Journal of Caradoc the Builder
Day 1 – The Command
The chieftain has spoken. A great tomb must be built—one that will stand for generations, a place where the spirits of our ancestors may rest in peace. I, Caradoc, have been chosen to oversee the task. It is an honor, but also a burden. The stones are vast, heavier than any man should be able to move. How can we, with mere hands and ropes, shape such a monument?
I wish the fair folk would aid us. The elders say the Tylwyth Teg, the fairies of the hills, move stones with ease, whispering to them in a tongue only the earth understands. If only they would come to our aid, lift these great rocks into place, and spare us the toil ahead. But the fair folk are fickle, appearing only when they choose. We must struggle on without them.
Day 5 – The Stones Resist Us
The men are weary. We have stripped the strongest oaks to make rollers, twisted the toughest hides into ropes. Yet the stones barely shift. The great capstone, the largest of them all, refuses to move. It is as if the land itself grips it, unwilling to let it rise.
The night is cold, the wind howling over the hills. I swear I hear laughter in the dark, soft voices on the wind. The fair folk are watching. Do they mock us, or do they test our resolve? If they wished, they could lift the stones as if they were feathers. Yet they remain silent, unseen, leaving the burden to us.
Day 12 – The Earth Swallows Our Efforts
The rains have come, turning our labor into a futile struggle. The earth drinks the water greedily, turning to mud, swallowing our stones and filling the pits we have dug. We lose men to exhaustion, to wounds from failing ropes and shifting rock. The tomb fights us at every step.
At dusk, I leave an offering—honey, fresh milk, and bread—on the highest stone, a gift for the Tylwyth Teg. If they have any mercy, if they still care for the deeds of men, let them aid us now.
Day 20 – A Change in Fortune
Something is different. The rains have ceased, the ground has hardened. The men move with renewed strength. Today, we raised the last of the uprights, the stones sliding into place as if the earth finally allows it. Perhaps our offerings have been accepted, or perhaps the fair folk simply tired of watching us struggle.
Tonight, as the fire crackles, I hear the faintest laughter again, carried on the wind. A whisper, almost playful. Did they push the stones when we were not looking? Or did they merely lift our spirits, lending us unseen strength? I do not know. But I feel their presence all the same.
Day 25 – The Final Stone
The capstone rests upon its pillars at last. A gateway between worlds, standing as it should. The tomb is complete. The men cheer, but I say nothing. In the silence of the evening, I sense something beyond us, something watching.
Perhaps it was never just our strength that built this place. Perhaps, when we were at our weakest, unseen hands helped us. Or perhaps the fair folk simply wished to remind us—magic is not only in the whispers of the wind, but in the determination of men who dare to move the unmovable.
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