Andas (Sounds of Yesterday) – Marto Copperkettle – 7.07.2022

Warm, dappled sunlight casts soft, leaf shaped shadows over the tome Marto holds in his hands. He has been trying to read the same two pages for the past… he doesn’t know how long. Time runs weirdly here in the Feywild, and in his sister’s court it is hard to measure the passage of time with its ever-long, summer time days, especially with the approach of the Summer Solstice.

Part of him would like to see the moon and the stars more often but the sun never really, fully sets in the Summer Lands — something he discovered when he had been here before doing magical training with Merla before her duties as Queen became too time consuming for them to continue. The darkest it ever really got was a sort of “civil twilight” as it’s called on the Prime Material, a soft gloaming, that perfect time of day where it was harder to tell what was an illusion and what is a dream. When it did, there was always a waxing crescent moon gliding across the sky, with two bright stars following in its wake. He’d heard these stars were meant to be the Summer Queen and her Daughter. The brighter of the two stars did seem to have a particular golden yellow shine to it, whilst the other had a more magenta glimmer, so he could see why the fey thought this. Further supporting the theory was the observation that the second star didn’t appear until Merla became an archfey and was given the lands that became the Court of Harmony.

Still, it was too close to what Marto had seen as he left Portal Plaza — the five stars winking out one-by-one as a purple line completes the circle of the crescent moon. The moment he thought of it Marto was thrown back into his memories.

He is in Phlegethos, the Azellah River runs across the bowl-like valley he and the others have come to. There is a figure — his devil, his lover — walking slowly towards him. Marto is rooted to the spot, unable to move, captured and captivated by the vision he sees. Pitch black eyes, lush dark hair that he knows feels more like smoke as he remembers running his calloused fingers through it. Full lips curl into a predatory smile, and a massive clawed hand beckons him to come closer. A voice says words he can’t quite hear. Then Marto’s chest constricts to the point that he can hardly breathe, the ghost of the weight of his armour presses down on his shoulders, a cold sweat breaks out across his skin, and an intense wave of dizziness comes over him.

Then he wakes up.

This only happened once since he left Daring, on the first and last evening the Summer Lands would see for some time. Since then Marto has been tactfully distracting himself with books, reading everything and anything he desires. A new repository of tomes, scrolls and other paraphernalia had come into existence since he was last in the Court of Harmony, which followed the constantly changing nature of the ’Wilds.

He had wandered into the Temple of Thoughts and Stories after waking up from the dream/nightmare/memory. He did not think where he was going, only that he had to keep moving, keep running, keep from remembering.

Perhaps that is why these stories called to him.

But here he was, thinking about the one thing he did not want to be thinking about. Remembering what he’s trying to forget.

Marto exhales a weighty sigh.

A small tug on his trouser leg makes him nearly jump right out of his skin. But when he looks down all that’s there is a small red squirrel.

He exhales slowly, the adrenaline leaving him feeling weak and shaky. “Yondalla’s left foot- I thought you were something-” He stops. Then laughs. “I don’t know what I thought you were. But certainly not a squirrel.”

The tiny creature just looks up at him with more intelligence than any squirrel should.

Marto looks around. “I don’t have any acorns if that’s what you’re after. Though, knowing the Feywild, you’re probably some sort of fey spirit, yeah?”

The squirrel’s tail twitches and its whiskers tremble as it rises up on its back legs to sniff in the direction of the book in his hands.

He glances at the book, scratching at the beard on his face. It’s a little unruly, definitely needs a trim, but he hasn’t brought himself to care much about his appearance these days. How he looks has been the last thing on his mind, much to his sister’s dismay he’s sure. Most of the fey he had partied or spent time with the last time he was here have been steadfastly avoiding him. Marto’s not sure if it’s at the behest of Merla, their own dislike of his current depressive state or whether they’d rather not speak to a mortal so dishevelled and unkempt. Whatever the reason, this was the first time Marto thought that maybe he could look at doing something about how he looks. It might even help him feel a little better…

He shakes his head and looks down but the squirrel is gone. Marto sits back, confused.

“…Maybe I just imagined it.”






Steady footsteps bring the young knight to New Hillborrow, the sun soaring high overhead. It is certainly not as hot here as it is in the Summer Lands, but the humidity is stronger, possibly because of the river he is currently crossing over. He stops halfway across the bridge to see the scorched homes and farms of the gnome and halfling community, a pang of distant guilt twisting his gut. Marto doesn’t let it stay. One halfling against an army of githyanki and their red dragon cohorts would not have made the difference here. What will, is his ability to repair things, make things, do things so these folk have homes to sleep in tonight.

Already there were so many people working together to fix what could be mended. It brought a soft smile to his face, the first since he’d returned to the Dawnlands.

“Mommy, mommy, look! It’s a prince!”

The words and voice belonged to a child. Marto tried to see where the young one was or who she had been talking about but couldn’t see the speaker or anyone else around who’d look princely. Shrugging, he continued on to the Hearth & Road.

A woman inside was sweeping away the ash and rubble as Marto approached. She looked up, hearing the clank of his full plate armour he carried in his pack on his back, and did a double take before not so subtly hitting the halfling man rummaging in the cabinets beside her.

“Wha- Ow!” he exclaims, bumping his head on a fallen beam as he tries to straighten up. He rubs his head, wincing. “What are you tryin’ to do? Scare me? What is-” He spots Marto, jaw dropping a bit. “Who’s tha?”

“Dunno. He looks sorta like-”

“Good morning. I’ve come to help,” Marto starts, not hearing what the two were just talking about. He carefully steps over the threshold, looking around with a slight frown. “Would you mind if I left my armour and weapons here?” he asked the two halflings standing in the half burnt inn just at the foot of the bridge. “I’ll come back for them when the day is done.”

“What sort o’ help you offerin’?” the halfling with a carrot in his belt beside the chef’s knife asks.

Marto sets down his pack and battleaxe carefully. “Carpentry, mostly. My family owns a lumberyard, so I know my way around textiles. I can fix your roof over there if you can supply the wood?” he says, pointing to the gaping hole over their heads.

“Well we won’t say no dear, but there are others who could use the help more than us right now. Why not ask BB? Her poor flowerfields got hit real bad, and her new house- Oh! What a tragedy. She and that sweet girl Dwirhian, have been living outta that belle tent since they came back. You should have seen that poor girl’s face when she saw her flower fields. Nearly broke my heart.”

“Are you sure?” Marto asks. “I mean, I was going to go that way and say hi soon but-”

“Oh yes, dear. The Pumbsteads already offered to help fix this place. Leave your stuff here and go on.”

“Alright.” Marto turns to go but stops. “If I manage to get done over there, I’ll come back later, okay?”

“Yup! Sounds good!”

Marto nods and heads east towards where the worst of the scorched earth seems to be. He doesn’t know why, but he feels a nervousness mixed with unexpected excitement boiling within him, almost like butterflies. Shaking his head, he rests a hand on the satchel by his side to keep the glass jars within from making too much noise as he makes his way over to BBs.

One more death by friendly fire

All on pain of missing out on that final rush

Time passes — at least, Marto is pretty sure it does. The only way he can really tell is by how much his beard has grown. One day it was just stubble, the next it was filling out. Not long after that it was fuller and longer than it had ever been before. Normally he wouldn’t let it get so long. Berton used to say it made him look unkempt. But Marto stopped caring about his appearance these days. Sometimes, it can be nice to be so clearly mortal and scruffy in a land that is so obviously fey and elaborately pristine. It provided a different kind of protection.

Being the brother of the Queen helped too.

It was another summer day, no difference from any other Marto had really experienced in the Court of Harmony. He was wandering through a grove, past some ruins that formed the shape of a sleeping elven woman, covered in bushes and bushes of forget-me-not flowers. It was peaceful, quiet, the first time since he had awoken that his thoughts did not return to recent events, to the deeds done and left undone. It was a small freedom but he enjoyed it, basking in the tranquillity of the moment, of the here and now.

There was a little puff of air, the sound of buzzing wings, and then a little knock against his shoulder. Marto turns to see a bumblebee hovering beside him close enough to hear the soft drone of its wings. The little creature wiggles, moving up and down, then doing a loop, up and over his head before flying off in the direction of some ancient crumbling stone steps. Marto stands there confused, something familiar about the little bumblebee. Then it comes flying back. He doesn’t have time to react before it collides straight into his forehead, exploding in a puff of orange and yellow sparkles. Then it reforms, does another somersault in front of the halfling’s face, and flies off down the path again.

“Hey! Wait!”

He chases the bee up the crumbling stairs, careful to not trip on the stone so worn from aeons of all types of feet climbing its heights. The little creature is enjoying itself, its playful innocence and mercurialness rubbing off on Marto just enough that he doesn’t even realise he is smiling. The bee sometimes doubles back, does a loop or two around him, and Marto tries to capture it in his hands, but the little bug is too quick, always managing to stay just out of his reach.

“So are you going to tell me where we’re going or-”

The bee bops him on the nose this time, a shower of sparkles dusting his eyes that leaves him a bit dazed, feeling like he has to sneeze. Then the buzz of its wings tickles his ears and they begin their playful dance again up the stairs.

Eventually, panting but feeling lighter than he has in months, Marto reaches the top where a double archway awaits him. The bee flies straight on through, not stopping but Marto gets momentarily distracted by the faded markings on the stone in a language he doesn’t know. Sylvan perhaps?

“Fascinating, aren’t they?”

Marto jumps, fully startled at the unexpected voice of his sister. Merla claps her hands together as she brings them in front of her face, half grin half laugh tilting her head to the side.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s… okay. I just wasn’t expecting to find you all the way out here,” Marto admits. He suddenly feels self conscious, realising that he’s spent all this time in the Court of Harmony but not once tried to talk to Merla since that first day… however long ago that was.

“Sometimes I need to get away too. So many responsibilities. So many people wanting or demanding my attention. Then there’s Ulorian.” She rolls her eyes, doing a half twirl to follow the movement. “Out of all of the Fey Nobles, they somehow manage to be the laziest and yet they always find time to pop over for a visit at the most inopportune times.”

“Sounds like being queen means you gotta deal with a lot of, um…”

“Bullshit?” Merla offers, grinning.

Marto laughs. “Yeah. That.”

The flowers laugh with his sister.

“Yes… but I wouldn’t give it up. I love what I’m doing, who I am and where things are heading. I’ve finally found my place. It’s taken me quite the journey to get here… but each step, each moment was something I needed to learn.”

Marto looks at her at the same time Merla looks at him. The smile slowly fades from his face and he wants to look away, but he cannot. Her eyes, the only thing about her current form that looks remotely fey, hold him there, suspended on the edge of a precipice he had not realised she was leading him to.

“Look, Merla, I-” Marto feels his chest constrict, can begin to taste ash on his tongue and his breaths start to become more laboured, almost like someone is sitting on his chest. “I don’t want to talk about-... I’m not ready-”

“I know you’re not,” she says earnestly. “I didn’t bring you here to talk, honestly. I was already here when I saw you.”

“You didn’t?” he asks, doubtful.

“Fey promise, I did not.”

“Then where did…” Marto looks around, but despite the abundance of cyclamen flowers in the ruins — or rather, secret garden — he and Merla are in, there are no bees or any other fey creatures that Marto can see at least.

Merla leans in, her pink and gold hair cascading over one shoulder. “Did someone else lead you here?”

“I think… so. Yeah. A bee.”

“A bee?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm.” She thinks for a moment. “Perhaps one of the spirits of the court has taken a fancy to you? They are pretty intuitive. They can recognise what you need even before you yourself do.”

Marto half listens to what Merla is saying as something catches his eye. Sitting on a low wall of stone threaded with tree roots is a red squirrel. Its fuzzy tail twitches once, twice, then it leaps away into a bush of forget-me-nots and out of sight.

“Marto, you know you’re welcome to stay here as long as you want. This is a safe place for you and I want you to know you’ll always have a place with me here. Or, if you would like, I can take you back to Earthart if you’ve decided the adventuring life is no longer what you want and wish to return home.”

Marto remains silent, a slight frown creasing his brow but before he can form any words Merla continues.

“I once had Fate herself tell me I was nothing more than a pawn in someone else’s game… and for a time, she was right. I was being used by those who thought they could get away with such deeds to hurt the ones I love because they saw an opportunity and took it.”

He looks at his sister who has kneeled down, looking at the cyclamen flowers they stood amongst. This story is one he has not heard before.

“It took everything in me not to break down. I lost the only home I knew I had. I lost my Mother. I lost Kruxeral… I thought I had nothing more to lose and each time something else was taken away from me. The temptation to give up was there, around every corner, waiting for me to give in. I was alone in so many ways — or so I thought.”

She hums a few notes that raises the hairs on the back of his neck and the flowers seem to bloom more, standing up straighter as if reaching for her. Merla smiles and it’s like the flowers sigh in bliss. She stands up and turns to face him and not for the first time Marto is struck with how it is like looking into a mirror.

“People are going to think whatever they will about you. There will always be people who misinterpret your intent, sometimes even twist it. But those that truly matter, those who truly know and love you…” Merla steps forward and softly takes his hands holding them like they might have if given the chance to grow up as children, together. “Those people will see the truth of who you are and stand by you no matter what.”

Marto tries to swallow, feeling the dark wisps of vaporous smoke, held together with ash and blood entrapping his heart slowly begin to shift. The light from his sister finding the smallest opening and letting her love pour into him freely and without judgement.

“What if I don’t know-… What if I mess up? What if I hurt someone again? I can’t- I don’t want to be the reason-”

Merla’s arms wrap around him and Marto finally lets all of it go. The worry, the tension, the hate, the grief, the sorrow, the pain, all of it. The secret, wild garden in which they stand is quiet and yet everything sings in harmony to match the softest music that emanates from the Queen of Virtue and Virtuosity. At one time, Marto thought that was the weirdest thing he had ever seen. Now, it’s the greatest comfort he has been able to find.

“I saw her, Yondalla,” Marto eventually says once the body-wracking sobs have stopped. “She said my heart was never weak, that I could always come home.” He feels Merla nod as her arms hold him a little closer. “But how can I trust myself… after what I did? For whom I fell in l-love with?”

“You are not weak for the love you had or the love you gave,” Merla says gently. She pulls back to look at him. Holding onto his hands tightly, Marto feels her warmth, the power of her love for him, and the essence of who she is thrum into his palms and up his arms, all the way to his chest where that cage of smoke, ash and blood slowly starts to wear away under such brilliance.

“Love is never a weakness, Marto,” she tells him and he knows Merla speaks truthfully. “It has the power to move mountains, transcend death and time… It even has the power to change Fate itself. Trust love. Trust your friends, and you will never be alone.”

Oh, I can see you close enough to touch

I hardly dare to dream you, oh, lest it be too much

What’s the moral of the story when I only see us fighting?

Elegy to, to the starry-eyed

“I owe a lot of people conversations,” Marto says to Fog. The two are sitting in the shade of the Feythorn Forest. BB’s roof has been fixed, as well as the side of the house that had sustained the most fire damage. “I’ve been back for a few weeks but I… I couldn’t face them yet. The others. I couldn’t bring myself to go to the Fort.”

Fog nods in understanding, taking a bite of fresh bread smothered in one of the three honey’s Marto had brought. His Pa had sent the jars to him with a letter from the family just before Marto had left the Court of Harmony to return to the Dawnlands.

It felt good to follow up on the plans he had made with Fog. After his talk with Merla, it was the first small step in a direction Marto wanted to keep going in. Along with the honey, Marto also began to share some of the details of what had happened, why he had retreated, why he had left.

“I get it. Ya know, I do that sometimes with the fog and mist thing,” Fog says.

“Like that time with your ring?” Marto asks.

“Yeah.”

There had been a moment then, where Marto almost admitted something too soon. The cage of smoke and ash and blood constricted and he thought about a name and saw a face he only ever really sees in his dreams, though these ones are more like memories than active, living things.

But Fog was there for him ready with an embrace should Marto want it — and an understanding that though things have been uncertain, they would be there for each other to navigate these tentative unknowns.

I’m treading on sacred ground again like a single errant ray

Showing us the wounds we both sustained and our sacred pain

’Til silent fall the sounds of yesterday…

---

Lyrics from ‘Sounds of Yesterday’ by Poets of the Fall