The gnawing emptiness in Cadogan's stomach was a constant, brutal companion. The failure of his crude snares had been a bitter blow, extinguishing the small spark of hope he'd nurtured. He had water from the Calon y Cwm, enough for another day or so if he was careful, but water alone would not keep him alive. The "others" had made it clear: his sustenance was now his own concern.
He spent a restless night in the cold, silent tower, the soft glow of the "Calon" stone the only witness to his turmoil. His mind, honed by years of academic discipline, refused to succumb to despair. It circled the problem of food like a wolf around a defended campfire, seeking any weakness, any opening. Hunting in the traditional sense was out of the question. He was no archer, and his rusty sword was a poor weapon against swift forest creatures, let alone the "others" who might be drawn by any prolonged activity. Foraging was equally perilous; his knowledge of local flora was non-existent, and the risk of poisoning himself was too high. The snares had failed.
But the stream, the Calon y Cwm… it teemed with life. He had seen small fish darting in its clear waters when he had performed Ceidwad's ritual. Fish were protein. Fish were survival. The thought took root. He had no hooks, no lines, no nets. But he had his wits, the tools the "others" had left him, and a desperate, driving need. As dawn painted the sky, Cadogan rose with a new, if fragile, resolve. He would make a fishing spear.
He selected the straightest, strongest branch he could find amongst the charred timbers of the collapsed upper floor. It was perhaps six feet long, seasoned by fire and time. Using a sharp piece of slate and then, with painstaking effort, the edge of his rusty sword, he began to whittle one end to a point. It was slow, awkward work with his still-stiff left arm, but the physical activity, the focus on a tangible task, was a relief from the torment of hunger and uncertainty. He then used the iron bar and the mallet to carefully split the point for a few inches, creating two crude tines. He needed to make barbs, or the fish, if he even managed to strike one, would simply slide off. He recalled images from books, diagrams of primitive fishing implements. Using a small, sharp stone fragment, he began to painstakingly notch the inner edges of the tines, trying to create backward-facing points. The work consumed most of the morning. His hands were raw, his muscles aching, but by the time the sun was high, he held a crude but functional-looking fishing spear. It was ugly, unbalanced, but it had a point, and it was his own creation.
He allowed himself a few sips of water, then, armed with his new spear and the ever-present rusty sword at his belt, he once again set out from the tower, leaving the barricade partially open. The forest still felt full of hidden dangers, but Cadogan's purpose was different now. He thought of himself not as a helpless captive or someone just doing tasks, but as a hunter, even with his poor gear. He advanced very carefully, staying in the thickest parts of the woods, trying to see and hear everything. The trip to the Calon y Cwm seemed to take more time than before; hunger made him dizzy, and he did not walk as steadily.
He reached the meadow. It lay serene and untouched, the stream gurgling peacefully. He saw no sign of the "others," no fresh tracks, no unsettling symbols. He approached the water's edge, his new spear held ready. He found a spot where the stream narrowed, flowing over a bed of smooth pebbles, the water clear enough to see the bottom. He stood very still for a long time, watching the water closely for any sign of fish. At last, a small, dark form, about as long as his hand, moved quickly between some rocks. Then he saw a second one. His heart beat faster. He breathed in slowly and deeply, trying to steady himself and recall what he knew about spearing fish before he aimed. He raised the spear, his good arm trembling with a mixture of weakness and anticipation.
He thrust. The spear struck the water with a splash, sending ripples outwards. He missed. The fish, startled, vanished in an instant. Frustration, sharp and bitter, welled up. He had one chance, and he had failed. He waited again, forcing himself to be patient, though his stomach cramped and his vision sometimes blurred. More fish appeared, teasingly close. He struck again, and again, his efforts clumsy, his aim poor. Each miss was a fresh wave of despair.
The sun began to dip towards the western ridge. He was exhausted, his hope dwindling. He had to return to the tower before full darkness, before the true hunters of Glyndŵr began to stir. One last try, he told himself. He saw a slightly larger fish, hovering almost motionless in a deeper pool beneath an overhanging bank. He took a breath, aimed carefully, and lunged with all his remaining strength. This time, he felt a distinct jarring impact, a resistance. He pulled the spear up. Impaled on one of the crude tines, wriggling feebly, was a small, silver-bellied fish. It was tiny, barely a mouthful. But it was food. Real food. Won by his own effort, his own ingenuity. A wild, almost savage joy surged through him, momentarily eclipsing the hunger, the fear, the despair. He had done it. He had taken the first, faltering step towards true self-sufficiency in this hostile land.
Holding the fish tightly, he climbed quickly up the stream bank, his eyes checking the nearby woods. He knew he had to return to the tower fast, unsure how long his good fortune or the tolerance of the valley's hidden watchers would last. The small fish wouldn't solve their hunger, but it was a start. It was an act against their despair, and here in desolate Glyndŵr, that felt like a real achievement.