The silence of the Raven Tower, once broken by the groans of his men or the cryptic pronouncements of Ceidwad, was now absolute, save for Cadogan's own breathing and the eternal sigh of the wind. He awoke on the pile of rushes, the "Calon" stone a dull pebble in the grey morning light, its nightly glow extinguished. The waterskin he had filled at the Calon y Cwm was nearly half empty already; thirst was a constant companion, but hunger was rapidly becoming a screaming tyrant. The last of the "others'" provisions was gone.
He was on his own. The thought was both terrifying and, in a strange, perverse way, liberating. No more rituals dictated by alien beliefs, no more pronouncements from inscrutable shamans or chieftains. Just him, this ruined tower, and the vast, indifferent wilderness of Glyndŵr. His first priority was food. Water he had, for a day or two more if he was careful. But the gnawing emptiness in his belly was becoming a debilitating distraction, sapping his already meager strength, clouding his thoughts.
He remembered Madog's snares. Crude loops of cord, strategically placed on animal trails. He had little cordage left, only what he could salvage from his tattered clothing or the debris around him. His knowledge of trapping was purely academic, gleaned from books on survival or anthropology read in a comfortable, well-lit library a lifetime ago. Putting theory into practice, alone and weakened, was another matter entirely. He spent the morning painstakingly trying to fashion a few simple noose traps. His good hand was clumsy, his wounded arm still too stiff to offer much assistance. The rusty sword was useless for this kind of delicate work. He used a sharp flake of stone to fray the ends of some linen strips torn from his undertunic, trying to twist them into a semblance of cord. It was frustrating, painstaking work.
By midday, he had three pathetic-looking snares. He knew he couldn't venture far. The "others" might have withdrawn their visible siege line, but he did not doubt for a moment that they were still out there, watching, their territory still fiercely guarded. He decided to try the dense thickets just beyond the crumbling palisade, on the western side of the tower, the area least visible from where he presumed their main camp lay. Leaving the tower now felt profoundly different. There was no Ceidwad to guide him, no Milwyr escort. Just him, his rusty sword belted awkwardly, his heart thudding with a familiar fear. The silence of the forest pressed in, every snap of a twig under his own worn boots sounding like a betrayal of his presence.
He found a faint game trail leading into a patch of dense thorns and bracken. With trembling hands, he tried to set his crude snares as he had seen Madog do, looking for likely choke points, trying to disguise them with leaves and dirt. It took him what felt like hours. He was clumsy, his movements stiff, his injured foot a constant throb of protest. He knew they were poor imitations of a true woodsman's craft. While he worked, he stayed extremely alert. Any moving shadow or sound of leaves made him think of danger. He constantly looked around, half-expecting to see a painted warrior or an arrow flying towards him. Yet, nothing moved. The woods were quiet, but he felt their stillness as a heavy, watching presence.
He returned to the tower as the afternoon sun began to dip, his body aching, his spirit heavy with the near certainty of failure. He had no real hope that his pathetic traps would yield anything. He spent the rest of the daylight hours trying to make his immediate living space within the tower more defensible, more habitable. Using the iron bar and mallet the "others" had left, he shifted more rubble, clearing a larger area around the flagstone spiral and the "Calon" stone. He reinforced the inner side of the main barricade further, creating a crude fighting step. He even found a relatively intact section of hide from a discarded shelter and managed to rig it over the largest breach in the upper level, providing a little more protection from the wind and rain. The physical labor was exhausting, but it was also a focus, a way to keep the despair at bay. He was building, in a small, almost futile way. He was imposing a tiny sliver of his own order on the chaos of this ruin.
As darkness fell, he allowed himself another small ration of water. The "Calon" stone began its soft, internal glow, casting its faint, reddish light on his handiwork. It was the only warmth, the only light, in his cold, stone prison. He did not expect to find anything in his snares when he checked them, with extreme caution, just after dawn the next day. And he was not disappointed. Two were untouched, the third dragged aside, the linen cord broken, perhaps by a small animal strong enough to escape, or by something larger that had simply blundered through it. Failure. The gnawing hunger in his belly intensified.
He returned to the tower, the weight of his solitude, his utter inadequacy in this savage world, pressing down on him. He was an academic, a man of books and ideas. He knew theories of survival, of statecraft, of societal development. But here, faced with the brutal, elemental need for food, his knowledge felt like dust. He looked at the glowing "Calon" stone, at the ancient symbols on the walls. The "others" had tasked him with mending the "spirit" of this place. But how could he mend anything when he couldn't even feed himself? The stark reality of his situation was this: he was alone, wounded, starving, in a cursed valley haunted by hostile, enigmatic guardians. If he did not find a way to provide for himself, and soon, his "work" in Glyndŵr, and his life, would come to a swift and ignominious end. The faint hope he had nurtured after the "others" left the tools and the apple was fading fast, replaced by a cold, clear desperation.