The Sleeping Hero

In tonight’s medieval fantasy sleep story, you and your newly formed traveling party set off toward the king’s festival. But the road to the capital is winding, and on your way, you’re tempted by side quests. Featuring a built-in body scan.

Music/Sound: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw, Bard’s Minuet by Jon Bjork, Dream Focus by Mandala Dreams, Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Awaken an ancient legend in this fantasy bedtime story.

Sleep and Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy inspired sleep series.

My name is Laurel and I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

Listen to my voice for as long as you like,

And whenever you're ready,

Feel free to let go of the story and make your way into sleep.

This story contains a built-in body scan toward the end for relaxation and grounding.

In tonight's story,

You and your newly formed traveling party set off toward the King's But the road to the capital is winding,

And on your way,

You're tempted by side quests.

You come to a mysterious place in the forest where legends speak of a great hero and his sleeping army,

Who can only be woken by the blowing of a magical horn.

This story is a follow-up to Season 2's Tales by the Tavern Fire,

And it's loosely connected to the Dragonrider stories.

You don't need to have listened to those to enjoy it,

But you may recognize some of the characters and places herein.

Then from the dawn it seemed there came but faint as from beyond the limit of the world,

Like the last echo born of a great cry,

Sounds as if some fair city were one voice around a king returning from his wars,

Alfred Lord Tennyson,

Fiddles of the King.

In the shy light of morning,

You descend the steps of the inn to meet your new companions.

Only a night,

The deep and heavy slumber of a weary traveler has passed since last you looked upon them by the light of the tavern fire.

Yet it feels like ages have elapsed.

Down in the tavern where only hours ago you rushed in out of the storm,

Where you shared stories round the fire with relative strangers,

The innkeeper,

Hal,

Is sweeping the floors.

He looks up to see you,

His ready face breaking into a smile.

He'd happily rustle up something to break your fast,

If you'd like.

His wife,

Mary,

Is the cook,

And she's always got a good hunk of rye or wheel of cheese lying around.

You thank him sincerely for the hospitality,

But has he seen the folks with whom you were conversing yesterday evening?

You're meant to meet them any minute now.

Of course,

He says,

The fine-dressed lady and the three from the green forest already came down and took as much food as they could hold in their packs they did.

He laughs ardently.

They haven't gone,

Have they?

You ask,

Crestfallen.

Oh no,

No,

Hal replies.

Just gone to look around the town,

They said.

I promised I'd send you on your way,

Soon as I saw you.

You sigh with relief.

You didn't think you'd overslept so much.

Graciously accepting another pack full of bread from Hal,

You hoist your traveling bag over his shoulder and depart the inn.

You give it a backward glance as you go,

Cherishing the memories you made within its cozy firelit embrace.

Shelter,

It was,

In a storm.

Now you go forth into a sunny day to find your new friends.

The inn sits at the crossing of the three great roads,

And a little village has sprung up in the cradle of the convergence.

You stroll down the main corridor through the tiny shops and trades,

Though the feel and climate of this region are very different from your home in the southernmost tip of the kingdom,

You find that the village doesn't diverge much from the ones you know.

Like every small town and large city in the south,

It has a blacksmith,

A general store,

And various market stalls for hawkers of different wares.

In the near distance,

Toward the foothills of the western mountain range,

Which forms a steady ridge across the horizon,

You can see a smattering of residences.

You wind through the sleepy marketplace,

Where merchants are just beginning to set up for the day.

If you had nowhere to be,

No obligations,

And no companions waiting for you,

You'd feel quite at home here.

You'd find an empty stall and barter for the space to set up shop and sell your products.

Your bag is packed full of bolts of richly dyed fabrics,

Wool and silk imbued with the finest green and gold pigments imaginable.

Made from special dyes,

Only found in the south,

You might make a pretty penny hawking them here.

But you do have people waiting for you.

And besides,

You're saving the bolts to sell at the king's magnificent festival,

Where they're sure to catch the eye of the nobles at court.

You find some of your party in the village square.

The trio of half-elves,

Brightbuckle,

Whistle,

And Thorn,

Are gathered conversing by the fountain.

They wave you over when they see you.

Each wears a bow and quiver of arrows over their shoulder.

Only now,

By the light of day,

Do you notice the heraldic insignia on each of their garments.

A white tree,

With half its branches in bloom,

As if at the height of summer,

And the other half bare,

As in the coldest months of winter.

You'll have to ask them,

Sooner or later,

About the meaning of this symbol,

And whether it indicates their belonging to some order or other.

But for now,

Only one question rises to your lips,

Regarding the whereabouts of the final member of your traveling party.

Gone to acquire some more appropriate travel threads,

Says Brightbuckle,

The most outgoing of the half-elves,

With a chuckle.

Morana,

The lady in question,

Whose noble attire raised more than a few eyebrows at last night's gathering in the inn,

Is wise to exchange her fine silks for something less inspicuous.

At least now,

She won't be traveling alone.

Well,

You suppose,

If there's time to kill,

You might dip into one of the shops lining the village square.

The half-elves promise to come find you when Morana returns,

So you can at last embark on your journey down the king's road.

There's one establishment in particular that's caught your eye.

A painted sign hangs outside the door,

Swaying slightly in the breeze.

Depicted upon it is the skull of a deer.

It's hard to explain,

But you feel you must go inside.

The moment you swing the door open,

Even before you can cross the threshold,

You are overcome with the smell of incense.

Clouds of smoke rise to meet you,

Obscuring your vision,

So that it's almost as if you step into a thickening void.

When the smoke clears enough for you to see,

You take in shelves and shelves of esoteric objects and arcane items,

Instruments the likes of which you've never seen,

Stones and crystals precisely arranged,

Talismans and amulets.

This,

You think,

Is a place of magic,

The domain of sorcerers and mages.

It's not a place where you should tarry long,

But before you can turn and make for the door,

A voice chimes through the clouds of smoke,

Going so soon,

It says,

Lingering like the woodsy herbal fragrance of the incense.

Before you've heard what the bones have to say,

She's seated in the corner at a table strewn with tiny objects,

Feathers,

Stones,

Coins,

And bones.

They're scattered with a chaotic randomness that nevertheless seems spiral in nature.

You have a greater destiny,

Says the old woman in the corner,

A stranger fate than you imagine.

The realm awakens once more to an ancient enchantment.

You have a choice,

To stay asleep,

Content with your lot,

Or to rise with the magic,

To turn the world toward a kinder path.

Maybe it's the hypnotic fragrance of the shop,

Or the occult atmosphere,

Or the vague and enthralling words of the woman,

But your head seems to swim,

You feel as if something within you is stirring slowly,

A part of you that's been asleep,

That subdued part slowly lifts its head and perks up its ears to hear the message of the fortune teller,

The bone caster.

But as soon as you become receptive to her message,

The door of the shop swings open with the tinkling of bells.

Your inner self lowers its head and succumbs to sleep again.

It's like a veil is lifted,

And with it the clouds of incense part,

Letting the sunlight stream in through the open door.

The mystical atmosphere subsides,

Like a dream dissipating in a dreamer's memory as they wake.

Silhouetted in the doorway is Brightbuckle,

The half-elf.

Behind her are three others,

The rest of your party,

Including Morana the lady,

Now clad in peasant's garb.

As you exit the shop,

Even in your haste,

You can hear the bone caster calling something after you,

The horn,

She cries.

Behind the hunting horn,

Soon shaking free of the somnolent whispers of the magic shop,

You and your complete party reach the outskirts of the little village,

And behold a crossroads.

The widest path,

The king's road,

Stretches far ahead,

Snaking through the valley.

Another road,

Rough and neglected,

Leads directly into the foothills.

Alas,

Off to the east,

You and your party regard each other,

So lately strangers,

Now bonded companions.

Onward you travel,

Down the king's road,

Toward the festival,

Toward whatever may lie on the path,

To break the monotony of the road,

And as a cautious means of strengthening your newfound fellowship,

You share stories and myths from your respective homelands.

That such disparate places and cultures should exist within the boundaries of one realm,

United under one throne,

May not surprise you,

But it's a boundless source of intrigue and curiosity.

The half-elves hail from the forested regions of the north,

Their hamlet hidden so deep amid the labyrinth of trees that they rarely meet outsiders.

They like it that way for the most part,

Secrecy is key to their safety,

But such isolation means they're unaccustomed to open spaces,

Crossroads,

Oceans,

And mountains.

Their myths and legends are all of forest gods and creatures,

The only regular contact they have with the rest of the world is a tenuous relationship with one of the king-regent-dukes who sends frequent emissaries into their midst to collect tribute.

Where you come from,

A port city on the edge of the great sea,

There are local legends of aquatic spirits and ocean gods,

But the constant flow of goods and people into the port from all over the known world creates a wonderful exchange of lore and history.

Morana,

Who was known in her home village as a healer and wise woman,

Is a fascinating storehouse of natural wisdom.

She knows the names of all the flowers,

Plants,

And trees along the road.

It seems each has a legend connected with it,

A deep symbolic significance,

And a number of mystical properties.

Morana points out a wild growing vine that winds its way around the trunk of a tree.

It has trumpet-shaped flowers with an intense violet hue.

It's sacred to the moon goddess,

She explains,

And the flowers can be made into a tea to induce peaceful slumber.

It's a tricky flower to work with,

However,

For unless the dose is exactly right,

The sleeper might dream for days or weeks on end,

Waking only at the ringing of a bronze bell.

That's why I always keep a bell on hand,

She continues,

Though I'm skilled enough to avoid the ill side effects in the first place.

You learn much,

Even through idle chatter from your new friends.

With all the vast cultural differences between you,

There are also deep similarities in the stories you tell.

Your gods and heroes have different names,

But they are honored at similar times of the year,

And their tales ring with echoing themes.

With each story,

You can feel the distance between your faraway homes shrink just a bit as you come closer together,

As the road winds through stranger and stranger country.

You are grateful for their presence,

For the strength that comes in numbers,

For the joy that sings through the bonds of friendship,

And for the genuine concern each of you has for the next.

In this wide world,

You think,

There's no need to walk alone.

You hope to come to another town by nightfall,

But the longer you walk,

The more remote the road becomes.

That's surprising.

You'd assumed that as you drew nearer the capital,

You'd find more densely populated areas.

Instead,

As a purple dusk falls over the land,

The road twists into a wooded region.

You and the lady,

Murana,

Are reasonably hesitant to enter the woods just as darkness falls.

You've both had your own strange encounters in the forest by night.

You suggest setting up camp for the night.

You've supplies between you to make a comfortable place,

And you can take turns on the night watch,

But the half-elves,

Brightbuckle,

Whistle,

And Thorn,

Bravely trudge ahead.

They can see exceedingly well in the dark,

And are well acquainted with any dangers you might encounter in the forest.

They are equipped with elegant new bows with which to defend you,

And besides,

You'll have better protection if you camp amid the trees than by the side of the open road,

They insist.

With some persuasion,

Your reservations are assuaged,

And you follow the intrepid trio into the wood.

There's a friendliness to the atmosphere you find.

You've walked through other wild woodlands,

Feeling ill at ease,

But here,

The road is clear before you,

And the moonlight sparkles on the trees with an inviting quality.

Your companions sense this too,

Where before they walked cautiously,

Bows drawn,

Now they lower their weapons and move with confidence.

On many a tree,

The same purple flowers wink on the vine,

Turning their brilliant heads to the moon.

They produce a sweet,

Hypnotic musk,

Noticing that a sleepy haze seems to settle around you,

A pleasant,

Dreamy serenity.

You ask Marana if it's possible for just the fragrance of the flower to have a hypnagogic effect.

She nods wisely,

Especially under the light of the moon,

The perfume of such a high volume of the flowers can certainly make one drowsy,

Though it won't put you entirely to sleep.

She feels it too,

As it happens,

So do Brightbuckle and company.

Across the faces of all your party are mild expressions of tranquil bliss.

You begin to think it might be time to make camp,

But it's just as you're seeking out a suitable clearing in the trees,

With space to build a fire and spread out bedrolls,

That you stumble upon a most unexpected sight,

A garden,

Lush and overgrown,

Yes,

But with such impeccable grace and beauty by the light of the moon,

That it's impossible to think it merely an untended explosion of flowers and herbs in the deep forest.

Your eyes follow its winding cascades of pink and yellow flowers,

Speckled here and there with twitching green moths,

To its end,

Where,

Almost enclosed by hedges and camouflaged with climbing ivy,

There is a small,

Twinkling cottage.

Your light flickers through the windows,

A fire is lit within.

You and your companions move in closer to one another,

Unsure how to proceed.

It's an eerie thing to chance upon,

And yet,

And you can sense the same in your comrades.

You feel a sense of utter calm,

Perhaps it's the presence of such natural beauty flourishing under the moon,

Or some other enchantment that lulls you into feeling absolutely at ease.

It's funny,

Says Brightbuckle,

But I seem to know this place,

It's like,

Well doesn't it feel like being at home?

I was going to say the same,

Morana replies.

And I,

You add,

Perhaps the steward of this friendly place might spare a cup of wine or offer shelter for the night to a band of weary travelers.

It's now that you can perceive something moving above the hedges,

The bouncing tip of a pointed hat,

Jolly in its motion.

Someone is out among the rows,

It seems,

Perhaps pruning the hedges,

Or enjoying a stroll through their garden by the light of the moon.

There's a tune,

Too,

Above the hum of insects,

The sound of someone softly singing as they work.

As you and your company cautiously start down the garden path,

The owner of the hat emerges into your line of sight,

Two bright,

Sparkling eyes and an infectious grin shine behind a long gray beard,

A more ancient person you're not sure you've ever seen,

With such joy beams from his presence that you feel light,

Childish at heart.

Who goes there,

Comes a low and musical voice,

Begging your pardon,

Sir,

You venture,

Stepping out ahead of your friends.

We are travelers from distant lands,

Meaning you no injury or ambush.

We stumbled by chance into your garden and wonder if you might have space at your table for us,

The bushy eyebrows raise,

A look of whimsy and interest in the bright eyes.

It's now as you draw closer to the tall,

Wizened gardener that you recognize the two pointed ears that protrude from beneath his cap.

This might be,

You think,

A true elf,

Though you've never seen one before and you'd thought they were long gone from these shores,

Their bloodline only preserved in the masses of half-elves like your friends.

But tales survive of the true elves,

Sing of their virtue and generosity.

It was when they began to migrate to distant shores that the realm's troubles first began.

The gardener's expression softens now into a pleasing smile,

Always a crinkle of laughter lights up his eyes.

I've not seen company for many an age,

He says.

I'd welcome you,

All of you,

At my hearth.

You breathe a sigh of relief.

The old elf seems genuinely pleased to host you.

Brightbuckle,

Whistle,

And Thorn are abuzz with intrigued energy as he turns to lead you to his door.

They've seen it,

Too.

He's a true elf.

Beyond the hedges and the moon-facing flowers are the ivy-covered stone walls.

You follow the gardener inside,

Revealing a warm and inviting cottage.

You're reminded,

Strangely,

Of the magic shop in the village square.

But it's like you're looking in a kind of reverse mirror,

Where the shop had a mysterious occult energy.

This place resonates on a more benevolent level,

Like it's steeped in white magic.

You can't quite explain it,

But in the lady Murana's eyes,

You find a confirmation of your feelings.

She seems quite at home here,

In the hermitage hung with dried,

Sweet-smelling herbs and garlands of flowers.

The ancient elf brings you steaming mugs of tea to drink.

His supper table is large enough to fit you all comfortably,

Though you wonder at such a thing in a solitary creature's house.

Murana inquires as to your kind host's name.

The question seems to bring him delight,

As if he hasn't had to answer it in many years.

As if saying it for the first time,

Or conjuring it from the vastly depths of his memory,

He utters the name,

Weir.

Over a nourishing meal,

Your host asks you for news of the world beyond the wood.

You inform him that you're en route to a festival in the capital city.

The rumour has it the king regent plans to crown his son before the public.

There are whispers throughout the kingdom of the lost heir to the old king's throne who must be coming of age,

Though no one can agree on where the youth might be,

Or whether they're even still alive.

Weir nods and frows his brow here and there as you speak,

But these matters of kings and queens and disputes for the throne seem to him mere trifles.

You imagine he's so old,

Has seen so many regimes rise and fall,

That the latest political intrigue passes as a brief season.

The way the oldest trees in a forest,

Ringed around their centres a hundred times,

Might perceive a long and arduous winter as a momentary shiver and a shaking off of leaves.

The king regent,

He says pensively,

Leaning back in his chair,

Is he a good ruler?

You look around to your companions.

You're not quite sure how to answer such a question.

From your home in the south,

You have so little to do with the capital that you function almost as your own independent kingdom.

You know the half-elves are headed to the king's festival to have audience and seek sole sovereignty for their people.

When Morana hails from a region plagued by famine and failing crop,

From such testimony one could assume that the regent is an ineffective ruler.

But what makes a good king,

You wonder?

What made the old king,

Who is remembered fondly by most throughout the kingdom,

Good,

If anything?

Do you merely see him as much of the past,

Through rose-tinted spectacles,

As none of your party is eager to answer Lear's question?

He continues to speak,

As if in response to himself.

There was once a great leader in this country,

He says.

So long ago,

It seems,

I cannot recall his name,

Only that he never called himself king,

For it was before such rigid things as kingdoms and cities.

He was a mighty warrior.

I may not look it,

But I too was strong and energetic once,

And I fought loyally at his side,

But he was also wise and truly kind.

His people loved him,

And even those who rose once against his rule were welcomed in defeat to join his brotherhood.

Dwarves,

Elves,

And men all united under his banner,

And hearkened to the call of his hunting horn.

As Lear describes the legendary warrior,

Your eyes drift lazily to the flickering fire in the hearth.

In the smoke and flame,

You can almost see him,

The great ruler of ages past,

In silhouette,

Charging into battle in one instant,

And breaking bread in the next.

Lear continues,

In the time he lived,

It seemed peace would forever reign in the land.

Sharp edges were softened,

Swords cast aside.

War seemed a thing of the distant past,

Only a memory,

But it was not to be.

His army,

Restless after years of fighting,

Turned on one another.

When evil without was defeated,

Discontent only festered within.

So it was that in a great battle,

This hero whose cherished name sits on my tongue that I cannot manage to recover,

Was slain.

With him,

Many of his loyalist companions perished.

I survived,

And came here to live alone and keep my own country,

But this is not,

I think,

The end of the tale.

I converse at times with the trees,

With the birds and insects and deer of the forest.

I carry the songs of men and elves.

One which soothes my mourning heart is of the great man who once united us all.

Now he was carried away after the battle,

And lain to sleep within a burial mound,

With his closest companions.

And how,

Surrounded by flowers and healing herbs,

They slumber to this day,

Awaiting the hour of the realm's greatest need,

When they might yet be awakened.

Something stirs in you,

The sleeping creature who lifted its head within the magic shop,

Perhaps.

You think about the hypnotic purple flowers,

And Murana's sleeping draught.

You think of the solemn sleepers,

Only awoken at the sound of a bronze bell.

And there's something else.

What was it the bonecaster cried after you,

As you fled the occult shop?

Beneath it all you can hear the echoes of the legend.

Permutations and variations on it.

A slumbering hero,

Waiting to be called to service again.

A king,

Under the mountain.

An army,

Ready to awaken.

Do you know the location of the burial mound?

You ask.

You're not sure why,

But you feel that some answers must lie there.

You feel there must be a higher force at work,

That's brought you and your company together,

And to the door of the ancient elf.

Perhaps,

You think,

Though the life you've lived till now has been entirely ordinary,

You are to play a greater part in the story than you'd come to expect.

I've not been there myself,

Lear says with a sigh.

My heart is too heavy at the loss of my captain.

I fear that if I came to the foot of his grave,

And found I could not wake him,

That the sorrow would be too much to bear.

But I think,

One who is swift of foot,

And keen of sight,

Could follow the song of the King Wren,

And find the place of which I speak.

You mull this riddling advice as you finish your mug of tea,

Rich with the herbs and florals of the elf's garden.

Even now,

The perfume of his many flowers mingle in a breeze that sweeps in through an open window.

You feel very much at peace,

And also bright with curiosity about Lear's legendary warrior.

Your host graciously offers you warm beds and blankets for the night,

If you wish to stay.

You gladly accept the offer.

In time,

He bids you all good night,

And turns in,

Before retiring to the quarters at the end of the hall.

You and your companions converse for a while by the warm fire.

How much has changed since first you met,

Only yesterday evening,

And yet how much is the same?

Still you gather in the presence of keen hospitality,

Before the flickering flames of a hearth fire,

Sharing stories of the old myth and magic of the realm.

You are the first to suggest that tomorrow morning,

Rather than turning back toward the road,

You make for the burial mound of Lear's legend to investigate.

There are a few days yet till the festival commences,

And such an unusual sight deserves a look.

Besides,

There's something inside you that won't let go of the story,

That feels drawn to the old hero's resting place.

You can't quite explain it.

Morana is hesitant.

She's had enough of wandering off into strange forests,

And who knows what dangers you might encounter on the way,

With only the whimsical guidance to follow the King Wren.

There's every possibility that you will become lost in the wood.

Brightbuckle,

Whistle,

And Thorn seem torn on the issue,

Intrigued by everything that comes from the mouth of a true elf,

But equally worried about traveling too far off course.

All four,

And you,

Agree to sleep on the issue,

And make a plan in the morning.

You extinguish the fire.

Outside the cottage,

You can hear crickets chirping in a lulling rhythm.

You and your companions retire to comfortable beds in the house of Lear.

Your dreams are full of music,

The low,

Sonorous bursts of a distant horn,

A playful trill that dances through your head.

You can still hear the trill when your mind wakes.

With your eyes still closed,

You roll over,

Hoping to bury your face in the pillow and sneak in a few more minutes of the cozy sleep you've enjoyed.

But soon the trilling sound is joined by the plink of water and rustle of leaves,

A whole symphony of forest noises waking with the sun.

The sound is so present,

So immediate,

That you wonder if the outdoors has migrated inside the small cottage.

You begin to lose hope of slipping back into a dream state.

Your stiff muscles call for stretching,

And the bed seems suddenly less comfortable than you remember.

Finally,

With a yawn,

You blink open your eyes.

You find yourself at once locked in gaze with a tiny,

Inquisitive bird.

Now you realize with his call that this little creature is the source of the trill that cascaded through your dreams.

He perches on a gnarled root beside you,

Bobbing his tail up and down.

A root.

It's only at this moment that you perceive how your surroundings have transformed.

You don't lie in a bed at all,

But on the mossy forest floor,

Dappled with sunlight.

You blink in the brightness and look around to see your companions,

Each also stirring and waking now to find their beds and chambers vanish.

Your bags and bows and possessions are nearby,

Untouched.

But there is no sign that you can see of the charming cottage or of the ancient elf's garden.

Have you all happened to rise in the night and wander out into the woods together?

Or is something more mysterious afoot?

You sit up and massage the small of your back,

Which must have been crunched against a knotted root or some other hard protrusion of the forest floor.

But as you look to inspect what's caused the discomfort,

You find a curious,

Man-made object in the spot where you slumbered.

You pick it up,

Gingerly,

And turn it over in your hands.

It's made of iron or bronze and has a significant weight in your hands.

It's smooth and curved,

Adorned with spirals,

With a narrow end and a mouth that opens like the tubular flowers that make the sleeping draught.

It's a horn,

A hunting horn.

Your friends,

Bleary-eyed and dizzy with confusion,

Gather round to get a closer look at the artifact,

The little bird chatters on a nearby bush.

The feathers on his head are golden yellow,

Contrasting with the muddy brown of his back and belly,

Making it look like he's wearing a crown,

A king wren.

Within a short time,

You and your party are off in pursuit of the little bird.

He's easy to follow,

However,

And seems in tune with your quest.

As the tations cast off,

You move through the forest swiftly,

And every league or so,

The wren stops to perch on a branch and wait for you to catch up.

The horn is tied at your waist and feels quite natural there.

Each of you is now convinced that your encounter with Lear was of a magical nature.

That he appeared on the path to send you on a vital adventure,

One that binds your shared destiny.

How tight the bonds of fellowship have been bound between you all in such a short time.

Nor you thought you'd find only travel companions,

A troop with which to weather the perils of the road.

Now you feel part of a whole,

No matter your differences,

Part of something bigger than yourself.

It's not quite midday when the wren slows his going.

You've no doubt that you move further from the king's road with every pace,

But you are confident that this is the path you're meant to tread.

And soon you come to a shining heath,

Fragrant with yellow wildflowers.

Tall grass sparkles in the high sun and waves in the perfumed wind,

Rising like a breath or like the rolling waves of open ocean.

In the center of the heath is a tall,

Sloping barrow.

The grass grows coarse upon it,

Speckled with violet flowers.

So rustic and untouched is this place that you wonder how long it's been hidden.

Have others followed the king wren?

Or has this burial mound been waiting for you,

Even in its abandoned state?

You have no doubt that the place is sacred.

The blanket of wildflowers seems a gift of nature to adorn the resting halls of the slumbering hero.

The wind rises with a swell of birdsong.

It's strange,

Says the lady marana,

But once more I feel I know this place.

So do I,

Says Brightbuckle.

Whistle and Thorn agree.

And I,

You echo.

Somehow it feels like this is where my journey has always been leading.

The question is,

What will you do now?

Will you wake the sleeping hero and his companions?

Is this the time set forth?

The hour of the realm's greatest need?

You can feel the bronze hunting horn at your hip.

Heavy and familiar,

Like a missing piece,

Just as the wise woman's bell can wake the drinkers of the sleeping potion.

You know this horn is how you wake the heroes of ages past.

You lift it to your lips,

Feeling the irresistible urge to sound the horn to the hollow hills.

At first you look to your friends,

To Thorn and Whistle and Brightbuckle and Marana.

Each has a look in their eye like fire ablaze.

Curiosity,

Courage and commitment in one expression.

You draw in a deep and rapturous breath.

Hold the horn to your lips and blow.

The sound of the horn is like the groaning of an ancient tree.

The rushing of water through a river and a long-trapped sigh.

It travels on a spiral of wind and wakes the leaves of the trees to shiver.

You can feel it in your chest and in the hairs that rise on the back of your neck.

The birds and woodland creatures hush their sounds and all stand still,

Turning its attention to the heath and the barrow in the brief but unending moment between the blast of the bugle and what comes next.

You think it must not have worked,

That you've been on a fool's quest,

Straying so far from the king's road into the echoes of forgotten mysteries,

But then it comes like a tremor in the ground,

Like a chorus of light and shadow.

You feel it in the soles of your feet where they meet the grass and earth,

A feeling of connection with the land,

Of safety and nourishment,

A sensation of warmth and light begins to travel up through your body as if you were a vessel,

A chalice into which a tingling energy is being poured.

You feel the warmth and light in your ankles,

In your lower legs,

Your knees,

Which soften and relax into the sensation in your upper legs,

Warm white light traveling smoothly to relax your hips and pelvis,

Filling up the belly,

Softening the lower back,

The sensation of warmth and light moves into your waist,

Your chest and upper back,

Softens your shoulders,

Your upper arms,

Elbows,

Forearms and wrists,

The palms of your hands,

The backs of your hands,

You feel the light and warmth trickle into your fingers and shine through your fingertips,

The sensation travels up into your neck and the base of your head,

Into the jaw,

Relaxing the muscles of the face,

Warmth and light filling you up,

To the crown of your head,

Tingling in your scalp,

Till you feel entirely soft and light,

Like your whole body is made of light,

Still,

You feel connected to the solid ground,

Tethered to and cherished by the material world,

You breathe deeply into this sensation,

Feeling the light of your body glow brighter with each inhale and dim subtly with each exhale,

For a few breaths,

All you can see is this brightening and dimming of your own light,

You feel very much at rest,

At ease and tranquil,

But you also feel more aware,

Awakened to something,

Like the creature within who slumbered so peacefully for so long,

Has at last come into full and acute awareness,

Somewhere you can still hear the echo of the hunting horn,

But it feels less like an isolated blast and more like a small part of the fabric of the universe,

The ringing harmony of stars and suns,

Very very far away,

In time your eyes see past the curtain of light,

Or perhaps the light of your body diminishes,

Softening back into the scene,

The grassy heath and sloping barrow come once more into focus,

With slow soft gesture,

You turn to behold your companions,

They're still here,

Still beside you,

And yet they look changed,

Are they taller,

Wiser,

Older,

You cannot say,

But there is no doubt that they are different,

As are you,

No one else stands in the meadow,

No shades rise from the burial mound,

No army visibly awakens to the call of the hunting horn,

But the king wren calls to break the ineffable silence,

And with his song comes the flood of a thousand memories,

Tales of a time forgotten,

Of heroes and sorcerers and dragons and war,

In your heart swells the strength and courage of a warrior,

The pride and passion of a leader,

And the quiet kindness of a friend,

A hero,

Long asleep,

Awaiting the hour of greatest need,

Awakens within you,

His whole history rises to meet and entangle with yours,

And you welcome the newfound wisdom and experience of the ages,

Around you your companions are also awakening to new strength and new memories,

Between you the bonds of friendship are cast in bronze,

Stronger than before,

Emboldened by fireside tales and centuries of shared anticipation,

Your eyes meet,

And in them are the tears of reunion across untold lengths of time,

You are you,

Still,

Still,

With all the heart and talents of the merchant from the south,

But in you also dwells the soul of the hunting horn's master,

Uniter of peoples,

Friend to all,

You breathe deep,

Inhaling the scent of summer on the heath,

As if for the first time,

The purple trumpet flowers on the vine,

The verdant grass,

The soil,

It's rich and welcoming,

You lift your gaze to the skies,

Half expecting to see dragons on wing,

You breathe out,

Rolling your shoulders and releasing your mind and body from many hundreds of years of sleep,

Good night

Reviews

I love the way the stories interweave and can't wait for more.

Great story, great reading, and good night's sleep. Thank you.

Thank you for your restful tone of voice. I am so enjoying following these characters. Never get to the end of the story but that is my objective- to fall asleep! 😴

Just amazing… even the eleventy hundredth time (not really 😍) but such lovely relaxation throughout, and the Story I can’t Wait To Hear More Of… thank you, Laurel!❤️🙏🏼

Thank you! I’m going to have to listen again and again until I hear the whole story!😴

A wonderful story with a beautiful ending. It took me several times to hear it all. I also love that it's connected to other stories. Thank you Laurel!

Love the link to dragon rider but didn’t hear the end of the story as fell asleep. Thank you x

Thank you! I enjoyed the little bit that I heard! 💖

I didn't fall asleep but had a nice rest with this beautiful story.