp with dew, and look at him expectantly. “Well, now that you’ve fattened me up, care to tell me why you’re here? Nothing has changed; you still can’t leave the valley if you choose to enter.” 

“Rune,” Aric says, pausing as he meets my scrutinous gaze, his eyes filling with some emotion I can’t place. “I’m here because everything has changed.” 

He reaches into his satchel once more and quickly finds his quarry, as if his hands haven’t drifted far from it since whatever it is was placed inside. 

He pulls out an emerald green pouch, a soft fabric that glimmers slightly when it catches the light. He turns the bag upside down in his palm, and I lean closer to see. The thing he holds is dirty and cracked and cratered and could easily be mistaken for a hunk of volcanic rock, common enough in Halsar… But as heat spreads through my veins, like a drop of blood in water, I already know without knowing what he holds. And I suddenly regret devouring the cloud cake, my stomach churning and threatening to reverse course.  

 “I found–“ He begins, his excitement catching on the words causing him to pause, but before he can finish, I whisper, “you found a pearl.” 

He nods as he holds it out to me reverently… “And not just any pearl, Rune. It’s a pearl from an Ancient.”  

My world tilts as I realize what this means, what he expects me to do. What I told him I could do. And I pick up my skirts, and I run.