Chapter 5
by Wolfic
A/N: It has been 3 years since I lasted updated this fic, far too long, in my opinion. So I forced myself to sit down, looked at my scribbles and finally finish. Because, out of the few stories with multple chapters that I have posted here, none has ever come close to completion as this one, and I feel that I at least owe it to my readers to finish, even if none of said readers are left. Much has changed over the years, such as my writing (for the better, I desperately hope) so I worry if these last few chapters would read differently than the previous ones. However such worries would only lead to more procrastination, so I'm simply going to publish and live with the consequences. Also, I didn't want to include an OC for this story, but seeing as how I had no way around it (this was what kept me from finishing), I put one in.
His small paws plunged into the moist damp soil and wrapped firmly around the long green stem, easily unearthing the carrot from its earthy home. And though he knew it foolish to do so, he waited, paws unrelenting in their firm grip, eyes trailing the orange skin for signs of life.
But the carrot did not stir.
No eyes popped open in fright, no tiny mouth to squeal and squeak or legs to clamber and flee; the vegetable dangled still, lifeless.
But he wasn't surprised, because there was no more magic in Erion.
Much has changed in the years, no, millenniums, that passed. Swords have been exchanged for guns, wood and stone for metal. And magic, what took magic's place?
Did the residents of this new land even believe in such things?
Gone were the days of flight and fire, where people lived in the skies just as easily as on the earth, and tongues that savored ancients texts could summon dancing blades.
Gone were the days of the Pooka.
No longer could they wander amid the streets and shops, and live life as much as they could in their cursed furry prisons. Now, like magic, the Pooka became myths to be told and written; they were meant for shadows and dusty corners.
Yggdrasil, the World Tree, the greatest form of magic in this new world, had to be treated the same.
Forgotten and degraded. Scoffed at as nothing but petty tales.
And thus Darragh came to his job as the Keeper of Yggdrasil.
Though the tree's bark would never wield to any blade or flame, thieving hands and curious minds still worried His Majesties, and so they beseeched the Pooka for a keeper.
Worry had clouded their faces when they spoke, hesitation and apologies writ in their request.
His Majesties knew that hidden within their pretty words was an eternal prison.
The Keeper would be forever chained to the forests of Yggdrasil, never to roam the cities or explore the lands. To live as the land decreed. Time would be nonexistent; life, almost the same.
And Darragh, who cared little for this magic-less land with its cynics and iron lovers, gladly accepted.
Far into the forests, far from man's metal and machinery that stripped the greenery to build their homes and dull grey contraptions, far from their minds so that Yggdrasil remained nothing but a tale, was his home.
His was a simple life and the forests became his house, nature his provider. Days were spent maintaining his small cabin that he crafted from his own paws, tending to his crops, practicing with his blade, and traveling to the limits of Yggdrasil's domain to take in what he could of the ever changing world.
He had yet to encounter an unwelcome intruder upon his midst, but diligence was his creed.
With a sigh, he placed the carrot into a finely woven basket at his side before reaching to pluck yet another from the soil.
This one did not speak either.