Wadrahad stood upright, his eyes filled with roaring flames. The village that used to be his home was no more.

Only this morning, he had insisted on going with Wènbroch to get some wood for Father’s furnace. His big brother was not happy, of course: now that he was twelve, he always wanted to do things on his own, like he was already grown up. But Wadrahad knew he was only seven years older, which was quite a lot, but not enough to make him grown up!

At first Father had said no, but Mother had taken Wadrahad’s side, and he had said yes. Wadrahad had been so happy he had hugged Mother, then Father, and would have run outside in nothing but his shirt and braies if Wènbroch had not held him in place. Sighing and groaning as he always did when he had to bring his little brother with him, Wènbroch had given him his new coat, the one with the green hood lined with whool, to protect his ears and wild black hair from the frost; and a scruffy brown scarf that itched his neck and chin. Mother had said he looked just like a little Korrigan, and then Wènbroch had pulled him by the arm and they were outside. He just had the time to wave Mother and Father goodbye before Wènbroch picked him up and dropped him in their little carriage. Then he brought Otla the mule from her stable, bound her to the carriage, pulled on her worn-out bridle and they were off.

Wadrahad was always happy to get away, away from the stuffy air filled with ash that smelled of burning coal and hot iron. He knew every bend of the winding road that climbed up the hillside, up to the snowy heights where there were still many trees. Of course, it was much, much colder than in the Valley; but there was no smoke up there, no ash and mud on the ground, and no clouds of steam from the forges, and no noise of hammers. There, he could see the white sky, and feel the snow crunching under his feet, and fill his lungs with the fresh smell of pine-trees and listen to what the winter-wind muttered in their branches.

As always, Wènbroch had remained silent, sometimes muttering to himself, and when they had reached the top, he had detached Otla and said: “Don’t you move from that carriage, you little Hobblin, or I’ll tell Otla to eat your pretty coat!”.

Wadrahad had replied that he was a Korrigan, not a Hobblin, and that besides Otla would never eat his coat, because she was too gentle for that.But Wènbroch was already away, pretending he did not hear a thing, and he had started to chop down an old tree. Wadrahad had sat down, pulled his hood down on his face, and grumbled to himself, until he had felt Otla’s nose nuzzling him. She had smelled the grain left in his pocket, which he gave to her gladly. In a way, she must have felt like Wadrahad did, finally getting out of her dark smelly stable to breathe in the fresh air of the mountains.

He was scratching her head, and she was licking his ungloved hand when they had first heard it. It was like thunder rumbling far away. But there were no black cloud on the horizon: just the snowy hills around them, and the winding road, the bridge passing over the frozen stream below, the village (in its usual cloud of ash and smoke); and further away there were the other villages, each with its own cloud of ash and smoke; and beyond that, to the North, stood the big black Cliffs of Mórn, that went so high they reached the sky. But there was no sign of a storm coming.

Then the noise had come again, more like a long snarl this time. Then there was a gust of warm wind coming from far up in the sky. He looked up, and saw the clouds moving, twisting, as if something was passing through them. Wadrahad had squinted his dark-green eyes to try and see what was causing this. He saw nothing, except a muddled grey shape, with a fire in its heart…

And then it came, cleaving through the dome of clouds. Quick as a hunting-bird, lithe as molten iron, and dark as coal. Its body was twisting like a snake on a pole, its tail curling and winding behind it like a black lightning-bolt. It slithered this way and that, leaving behind it a trail that smelled like fire. Every time it passed, Wadrahad felt another warm gust of wind, only they were getting warmer. Suddenly it flew upward to a stop, high above the village, and its jagged wings spread across the sky, as if it wished to engulf the heavens. For a second it stood there, black as night against the milky white of the clouds. Its heart seemed to crackle, and shimmer with a red glare. Wadrahad was standing far away, but he still felt its warmth, and it was as hot as a furnace.

And then it stooped forward, and fell, head first, hurtling down at a terrifying speed; its entire body set ablaze, like living fire.

Wadrahad knew how dangerous fire was, and how it could burn meat, consume wood, and even melt the toughest of metals. He knew what it felt like to stand for hours in front of a blazing furnace, waiting for it to become hot enough for the smiths to do their work. But the wave of heat he felt now was unbearable, and for a moment, he thought he would be melted himself. He could hear Otla scream, and run with blind terror. The wooden carriage under his feet became black. He closed his eyes, fell to his knees, and put his hands above his ears, wishing for it all to stop.

It all lasted only a few seconds: but it took well over a minute for Wadrahad to put his trembling arms down, and to take in a careful breath. He was still alive, and the winter-wind seemed like a blessing after the scorching heat. He breathed in deeply, his lungs almost freezing upon contact with the fresh air- until he looked up.

The village was now a burning furnace. Wailings of men, women, beasts, all whom he knew, echoed across the valley. The houses were roofless, their walls burning, and tumbling down. The only things not burning were the walls of brick or stone, but they had been knocked around by the dreadful blast. There were shapes still moving down there, but they all fell, one after another, and did not move again. A great smoke cloud rose above the ravaged town, and it filled the sky with darkness.

And in the midst of the smoke, in a long victorious screech, it reappeared, once again as black as coal; it lunged up into the clouds, and flew northward, away from the chaos below.

How long Wadrahad stood there, he would never remember. It felt like hours, days, years, centuries. When he arose from his stupor, it seemed that an entire age of the world had passed before his eyes; and, in truth, an age of the world had indeed passed for him.

“Wad?”

The voice came from behind him, and startled him; he realized Wènbroch had been standing by his side for a time now. His brown eyes were looking straight at the dying furnace that had been their home, but there was something new in his face: he had the same face as Father’s when he had to make a hard decision, and the same eyes as Mother’s when she was singing to herself of other lands and other times. To Wadrahad, he really did start to look grown up.

“Come on.”

He pulled him by the sleeve, picked him out of the carriage, and looked him in the eyes. He seemed to be thinking of what to say, and how to say it… Eventually, he simply said:

“Get what wood you can carry in here. I’m going after Otla.”

He stood up and turned away, walked a few paces, and looking back at Wadrahad, he added:

“We have to move on, now, you understand?”

Wadrahad did not understand, of course. It had all happened so quickly. And he was not even sure what had happened. But he knew things would never be the same again. Somewhere, deep inside him, the child who had been discovered long ago in a cart filled with ashes, the little Wadrahad who found joy in the simplest things, was gone. In its place, something else was growing: something hard as steel and bitter as coal, twisted like a dragon’s tail, burning like a roaring fire and yet cold and black like ashes on the snow.

“In the heart of every child, Éos plants a seed, that will, in its own time, sprout forth and bear fruit”. Among all the Sayings of Drimorlèn The Elder, this one was Father’s favourite. But that was a long time ago, when Mother and Father were there. Now, in the troubled heart of Wadrahad, another seed had been planted: and to enemies and friends alike, and even to himself, it would bear bitter fruit.