Revival
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Chapter 72 – Gloamhollow
🕑 Added 2025-11-26 14:00:15 +0000 UTCChapter 72 – Gloamhollow
They broke camp at first light, smoke from their fire curling into the pale morning sky. The road twisted south, and the wagon bounded and swayed along, its wheels crunching over stone. The three companions walked alongside, sometimes scouting ahead, sometimes circling back to drive away the boldest of the boars that still prowled the forest’s edge. The beasts kept their distance after the night’s slaughter, but their squeals often carried, reminding all that danger was never far.
By midday, Arlen raised his hand and tugged the ox to a halt. His face was solemn as he looked at his family, then at the boys.
“We’re close,” he said. “Another mile, and we’ll see the Hollow’s mouth. Everyone—fill your skins, your cups, I will fill our barrel. Once we cross the Hollow, the water flowing out of it is foul. It taints the river bitterly. Makes you sick.”
At once, the family set to it, dipping their vessels into the clear river that still flowed sweet on this side of the path. Pit and Tib followed suit, checking their leather flasks, while Caelen knelt to dip his waterskin, watching the ripples spread.
As he stood, he found the youngest boy of the family staring at him. The lad couldn’t have been more than ten, his eyes wide with curiosity. His gaze wasn’t on Caelen’s sword, nor the chain glinting beneath his cloak, but on the sling coiled at his belt.
“You like this?” Caelen asked, his words halting as always.
The boy nodded eagerly. “I’ve never seen one up close. You killed a boar with it, didn’t you?”
“Not kill,” Caelen said, a shadow of a smile touching his lips. “Hurt. Drive away.”
The boy shuffled his feet, but his eyes never left the sling. Caelen looked toward Arlen, who was crouched at the stream filling the last of the family’s skins. “May I?” Caelen asked, lifting the sling so he could see.
Arlen studied him a moment, then nodded slowly. “If you think it wise.”
Caelen turned back and pressed the leather strap into the boy’s hands. The child’s face lit as if a star had been kindled behind his eyes. He turned the sling over, feeling its weight, its smooth-worn leather, the plaited cord that had seen many a stone loosed.
“For you,” Caelen said softly. “Practice. Careful. Not at people.”
The boy giggled aloud, hugging the sling to his chest. His joy was so pure it made Caelen’s chest swell with pride. For a heartbeat, he felt something new, something steady and clear: the simple grace of helping, of giving without expecting. The warmth of it stayed with him as they moved on.
…
The road narrowed between the river and the mountains as they drew near Gloamhollow. On their left, a low mound rose, thick with trees whose roots twisted like knotted fingers over ancient stone. To the north of it loomed the valley wall, steep and gray, cleft with shadows that stretched eastward into the Hollow’s depths.
On the right, a stream spilled from the valley. Its waters looked wrong—tinged faintly yellow, bubbling in places as though unsettled. A sour odor drifted from it, sharp and metallic, and Caelen’s stomach tightened. He knew the smell. He knew it. Yet when he tried to place it, the memory slipped away like mist between his fingers. The southern valley wall was more sloped with rocky ridges like ribs going back until it was lost in the canopy of trees.
The air grew heavy as they stood at the Hollow’s mouth. Even the light seemed strange, dulled as though the sun could not reach. In the trees ahead, beneath the thick canopy, a low haze curled—mist that clung to the earth rather than rising. It shifted in slow coils, dim and restless, as if it had a life of its own.
Pit stopped short, his face pale. “No,” he said flatly. “I am not going in there! Not now. Not ever.”
Caelen and Tib both turned to him. Tib only shook his head and kept walking. Caelen met Pit’s eyes, his own expression calm but unyielding. Then he too stepped forward, one boot after the other, into the dim valley air.
Pit groaned, running a hand over his face. “Veil’s preserve me from stubborn fools.” But still he followed.
Behind them, the family urged their wagon onward, driving south toward safer roads and kin waiting beyond. Their wheels creaked and faded into the distance, leaving only the three young men, the shifting fog, and the whisper of water as they crossed the entryway into Gloamhollow.
…
“Scout, campsite, today. Search hollow after,” declared Caelen. He looked the land over and stated, “Bad water south, look north first.
Tiberan nodded and started to move to the mound. His eyes scanned for the signs of a protected site, which he was learning from Caelen.
…
Pit hated the Hollow the moment his boots touched its soil.
It wasn’t the smell alone—though that was foul enough, a sour tang that clung in his nose like rotted eggs and left the back of his throat itching. Nor was it the fog, though it slithered low to the ground and seemed to shift of its own accord, pooling in low spots and sliding between the roots of trees as if it had intent. No, what set his skin crawling was the silence.
The birds had gone still. Not a single crow cawed from the ridges, nor thrush from the underbrush. The only sounds were the crunch of their boots on the rocky trail and his own heavy breath.
Pit kept to the rear, one hand always on the hilt of his short sword. He’d faced men before, and beasts too, but this place was different. The air itself felt like an enemy, waiting, watching.
And Caelen—damn him—Caelen looked delighted.
The boy’s eyes were wide as he scanned the cliffs and ridges, his mouth curved in a half-smile that Pit had never seen on him before. It made no sense. Here they were in the most cursed hollow in all Avalon, and Caelen was practically glowing, as though the sour fog and stinking water were gifts sent from heaven.
Pit spat into the dirt, muttering under his breath. “Place is cursed, and he acts like he’s walked into a harvest fair, full of beautiful girls.”
The northern wall rose sheer to their left, a pale gray cliff streaked with white. In places, it looked as though it had been worked, smooth and vertical, though Pit knew it was natural. He reached out once, running his hand along the surface, and came away with dust clinging to his fingers. It was soft, almost chalky.
“Limestone,” Tib said from ahead, his tone matter-of-fact. “Quarrymen could cut it by the cartload.”
Pit snorted. “Quarrymen’d have to be mad to live here.”
But Caelen had already stepped closer to the wall, his hand brushing the surface with fascination. “Stone… clean. Good cut,” he said, his halting words brimming with excitement. He turned to Pit, eyes shining. “Walls, towers… whole city.”
Pit blinked at him. “What, from this? Gods save us, boy, who’d build their house in a place that smells like a dead pig’s backside?”
Caelen only smiled faintly and walked on, as though Pit’s words hadn’t touched him at all.
…
They continued and climbed higher, hugging the cliff’s edge as they came to the east end of the hollow. Caelen stopped so suddenly that Pit nearly ran into him. Without a word, he unstoppered his skin and tipped a thin stream of precious water onto a patch of the darker rock at the base of the cliff.
“Oi!” Pit barked. “Have you lost your wits? That’s drinking water! You pour that out again, and don’t think I’ll share when you’re dry-mouthed and begging.”
The water trickled over the stone, washing away a crust of grime. Beneath the surface, faint glimmers of tiny reflections like stars caught in crystal. Tib leaned closer, his brow furrowing. “Not just stone. Look at the shine.”
Caelen crouched, running his finger across the damp surface. He lifted it to his lips, tasting, and then broke into a rare smile.
Pit groaned. “Tell me you didn’t just lick cursed rock. Next, you’ll be hugging the trees.”
Caelen’s eyes sparkled. “Salt,” he said simply. “Clean salt.”
Pit threw up his hands. “Mad. The boy’s gone mad with hunger.”
Yet even he couldn’t deny the stone’s shimmer, the quiet promise hidden in the Hollow’s depths.
Pit scowled. “So what? I can taste enough salt in a sailor’s stew. Not worth breaking your back to dig it out of this cursed ground.”
Tib shook his head, beginning to understand the weight of this discovery. “Not just worth—it’s wealth. Salt keeps meat, cures hides, and flavors every meal. If this vein is wide… it could feed silver into Avalon’s coffers for generations.”
Pit scratched his jaw, still unconvinced. “Maybe. Or maybe it’ll poison you, same as that water.”
Yet Caelen was staring at the stone as though it were treasure itself. He leaned in close, tracing the sparkling seams with a fingertip, his lips moving as though shaping a vow Pit couldn’t hear.
Pit huffed and trudged onward. “Mad. He’s gone mad. He looks at rocks and salt and reacts like he just saw a girl.”
The southern ridge came into view as the Hollow widened. Here, the fog thickened, curling around their legs and waist as they crossed the valley floor. The stream gurgled on their right, its surface scummed with a yellow-green sheen that caught the faint light. Pit covered his mouth with a hand, trying to block the stench that rose from it.
Then he saw steam. Wisps drifted upward from fissures in the ground near the ridge. At first, Pit thought it was the same cursed fog, but the closer they drew, the more he realized it was different—rising straight, almost clean, with the faint smell of minerals.
Hot springs. Pools bubbled in stone basins, their surfaces shimmering like liquid glass. Strange colors clung to their edges—reds, oranges, and bright white crusts.
Tib crouched and touched the water, then jerked his hand back. “Boiling hot,” he hissed. “Too hot to bear.”
Pit muttered, “Figures. The earth’s guts are spilling out, stinking up the place. Who’d want it?”
But Caelen knelt by the pools, staring at the steam as though it whispered secrets only he could hear. His face was lit with wonder.
Pit threw up his hands. “Stone for walls, salt for stews, boiling pits that smell like rotten eggs—this is all riches to him? Gods help me, he’s smiling! As my mother has said, Nobles don't think like normal people.”
The plants of the Hollow were stranger still. Trees twisted in odd shapes, their roots curling above the soil like claws. Shrubs with silver-tinged leaves grew thick in patches, their edges slick with dew though no rain had fallen. And here and there sprouted tall stalks, thick as a man’s wrist, with smooth green skin that rose six or seven feet before curling into jointed tips.
Pit poked one with the butt of his knife. “Ugly things. What do you even call ’em?”
Caelen stepped forward, laying his hand gently on the stalk. He then broke it, put it in his mouth, and chewed until the juice ran. His smile widened, and his voice was soft but clear. “Lisette… very happy.”
Pit stared at him. “Lisette? You mean your sister?”
Caelen nodded once. “Sweet core. She… would demand pie.”
Pit shook his head, baffled. To him, it was just another ugly plant in a cursed valley. But to Caelen, it was a treasure. Not silver, not stone—something simpler. A gift for any girl.
And in that moment, Pit understood the most abnormal thing in this hollow: not the fog curling at his feet or the silence pressing in, but the realization that Caelen wasn’t afraid. The boy who had once hovered on the edge of death walked through this Hollow as though it belonged to him, smiling at each discovery as if each were a treasure.
Pit spat again, more out of habit than need. “Mad,” he muttered. “I knew he was strange before, but now he’s gone completely mad.”
Yet as he followed, sword loose in its scabbard, he couldn’t shake the suspicion that maybe—just maybe—Caelen saw something he himself was too blind to grasp.
And so they pressed deeper into Gloamhollow, the fog thickening around them, the cliffs and ridges rising higher, the weight of silence growing ever heavier.
But still Caelen smiled.
Tiberan called out, “I see a spot about halfway up the wall that we can make a camp in.”
That night, they made camp in a narrow rock crevice where the wind could not reach. The fire burned low, hidden from the Hollow’s strange haze, and Pit and Tib slept in turns, their swords close at hand.
Caelen did not sleep. He crouched near the embers, a stick in hand, etching words into the packed dirt floor. His letters were rough, uneven, but clear.
Need.
Water
People.
Build.
Need boots.
He paused, then scratched the final phrase slowly, as though each letter mattered more than breath itself:
Nova Spes.
