And so it was, that the Dreaming did begin to withdraw from the Waking world.

First, the freehold of Falcon’s Rest, held by the Satyr Arkus, died in the ashes of its own Balefire.

Then, the Tithed Ones came: Dark figures of vengeance against the Sidhe – those whose bodies had been claimed to give those Alfar a shield of flesh with which to guard themselves against Banality’s cold.

And then, came the far-wandering Eshu named Dice, who bore word from the depths of the Dreaming itself. The silver gates of Arcadia, Alfheim of old, were no longer lost. But their opening came with a price: Those who would travel through them must forever forsake the Waking world, and they must swear a most dread Oath to do so.

“If one is to take this road,” he told us all, “Then he must swear himself to this: ‘I pledge this day to prepare myself for the long journey home, and swear on my honor and my faerie soul that once I take my first steps, I shall not turn back, nor shall I long for what is lost. I turn my face from the winds of Winter and set my eyes upon Arcadia, and pledge my life and my effort to reach her silver gates for the final time. I go forward with my heart confident, my mind clear and my spirit rejoicing, for I go home at last. So swearing, with these words I leave this world behind.’

“And it carries with it a greater cost,” he continued, “For the opening of the trods to find Arcadia’s silver gates will sever the last links that hold Dreaming to Waking world.”

And so, each of the changeling-fae must choose between swearing these words and departing, or keeping mouths closed and staying behind to face what could be found once the two worlds were no longer two halves of a whole, but two wholes in themselves.

And so Count Corrigan of Moonsilver called upon his subjects to make their choice of which of the two worlds they would choose to call their own, and the Troll Bryndís Brynjarsdóttir stood and proclaimed the following:

“Cattle die and kinsmen die, thyself too soon must die, but one thing never, I ween, will die, -- fair fame of one who has earned. Cattle die and kinsmen die, thyself too soon must die, but one thing never, I ween, will die, -- the doom on each one dead. They say that the Fimbulvetr -- the Endless Winter -- is upon us, and perhaps they are right. But the gods teach us that after the great battle that marks the final days, a new world will arise from the ashes of the old, and those who chose to stand against the darkness, to rage against the dying of the light, will be rewarded with a place in it. You spoke wisely, Excellency, when you said that all life was chance. This is the chance I choose to take -- to stand, to fight . . . and if it be my Wyrd, to die, as the Changeling the gods chose to make me. I thank you for your hospitality, and hope that the Aesir guide you all on your journey. But I stay here. And if those who also remain behind will have me, I pledge my axe and my good arm to your cause.”

And so the Count asked that she pledge her service to the Lady Alessia of the Sidhe, and so it was.

And so it was that the night came when far-wandering Dice was to return to Moonsilver and open the final trod. The moment was of such import that the King of Willows himself, Meilege of the Eiluned, declared that he would be there to take his place among those of the Alfar who were to depart.

Many were the farewells that were said that night, and if one tried to include them all, the tale would take many times the time I have to relate this tale. Suffice it to say that there were many words and many tears shared between those who were to leave, and those who were to remain.

And then the time came, and the trod was opened. King Meilege, as he felt was his right as King, chose to invoke the Alfar art of Sovereign, declaring that the night was to be bound by proper Protocol. The Alfar were the first to go through, as was their right by both birth and Art, but when those not of the Sidhe sought to epart as well, poison-mouthed Meilege spoke once more.

“As the Sidhe are first among us,” he claimed, lips dripping with the venom in his words, “Until such time as all of the Sidhe on the rolls of this County have left -- even unto those from whom no word has been heard in many months, none other may pass this trod.” And he smiled, a serpent’s grin, as his magic clasped at the hearts of those who sought to leave, their strength proving the lesser to the tyrant’s poisoned magics.

Count Corrigan, proving himself worthy of his Sidhe kith, challenged the King of Venom to a duel to settle the matter, but due to his lower station, Meilege’s contempt held them at bay – at first.

And yet, three there were who were able to break free of poison-mouthed Meilege’s Art: The Kinain Peter Tulley, the Sidhe Laisren Jourdain, Knight-Chancellor of Moonsilver, and the Eshu Kiril, Knight of Moonsilver as well. They bore down upon the tyrant, blades in hand, driving him back with each swipe of their blades . . . but not quite managing to break the spell.

Still, the spell did not prevent those held by it from assembling near the trod, and so the lady Alessia Renata ni Fiona guided them to take their place, and bide their time until they could be freed to go.

Even as they did so, a number of foul creatures of the Formorian Dream burst through a Black Trod – a swarm of gargoyles, followed by footmen. The Trolls Eric and Bryndís, the Satyr Arkus, the Pooka Julius and the lady Alessia led the charge against the foul swarm, and dispatched the gargoyles – the last of them finding its head parted from its body by Bryndís’ axe.

And poison-tongued Meilege met his end as well at the end of Kiril’s blade, falling to the stones, soul gone to Hel’s grasp. And so his spell was broken, and those humble Fae who had sought Arcadia were at last able to depart for it.

All was not well, however, for more of the Fell began streaming through the Black Trod: A juggernaut, tall of stature and fierce of arm, archers whose bows dripped with foul venoms, and sorcerers whose very souls bore the stain of their magics and their deeds.

All seemed lost for the few who had not yet departed, but the Satyr Arkus, noble storm-maker whose winds had helped to keep the foe at bay, told those who had chosen to remain that there was a way out – within the Count’s chambers was a hidden door, and if they could but reach it, they could know safety from the ravening enemy.

Gordon Otterpaw, of the Water People, led his family through the Trod, giving of his soul so that they would know the Paradise he sought, and the lady Alessia led the charge of the remaining Autumn Fae to safety.

And too, there were certain of the Nobles who had been killed, souls returning from wherever they go between incarnations, to rally the spirits of those still there against the flood of beasts: Jasper, Duke of Moonsilver, and the Counts Yves and Arakus. They fell upon the foe, buying the others time.

But Arakus’s fight was all too brief: The Juggernaut fell upon him, shattering his bones and sending his soul to Valhalla. And the footmen fell upon Corrigan and Jasper, while archers peppered Yves.

Of the Fae who chose to remain, and those who still sought to leave, only a few were left: The Trolls Eric and Bryndís, the Pookas Julius and Alex Coleman (who had valiantly shepherded others through the trod before he would go through himself,) and the Sidhe Corrigan, Jasper and Yves.

The archers fired at each of the remaining ones, scoring some with wounds (others finding them bouncing off their armor,) and then the sorcerers tried to turn those still there to stone – only failing because some chose to call upon the touch of Winter that their mortal bodies held to push the evil Glamours away.

Then Eric escaped through the trod, and Julius cast a Glamour that pulled himself, Alex, and Corrigan through it as well. There were but the three nobles, and the troll Bryndís left to face the cresting wave of Winter-blooded. All seemed lost, until Duke Jasper spoke:

“Halt,” he cried, bathed in the light of the Balefire which he was once a part of as he held up a hand of forbidding. “By the Tuatha de Daanan, I command you to stop. By the Blood of Moonsilver, I say desist. You are banished from this land until the last son and the last daughter of the Dreaming leaves. So I say with heart's blood, and with the last of my life.”

With those words, he and his brothers Corrigan and Yves faded as a dream fades upon waking, and so too the Glamour that held their former castle in this world. The Trods, both light and dark, were broken, and the Formorians cast forever into Hel, never again to plague the waking world. The very walls of the castle itself screamed, as they plunged down upon Bryndís, and for a long moment her heart was touched with despair.

But she knew that she must survive, and carry word of what had transpired to those of her fellows who had survived. So she spoke the following words:

“Óðin, I never asked you for anything of this import before. But I must make it out of here. The fae of this land, they must be told of what happened, and only I am left to bear witness to it. I swear that I shall make it to the surface and tell this tale, or lose my honour, that I shall make it to the surface and tell this tale, or lay down my father's axe, that I shall make it to the surface and tell this tale, or Dream no more. You and the other Aesir my witnesses, so mote it be...”

And Óðin Highfather himself surely must have heard her words, for he gave her the strength she needed to clamber free of the wreckage. And so she found those few Fae left in the Autumn world, and swore an Oath with them that they should keep the memory of the fallen County of Moonsilver, and the Fae, alive for howsoever long they could remember. And as the days stretched on into weeks, and into months, and then into years, they did so as best they could.

But all dreams must fade, and so too this. In time, only Bryndís could remember who she had been, and what she had done. And so, she set down her father’s axe, and instead chose to take up the pen, that weapon which some say is mightier than the sword. And she wrote down all the legends of the Fae that she could remember, for as long as the memory remained hers for the keeping.

For she knew that even though dreams fade, when sleep overtakes us again, sometimes they return. And even as all the Fae had once thought the world and lives they knew were gone forever, only to see a form of them return, so too, perhaps, another time of Dreaming would come to the Winter world. Gods willing, perhaps one day there would be another Spring. And so the stories must be told, both good and ill, in order that the Dream might use their light to find its way to return.

“And that,” the old woman continued, “is why I tell you this tonight, as I told your father before you.”

“Did all that really happen,” her granddaughter asked, eyes wide, aglow with wonder.

“Indeed it did,” the old woman said with a smile, “and never let anyone tell you otherwise. But now you must sleep. Rest, little Katrín, and dream.” And with a kiss to her granddaughter’s forehead, the old woman rose, and stepped out into the hallway.

“Telling her the stories, I see,” came a voice from behind her. She turned, and saw her son standing there.

“Indeed I am, Brynjar, indeed I am.”

“Good,” he answered with a smile. He saw the light in her eyes – how the storytelling had brought back the far deeper blue to them once again. And Bryndís, knowing why he smiled, answered his with one of her own.

Dedicated to all who dreamed the Dream that was Moonsilver and New Bremen – may you never stop dreaming.