Phoenixine

Author's note: This is a work-in-progress and has a rather unusual format as it was written to be read through a messageboard forum. It's also based on a character of mine in the MMORPG of Dark Ages of Camelot, and it is actually the second half of a larger story. And finally, the embellished writing style in this piece is intentional, and it is unfinished.
-----

She leaned against the cool, grey stones and stared impassively at the guards below. The swirling of their cloaks lulled her into a light trance as they marched back and forth in precise formations even at this late hour. Master Visur's excited voice droned in the background, and a polite murmur escaped her lips. He nodded enthusiastically and expounded further with wild gestures, blissfully unaware of her distraction. She came here often under the cover of night, and Master Visur was always eager for the companionship, no matter how silent and brooding.

Her gaze shifted to the darkness of the forest that cradled the northern Sauvage road. The lambent moonlight washed the land in an eerie aura that did not penetrate the boughs of those towering trees, and she stared into their depths for a hint of movement. One hand crept to the rapier hilt at her side, and her fingers caressed its worn leather hilt. The response was automatic. Unthinking. Reflexive.

Master Visur's exclamation broke her trance, "Lord above! Tis almost time to perform the ritual again." He sighed heavily then as if with great burden before contemplating the still form staring out into the night. "Elandariel, will you be accompanying me to the circle this night?"

The thread of sadness in his voice was unmistakable - the sadness that had eventually replaced the hope. She spared a moment to marvel that he still asked after all these months. Only Master Visur and one other asked her these days - each coaxing her to war in their own way and pitting themselves against her loss and apathy, and neither penetrating that coolness of gaze as she stared in response before turning away.

She turned her head slightly in his direction, and he read the response in those cerulean eyes. He nodded in reply before gathering his Elementalists in a stately procession to once more send the army of Albion into the far lands of Emain and Odin.

*****

Elandariel poked the small fire burning in the hearth once more before making her way to the corner Alec had dubbed the "War Room." A brief smirk played across her face as she studied the books lined like neat soldiers on their shelves. The desk itself was littered with onionskins and maps, some splattered with blobs of dried ink. An open book caught her attention, and she studied the tactical formation of a small army frozen in a moment of warfare against the parchment. Alec's precise lettering riddled the margins.

She stared intently at the hanging maps of Hibernia and Midgard and reflected on what she had heard before parting company with Master Visur. It was spoken in a hushed voice, but night has a way of knowing when to let such things carry on the breath of wind. She had frozen when it brushed against her ears, and her hand had tightened against the hilt almost painfully. It had brought back memories.

She smoothed her thin leather tunic carefully. It had been ages since she had worn the blessed plate armor of a Paladin. Ages since that night she had hung it with some remnant of care. There had been a finality to it, and indeed she had never worn it again. It hung still on the armor rack and she turned to it, dull black in the firelight. She reached to finger the scarred breastplate, but her fingers hovered in mid-air.

Finally she pulled her hand back and uttered the word she had heard this night on the cold ramparts of Castle Sauvage.

"Maraena."
________________________________________

Slim fingers escaped the folds of the cloak and pushed back the deep cowl. Elandariel smoothed a lock of pale hair and glanced longingly out at the harbor. It was no small coincidence that she smelled of horse and dried sweat, and the moonlit waters tempted her into diving in, cloak and all. She pressed a hand over tired eyes before nudging her mare into the welcoming lights of Gothwaite Harbor.

She reined in beside a Guardian as they entered on the edge of town. The scaled gauntlet caught the reins, and the Avalonian soldier whistled softly. "Tis a fine bit of horseflesh you have here, although I dun recognize the breed. Mayhaps a Welsh Trotter? Nay, nay... the head is too small. Mayhaps, mayhaps... but for the white coat and the grey dapples." The voice trailed off into a deep rumble before he glanced at her, "Ahh, forgive me. My father was the head stablemaster for Lord Brelwyn, you see, and the blood is in me. I s'pose you seek shelter for the night? You look a bit thin around the edges." He jerked his chin in the direction of the blazing keep atop the southern hill, "O'er there you go then. Find you the Archer's Folly. You'll see it on your right at the other end of town."

Large carts with loads too awkward by day moved between the rows of shuttered shops, and the dirt-packed street muffled the sound of hooves. The air grew warmer as they approached the keep, and dark shops gradually gave way to brightly lit taverns that spilled laughter carelessly into the street. An open doorway offered a glimpse of the rowdy merriment inside, and she moved past it with relief before spying a quieter establishment whose painted sign proclaimed it to be the Archer's Folly.

The stableboy was clean, if bleary-eyed, and led Cobhar away with gentle expertise. Elandariel retrieved her pack and trudged along the path to shoulder open the heavy wooden door. Unlike the merry revelry of the other Inns, this one was blessedly silent in comparison. The patrons all nursed their mugs, and only the occasional soft rumble of conversation intruded on the soothing melody that reverbrated from the minstrel's lute. She noted the scoured wooden floor and beeswax candles with approval before approaching the empty length of gleaming ebony that served as the bar.

"Eh? An Avalonian Paladin? We don't see those every day," the rich voice chuckled softly. "You need a room, bath, dinner, or all three?"

Elandariel stretched the silence for a moment to cover her startlement before turning to face the dusky man behind the bar. He was built of leathery skin and sinew, and grey had begun creeping into the trim, black beard. He swiped the bar with a bit of cloth before resting an arm against its smooth surface. He moved silently. "I only need a room and bath this night, Scout," her voice cracked with disuse. She cleared her throat before continuing, "And maybe a bit of information if you can."

He quirked an eyebrow in surprise before a slow grin spread across his weathered face. "Oh aye? Well what are you needing to know then? I might be knowing."

She had spent the past fortnight riding the dusty roads of Avalon Isle. She and Cobhar had stopped at each town, but no one had heard nor seen Maraena. In a moment of frustration, she had stood on Wearyall Hill and inhaled the heavy scent of apples before cursing the drakorans who had defiled her home, and cursing the whisper that had been carried on the night wind. She doubted this Saracen had heard much, but she had come this far.

"I seek one named Maraena. Avalonian, like myself. A sorceress with coppery hair and blue eyes. Have you seen any such person?" She waited patiently as his brow furrowed in thought and lowered her eyes to stare at her reflection. Hope was a dangerous thing.

His voice crawled in thought, "Maraena, you say? That sounds familiar. Where have I heard that name before? And just recently too." His fingers rapped a cadence on the polished wood before stopping abruptly. "You know there was a man here not too long ago. Saracen infiltrator. He was here asking about this Maraena," he glanced at her reflection in the bartop. "He had the same look of hope in his eyes too. He gave his name as Cairo."

Elandariel lifted her head to stare at the scout in shock. "Cairo? Are you certain that is the name?"

"Aye, that was his name alright. Cairo, he said. I'm afraid that's all I be knowing though." He pushed himself off the bar and swiped it once more. "Maybe you can find this Cairo, eh?"

She pressed the gold pieces into his callused hand, and he protested the generous amount with some good-natured grumbling. Her initial shock had gradually ebbed with his amiable gossip, and weariness once more settled over her shoulders. Cairo. She had never thought to hear that name again.

She paused before the stairway to watch the retired Saracen scout carefully polishing the gleaming wood. She smiled gently at this further evidence and reflected on their parting words for the night.

"How did you know I was a Paladin?"

"I served as a scout for 30 years til my eyesight started going bad. I be knowing after that long what's what, eh? I'd be a sorry scout otherwise, and a Paladin always wears their shiny plate even when they're in leathers." He winked and grinned widely, "And how'd you know I was a Scout then?"

Elandariel returned his grin with one of her own, "A longbow leaves her mark on a man."
________________________________________

Elandariel fell gracelessly into the velvet cushion and stared at the beamed ceiling. A low groan parted her lips, and she shifted her seat to ease the aching muscles in her lower back before closing her eyes with a deep sigh.

Another fortnight had been spent in search of Maraena, and later, Cairo. The warm hospitality of Archer's Folly had seemed a distant memory those nights she had spent on the unforgiving ground of Sauvage Forest. Cobhar had snorted his disapproval as she led him deeper into the chilled branches. She had stood in the dark silence, breath purled around her mouth, and briefly wondered if she had gone a bit daft.

"You've returned. Did you find your friend?"

She contemplated her inner eyelids a few moments before answering, "Nay, I did not."

She heard the soft pumph as he settled into the chair across from her. "You look like hell, dear." He chuckled to soften his words, but she sensed the underlying concern.

A smile shadowed her lips. "Aye, I imagine so. It has been awhile after all. I have muscles aching that I forgot I had." She opened her eyes to study the man before her. He was dressed simply, and the effect was startling. Years ago, she had mused that the man likely wore his plate armor to bed. Although they shared a deep friendship now, it was still a rarity to see him clad in anything other than armor. She smiled gently at him before asking, "And how have you fared this past moon, Alec?"

Dark eyes weighed critically, and a slight frown marred his brow. Instead of replying, he stood and walked past her. The retreating footsteps were replaced by the soft clink of glass, and she heard the splash of falling liquid. The footsteps approached once more, and he paused behind her to lay a hand gently on her shoulder. She glanced up, delicate brow arched in inquiry, before accepting the goblet with a grateful smile. The returned smile, she noted, did not reach his eyes.

He reclaimed his seat and leaned back comfortably before responding, "I've been well. Certainly better than you from the looks of it." She spotted the twitch of muscle as he clenched his jaw. Absurdly, she felt like giggling but wisely stifled the urge. It was clear that Alec was angry. "You're thinner, and you look as though you haven't slept in weeks. I'm worried about you, Elan. I wish you would tell me what troubles you."

She avoided his gaze to carefully study the ruby liquid. The wine swirled languidly within the etched bowl, and she closed her eyes to savor the rich scent of fermented grapes. She took a slow sip; her mouth still felt dry. "Aye well, I came home," she said quietly, after a long uncomfortable silence. She waved a feeble dismissal. "Nay worry. I'll not ride off again seeking ghosts. Perhaps I misheard the name Maraena." She stared into her goblet and wondered what words she could offer her friend to impart understanding. A memory tugged at her - the last sight of her friend Maraena, staggering with shock and pain, her open mouth unable to give cry to what she felt. She was too weary for this.

He made no reply, but she felt his eyes on her still. She shifted uncomfortably, and blue eyes met brown with a hint of challenge. "A letter arrived for you some days ago," he said finally, nodding towards the table beside her.

Fingertips tightened along the delicate stem as she recognized the royal blue seal. She buried the wax medallion under her palm and felt the edges pressing into her skin. Still, she knew every line that formed the majestic gryphon with wings spread wide. She knew the sigils that represented Justice and Mercy. It was, after all, the personal seal of Elandariel Essalieyan.

She wet her mouth once more - drawing out the moment, feeling the firmness of the glass on her bottom lip. The silky smooth sensuality caressed her tongue, but she could taste the faint smoky bitterness masked by fragrant spices. It was a transient reprieve from the seal, and what it represented. She exchanged the goblet for the letter with an inward sigh and cracked the seal. She read it quickly and leaned forward to toss the ivory parchment into the hearth. The flames trembled with indecision before fiery serpents devoured the elegant script. She watched the gryphon shift into a molten puddle of wax.

"It was from the Council," she explained unnecessarily to the one who had not asked. "The Guild is anxious for my return, and I have been neglecting my duties for far too long. They bid me home." Her face was inscrutable; her voice hoarse.

"Will you though? You have been gone from them over a year now, Elan."

She rested an elbow on the table and slowly traced the rim of the goblet under a fingertip. Her fingers stroked the intricate etchings down the fat bowl. It must have cost a small fortune. She could still taste the bitterness on her tongue. She was too weary for this.

"Elan?"

The red wine evoked a sanguine stain on vivid green. Her thoughts spiraled further downward like falling leaves in a shadowed forest. She remembered that hue most clearly of all. Impulsively, she picked up the goblet and hurled it into the hearth.

They sat quietly as the shadows lengthened across the floor. He stood then and offered her his hand, "Come, dear. I'll help you to bed. You need rest."

She nodded dumbly and slid her hand into his calloused palm.
________________________________________

The building loomed over her, and briefly she considered turning away. A promise had been made though, so she held her ground. Elandariel stared up at opaque faces. Some were serene and benevolent while others were burdened or suffused with great joy. She remembered marveling at these once long ago, but today their gazes seemed vitreous and mocking. She knew within it would be transformed, and she shed the afternoon bustle of the city for the quieter sanctum of the Church.

Lady Triss watched her enter. The woman hesitated within the threshold and looked to the windows. The backlit panes washed the nave in a myriad of jewel-tone colors, each vibrant and yet muted somehow. Triss had been here daily for many years training young squires to become Paladins of the Church, and the magical had mostly become mundane. It was times like these that she could see the wonder again through another's eyes.

Triss approached the woman deliberately. All in white velvet she was, tall and slender, with her white hair captured by the silver circlet on her brow. Her bearing was stately, even grave, as she studied the windows above. The eyes that fell were still very blue, and although they were not cold, they held no warmth either. Triss studied the woman before her and remembered the squire, earnest and maybe more pensive than most. Elandariel had been a brilliant student but stubbornly refused to accept some of the Church's dogma. She had caused quite an uproar within the hierarchy with her questioning and Avalonian ways. She had often been treated with distrust or veiled hostility, even by her fellow squires. At best, they had tolerated her with a mild form of neglect. Elandariel's response had been to armor herself with a detached arrogance, but Triss had not been fooled. They had formed an uneasy friendship that went beyond the mentor-student relationship despite her colleagues' warnings, but then Elan had always held a special place in Triss' heart.

"It's been long since you came here, daughter of Avalon." Triss had meant the tone to be light, but it came out strained with tension. The woman stiffened.

"The Church has never really welcomed me, has it?" the woman in white said, her voice soft with anger. Triss heard it, because she could not help but hear it. She knew this woman probably best, although often she questioned if she ever knew anything about the woman at all. She sighed inwardly and wondered if the pain would ever go away for Elan. Likely not. Some battled pain openly, and some just didn't care. Others took it within themselves, as if somehow they could glean understanding from nurturing it. Triss had seen Elan's silent struggle for years; she could see that this had not changed.

"Well, I'm glad to see you, Elan. I've missed you." Triss smiled warmly and hugged the woman before holding her at arm's length. "Why are you dressed so finely anyway? Have you found a man finally after all these years?" she teased the Avalonian gently and was rewarded with a soft chuckle. "Let's go into my office, and you can tell me what you've been doing."

The room was much as Elandariel remembered it - darkly paneled and a bit cluttered with various books, maps and papers. The light that came through the single window was filtered by the dust, and the same small bronze brazier stood in a cozy alcove near some overstuffed chairs. She was not surprised to see the chess table, its marbled surface worn smooth with countless moves. They had spent many hours here in the past. Sometimes she had been brooding and angry, and at others she had been thoughtful or proud. The Briton Paladin that served as mentor and teacher had always been here though to challenge her growth as a Paladin. It had not always been easy, but Lady Triss had persevered with a dogged determination that she had been too young to appreciate then.

Elan was overwhelmed by a surge of tenderness and shame. "I never made it easy for you. How did you manage it, Triss?" she asked, and something in her voice made the Briton turn to her, the stack of books she had been clearing from a chair forgotten in her arms.

The older woman carefully set the stack of books down on the floor. She took one chair and smoothed her hair back before replying slowly, "Well, you were definitely a challenge, but a welcome one. It's not hard to love you, Elan." She paused before continuing, "Come and sit with me. Do you still play?"

"Aye, every now and then," she replied and reached for the wooden box that held the beautifully carved pieces. "How many squires have you been trouncing anyway? You do not fool me, old woman. I know how often you win."

Triss laughed, "Too many, too many. Although young Anwill is showing much talent. Have you heard of him? He's quite the talk around here these days. Progressing quickly and shows fair promise." She leaned back in her chair and smiled. "Set the game then, Elan. It's been awhile, and I would see what you've learned since you've been gone from me. You take the white."

Elan cradled the open box within her lap and stroked the carved figurines within. She had come here with a purpose, but she found herself painfully reluctant yet to reveal it to the woman before her. She wondered if the intervening years had been too many; she wondered if Triss would understand. Some things the mind could not grasp. She wished for Maraena, although she did not think even her friend would be able to absolve her - not that she thought she deserved any absolution. She felt the torrential wave of grief and guilt approach and ruthlessly shunted it aside. She congratulated herself silently on being able to slip into the cool facade once more. The voice was mocking.

Triss frowned into the silence. Some trick of nature sensitized her to the struggle, and the agony was almost palpable. Perhaps this trick just emerged with a bond of love. She could not perceive much else though for the woman hid her eyes under downcast lashes, but she sensed when it passed. Elan tendered her a small smile, and the face she lifted was serene. Elan's grief, whatever it was, had not diminished her. Triss mused if this was the face the Priestesses of Avalon had worn when the city fell.
The chess pieces found their way on the board, each guided by slim fingers. A long, thin scar marred the smooth skin on the back of one hand. "How did you get that scar, Elan? Did the Clerics not heal the wound?"

"A Celt found his way through my guard, and I did not want to trouble anyone over it."

"Really Elan, you should have more care for yourself," Triss scolded. "Weren't you wearing gauntlets? I can't see how..."

"No," the voice that interrupted was curt. "No," she said again more gently. "Shall we begin then?"

Elandariel launched an opening gambit designed to decimate her opponent with each successive attack. And tonight, grieving and angry, her game held even more fire than usual. The white army marched across the board in a whirlwind assault to be met with an intricate and subtle defense. Slowly and patiently Triss marshaled her defenses and bulwarks to turn back the tide of white pieces. Hours later, Elan tipped over her king in resignation. They shared a moment of smiling silence.

"You almost had me, Elan. Well done. It's been long since anyone has given me a game like that."

Elan stood and poured them each a glass of wine before replying, "Aye, I almost had you, but you play too well for me. Perhaps next time."

Triss realized they had slipped into their old mentor-student roles, and so she was unsurprised with Elan's next words. But maybe it was the look in those blue eyes, or maybe it was the soft, restrained voice. Triss experienced a moment of dread with the formal demeanor that suddenly overcame her former student.

"Lady Triss, I wish to speak with you on another matter. Might I beg more of your time? I am in sore need of your counsel, although I do not know what aid nor understanding you may lend."

Triss spoke, her voice husky, "Always, Elan. Always."
________________________________________

Her throat tightened in response, and she smoothed the snowy velvet in her lap to regain her composure. No pampered lady's hands, these. Even after a year, her palms still bore calluses from rapier and shield, but they retained some form of elegance. She gazed at the scar she had worn for eleven years and remembered the day when he had given it to her. She had not gone to Gabhrail then to have it healed lest her secret be revealed. And later, she found that she could not part with it at all. The scar was all she had left.

"Again! Parry!" The salt of sweat stung her eyes, but she watched his every move grimly. He had barely fallen into stance when she attacked - a flurry of movement as she lunged and felt the jarring impact as his blade caught the blow and waited for the counter-thrust. It came a second later, clumsily executed with exhaustion. Even as the blade slipped past her guard and metal bit flesh, she scowled that his timing was still imperfect. His eyes had grown round then, and the slender rapier fell from his nerveless fingers. "If you must remember one thing only, it is this: never, ever drop your weapon," she growled at him. "Now pick up your rapier. Again! Your enemies will not care that you are tired."

"He did not mean to hurt me," she said suddenly, her voice softened with memory. "We were dueling, and my guard slipped." She remembered his stumbled apologies even as she had reassured him that the wound was not serious.

She laid a hand on his shoulder and chuckled, "Nay worry, Keagan. It will heal and was my fault anyhow. It only stings a bit. Remind me to wear my gauntlets next time, aye?"

"Who didn't mean to hurt you, Elan?"

"The one who gave me this scar. The Celt." Each word emerged slowly, dragged painfully from some unknown depth where secrets are hidden.

Triss leaned back and absorbed this silently before speaking, "You were dueling with a Celt? Why?"

"I was instructing him in the finer points of riposte."

It wasn't the answer Triss was expecting, although she wasn't sure what had been. The feeling of dread returned heavier than previously, and she studied the shining bent head with foreboding. She waited, but Elan remained reticent. Elandariel Essalieyan was many things, but rarely reticent. She didn't know what Elan had to say, but she was beginning to understand what it would cost in the telling.

Elandariel's stomach churned, a roiling motion that left her nauseous. She stared at the thin scar which had silvered with the years. She wanted to speak and ease the burden which had remained coiled in her for so long, but the words died in her before they passed her lips. Angry impatience flared for a moment, but she failed to sustain it. Even in this, she had failed. Bitterness tainted everything with a dry, metallic tang.

The bells for Vesper broke the struggled silence with their solemn tolling, and she heard Triss push herself from the chair to light the brazier and sconces. The simple act accompanied by the soft rustle of cloth soothed her, and she gazed at the newly lit flames in the bronze bowl that popped and crackled with their awakening.

The log in the hearth popped as the fire found a vein of sap, and the heavy burden in her lap dozed peacefully with a full belly. She smoothed the golden cascade of curls and wondered when Etain would become too big to cuddle as a child. It would be too soon. She was surprised even now by the fierce tenderness and love towards these children who were not from her body. Keagan smiled softly at his sleeping sister and tucked his knees under his chin before glancing at her shyly, "Would you mind iffen I called you "Mother" sometimes?" Her heart swelled and burst, "I would like that very much." She felt something shift and solidify further, "No harm will ever come to you as long as I am here. Go sleep, my son. I will be here in the morn."

It struck her like freezing water. She bolted from the chair, handfuls of white velvet clenched in her shivering fists. Oh God, please, she pleaded, her mind's desperate effort to surface from the memory. Please, not this one. All her defenses were coming down, layer by layer. "Walk with me," she rasped thickly.

"Elan?" the voice was sharp with confusion.

"Walk with me," she repeated and staggered out the door.

Triss sighed deeply and lingered a few moments to give Elan some privacy. The Avalonian would appreciate that. She spotted the glimmer of white in the shadows and found Elandariel calmly observing the evening service. The antiphony echoed in the great room, voices solemn as they sang the psalms. She studied Elan's profile from the corner of her eye.

"You will tell me, aye?" she asked simply. The woman turned to her then - pale, strained face hovering in the darkness. Elan's eyes were so old, so weary, so distant. She was reminded of a ghost and shivered.

"Aye," the woman finally replied before turning back to stare at the altar and candles lit there.

Throats raised in evensong, and she listened quietly:

"Iucunda lux tu gloriae, fons luminis de lumine, beate Iesu caelitus a Patre sancto prodiens. Fulgor diei lucidus solisque lumen occidit, et nos ad horam vesperam te confitemur cantico."

Elan's somber voice was a counterpoint to the joyful music, "It is said that He can forgive any sin. And what if one cannot forgive themselves? What then, Triss?"

"Laudamus unicum Deum, Patrem potentem, Filium cum Spiritu Paraclito in Trinitas gloria. O digne linguis qui piis lauderis omni tempore, Fili Dei, te saecula vitae datorem personent."

Triss made no reply but followed Elandariel into the night.
________________________________________

The white granite slabs rested starkly in the deepening purple of twilight, and only the susurrant sigh of leaves disrupted the tranquil silence of the churchyard. The two women had made their way between the meticulous rows, Elandariel stopping at each grave before moving to the next. Triss had attempted to engage the Avalonian in conversation only to be met with quiet disinterest. So now she followed in a wake of velvet and mulled the few words spoken earlier.

They'd come as a surprise, no doubt of that, and she knew many would have disparaged her friend after the initial shock. Elan was too clever to trust but a few, she was sure. Still, it only took one careless tongue over too many ales. She frowned at the slender back that had come to a stop beneath an immense tree. Instructing a Celt in swordwork - she'd never heard of such a thing. A thought brushed her mind, and her frown deepened. The scar was old. She may have been sheltered somewhat with her duties, but rumors reached even her ears. And in all these years, there had never been the slightest hint. Triss had occasionally wondered what sort of man it would take to soften the reserved Paladin. If Elan had fallen in love with this Celt, it would explain much. It was rare, but such things had happened.

"Do you know what tree this is?" Elan asked softly, interrupting her thoughts. The woman looked over her shoulder before turning and beckoned. "Come closer and see, Triss."

The low, spreading canopy overhead engulfed them in darkness even deeper than the surrounding nightfall. She'd seen it countless times of course, but she was chagrined to find that, like the stained glass, it had become an overlooked part of her surroundings. Familiarity dulled the mind - a sad jape, that. "An oak?" she guessed.

"I am not sure if you can see clearly, but the trunk has multiple stems. This yew is young yet, although it is older than us by far. Its branches grow down into the ground and form new stems which rise and link around the central column. Someday, long past our days, this trunk will not look so divided." Elan reached up to lower a branch gently, "This time of year the yew bears seeds which when ripe look like beautiful red berries. Beware though. Do not let the bark, leaves nor seeds pass your lips, or it will prove fatal."

"Elan, I don't understand what all this has-"

"Druids and Priestesses hold the tree sacred and as protectors of the dead. The yew represents immortality. Death and rebirth. It is one of the nine sacred trees for kindling Beltane fires, and in the Brehon Laws it is named as one of the Seven Chieftain Trees." She patted the trunk then and murmured something too low for Triss to hear properly, but it sounded like a blessing.

An argent sliver hung low in the sky. The waning moon would soon turn its dark face fully upon the land. Elandariel spied it through the needle-like leaves above and gazed at it without surprise. Waning for the cleansing; it was fitting. The quiet stroll had quelled her thoughts somewhat, so they were as the pounding surf on a distant shore. She had heard Triss' voice as she read each epitaph, but everything seemed remote and surreal. Even the words etched into chilled slabs were meaningless, as though a veil separated her from it all, until she saw the yew. It was known as the tree of resilience.

She had stared at its towering silhouette and hid her fear behind words. Paladin. Guild Leader. Priestess. Commander. Teacher. Warrior. Mother. She had worn each of these masks for longer than she remembered. They were like the multiple stems that surrounded and mantled the heart of the yew. Layer by layer. Elandariel now had a clear understanding of what she must do. Although, burning a yew was said to bring bad luck.

Elan caressed the gnarled trunk, "Esnill bes dithernam dire fidnemid nair. Ni bie fidnemid," before turning to the slight Briton who stood uncertainly nearby. Dark pools of shadow hid Triss' eyes where the ambient light could not reach, and she smiled gently at the careworn face. She sank to the base of the resilient tree that grew under the cleansing moon.

How else to reach the heart, she asked herself with some small bitterness. She was dead, or close enough, and possibly had been even before events a year ago. The stubborn pride that had sustained her this long was weakening, and so she approached the crossroad with some fear. Her hour had come, and really there was no choice at all. Yew was said to protect the soul on its journey to the otherworld; she wondered if it would also offer the same with the journey back from death. Elandariel grasped what remained of her strength and stepped into the pyre.