Okay! The ‘bad end’ is here, with all the drama and suffering that entails. What, I cried myself to sleep for a week after I found out how HoT ends, I’m not gonna waste that emotion even if I’m going to fix it in the ‘good end’! I may have gone too far in the future since I don’t even know how PoF ends but I couldn’t let my poor boy be shattered forever. If you’re not here for sadness, then skip to the next chapter! : )
Caoilfhionn’s catharsis gets soundtracked to Petrichor by The Rise Undaunted and also to Answer by Bump of Chicken.
Contents:
– 1: Tiachren
– 2: Caladbolg
– 3: Canach
Part 8: The Strength to Live
1: Tiachren
He woke to find himself lying upon damp earthen ground, and sucked in a heaving gasp of air. How sweet it was, after such exertion! Even down here, where it smelled of decaying plant matter. He had truly pushed himself to the brink and it was good to wake and rest.
But Trahearne! He sat up, a little woozily as his sap took a moment to adjust its flow, and then pushed himself shakily to his feet.
Rytlock stomped over, sheathing his sword. “You did it! Two dragons down, four to go.”
“We did it,” he confirmed solemnly, a huge smile suffusing his face. “Mordremoth is dead.”
“Truly dead,” Canach said. “I can’t hear its voice in my head. It’s completely gone.”
“And we Sylvari are still here, still… us,” Caithe said in a low voice of wonder. “I wasn’t sure…”
Caoilfhionn ran to Trahearne, saw with concern that his eyes still glowed red. “Are you all right? Are you badly hurt? Tell me what to do.”
Trahearne took a deep breath, seeming just as weary as he. Well, with good reason. “Caoilfhionn… I… My sword… Caladbolg… Only its power can free me from this. Please, bring it here.”
Damara was closest, and she had to tug strenuously to free it from the vine it was buried in, and brought to them.
Trahearne took another breath, pain creeping back into his face. “Quickly, now: use it… on me. Kill me, Caoilfhionn.”
“NO!” Caoilfhionn’s cry rang through the tunnel. “Mordremoth is dead! We destroyed its mind! I will not-” He choked. He’d lost his brother and his friend – and many more besides – he could not lose his beloved as well. Not after all he’d fought. He flung himself at Trahearne, impacting hard into his chest, his face buried in his neck, and felt Trahearne gasp and clench his teeth.
Slowly, his arms closed about Caoilfhionn, returning the embrace. “But I still hear its voice. Mordremoth is alive. One last hateful vestige… a terrible seed planted deep in my mind. You must kill me, Caoilfhionn. Before that seed grows… before Mordremoth reclaims what it has lost.”
Caoilfhionn shook his head, tears already running down, wetting Trahearne’s neck. With horrified despair he realized his Wyld Hunt called him still. His task was unfinished. “No. No. Please, no. I… I can’t. Please… Trahearne!”
“If you cannot, then let one of the others do it,” Trahearne said gently. “It must be done. Caoilfhionn…” And Caoilfhionn pulled back enough to look at him, into that face so beautiful though half-frozen into wood, into those eyes so gentle even through the corruption that made them glow red. “Fear not this night-”
“NO.” Caoilfhionn sobbed, clutching harder at him. “That’s not fair. You can’t-”
“…you will not go astray.” Trahearne was running out of air, his voice weakening and breathy, fading and wilting before his eyes. “And you… will always be strong…”
Caoilfhionn shook his head, tears pouring. “Not without you. I… I can’t go on without you. The dawn can’t exist without the dusk.”
“You can, beloved – my love – I love you. And you must. Please. Quickly. I can’t hold on any…”
There was a rumble, and Trahearne’s whole face changed, and a shadow rose behind him – a shadow with malevolent yellow eyes, and a blast of magic knocked them all back a pace, even Caoilfhionn. Trahearne thrashed, and from his mouth came horrible words. “I am the future. I am this world. You cannot destroy me. Run while you can.”
Everyone yelled, with anger and fear. “What do we do!?” Damara cried. “Do you want me to-”
“I’ll do it-” Rytlock said.
“No!” Caoilfhionn said. “Give- give it to me!” No one else but he could do this – he would wish if their places were reversed that it be like that. He could not see through his tears, reaching out blindly, and Damara pressed the long hilt into his hand. “Trahearne – I – I love you – forever!” He stabbed forward, and the broken shards pierced Trahearne’s body right through.
And he let go, reaching up to Trahearne’s face, pulling him down for one last kiss, deep and passionate and wet with tears.
After a moment, Trahearne’s arms closed once more about him, and his love sighed into his mouth.
Blue light shone from the wound – Trahearne gasped against him in agony – and then he dissolved into magic, floating away in blue sparkles from Caoilfhionn’s empty arms. The Dragon’s spirit was gone. His Wyld Hunt fell silent.
Caoilfhionn stared blankly.
He screamed. He screamed a terrible scream of loss and heartbreak, so loud the others flinched away, and his throat burned and he tasted sap. Then he knew no more.
He woke. How much later, he could not say. His throat was agony but it was nothing compared to his soul. He could sense by motion and scent and sound that he was on a ship. Eithne was slumped over the side of his cot, her head pillowed upon her arms, fast asleep.
Annhilda bent over him. “You’re awake.” Her voice was soft, trying not to wake Eithne.
He looked at her, but could not answer.
She made a sympathetic face, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
He turned away.
“Caithe picked up his ring,” Annhilda said. “It’s on your finger next to yours. Forgive the liberty, but we didn’t want it to get lost.”
His eyes burned.
“We’re going by ship to the Grove,” Annhilda said. “We made it to the coast and got a fleet from Rata Sum to pick us up. We already stopped by there, to let the Asura off, but I figured you’d need to be home as soon as you can. Your sister Eithne hasn’t left your side.”
He lay still. He didn’t really care. There was no reason anymore.
She patted his shoulder one more time and withdrew. “Rest. We’re here for you.”
He was strong enough to walk when they docked at the Grove, and he walked calmly and steadily forwards. He ignored Caithe and Eithne – ignored Cathaoir and Blathnat – he kept moving forwards until he stood in the Omphalos Grove before the Pale Tree.
She was looking better, and it was good to see her as she truly was, for the last time he had ‘seen’ her was as a Blighted illusion in Mordremoth’s mind. She bent to him with grief of her own to meet his. “Oh, my son. Come here.”
“I couldn’t save him. I failed. I’m sorry.”
He fell forward into her arms, weeping into her petal skirts. She held him gently. “You did not fail. I know your pain, dear one. You are not alone.” And he was not, he could feel her comforting presence all around him. “Your poor voice… I fear it is gone forever. I cannot mend that tear.”
It didn’t matter to him. He didn’t need it anymore. He didn’t need life anymore. Why did he yet breathe? The rest of him was already dead with his love.
“Oh, my child. I know you have nothing but despair right now. All I can offer you is rest. Come. Rest in my branches.” There was a soft sound from behind him, and he turned to see an empty seedpod waiting. Within… yes. He could sleep a long, dreamless, Dreamless sleep, forget the world for a time… forget he existed for a time…
He shed his clothes – there was no need for them in a seedpod – except for the rings, and climbed in, letting himself curl as a newborn into the enveloping, comforting nothingness of sleep.
It was a long time later that he stirred again, that he became aware of sound and touch. The seedpod peeled open as he lifted his head from his knees, and he looked out to see the upper branches of the Pale Tree. He took a deep breath and sat up, pulling himself up and out. He had nothing to live for – but he might as well see what was going on.
His eyes met Tiachren’s, and the other knight gave him a grave nod. “Welcome back, Caoilfhionn.”
He nodded in greeting, but still could not say words.
Tiachren gave him a hand in getting out of the pod. “I came when I heard. I have been waiting for you. And many others wait for you, too… but I am the one granted this honour.”
“I am glad to see you,” Caoilfhionn signed. Sign language was one thing Sylvari picked up from the Dream, along with spoken language, but it was far less common to need. But he needed it now.
Tiachren gave him a soft, sad smile. “We have sadly much in common.” He embraced him, and Caoilfhionn leaned on him, finding comfort in his touch, from this man who knew exactly what it was he experienced, what he had lost.
He pulled back to sign again. “How long has it been?” He could not tell how much time had passed since he had killed… Mordremoth. The Grove looked the same as it always did, sounded the same, smelled the same. The sun was passing through the afternoon.
“Nine months, more or less. Events have been moving in the world, though perhaps I am not the best one to tell you of them. Your guild friends have split up to pursue separate quests, the human god Balthazar has risen, and Canach is free from his sentence.”
Caoilfhionn nodded. It was good to hear Canach was doing well, at least.
“Was the time healing?” Tiachren asked softly. “I know no time can be enough, but physically, you are healed, but for your voice?”
“I was not badly injured when I returned,” Caoilfhionn told him. “I destroyed my own voice, but all else is well.” Even his leaves had grown back, the way they used to be, more or less. He paused, then asked slowly: “How… do you… continue…?”
“One day, even one hour at a time,” Tiachren said, looking into the distance, his own pain in his eyes. “Not a day goes by that I not think about Ysvelta. I know I am not alone. Mother loves us all. But I wish… for her… next to me, that I may hold her and protect her as I failed to do. Always.”
Caoilfhionn swallowed hard. “But then why live at all?”
“‘Tis a question I ask still too often. There is naught I can say that does not sound trite and hollow. I struggle. You will struggle, as much as I, for your temperament, your love is like mine. But… take hope in that, too, for I have won so far, and you may too. We must press on through the grief. We do not know what else our destiny holds.”
Amaranda the Lonesome’s words came to him. “You will know great sorrow… and great victory.” “A more glorious vision I could not ask for. I will accept both this great sorrow, and this great victory.” “You do not know…” He hadn’t known. No victory was worth this sorrow. The only thing that kept him standing was the thought that if he had not acted, then everyone in Tyria would have died. He had sacrificed his lover and his light for everyone else’s safety and happiness.
And that, in the end, by cold logic, was worth it. If only he had died too! He should have slain himself with the shards of Caladbolg while they were still slick with Trahearne’s sap, and be with him in the Mists, and then he could have been truly happy, to have saved everyone and still be with his love-
But he was not. He had not. And while he had no reason or will to live and fight, he could not simply leave of his own accord. Such was Tiachren’s lesson to him.
He took a deep breath and straightened. “Did my sister leave me clothes?”
Tiachren gave him a sympathetic smile, no doubt sensing the feelings passing through him. “Yes, they are below. Do you want to see her, or shall I fetch them for you?”
“I will see her… later. Only clothes, for now.”
“Of course. Follow me.”
He adjusted slowly to active life, staying away from everyone but his closest siblings. It was hard for him to spend time with others, when every moment and sensation reminded him his love was gone, and those who did not understand were intrusive and indelicate with their words and attentions, even when they tried to be kind; awkward, as most Sylvari were in their ignorance. They saw his grief as beautiful, he guessed – the last remnants of a love that had been famed throughout the Sylvari, as Tiachren and Ysvelta had been, for its purity, constancy, and passion. It was so like his people to romanticize it, and he could not blame them, for he had done the same before he knew what it was.
And they had lost Ruadhan, too, he and his close siblings. The Briar Baronet, they’d called him laughingly for his leaves and not his personality, he had been the most cheerful fellow, the most teasing of all of them, always ready to help. Bereft of him, they were weakened together, and Caoilfhionn could not find his heart for the wounds in it.
Tiachren became very close to him, and they went about everywhere together, so much so that he heard it whispered that they had found love again in each other. But it was not so; only that they were so close in age and circumstance, and both waiting for the day they would see their own lovers again. They held hands often, they embraced more than most, but Tiachren was not Trahearne, and Caoilfhionn was not Ysvelta, and if everyone else misinterpreted it, that was not his affair.
Caithe was another who understood, in a different way. “I cannot tell if I am more grieved or glad that I was not present for Faolain’s last living moments. But she brought it upon herself.”
“We could not stop her… and we failed you, when we did not look for her body.”
“You could not know what Mordremoth would do with her. I do not blame you. I blame myself, as I always have.”
“And now that she is gone?”
She glanced at him, seeing that he only sought guidance. “I am… glad it is over. As he said: I am free. While she lived, I was a prisoner of a futile hope. I had been mourning her for twenty-six years already. Now I can turn my hope towards better things. Like Aurene.”
“How can you have hope when it was so cruelly crushed?”
“Our Dreams inspire us, Caoilfhionn. We must never give up hope, or we give up on the Dream itself.” His own words, said to her as she doubted Destiny’s Edge, as she doubted in Tyria’s unity against the Dragons.
He turned away. He had believed those words once, with all his heart, trying to bring her to believe them too. Now… they were still true, but truth could not penetrate his heart, not now. He had not left the Dream… but he no longer felt in tune with it. He was a dull, dissonant note in it, no matter how the others romanticized it. And hope… hope was not his to hold anymore. Might never be again. His bright, innocent youth was over, and now he was old.
2: Caladbolg
It was some months later that he rejoined his friends, who had reformed the guild to include Rytlock and named it Dragon’s Watch. Time passed on, quests came and went, threats arose and were defeated, and he fought beside them, for they still had need of his strength. And he was stronger than ever, with Malyck’s sword at his side, and honing the theory that he’d proposed to Wegaff once upon a time that one could weave two elements together without tearing the spellcaster apart. His muteness did not give him much trouble, actually, once his friends became comfortable with reading his signs – and over distances he knew how to get whatever attention he needed with spells.
But he could no longer smile. Through the Crystal Desert, to the ends of Elona, his face felt like a mask, unchanging and serious, and he knew there was no light in his eyes. He knew – he knew – Trahearne would have wanted him to find happiness in the world still, not to deprive the world of the light and hope that had drawn Trahearne to fall in love with him in the first place. But it was all gone. All he had left was his sorrow and heartbreak and his valour in battle.
He was patient with the others, as much as he could, as they offered clumsy sympathy and tip-toed well-meaningly around him. They were watching him closely, concerned he might try to take his own life. It didn’t matter. That was not his plan, not at the moment, at least. Perhaps he was only going through the motions of living, but while they needed him, he would not abandon them. He could still find his mood lifted by innocence and kindness, and he could not smile, and his eyes could not shine, and that was all.
Well, not quite all. He got along with Canach worse than ever. He could not stand the older Sylvari’s dry flippancy, and no longer cared to be polite in his disapproval. He could work with him when he had to, but he did not like it. They had more than one one-sided shouting/gesticulating match during their time in Elona, and the sooner they parted ways, the better for both of them.
After Balthazar was defeated, after Taimi was saved, during a breather in the quest to subdue Joko and Kralkatorrik, he returned to the Grove and found a statue had been shaped in Trahearne’s honour. It was huge, and shaped of smooth brown wood, and had been there long enough to grow some moss already – though in the Maguuma Jungle, that was a few weeks at best. He looked at it a long time. It had been… a year and a half, though he’d been asleep for much of it, and while it hurt to look upon a likeness of his face, he could bear it now. Even if it was… It showed Trahearne as the noble knight he had been, generous and kind to all people, hand outstretched in welcome, but it was idealized. The statue wasn’t of the Trahearne he had called his own. That was all right. The statue was for everyone else.
He heard himself hailed, and turned to see Valiant Ridhais, who had been in Trahearne’s personal guard in the Pact, approaching him hurriedly. “Valiant Caoilfhionn! I have been trying to find you for some time.”
“My apologies… I have been elsewhere.” He ought to be in Elona with Wegaff, helping him learn how the flow of magic had been altered by everything that had happened – but it was time for a visit home, too. He’d be back soon enough.
“I know. I…” She looked up at the statue. “I wish I could have been there. To help protect him. I thought that was my Wyld Hunt for a long time. And I am sorry for your loss. No one can ever replace him.”
He nodded. “I miss him every day. But what did you want me for?”
“I wish to speak with you about Caladbolg.”
He started. Caladbolg’s shattered remains had been left in his care, but he had laid it in a corner of his hut in the Grove and not touched it since he went to Elona. “I have it. It is broken.”
“The Pale Tree’s thorn may be broken, but I believe that it is not easily slain. May I see it?”
He beckoned her to follow him and led her to his home, wondering what choice presented itself here. If she knew a way to restore it, then it could go to a new champion – which would definitely not be him. He could not hold it again, nor did he think himself right, not with his soul lying in more pieces than Caladbolg itself.
She laid her hands on it and her face lightened. “Though it is wounded, life remains, thank the Pale Tree. Caladbolg is dormant now, like a seed in the winter waiting the coming of spring. It must bond with a new wielder.”
“As I thought. Who might we seek out? We should ask Mother.” Perhaps Niamh, as a Firstborn and the head of the Wardens…
“There is no need,” Ridhais said, and pointed at him. “Just as Caladbolg enhances its wielder, the blade is empowered by the bearer. You must attune yourself to the blade to awaken it from slumber.”
“No.” He shook his head, signing the word several times. “I cannot touch it again. Why would you even suggest I take it up?”
She hesitated, and her eyes slid away from him. “As the… final wielder of Caladbolg before it became dormant, I believe you are already connected to the sword.”
Pain washed over him full-force at the reminder and he turned away, clenching his fists. But that brought his gaze upon the sword.
He didn’t hate the sword. It was a gift of the Pale Tree. It was a shining force for good, intended to strike down evil. It should be restored. But that he be the one to wield it…
“And perhaps…” Ridhais said slowly and softly, “it will help to restore you as well.”
He reached for the hilt with gritted teeth, and was still unprepared for the sensations that crashed into him. He still remembered with agonizing clarity exactly what it had felt like to drive the blade home through the body of the man he loved. Still remembered Trahearne’s arms fall weakly around him, his mouth against his, before dissolving into magic. He shuddered, but held the blade firm.
And then put it down again so he could sign. “It should be restored. If there is no other choice, I will take this on.” Wegaff would have to figure it out without him.
She nodded. “We must commune with Caladbolg’s Dream. I will find a vision crystal, that we may do so. I believe our first step will be to visit Riannoc’s grave. As its first wielder, he must have left strong memories in the Dream. I will let you know when I have prepared, and then we can go at your discretion.”
He had visited Riannoc’s grave from time to time, but he did not know what to expect this time. Ridhais gave him the vision crystal, and he only focused upon it for a moment before he looked up – and saw a dark shadowy figure instead of Ridhais.
The figure gave a cry of defiance and charged at him, lifting Caladbolg high. Riannoc! Caoilfhionn jumped away, nearly tripping over the Risen that clawed out of the swamp, reaching for him.
“The warrior desired only be become a hero,” said a voice, a beautiful voice, he could not tell from where. “‘A hero is fearless,’ the warrior thought, and abandoned all doubt. Magic sword in hand, he set out to slay evil. But even if he could not comprehend it, fear remained.”
Was Caladbolg speaking to him? Explaining this dark vision? He had no time to think about it – Riannoc was as fearsome as he remembered from the vision in his youngest days, when he had first witnessed his final stand. But now both Riannoc and the undead were against him. Caoilfhionn slashed and twisted, putting his agility to the test, not daring to risk even the slightest touch of Caladbolg’s bright magic. His sword and dagger carved burning swaths through the shadows, destroying the undead easily, dancing around the remnant of the warrior as the warrior pursued him. He could not stand toe-to-toe with Riannoc, not even now after fighting two Elder Dragons and a god. Would that the Firstborn had not died so young!
Fire burned the darkness away, and Riannoc stood there, unshadowed, looking around curiously. Caoilfhionn slowly lowered his sword as the other made no move to attack him, and looked down at the sword in his hands. “Caladbolg… I thought that with it in hand, I had no need for fear.” Caoilfhionn came closer, and Riannoc smiled at him. “But without fear I could not understand my own allies, let alone become the hero I saw in my Dream. And so I lost the sword.”
“It was recovered,” Caoilfhionn signed, and Riannoc concentrated, unpracticed in reading signs.
“That’s comforting, thank you, brother.” Did he know he had died after? Was this the real Riannoc, or simply a memory of him? In the Dream, they might be one and the same, who could tell? “Then I take it that this, too, is another dream?”
“Yes. I have to prove myself to heal Caladbolg.”
Riannoc grinned. “Splendid! Then let us dispense with words, and I will test your resolve in the manner of heroes!”
He saluted Caoilfhionn with the heavy blade – Caoilfhionn saluted with his slim sabre – and immediately launched into a flurry of attacks. It was impossible not to respond to his youthful confidence and conviction, still pure, still bright with morning joy, taking fun in the challenge of fighting another skilled Valiant, with the wind rushing in their leaves and the sap flowing in their veins. He’d sparred with the others – with Annhilda, with Canach, with Damara, when there was a moment that they felt the need to sharpen their skills. But it had not been like this.
Could he prevail? Against the Firstborn first chosen to wield this blade? He blazed forward with lightning, and struck a nimble blow against Riannoc’s raised guard. His sabre flickered, seeking gaps in his opponent’s defense, but Riannoc was quick, though he was hard put to it – and grinning with delight. And then Caladbolg swung and Caoilfhionn had to hop back in a hurry, away from those blasts of magic that would utterly wreck him otherwise.
He slid forward yet again, this time on a surge of Fire, and slipped past Riannoc’s guard. Riannoc stumbled, taking the hit full on, falling to one knee. As Riannoc put up a hand, Caoilfhionn stepped back, letting him rise. Riannoc laughed. “A magnificent bout. I acknowledge your strength, hero. May Caladbolg protect you as it protected me, and may you protect it in return.”
Caoilfhionn bowed to him. “Thank you.”
Ridhais took him next to the heart of the jungle, and this he… dreaded and yearned for. He nearly put it off, but he would not be held a coward of his own love. Even if he felt completely ill of anticipation… and fear of the wounds it would re-open.
“Firstborn Trahearne was a living legend,” Ridhais said when they had come to a great piece of wreckage torn from the Glory of Tyria. “It was always an honour to serve at his side.”
He shook his head. Trahearne was not a legend. That consigned him to history, to make more of him than he was, to place more weight upon him than a mortal could bear. The dead could bear it, but he wanted to hold on to the bittersweet realities, not glorious fictions. He had been perfect, and fallible, at the same time. “Why is Caladbolg drawn here?” he asked. This was not where he had found it, in the heart of Mordremoth’s lair.
“Caladbolg does not see the world as we do,” Ridhais said. “It could be that its last battle was here before being broken, or perhaps Trahearne had a strong memory here.”
He could only imagine. “I will have to fight him, won’t I.”
“He was a formidable necromancer even before being granted Caladbolg. You’re braver than I.”
He stepped forwards and focused on the vision crystal.
There he was; even cloaked in shadow that tall figure would be recognizable to him anywhere. Small minions bounded forward from his gesture, but he did not charge into battle the way Riannoc had done. That was not Trahearne’s way, no, but to watch and observe before unleashing a massive precision strike upon his opponents.
“The scholar dreamt of a land reclaimed from the Dragon’s touch,” Caladbolg whispered sweetly. “‘I must learn how to fight it,’ the scholar thought, and sought knowledge. But all the scholar found was despair at the impossible task. Perhaps from the beginning, it was indeed simply a dream.”
He remembered Trahearne’s quiet weariness from when they had first met, how he had carefully confided in Caoilfhionn – and fully expected him to reject him like the others had. That rejection had been what held Trahearne back, and when he’d raised his head and cast aside their expectations, Caladbolg had come to him.
Yet this Trahearne, this shadow, was fighting for his life, his great strength rampaging with desperation as he tried to strike at Caoilfhionn. It was terrifying, to face such power, to fight his beloved who did not recognize him. He dashed forwards, and Trahearne retreated, flinging out a wave of energy. Caoilfhionn was struck and fell, catching his breath at the pain, and then gasping again as the minions leapt upon him, clawing at him. He slashed them away, rolling to the side to dodge another strike, then zapped himself forward with Air, faster than Trahearne could retreat. But Trahearne took the hit, staggered, and then knocked him away and retreated again.
He would release him from this pain, and chased after him again, buffeted back by Trahearne’s ferocious defense yet never giving up. He was driven back, again and again, bruised and aching from blocking Caladbolg’s strikes and falling on his back, only barely twisting out of the way of Trahearne’s follow-up attacks – but he never fell back, getting up again and again, darting in close… and knocking Caladbolg aside, his own sword crashing down with sparks of Air.
Another blow, and Trahearne stumbled back, falling down. Caoilfhionn opened his mouth to cry out, but all that came was a hoarse whistle of air with syllables in it, and it hurt him.
Trahearne picked himself up, shadows falling from him, and looked around, taking in the no-longer burning airships, the lack of Pact and Mordrem, then looked at Caoilfhionn in slight perplexity. “This isn’t quite the battlefield I last remember. I’m glad you made it, though.”
Caoilfhionn dropped his weapons and hurled himself at him – oh! To be wrapped in those arms once again! To hold him and breathe in his scent once again! He was sobbing, blinded by tears, unable to tell if he were almost happy or even more heartbroken – for this was only a vision. Memory, spirit, or Dream, this was… a final farewell.
Trahearne caressed his leaves. “There, there, my prince. My Orchid Prince. I feel the grief in you… what happened? What of the Pact? Of Mordremoth?”
Caoilfhionn had to pull back to sign, and did not miss the look on Trahearne’s face that he could not speak. At the sight of both rings on his finger. “We’re in the Dream, Caladbolg’s Dream. Mordremoth was… defeated, by my hand and yours. You…” He could not go on, his hands shaking. “Mordremoth tried to take you. I… I had to kill you. You told me to – begged me to. And I did, rather than let him win. I slew you with your own blade, and it stopped him.” He buried his face back in Trahearne’s chest.
Trahearne sighed around him, stroking his shoulders. “Thank the Pale Tree. I felt such a terrible fear, to see our kin in the thrall of that monster. To think that you were in such danger. But I knew you were strong enough to see it through. And I am glad you were strong enough… to give me up.”
He shook his head. How could Trahearne be so unshaken to learn of his own death!?
“If my life was the price to defeat Mordremoth,” Trahearne said, soft and deep, “I pay it gladly. Don’t ever forget that, Caoilfhionn, beloved.”
He looked up into yellow eyes. He knew Trahearne had not flinched at sacrificing himself. He would have done exactly the same in his place. It had been the right thing to do, and had saved countless lives. But he was selfish. He had wanted to save everyone including Trahearne. He had believed in it with every fiber of his being, right up until the last second. “I wish it had been me. I cannot live without you. You are my world, my light, my everything. It hurts, still, every day. Because I love you. I love you. I love you.” His signing was almost violent.
“I know,” Trahearne said, his own eyes growing wet with tears. “But you are strong enough to. I… Caoilfhionn, I love you too, and I want you to live on. As long as you can, with as much happiness as you can muster. You were not made for grief, but for hope. I know it will be difficult, and it will never be the same, and wherever I am in the Mists, I must miss you too… but you cannot give up. Promise me.”
His breath caught in a grieving hiccup. “I… I promise.” He could not deny Trahearne anything, and not now.
“You already sacrificed me, but you must give me up a little more.” For answer, Caoilfhionn clung to him. “You can hold on to me now, but when you leave this Dream, you must make room for hope again, Caoilfhionn. You must smile again. Do not let yourself become hollow like an old tree.” He made a wry smile. “You’re only a fraction of my age – and who knows how old our people live? Think of everything you have yet to see – and I may not be there anymore to see it with you, but I want to hear about it afterwards!”
It was so hard – so incredibly hard – yet he managed to smile through his tears. Trahearne bent his head and kissed him, and he clung to him fiercely.
They parted, and Trahearne looked around again. “So… why are we in Caladbolg’s Dream?”
“Caladbolg was damaged in the battle with Mordremoth. To heal it… I need to… attune to it.”
Trahearne’s smile was proud. “I can think of none better to carry Caladbolg in my stead. Though, will that sentiment alone suffice? Will overcoming your feelings and forging a future of hope prove your worth to the blade?”
“I think not. I sparred with Riannoc, before.”
“Ah, of course, yes. Well…” Trahearne tilted his head with a grin, letting go and stepping back. “It’s been a long time since we had a friendly match, hasn’t it? Shall we?”
Caoilfhionn exhaled on a tremulous smile and picked up his sword and dagger. So be it. He sprang forward.
Trahearne watched him come, eyes gleaming, stepping back at the last moment and letting Caoilfhionn’s blade ring against Caladbolg. He raised his hand and a great flesh golem rose, charging Caoilfhionn, keeping him on his toes. Oh, he missed seeing that power displayed! Ah, he could not be distracted now, darting out of the way as Caladbolg clove the air where he’d been standing. He flicked Fire in return, Air swirling around him, determined to be impossible to hit.
He might have been a difficult target, but Trahearne’s defense was impervious, preventing him from closing to melee range, and the flesh golems – three of them, now – were doggedly chasing him though they’d never catch him. He breathed with determination and plunged past them, dagger blinding them as his sword sought its goal.
Trahearne met him head-on, his dance heavier than Caoilfhionn’s, but still nimble as he spun Caladbolg, power and energy surrounding him. Step for step, they dueled, Caoilfhionn spinning away to lay low one of the flesh golems and immediately diving back in. Trahearne was magnificent, powerful, indomitable, even more skilled in his confidence and gladness than he was in despair and shadow, and Caoilfhionn felt his strength pushing him back. Trahearne was not going easy on him, and he’d have it no other way. His smile came easier now, involuntary, though his breath caught painfully in his chest still. He wanted only to watch, to see his slender arms as they hefted the greatsword, to see how his lean body swayed with its weight, to see the wind blowing in his leaves. He wanted-
He failed to dodge and fell down from a bolt of energy, wincing more at Trahearne’s cry of concern than his own pain. Yet he must not fail here, for Caladbolg’s sake. He flowed to his feet, slid around a stab and slashed in return, meeting only Caladbolg’s thorn, knocked back by bright energy, ducking under a flesh golem’s claws. Trahearne was beaming, watching… pausing involuntarily.
He brought sword and dagger together and slammed them into Trahearne’s guard with the weight of Earth, and Trahearne fell onto his back.
His love was panting with exertion, eyes shining, and accepted Caoilfhionn’s hand up. “Your fighting has changed. You never used to fight with a sword.”
Caoilfhionn sheathed his weapons. “I bear it in memory of another friend lost to Mordremoth.” Trahearne had known Malyck… but this wasn’t the time for the full story.
“And that thing you’re doing with the elements… You’re even more brilliant than before. I confess to being quite distracted and perhaps not giving you the fight you should have had. But then again, you were distracted too, weren’t you?”
If Trahearne had not been distracted by admiration, he would not have won that match. “You inspire me, as always.”
“Your heart may be bound by heavy chains, but your conviction on the battlefield has only grown. I’m so proud of you. You have done great things, and I know you will do more.” Trahearne reached out and pulled him close, embracing him – one last time. “Try not to weep for me anymore, beloved. I am at peace with how it all turned out, and… I will see you again someday. Hopefully not too soon, but everyone goes to the Mists eventually, do they not? I will not say farewell, Caoilfhionn. This is not the end.”
No, it was not the end. But it was the end for a long time, and so he held Trahearne close, eyes closed, breathing him in, determined to stay here as long as Caladbolg would let him. He felt Trahearne’s lips brush against his and gave himself to the kiss completely, lost in this moment, this tiny bubble of happiness and peace granted him.
The last place Ridhais directed him to was Orr. Annhilda had said it much changed since he had last visited, but a verbal warning did not prepare him very well. It was beautiful. Sylvari and Asura, led by Dagonet, had been busy, bringing flora and fauna from the Tarnished Coast to repopulate the barren land, to take advantage of the purifying waters of the Source still working through the land. It was no longer barren at the coastline, grasses, ferns, ivies, broadleafed bushes, even small trees gallivanting up from the white sands to several hundred yards inland, enveloping any ruined villages that happened to be within their provenance, and every day brought forth new green to greet the bright sun and cooling rain. He even heard reports that young Oakheart spirits had been seen, the most telling sign of the ecosystem’s healing.
A small, cynical voice within him asked why they could not have given Trahearne this support while he lived…
But it was amazing. It looked exactly as Trahearne had described it to him once, his vision for an Orr free of draconic influence. He wandered, eyes wide, with Ridhais, Tiachren, and Cathaoir – for his older brother had been convinced to leave the Grove as part of this mission of rejuvenation – taking in everything he had last seen still stark and cold, with a faint smattering of lichens and seagrass its only adornment. The land was not exactly safe, for the Risen persisted still, but they were much less focused than before, shambling aimlessly until something interrupted them. Hardly a threat to give pause to the four of them.
“I wish he could have seen this,” he found himself signing often, and the others nodded. He made sure to take it all in, as much as he could, so that when they met again in the Mists he could tell him everything.
And then they came to the Source itself. There was a small outpost at Melandru’s Temple, now, and the Source was guarded by skilled warriors of the Pact, but the doors had been unsealed and opened, allowing the waters yet freer flow out, and visitors to venture within.
He went in, and found himself nearly in another world. His gasp was audible.
The water was cool around his feet. The wind from the upper windows brushed his face, bringing the scents of a thousand flowers, of wet moss, of fragrant trees, of so much life it was overwhelming. And to see it, wild and thriving, every surface green and smiling with flowers, trees uplifting their leaves to the distant light, moss and ivy spilling from the windows, Caladbolg’s vines climbing up the walls, overlaying the circular Orrian architecture with graceful busy growth. He could hear the hum of very small insects, saw small butterflies and moths fluttering around the flowers.
This was what his lover, the necromancer-scholar, had foreseen. This was what the study of death had wrought. He fell to his knees in the water, simply taking it all in.
He turned to Tiachren, embracing his knees with tears running down his face before pulling back to sign. “Trahearne healed Orr with his touch. Without him I will never be whole again.”
“I know,” Tiachren said, and raised him and embraced him. “We are all broken, my brother. Even our Mother has been wounded to her heart as we have. Even Orr will never be whole. But life continues; though it hurts, there is beauty in it. Even without Ysvelta, I have come to see it.”
Trahearne had told him to make room for hope in his life again. “If that is true… then maybe I can go on a little longer… I can carry everything he was within me and sing him to the world that they still know him. I will keep walking forward for him.” Though tears were still flowing, he smiled. He smiled, and it hurt, and he would not stop. He had promised Trahearne he would not give up. Now he was finally ready to try.
“As I do for Ysvelta. As we all do for those we love.” He kissed Caoilfhionn’s cheek, and Caoilfhionn returned it.
He turned to the pure spring, bubbling up so joyfully in the centre of the chamber, and saw a shadowy figure that looked like himself standing there. It was bent with grief still, and clutched at Caladbolg possessively. Yes, that was what he looked like inside, so pitiful, even pathetic. He should put him out of his misery.
“The hero sought to save the world,” Caladbolg’s voice rang low in his ears. “‘If I keep trying, I’ll be able to win,’ the hero thought. But the harder the hero fought, the further the world seemed to tumble away. Drowning in doubt, the hero could not even save themselves.”
The doppelganger swung Caladbolg at him, rushing to close the distance as Riannoc had, channeling the bright magic within the sword as Trahearne had. Now it was Caoilfhionn’s turn to dodge away – he was one for melee combat, with his sword and his dagger, but he needed some space to react!
Energy was flowing through him with his love and pain, and he flowed around his doppelganger’s strikes, his heart reaching out to him with every blow of his sword. Life was full of pain, and being left behind was pain, and pain clove to the soul, but love was beyond all that. Love had no pain in it, though pain had love in it, and love and pain twined together bittersweet was life in its fullest. His feelings overflowing, he met his double’s next charge head-on, slipped around Caladbolg’s stab to reach forward and strike him with Water.
The shadowy figure reeled, shadows pouring from it, leaving only a twin of himself, standing there smiling with tears, just as he was. It presented him with Caladbolg’s hilt with a slight bow.
Caladbolg’s voice whispered to him. “Hero, if you still believe in a brighter future, hold in your heart a thorn that can pierce all doubt.”
He reached for the hilt slowly, wrapping his fingers around its warmth, taking it from his doppelganger. The sword began to sprout as he did so, tender buds and leaves twining in small loops away from the blade and hilt.
He held it up, just as sun began to fall through the greatest window in the ceiling, and it blazed with light as it had when he first held it, pale and golden, sparkling particles fluttering from it. He turned his face upwards, wet with tears, feeling the light caress his face. He couldn’t stop smiling now that his mind was made up. His heart was free – ever chasing his love, but ready to fly free on this world while he lasted here. It still hurt, and it probably would always, but he could see past it now. He would live for Trahearne, and all his joys, his triumphs, would be for him, and then he would be happy too.
But Caladbolg… ah, it was not for him. He was glad to give enough of his spirit to it to bring them both back to life, but it must wait for another. He brought it down with a flourish, flipping it point downwards, and embedded it in the centre of the spring.
He turned and headed back towards his friends. He hugged Cathaoir first, and his brother enfolded him in a great bear-hug. “‘Tis good to see you smile again, Caoilfhionn. The sun was dark for us too, while you did not. Any time you need, let us help you bring the sun out again, won’t you?”
He was grateful for everyone’s patience and encouragement, though he could not say so while locked in the hug as he was. At last Cathaoir let him go, and he could sign: “I will try. Thank you for all you have done.”
“I don’t understand,” Ridhais said as he turned to her. “You bonded with Caladbolg, and it is whole, so why…?”
He gazed at it, shining gently in the midst of the waters. “I am not its bearer, even now. It must wait here and dream of a new wielder, and bear tribute to those who came before. The Pale Mother will know when it is ready.”
“But the trials…”
“The trials gave us both closure, with those we lost and with each other. But I am not its wielder. Please believe me.” Certainly, were he to take up Caladbolg, they would make fine partners. But it was not his place. Someday one would come who fitted Caladbolg like hand to glove.
“All right,” she said. “It is fitting. I will protest no more. My Wyld Hunt has been fulfilled.”
He moved to Tiachren, and found him smiling wistfully, and smiled wistfully back. “Welcome back. He’s proud of you.”
“And she is proud of you,” Caoilfhionn said. “Thank you.”
3: Canach
It had been twenty-five years since Mordremoth’s death. Caoilfhionn had continued his work as a Priory magister, largely as a field researcher, partly as a teacher, closely entwined with Dragon’s Watch and the fate of the world – too many times, to ask Wegaff, now Steward Wegaff, one of the world’s leading researchers of Dragon magic. His students seemed to like him, despite his impediment, and he was fond of them, too. He’d somehow gained a reputation for wisdom and patience that surprised him.
His life was… yes, it had become almost happy – satisfied, at least, contented with his friends, even Canach, his work, his planet. He had never returned to the bubbly butterfly he once was, but he could smile, and enjoy himself, and that was enough, wasn’t it, while he waited? Occasionally, he met someone who disagreed, various admirers who sought to chase away the last vestiges of sadness in his eyes, but they were destined to be disappointed. He was sorry for them, but it wouldn’t be fair to them when they could not be first in his heart. But he did meet some nice friends that way.
The semester ended, and five new Weavers who had been under his care were free to make their way in the world – and he was free to make a journey he’d been waiting to make for a long time. Wintersday had passed, and while the Priory was magically warmed from within, the Shiverpeaks were certainly living up to their name. He was glad to make it into Lion’s Arch, where it was at least a bit warmer, if windy this time of year.
He travelled on, westward, through southern Kryta, the Maguuma, the Silverwastes. It was dangerous, but he was experienced and unafraid. Finally, he arrived at his destination: the great tree in the region known as Dragon’s Stand. The place he had defeated Mordremoth. The place where Trahearne had died. It was well recovered by now, covered thickly over with normal jungle, the tree crumbling slowly as its wood rotted. The Dragon’s physical body had rotted away long ago, even its wooden bones gnawed by water and insects.
He waded into the pool, sinking through to the hidden cavern below, traversing the tunnel to its end. He had not been back in all the years intervening, but he still remembered it, burned into his mind. He didn’t mind so much now that he was here again.
At the end, he stopped. There was nothing here to show what had once been, not so much as a withered leaf. That was all right. He knew it had been here, twenty-five years ago to the day. He inhaled the damp air, exhaled peacefully, and reached for his dagger.
“Caoilfhionn!” The angry shout made him jump. It was an anger borne of fear, and now that he’d heard it, he wasn’t surprised at the shouter – but how had he followed him?
Canach stormed up, panting. “What… the hells… are you doing!?”
“I’m going,” Caoilfhionn signed succinctly. “I’ve waited long enough, haven’t I?” The loneliness was more unbearable every year. Tiachren’s lesson to him long ago had faded; Tiachren himself had been slain in battle a few years ago and was surely by now with his own beloved at last. All that he had was a threadbare promise that even his honour would consider breaking from the longing that overwhelmed him.
Canach glared at him with an odd mixture of rage and sorrow. “How selfish can you get? Blessed Source, it’s good I was paying attention. What, are we not good enough for you?”
“It’s not that,” Caoilfhionn signed. They had gotten over their early antagonism years ago, and he deserved an open answer now that he was here. “I miss him. I’m still lost and broken and you know it. I found hope for the world, not for me. I’ve only been waiting until I could tell him I’d lived as long as he did-”
Canach spluttered. “How dare you!?” He poked Caoilfhionn viciously in the chest, jabbing him backwards. “Does our love mean so little to you!? No one can love you as he did, but does it mean nothing at all to you? Even after all this time?”
For the first time, he paused. “I… But you will be fine without me-”
“Not the point, and you know it,” Canach said, and pulled him into a hug against his solid wooden armour, and now he could feel his true feelings – care, and concern, and warm brotherhood behind the hard anger and biting sarcasm. “We’re all going to leave one by one anyway. Everyone dies eventually. We’ve both lost so many. So you made it as far as he did. So what? Why rush things? You can’t come back.”
“He can’t come back…” But he was wavering… This was why he’d tried to get away alone.
“Are you afraid of forgetting?” Canach asked softly.
He shook his head, sinking into the hug, feeling his emotions spiral. He wasn’t forgetting, but the time that he’d been truly happy had been so short, in his steadily lengthening life. After everything… he’d hoped to see him soon, and to be denied that hope, even by other love… He’d been strong for that hope…
Canach’s compassion was warm around him. “Stay with us, sapling.” Canach was the only one to still call him sapling, now, but he was… entitled to it. “We would miss you terribly.”
He felt himself beginning to weep, as he hadn’t in years, suddenly breaking down utterly in the arms of his friend and brother.
Canach sighed, pretending to be gruff. “As I expected. You always get emotional like this.” But his arms tightened around him. “I’m sorry. …Sorry we’re so boring you can’t stand to be with us any more.”
There was a shake in his shoulders under his tears that might have been half a laugh. He’d come to appreciate Canach’s sarcasm far more than in his younger days.
“I know it’s been so long, with such a heavy burden,” Canach said more gently. “And it may be much longer still. But we need you, sapling. You’re not done yet. And if life isn’t working out for you, come to us and let us help you find something that works. If you need to take a year off from the Priory and drink yourself into a stupor, so be it. I’ll join you. If you need to spend time in the Grove and teach newborns how not to fall on their faces, we’ll make it happen. If you want to take up breeding cats and take Divinity’s Reach by storm with an army of fuzzy little arseholes, there are worse things you could be doing. …Caoilfhionn. I know he’s been waiting a long time. He can wait a little longer. You’ll have eternity with him when you get there. And maybe by the end of eternity, you’ll be sick of it.”
He pulled back, smiling and crying. “Never.”
“You say that now, but have you tried eternity? Anyway, no more trying to kill yourself dramatically on significant anniversaries, got it?”
“Got it,” Caoilfhionn signed, and wiped his eyes. “If you really can’t do without me…”
“It’s not negotiable. Let us help make the pain bearable, or don’t, but you must bear with it until the world takes it from you. It won’t be forever. I promise you’re not a god.”
“I hope not,” Caoilfhionn said. “All right. Let’s go to Rata Novus and have a drink.”
“That’s my brother.”
He lived many years longer, and his death was quiet and unclimactic when it finally happened. The important thing was he woke up in the Mists, and he knew it was the Mists, he’d been in their vast incomprehensibility before many times, though never this location. And yes… the finality of never returning to the Tyria that he loved was saddening, but…
For the first time in untold years, he smiled full and true, hope blossoming within his soul like it had not since he was the youngest of saplings. He was here. He was finally on the same plane as his love. And he did not know where he was, and the Mists were infinite, but it didn’t matter. He had all the time in existence to find him. He laughed – and now he could laugh. He’d almost missed the sound of his own voice, and lifted it in song.
He did not know how long he wandered – years, decades, hours. It didn’t matter. What mattered was how his sap burned within him with eagerness, like he was a sprout again. Every once in a while, he cried out his lover’s name, and listened to it fade into the sky.
The Mist land he was in turned into a mountainous jungle, volcanic stones pillowed with moss and overgrown with great broad-leafed plants, misty and – smelling so familiar it brought tears to his eyes. Green, slightly bitter, warm, alive…
Something moved in the jungle ahead of him, and he looked, wondering if it would be friend or foe. He’d met some of both, on his wanderings.
Yellow eyes blinked owlishly at him. Firm lips parted in surprise. “Caoilfhionn?”
“Trahearne!” He ran, and Trahearne ran to him, and they collided in the tightest embrace possible. Caoilfhionn was weeping with joy, and Trahearne… maybe he was weeping too. “I’m here. I finally found you.”
“You took your time,” Trahearne teased him, and the way his voice rolled through Caoilfhionn’s body, deep and dry and full of love, made him cling to him tighter. “Easy, my heart. You can’t kill me here, but it feels like you’re trying…”
“I missed you so much,” Caoilfhionn whispered. “Every day I longed for you. But they would not let me go of my own accord.”
“Good,” Trahearne said. “I hoped you would not. I knew you would find it difficult, but you held on. I’m proud of you; so proud, Caoilfhionn. I love you so much. My beloved, my prince, my everything.”
“I love you,” Caoilfhionn said, and words seemed insufficient, so he leaned up and kissed Trahearne as if he would become part of him.