Chapter 83: The Witch Fiona

“I still have many great works yet to compose, countless luminous verses awaiting future generations to sing. To die on the battlefield is indeed a brave act, but compared to the noble mission I bear, it feels so insignificant. How can a poet, for the sake of momentary hot-blooded courage, recklessly abandon his life?”

“Oh, cruel Goddess of Fate, why must you force me to choose this path that seems cowardly but is in truth magnificent? Walking this thorn-strewn radiant road, I am like a solitary saint, destined to weep in secret, never understood by the mediocre...”

Whatever Cassio’s account of his inner journey, reality was that the court poet of Greenwood Valley, faced with the approach of pursuers, reverted to his jester’s nature. All the bravado he had just flaunted before Shrek amounted to nothing; he stowed his lute, took to his heels, and ran faster than a rabbit.

King Shrek, leading ten ogre warriors, took up the task of covering his subordinates’ retreat, fighting on until all his companions had fallen and he himself was trapped among the trees, bathed in blood, with nowhere to escape.

“Bah!” Spitting out a mouthful of bloody saliva, the ogre lord leaned against a tree trunk, panting heavily, and muttered with a bitter smile, “Not even a sip of the Fountain of Wisdom before dying. Shrek, oh Shrek, Fiona was absolutely right—you really are the biggest fool there ever was!”

“Terrified inside, yet still pretending to be brave. Truly the biggest fool there ever was.”

Suddenly, a woman’s icy mocking voice sounded behind him. Shrek instinctively gripped his club, nerves taut, but when he turned and saw who it was, his wariness instantly turned to ecstatic joy.

“Oh! My dear Fiona, what wind has brought you here?”

“Idiot! Now’s not the time for such nonsense. Get over here, quickly!”

The high ogre witch, dressed in a blue robe, shot Shrek a glare, her pretty round face unable to conceal her anxiety.

Shrek stared blankly at the woman of his dreams, momentarily at a loss.

The witch shook her head in resignation, walked straight up to him, and suddenly twisted his ear.

Shrek cried out in pain. Ignoring him, she swiftly performed the gestures for casting, and slapped his chest forcefully.

A golden magical aura, symbolizing the school of transformation, burst from Fiona’s fingertips, rapidly enveloping Shrek, transforming the mighty mythic ogre lord into a pale yellow cloud of steam, maintaining a humanoid shape and floating in midair.

The great witch Fiona hurriedly uttered a string of incantations, casting a first-level “Wind Creation” spell that whipped up a fierce gale, sweeping Shrek’s vaporous form deep into the woods—gone in an instant, like clouds swept away by the wind.

With the pursuers drawing ever closer, Fiona turned and waved her hand; a burst of white, magic-infused mist exploded, enveloping the vanguard of the enemy. Warhorses and the Asar warriors atop them inhaled the mist, and instantly began yawning, collapsing onto the grass and falling into a deep sleep.

Fiona breathed a sigh of relief, flung aside her cloak, soared into the air, and sped off in the direction where Shrek had vanished.

“Damn witch, you won’t escape!”

Matoka, her face contorted in rage, drew her bow and aimed at the receding figure of the ogre witch.

Victor raised his hand to stop his wife from shooting, gently shaking his head.

“Fiona is even harder to deal with than King Shrek. Since she has shown us some mercy and not harmed our people, why antagonize her? Let her go!”

...

In the forest clearing where Yggdrasil stood, Magni and Conti, the sibling pair, watched the ogre army retreat and breathed a simultaneous sigh of relief.

“The village and the sacred tree are safe at last.” Magni put down his battle-axe, his face breaking into a look of profound relief.

Conti, reminded by her brother’s words, hurried over to the black oak, searching up and down as she called out Joan’s name.

“It’s so strange! I just saw him jump down from the black oak, but now he’s vanished in the blink of an eye.” Conti muttered anxiously.

“Silly girl, there were ogres everywhere just now. If Joan was clever, he’d have run off to hide somewhere safe. You’d best ask someone else,” Magni said to his sister.

Conti nodded, turned to the black oak, and called Mira in the tongue of the Woodfolk. The little tree sprite swiftly appeared and pointed toward Yggdrasil.

“I saw Joan wrestling with a bad fairy. In the end, both of them fell into the tree hollow,” Mira said.

“Fell into the tree hollow?!” Now even Magni’s smile faded. He knew well that Yggdrasil’s hollow was actually a planar portal, leading to the ‘Fairy Wilds.’ But unless Yggdrasil granted permission, any creature forcing its way inside would suffer magical backlash, their flesh and blood dissolving into dust.

“Old White! Old White!” Conti cried tearfully to the ancient tree, “You didn’t hurt Joan, did you?”

“Hoo... impatient little one, of course I wouldn’t harm Joan,” the old tree replied with an ancient sigh. “Rest assured, Joan is alive, and is undergoing an adventure. Whether its outcome is good or bad depends on his own choices.”

...

In the Fairy Wilds, beneath a sunless underground dome, a spring containing ancient wisdom lay at the center of the cave, surrounded by the roots of Yggdrasil.

Joan hung upside down from a thick root, his head pointing downward, suspended above the tranquil, mirror-like Fountain of Wisdom.

If Mimir’s timing was correct, Joan had maintained this inverted posture for nine days, without food or water, his body pushed to the extreme, his parched lips like two shriveled leaves. The only thing keeping him alive was the ‘mythic power’ sustaining his life.

Enduring such a merciless trial, Joan managed to remain conscious through the nine days and nights, perhaps thanks to the relentless agony from his right eye. In truth, he no longer possessed a right eye—where it once was, only a bloody cavity remained. As part of his ordeal, Joan had been forced to cut out his own right eye, handing the blood-soaked orb to Mimir in exchange for the wisdom spring’s water.

Joan could not bear to recall the details of gouging out his eye; it was too bloody, too agonizing. Even though he had done it himself, each recollection brought fresh torment, as if living through a waking nightmare.

To gouge out his own right eye, and hang inverted in a tree for nine days—such was the ordeal Mimir set for Joan. For a boy of only thirteen, it was a trial of utmost cruelty.

Joan accepted the challenge and endured every pain in silence through those nine days and nights. He bore no hatred for Mimir; no one forced him—this was his own choice, and however painful, he would grit his teeth and persevere.