CHAPTER 65: STORIES BY FIRELIGHT

"—and there we were, surrounded on all sides!" Nik’s voice carried across the village green, his arms spread wide as if to encompass the imaginary dangers he described. "Marsh spirits rising from the water like vengeful ghosts, their eyes glowing with ancient malice!"

Apollo winced as the gathered villagers gasped appreciatively. The twilight had drawn most of the village to the green, where they sat on blankets or stood in clusters, faces turned toward Nik like flowers toward the sun. Children perched on parents’ shoulders, eyes wide with delighted terror.

"The smallest among us," Nik continued, gesturing toward Thorin with theatrical gravity, "proved to be a whirlwind of dwarven fury! His axe cleaved through the spirits as if they were nothing but morning mist, each blow accompanied by a battle cry that shook the very reeds!"

Thorin, far from objecting to this characterization, puffed out his chest and stroked his beard with obvious satisfaction. He nodded solemnly, as if confirming every outlandish detail.

"And Lyra—" Nik spun, pointing to where she stood at the edge of the crowd, "—moved like a shadow among shadows! Her blade found the creatures’ glowing eyes with such precision that three fell before they even realized she was among them!"

Lyra rolled her eyes, but Apollo caught the hint of a smile tugging at her lips before she hid it behind her cup.

"Renna held the line with her spear, creating a wall of steel that no spirit dared cross!" Nik thrust an imaginary spear forward, mimicking Renna’s stance with exaggerated precision. "The very marsh trembled at her advance!"

Renna crossed her arms, her face flushing with embarrassment. "That’s not how spears work," she muttered, though not loudly enough to interrupt the performance.

"But then," Nik dropped his voice dramatically, forcing the villagers to lean in, "when all seemed lost, when the spirits had us surrounded and the water rose to drown us—"

Apollo felt his stomach tighten. He knew what came next in this tale.

"—our mysterious companion revealed his true nature!" Nik’s finger shot out, pointing directly at Apollo. "Light poured from his very skin, golden as the sun itself! The spirits cowered before him, shrieking as they retreated into the depths from which they came!"

The villagers turned as one to stare at Apollo, their expressions a mixture of awe and disbelief. A child whispered loudly, "Is he really made of light, mama?"

’Not anymore,’

Apollo thought, heat rising to his face. The gold in his veins stirred uncomfortably, as if responding to the memory Nik had conjured.

"I think you’ve had too much ale," Apollo called out, trying to deflect the attention. "The marsh gas must have affected your memory."

The crowd laughed, but their eyes remained curious, evaluating him with new interest.

"Mock my account if you will," Nik replied with a dramatic sigh, "but the marsh knows the truth. And so do my companions."

He launched into an elaborate description of their escape, the tunnel that had nearly collapsed, the city guards who had hunted them through the night.

With each telling detail, the story grew more fantastic, the tunnel became a labyrinth of ancient design, the guards transformed into an army of fire-wielding zealots, their escape elevated to a feat worthy of legend.

"And now we stand before you," Nik concluded, bowing deeply, "humble travelers seeking only rest before we continue our quest!"

The silence that followed lasted only a heartbeat before the village erupted in cheers and applause. Children jumped to their feet, mimicking battle stances with imaginary weapons. Several of the village elders nodded appreciatively, clearly filing away the tale for future retellings around winter hearths.

"Well," an older woman said, stepping forward from the crowd, "heroes or not, you must be hungry after such adventures. We’ve prepared a meal to welcome you properly to our village."

As if on cue, several villagers appeared carrying steaming pots and trays laden with food. Tables that had held market goods earlier in the day were now arranged in a long line, quickly covered with bowls of rich stew, loaves of crusty bread, wheels of cheese, and pitchers of golden ale.

"Please," the woman continued, gesturing toward the makeshift feast, "join us. It’s not often we have such distinguished visitors."

Thorin needed no further encouragement. He made directly for the nearest barrel of ale, tankard already in hand. "This local brew of yours," he declared to the innkeeper who stood nearby, "I suppose it’s passable for human-made spirits."

The innkeeper, the same broad-shouldered woman who had served them that morning, crossed her arms with a challenging smile. "Three generations of my family have brewed that ale, master dwarf. The recipe hasn’t changed in a hundred years."

"And that’s precisely the problem!" Thorin exclaimed, though he filled his tankard generously nonetheless.

"Dwarven brewing is an evolving art. We adjust the balance of hops with each season, account for variations in the water, age in casks of different woods depending on the desired finish."

"Is that so?" The innkeeper raised an eyebrow. "And yet you’re on your second cup of my ’passable’ brew."

"Research," Thorin insisted, taking another deep draught. "Can’t criticize what I haven’t thoroughly tested."

Apollo drifted toward the food tables, suddenly aware of his hunger. The stew smelled rich with herbs and root vegetables, the bread still warm enough to release steam when broken. He filled a wooden bowl, nodding thanks to the villager who handed him a spoon carved from pale wood.

He found a quiet spot at the edge of the gathering, content to observe the easy mingling of his companions with the villagers.

Lyra had claimed a similar vantage point, her back against a tree trunk, her green eyes scanning the crowd with habitual vigilance that couldn’t quite mask her enjoyment.

Renna had not escaped her young admirers from earlier in the day. They surrounded her now, demonstrating their "improved" spear techniques with sticks and broom handles.

One particularly enthusiastic boy lunged with such force that he toppled forward, nearly impaling his friend before Renna caught the makeshift weapon.

"What did I tell you about follow-through?" she scolded, though her tone lacked any real anger. "Control first, then power."

"But you said we should commit fully to the thrust!" the boy protested, scrambling back to his feet.

"Commit your body, not just your arm," Renna corrected, adjusting his stance with practiced hands. "Like this."

The children watched with solemn attention as she demonstrated again, then erupted into a flurry of renewed practice, their movements marginally less chaotic than before.

Apollo smiled, feeling the warm weight of the stew settle comfortably in his stomach. The gold in his veins had calmed to a pleasant hum, responding to the peaceful atmosphere and the simple pleasure of being well-fed and unhunted, if only for one evening.

An elderly man settled onto the bench beside Apollo, his movements slow but deliberate. In his gnarled hands, he cradled what appeared to be a simple wooden flute, its surface polished by years of handling.

"Your friend tells quite a tale," the old man said, nodding toward Nik, who was now entertaining a smaller group with what appeared to be an even more embellished version of their adventures.

"He has a gift for dramatic interpretation," Apollo replied diplomatically.

The old man chuckled, a sound like dry leaves rustling. "Every village needs its storytellers. They remind us that the world is larger than our fields and houses." He held out the flute, offering it to Apollo. "Your friend mentioned you play."

Apollo hesitated, surprised. "Did he?"

"Said you have a way with music that calms even the wildest hearts." The old man’s eyes crinkled at the corners. "We could use some calming after tales of marsh spirits and glowing warriors, don’t you think?"

Apollo took the flute carefully, feeling its weight, so light compared to the golden instrument he had once played on Olympus, yet somehow more substantial in its honest craftsmanship. His fingers found the holes naturally, muscle memory transcending his diminished state.

"It’s been some time," he warned, raising the flute to his lips.

The first note emerged tentatively, like a question asked in darkness. Apollo paused, adjusting to the instrument’s voice, earthier than he was accustomed to, with a warmth that surprised him. He tried again, a simple scale that flowed more smoothly.

Without conscious decision, his fingers began to move in patterns both familiar and new. The melody that emerged was not the mathematically perfect music of the divine spheres, nor the carefully composed hymns of temple worship.

It was something simpler, born of this moment, this place, a tune that spoke of shelter found after long journeying, of quiet joy in simple comforts.

The conversations around him gradually stilled as the music spread across the green. Apollo kept his eyes closed, focused on the feeling of breath becoming sound, of fingers dancing across smooth wood.

There was no golden power in this music, no divine compulsion—only human expression, honest and unadorned.

When he finally opened his eyes, he found the villagers watching him with expressions of quiet appreciation.

Children had settled against parents, their earlier energy gentled by the melody. Even his companions had paused in their various activities, their faces softened in the lantern light.

Apollo lowered the flute, suddenly self-conscious. "Thank you," he said to the old man, trying to return the instrument.

"Keep playing," the elder encouraged, making no move to take it back. "It’s been too long since these old ears heard music like that."

So Apollo continued, the melody evolving as naturally as a stream finding its path downhill. He played what he felt, gratitude for this moment of peace, affection for these companions who had seen glimpses of his true nature yet remained, appreciation for the simple generosity of villagers who asked nothing but stories in return for their hospitality.

Across the green, he caught Lyra watching him, her expression thoughtful. She raised her cup slightly in acknowledgment, a gesture so small it might have been missed by anyone not looking for it.

Thorin had paused in his brewing debate, his tankard halfway to his lips, listening despite himself. Renna’s young warriors had settled cross-legged at her feet, their practice weapons forgotten as they swayed gently to the music.

Nik, for once, was silent, his storyteller’s instinct recognizing when another form of magic had taken precedence.

The evening mellowed into night, lanterns glowing brighter as darkness settled fully over the village.

Apollo played until his fingers tired, then passed the flute to another villager who continued with local tunes that soon had feet tapping and hands clapping. The celebration continued around him, but with a gentler energy, as if his music had somehow transformed the gathering from spectacle to communion.

As the night deepened, families with young children began to drift homeward, carrying sleeping little ones whose dreams would surely be filled with marsh spirits and golden warriors.

The remaining villagers tidied the feast tables, preserving leftovers and stacking empty platters with practiced efficiency.

"Come back anytime," the innkeeper told them as they finally made their way toward their lodgings, the village square now mostly empty behind them.