In a small clearing, a lone tree rises from the ground. It's old—older than many others around it— and a boy asks: "The Old Gods at one time were as the New Gods; what had they been called then?"
Another boy stands with him in front of the tree, vivid green eyes shining with mirth as he continued to listen.
"I find it peculiar. I mean, the first worshipers of the Old Gods wouldn't have called them that, would they, so what were they known by?" He reiterated.
Jojen pondered for a moment before answering Jon. "Our ancestors. Greenseers who went into the wood." Here, a cheeky grin splits his face, "Arthur—Inasmuch as his impermissiveness is known, as rigid as the bark of a tree." His friend snorted in response. "Mayhaps even cousin Lonnel, whom may yet be old enough to remember such things." Jojen chuckled at his own joke.
Jon huffed lightly in amusement before turning away from the younger boy to face the weeping eyes of the weirwood once more. He walked along the tree line, the fallen leaves rustling beneath his feet. The sound reverberated throughout the marshy woods; occasionally accompanied by the sound of a raven cawing somewhere out of sight.
The air was damp, humid, and steeped in fog—a biting chill that could be felt in the bones, despite the summer warmth, but the pair did not shiver; they were used to northern weather, after all.
Following suit, for several minutes, they simply gazed up at the tree's winding branches until Jon spoke again, yet Jojen did not bereave him—it was not a common occurrence by far to discover you were the crown prince of the realm. "Perhaps…" he began hesitantly, "the Children of the Forest might know."
Jojen hummed thoughtfully.
"In truth, none mayhap know as the Old Gods predate even the age of Dawn, and even the Children of the Forest can forget such a thing; should any be left at all in the first place." He added with a slight shrug, "There is a reason that the Old Gods hold no names in these days, one lost to us perhaps, but still a reason nonetheless. That must be how they want it and who are we to question them?"
His friend nodded, still looking up at the tree. "Aye..."
A small smile came to Jojen's lips as he looked upon the pale gnarled tree, red leaves shimmering and rustling in the winds, and blood-like sap running down the face carved into it's rough bark.
"But we are not absent the presence of our gods and their old magics despite for want of their names, nor are we without our own boons, as father has taught us." Jojen stated resolutely as he reached out a hand and pressed it against the surface of the tree's trunk, feeling its callouses on his fingers. "Beautiful." He looked back over his shoulder at Jon. "It seems that the tree has taken on some new life, do you notice? The trunks are growing bigger, and their branches are thicker now; there is more color to its leaves and sap."
Jon nodded as he too pressed his hand against the cool tree's bark; the skin beneath was rough, but not unpleasantly so. Carefully, he avoided touching the dark red fluids running down the tree from above.
"Yes, I see."
"What else does this say about the gods, then?" Jojen prompted.
"Well," Jon hesitated to continue, his brow knitting in frustration as he thought. "Well—…"
Jojen's voice was soft. "That they are alive, at least. They remain, in some fashion, for as long as we continue to uphold the old ways," Jojen began again, taking a long pause in between words, "That perhaps... the Old Gods themselves may yet come back to us."
Silence fell between them, a comfortable silence—one full of contemplation and contemplation alone.
A small sigh escaped the young prince as he turned his back to the tree. "Yes, yes..." Jon murmured, looking up. "You were right, there was purpose in it, distasteful as it may be."
Jojen followed his eyes up to the entrails hanging from the strong, sturdy branches of the weirwood tree. He had a weirwood bowl in his hands, carved with a dozen faces, like the ones the heart trees wore. Inside was a white paste, thick and heavy, with dark red veins running through it.
He turned, offering the bowl to Jon who took it wordlessly.
The liquid inside sloshed gently against the sides of the wooden bowl, which sat in his hands. The bowl, though large, was very light when handled, and seemed as if it would shatter easily. Jon brought it close to his face, sniffing it cautiously before taking a sip. A grimace crossed his features momentarily. "What is this?" Jon asked slowly, staring into the bowl. His eyebrows were knitted together.
"A tincture from that which was given by the heart tree of Greywater Watch," came Jojen's reply, quiet.
"Mmh." Jon said, bringing the bowl up towards his nose again. After a few moments of hesitation, he drank deeply, almost draining half of it, coughing as it went down.
"A mix of the Old Gods," the young Reed further clarified as Jon struggled, gesturing around them, "the physical and of their spirits; the tree is both an extension of the will of the gods and the gods themselves, and it has some manner of power over life, but it's potent; even diluted it can kill—and this is not."
Jojen paused as he watched Jon swallow down another mouthful, grimacing again as he did.
"For only death may pay for life."
Jon swallowed hard, a lump in his throat, and set the bowl aside. His eyes met Jojen's again briefly, "you didn't think to tell me this sooner?" Jon questioned him, incredulous.
The heir of Greywater Keep shrugged. "I wasn't entirely sure you wanted to hear anything about that sort of thing before now," he told Jon. "You'd been rather stubborn about everything else thus far, your grace."
At that, Jon scoffed loudly, causing Jojen's lip to quirk ever so slightly in amusement at the sight of his flushed cheeks.
"I've nary the presence of thought upon which to punish you for: mocking your king-to-be, or seemingly attempting to kill him." Jon stated dryly, eyeing the young boy beside him who merely smiled, his green eyes sparkling in the dimly lit swamp.
"A most difficult of choices, I am certain, my lord—for the moment, however, might you place your touch upon the face of the weirwood?" Jojen responded just as dryly, giving his elder a mock bow, "only if you deem to take my counsel, of course."
Jon eyed him suspiciously, before nodding. "Very well." With a slight nod of encouragement, Jon approached the tree, and placed both palms upon the bark; it was rough and cold to the touch—that weeping face of the heart tree.
He sighed softly as he rested his forehead against the wood, warm to the touch, and closed his eyes.
He remained thus for quite some time; the wind whispered softly as it carried the sounds of rustling leaves and bird calls up to the great ancient tree. Jon gave the bark a gentle, experimental prod and it swayed ever so slightly, rivets of sticky red sap running down his face and hands; clinging to his hair and clothes, the smell of the earth, of flowers strong and sweet—noticing nary the moment his heart ceased to beat.
To go forward, you must go back.
Red leaves whispered softly amongst each other on the breeze, through the mist that enveloped the land as ravens and crows perched atop the many winding ashen branches, magnificent in stature; all sang together—clear, melodious notes that echoed quietly along the god's woods.
A single pale tree stood among the many, one lone trunk, its branches reaching higher than all others. Its roots stretched deep, twisting through the earth into what could have been eternity—a face carved into its side; a heartswood.
The tree bore red petals upon every branched limb—red, fresh crimson petals. The color of life spilt, and as another breeze passed they fluttered lightly in unison, as if in celebration.
The ground below shook suddenly, and the birds scattered, calling out to one another as they rose upward, high into the air—one bird remained, hung from the withering face of the great tree; a face with three eyes the color of wine, if that wine were blood.
Its wings then spread wide to embrace the heavens, as it ascended and revealed a figure amidst the blossom of blood; cloaked, tall, broad and strong, its form obscured by a cloak drawn tightly about its body, hiding the man within.
A small chuckle echoed off through the clearing, and then all was quiet again as one by one the birds returned to the branches of the great white tree, settling there to watch.
One by one they settled there, silent, waiting; their plumage black as their souls and beady eyes shining in malevolence, Jon felt like as he too stood silent in its shadow, the shade cast by the great boughs that covered the weirwood.
And the man had vanished in the moments Jon had spent looking at the ravens and the crows and as he returned his vision to the weeping face of the tree, he watched and listened—as the face of the tree spoke.
The red leaves whispered, a low sigh passing through its branches as the trunk trembled and the leaves swayed to the tune of its own song; A haunting noise, low and gravelly, deep and resonating—a sound that made Jon shiver despite himself.
A whisper of a whisper, but still it reached out; its melody weaving throughout the godswood and echoing amongst the weirwoods. The song was sad. As sad as the tears falling from those crimson, red eyes, the blood flowing down the trunk of the tree.
Kill the boy…