4:31 Lost in transcription.

There had been a dull thudding in Terezio's sinuses early in the morning.  He'd dismissed his mid-morning Remedial Divination class early because the students couldn't keep their worried thoughts quiet- and they tried their best.  But every time he had to perch his glasses atop his head and pinch the bridge of his nose, or close his eyes and bow himself slightly because of a dizzy spell, the din of concern picked up in their minds.
They'd nearly tiptoed out of his front room when dismissed, and the last student, valiantly holding back guilty tears, closed the door as gently as possible.

Word fled back to the campus with those students, of course.  No one in the Alternative Battlecasting Practices class even showed up at Terezio's home.  Instead, they collectively purchased a small keg of suzale, which the illusion students in the class enchanted so that neither the messenger nor Druce would have trouble carrying it.

Terezio had been in the shrine room with closed eyes when it arrived.  The pop of Druce's shock, combined with the flood of excitement from the messenger child's completely unguarded mind, smacked so solidly against the old battlemage that for a few moments, he couldn't tell whether or not he was still sitting, or if he'd tipped over onto the floor.  The throbbing that had spread across his entire forehead forced him to grope around himself, eyes still closed, to check.

The evening passed relatively quietly.  No one in the advanced practicum class showed up, but from time to time, Terezio felt a few of them try their hand at checking in on his health without alerting him.  Every one of them failed, although some not as miserably as others.  The vibrations of thoughts- his own, his wife's, his well-meaning students', as well as those of passers by- shook the bones in his cheeks, cracked mercilessly against the crown of his head, and sent shock waves of agony through his teeth, which made eating anything impossible.  He was in bed long before the echoes of the dusk bell floated across the city.  And after dinner, which Druce brought to him, he asked for the day's correspondence, despite knowing exactly how furiously she would respond.


"Yes, I mean it," he whispered, when she'd tersely pushed back against the request.  "Please, Maman."

Druce, who was firmly planted in the wooden ladder back chair next to the bed, pursed her lips.

Terezio gave a weak laugh that was closer in sound to a short sigh.  "That's an admirable job; quite a difference to just a few weeks ago.  The College should hire Silveredge, it seems.  And I apologize for making a practice lab out of our bedroom."

Druce bit the insides of her lips, then pushed them out between her teeth little by little.  Wordlessly, she got up and marched out of the room, retrieved the day's letters and bills from the shrine room, and returned.  With hands as delicate as a spring breeze, she peeled the wax seals away.

"Thank you," Terezio breathed.  "We'll deal with it all quickly; no arguments.  And then we will lay together in peace, until tomorrow, when the gods give us a chance to muck things up."

Druce looked over each of the open letters slowly.  Her breath deepened.  Her temper subsided.  Her thoughts became genuinely quieter, instead of being partially muted by force of will and newly learned meditative magic.

Terezio, still without opening his pained eyes, shifted his left hand, feigning a search for her.  He felt her tenderest and most furious emotions spike at once, and he stopped moving.  But when he heard the wooden ladder back chair upon which she sat scrape at the floor, he knew he would get what he wanted.

" 'Your touch is the balm that heals the wounds unseen,' " he quoted.  He heard the rustle of the papers resting in her lap.

"I wish that were true," she finally whispered.  "I wish I could soothe... this... instead of just shedding useless tears over it."

"N'es pas inutile, mon coeur," Terezio murmured, purposefully taking most of his voiced sound out of the words. "Mon amour, je t'aime beaucoup, ma vie-"

And Druce did indeed interrupt with tears.  Her hand squeezed tight on his, and he fell silent.  Thoughts as old as the furniture upon which they laid and sat rolled like thunder in the back of Druce's stormy mind.  She tried, vainly, to choke them back, but could not manage to do so while forcing herself to cry silently instead of wail in bitter frustration.

Terezio gave Druce's emotions space for a few moments, then tried to comfort her.  "Don't apologize.  You're right to hate the Dragons, right to hate my stubbornness, right to hate whatever or whoever made me this way.  It's your love that makes you hate so well; I know that."

"Why can't this be over?  Why can't we die and be done?  Why must it be torture; every step to the grave, torture?" Druce managed, her emotion making every syllable thicker.

That question was relatively new, and Terezio couldn't answer it.

"Sometimes it feels as though Triz is in her right mind when she tries to disprove the gods," Druce continued, "and we mad for going on begging them to help us, only to have their silent stares and unmoving hands- all those wasted hours on my knees, and still!  And still!"

"Triz believes in the gods," Terezio corrected quietly.  "She simply believes that they won't cure her.  On that, and that only, do we agree.  Neither of us will be cured, albeit for different reasons- some of which are, of course, unknowable.  Don't irritate yourself by praying for healing, Maman; pray for forbearance, and we will be answered."

Druce opened her teary eyes to stare furiously at her husband, whom she knew was in far too much pain to return her gaze.  She also knew, from experience, that he wasn't merely being sanctimonious.  He had, for more than sixty years, lived with the exact same ringing, buzzing, throbbing, dizzying headaches.  And in all those years, he had, with this type of counsel, managed to not throw himself from a rooftop, or poison or hang himself, as she had so wanted to do after every one of the frequent entanglements with the mysterious fever that never killed her, but never was beaten far enough back not to mount another assault two or three years after its last siege.

There was no proving whether or not Terezio was right, and in the years of Druce's marriage to him, she had taken his example more than his word.  She knew she would do it again, here, now, with a small heap of letters piled in her lap, and the man for whom every one of them was intended clutched by the hand. 

Terezio listened to the small sniffs.  Listened to the soft pat of tears that escaped the tyranny of eyelashes and fingers, only to land on dry paper.  Listened to his beloved wife's vicious thoughts, tearing at the gods, at the Purple Dragons, at him, at herself.  He gave her emotions space again, waited patiently without another word.


"Lliira, goddess of unfettered joy, grant us... happiness... however brief," Druce finally prayed, her voice still choked.  Her thoughts were more honest.  Some reprieve, in his pointless morass of pain.

Terezio sighed- deeply and peacefully.  Sweet thief, he thought warmly after Druce's thoughts had faded from his mind.  Tender magpie.  Never thinks for a moment that she's the answer to her own prayers.


"Thank you, Maman," Terezio whispered when he could manage to get sound out of his mouth again  "And now, to the business."

Druce, who had, in Terezio's silence, had more than enough time to repair herself, dutifully wiped her eyes with the back of her other hand, then wiped that on the side of her house dress. She rearranged the letters on her lap with her free hand and decided upon the order in which she would present them.

Terezio allowed her to organize them from what she felt was least to most important, without comment.  There was only so much of his mental eavesdropping that she could stand in a day.

"The taxes on our land are gone up, gods alone know why," Druce announced with the lightest touch of annoyance in her voice.  "They've come due, and here included is another request to please think over releasing the land to the Crown."

"And move our old bones back onto campus at a time like this?" Terezio hummed.  "I'll count them out their coins so soon as I can stand.  Rest assured; if the taxes go up again, I shall demand a higher salary of the College."

"For the work that you're not supposed to be doing at all," Druce frowned.

Terezio gave a single puff of air that stood in for a laugh.  "To them, teaching isn't work.  They've seen casters faint away due to the overspending of their energies, but educators do not struggle in ways they can readily see.  Further, how could they have any understanding of the rigor involved in imparting knowledge, when more than half of the commanding officers can't so much as make one cipher out from another, depending heavily on their scribes and priests to do so for them?"

Druce made a noise of disgust.  "What perfect laziness.  If we don't count out the taxes and send them by the end of the tenday, we'll be visited by a collector, this says."

"I might wait to see if they actually do that," Terezio mused.

"They better hadn't!  If they send a collector to this house, I'll find the strength to beat whatever it is off with a broom," Druce stormed.  Terezio allowed that to go without comment, and listened to the papers shuffle.  "The woodsman wants to know if we aren't low on firewood, seeing as a few of our neighbors have complained of days chillier than is customary."

"Are we?" Terezio asked simply.

"No; we're getting on fine," Druce replied.  "Traveled as we are, we know how to dress for chill, rather than heaping wood on the fire like a pair of wastrels.  But I'll write him and thank him for his consideration; he's only being thoughtful.  A mite opportunist.  But mostly thoughtful."

Terezio's mouth twisted, with some difficulty, into a wry smile.  He listened to the papers shuffle again.

"This is a Greengrass greeting from the Raibeart family."  Druce chuckled for a moment, then continued.  "It's nearly a week late, but poor Lady Susanna is coming late into her pregnancy, and a bit of delay in all she does is to be expected."

"We might prepare to stop by, or to send some sort of sweet, for the coming of the baby," Terezio smiled.  "Unless you've already stitched something up?"

"I don't know what type of woman you think you married, ser," Druce shot back with feigned insult.  "Have I already stitched something up- do you think any clothes could have survived between her last little girl and this one?  They're all likely moth's food!  I've made her up three fresh frocks.  And I've been keeping an ear out at the market place- any time I chance to hear a clutch of backbiters, I dawdle, just in case they might have word of her."

"You might also simply send her a letter and ask when the midwife, family alchemist, or birthwitch believes she might put the thing out," Terezio sighed.  "Rather than stalking some gaggle of gosippy chickens like an old farm cat."

"Oh, leave me to my fun," Druce beamed.  "I certainly won't be talked about in such ways any more; you're no cat hound or rusted toy anchor, and my innards are too dusty to give you any more little ones.  If it makes you feel better, they're of good enough means to afford a proper midwife.  And there's rarely a vicious word for her, even with the odd little ointment shop in her sitting room."

"They might get those ointments tested through the Alchemy Hall before they take people's coin for them," Terezio breathed wearily.

Druce quickly shifted through the papers on her lap.  "I don't know that they can... ungodly amount of notes from campus, but... ah, here.  This is a notice from Oversword Rigel about campus closures.  The library is closed, again.  Along with- see, I thought so- the detatched alchemy lab, and the evo- oh!"  Druce put the letter down into her lap and looked at Terezio before reminding herself bitterly that he couldn't look back.  "That means they've put Caeleh out of her office!  Might they have found out about your spell?"

"Experimental spells can only become practical ones if they're practiced," Terezio reasoned.  "If someone catches that little backwater aldermaiden at casting it on Caeleh, we'll all only claim that we were trying it without using some student as though they were a mindless testing animal.  If the matter is put to them angrily enough, they'll either submit a complaint to the Alarphons, who won't respond, or drop it."

"I don't like the way the Dragons are circling about," Druce complained.  "It's like they're waiting for something to happen.  Like they're waiting for you to botch something, somehow."

And Terezio said nothing, because there was no use in alarming his entirely artless mate, who could only fill the air with poorly controlled worries.

Druce pressed her point.  "Do you think they know about Silveredge too?"

"They might.  In fact, we must assume that they do.  But they might also, at long last, be smart enough not to allow it to rise too high in their minds, where I would hear for sure that they do," Terezio replied.  Or to purposefully wait until I'm in too much pain to want to pay attention.

Druce studied her husband's placid face.  Terezio could feel the nurturer's sense, more ancient and powerful than any form of magic that he could muster, rise up within his wife like a vengeful tide, beckoned by the ever watching moons.  He knew that she knew without knowing that something else was afoot.  He could only hope without hope that she would keep her pesky nose out of it.


The papers shuffled again.

"Here, this is another Dragon problem.  Battlemage Parsipanni's complaint against Eunice's capture has gone through favorably," Druce reported sharply.  "Although the guard that enacted the capture wasn't dismissed from duty- they didn't even suspend her, as they did to Piettro and... oh dear... what's the name of the other?"

"Cimaretto- Diego Cimaretto, who had that suspension coming," Terezio admitted in a low tone.  "He does what his inner beast and their shared ancestors bid him, and to hell with method or rank.  How he got his position is an act of his gods, whatever they are.  Xiarlethi..."

The two sat in knowing silence for a few moments.

"Is it possible for him to get a spirit guardian here?" Druce asked cautiously.

"No," Terezio sighed.  "And from my meager understanding of the mountain rituals- it's now entirely impossible for him no matter where he is.  There is a terribly small window of time, and he... was forced to miss it."

And predictably, the nurturer's sense within Druce roared.  She said nothing aloud, but Terezio heard every curse she leveled at the Purple Dragon soldiers so scared of the Zhentarim that they ripped five, six, and seven year old boys out of their village homes to serve, spy for, and fight with them as though they had been adults.

And that's why they call Humans 'baby-eaters', Terezio thought grimly after Druce's furious thoughts had cleared from his mind. There's more than one way to consume a child.

"Speaking of Piettro, I heard that he's no longer skirtfasted to Eunice," Druce finally continued, her voice admirably level.

"Someone may wish to tell the gentleman himself that," Terezio smirked again.  "He goes about in plainclothes, walking her to and from campus, and checking around her little cottage before she enters it."

"What if that Drow boy comes for her now?" Druce complained.  "Ser Aleksei warned us that he was patient."

"We have to hope that Xiarlethi is similarly patient.  He's capable, despite the disadvantage of being unarmed."  Terezio gently patted Druce's hand.

Druce shuffled the papers in her lap.  "Funny that you say that.  Garres sent a testing mandate for him."

Terezio gave a tiny scoff.  "We'll have to close that back up and reseal it; it's likely intended for Soire the Elder."

"No, it's not.  Jeanri's begged off, citing conflict of interest," Druce added.  "This is... terse... and unusually thickly writ, for Garres."

"He wrote it with anger, not ink," Terezio explained.  "Soire thinks Du Palivane is a brute, and Du Palivane thinks Soire is a fop.  I wonder why the little country mouse didn't write it for him?  Normally, they're thick as thieves."

"Be that as it may..." Druce looked over the letter a second time.  "I wonder if Tenny's quite recovered from having lost her dear cousin so awfully."

And again the couple sat in silence.

"She might be comforted in that his beloved was with him," Terezio suggested.

"That's true," Druce whispered.  "At least he wasn't alone."

Terezio shifted very slightly in the bed, then squeezed Druce's hand gently for a moment.  "We'll soon sort that curse out, now that everyone has stopped waiting for the Alarphons to do it for them.  I might see if the original practitioner is dead or too skilled in abjuration to be scried; that might do some help."

"No, and I'll set this mandate aside," Druce said firmly, shuffling the letters and bills again.  "I don't want you anywhere near that campus.  You've done the War Wizards enough 'help' for two lifetimes."

"Well, I might help Xiarlethi himself, at least," Terezio replied.  "If Soire feels himself too good, I'll try the boy here."

Druce allowed her hands to thud into her lap.  "Piettro's an actual Purple Dragon already; won't Caeleh be forced to tell you to try him somewhere on campus?"

"That old wolf bitch won't be forced," Terezio chuckled softly.  "If they try it, she'll remind them that they are not our direct superiors.  In the time that it will take them to have that argument, the trial will be finished and processed."

"But the findings won't be admissible," Druce pointed out.  "Didn't Garres have to be tried three times due to validity complaints?"

"That was the wellspring of the problems between Soire the Elder and Du Palivane- Soire found all sorts of polite ways to say that the trials were being softened to accommodate an 'exceptionally bright' Dragonborn practitioner."  Terezio paused in the memory, and gave a soft scoff.  "Eventually, the other witness finally asked him if the Eladrin among whom he'd studied had ever softened their standards for him, as an 'exceptionally bright' Human."

"He should have lost his job right there," Druce frowned.  "But no, here he is, citing 'conflict of interest'.  Eunice did say that Noelle and Piettro are to be married now, but-"

"That hurt Soire's pride twice over," Terezio replied simply.  "First, his artless, Halfling-sized tomboy takes up with a mountain barbarian.  Now it appears that not only is said barbarian capable of working magic, he could be as talented as Arcois, the natural son, who married into Elven nobility."

"By the gods- he didn't marry into it; she married out of it," Druce huffed, rolling her eyes.  "The woman's lineage is always a matter for the midden until it suits the man."

"Each is telling lies to suit the occasion in this case," Terezio managed with a grimace.  "The magically untalented but well-bred Elven bride claims that this particular Human family is the best of the best in terms of spellcasting.  The magically blessed, but common blooded Human husband claims that he now has a title in his wife's family, and that his children will be half-Elven nobles.  It's all good enough gossip to allow the Soire family to climb a rung on the Suzailian social ladder."

"Oh, how tedious," Druce muttered.  "Jenri is the master illusionist, and should be trying Piettro as an illusion apprentice, or whatever- let him try and talk around the Purple Dragons."

"Technically, Soire is just as conflicted about testing Xiarlethi as he had to be told that he would have been about testing Arcois," Terezio argued.  "It's the same situation, but with the desired outcome reversed.  Since Du Palivane believes that I'll be a more reasonable fit, I'll try Xiarlethi; begin to atone for the War Wizards' collective sins against the Skullwatch boys."

Druce shifted in her chair and looked at her husband.  "You didn't do anything to any of them."

"None of us did anything for them, either," Terezio noted grimly, "and we should have been the first to protest their forced service to the Crown.  Now, the real doing will be in telling the ladies that neither of them can accompany him at his trial.  Noelle will feel slighted as a future wife, but being well aware that she's artless, she won't make too much fuss.  Eunice will feel slighted both as a friend and as a trade student."

Druce made a noise of annoyance and rolled her eyes.  "Can't an exception be made for them?" she asked, not bothering to keep her opinion out of her tone.

Terezio chuckled softly.  "We made exceptions for Miss Lucien-Azaroth and Ser Voyonov because without them, Miss Ceubel bat-Naja would never have agreed to be tested by me.  Suspicion well placed... and deserved... from Ser Voyonov."

"I wouldn't have thought him the type to hold bitterness," Druce countered.  "Although I suppose you might deserve it if he did."

"He's not holding bitterness," Terezio agreed.  "He's being tactical.  Which inadvertently puts paid to any suspicion of battlefield madness caused by brainworm infestation, which was why he was sent here in the first place."

"I still say Triz used you as part of a shill job.  She's not so very unlike me after all, that girl."

Terezio gave a small nod, and listened to the papers shuffle again, accompanied by the dim mental grumbling of his wife's insulted sense of justice.

"This is from Caeleh, so it... oh, she's threatening to burn the house again.  Wait, this doesn't make sense..."

Terezio decided to lighten the pause.  "Her threats never make sense; she's useless as a criminal."

Druce shook her head sharply.  "No, this... H-A-M-A-R-F-A-E, is that even a word?"

Terezio gave a muted note of surprise.  "It's a very old Elven language.  I don't believe I could pronounce it correctly."

"You're not remembering it correctly either," Druce mused.  "Apparently, that's just the name of the alphabet.  This is the language- I'm spelling it, all right?   It's S-E-L-D-R-U-I-N.  Now, how is that said?"

Terezio gave a very small attempt at a shrug.  "You'd have to ask Caeleh herself; I don't know.  Spell it again please, Maman?"

Druce looked back down at the letter before her and concentrated.  "S-E-L-D-R-U-I-N.  And it's used for- oh, goddess, preserve me- A-R-S-E-L-"

"Arselu'Tel'Quess," Terezio interrupted.  "That name I recognize.  And it's impossible for Silveredge to be using it.  Most of its spells require at least three learned Elven practitioners, and there hasn't been documentation of its use since... 1370, I believe."

"Well, according to Caeleh, Silveredge is not actually practicing... whatever it is you said... but she's able to use its factoring technique to simply think lesser spells into existence."

"Well," Terezio breathed.  "That and her colouring could mean she's descended from some type of Elf, but if that were so, it would smash the Shadovar and Shadar-kai origin theory that I was taught to bits.  Did Caeleh say much more than that?"

"You've just said it- that she is likely descended from some kind of Eladrin, and has sent a message off to a friend stationed in Westgate who knows more about ancient Elven oral history than she."

"I respect how hard it must have been hard for her to admit that anyone knows more about anything than she," Terezio scoffed.  "Shows that she's taken a firm stake in the matter."

"She's also said that it's clear that even the barest bones of... whatever it is you've said... are powerful enough that normal magical requirements- implements, words, physical gestures- are rendered obsolete.  And further, as opposed to the standard practice of... whatever it is you've said... Silveredge is powering her spells with... with... oh, well, this sounds like madness, Caeleh.  'With concentrated repressed emotions springing from the violent dismembering of her tribe or chosen loved ones', she says."

Terezio gave another small squeeze to his wife's delicate, dry hand as he thought in silence.

"What does she mean by that?" Druce urged.

"I'm not certain," Terezio admitted, "but I'm suspicious.  It's unlike her to beg questions."

"What?" Druce asked with complaint in her voice, again allowing the hand the held the letter to simply thud into her lap.

"Caeleh's position is that Silveredge is using the most basic form of Arselu'Tel'Quess in order to think modern spellwork into existence.  Here's we know: point one, Silveredge does not use components of any kind, physical, verbal, or otherwise.  Point two, Silveredge is capable of using the proper syntax belonging to the aforementioned ancient art to express modern-day spellwork.  Point three, Elven magic- as opposed non-Elven variations of magic- draws its power from the spiritual bond between Elven practitioners, which is a foretaste of the unity they will feel in the Feywild.  All that is solid fact."

"Okay," Druce agreed.

"On their own, those three points don't prove Caeleh's assertion; from here, she starts venturing into things we don't yet know.  Point one A, let's call it, Silveredge is a far-flung Elven descendent.  Point one B, she is capable of fully understanding and practicing spells native to High Elven Art- that's the Common translation for Arselu'Tel'Quess.  Point two A, Silveredge has been translating spells from modern spellwork practice into High Elven Art in order to practice them.  Point two B, these 'translated spells', as it were, due to the innate power of the High Elven Art itself, do not need any of the components required to perform modern spells.  Point three A, Silveredge is capable of, and is in need of, an Elven bond in order to practice magic properly.  Point three B, as she has been largely without any kind of bond, she has independently discovered a way to power translated spells with the inverse of the potential magical energy source required to practice true spells of Arselu'Tel'Quess.  Are you beginning to see the shakiness in Caeleh's logic, Maman?"

Druce sighed miserably.  "I'm beginning to realize that I shouldn't have asked you for an explanation; now you're working."

"Let's try it this way," Terezio said softly.  "There are secondary assumptions that Caeleh is using to prove that Silveredge is using the fundamentals of Arselu'Tel'Quess that assume that it is, in fact, the case.  That is what is begging the question- attempting to prove a point with 'facts' that assume that the point is true."

"Right; that's enough instruction for the day, Battlemage Ranclyffe," Druce said firmly, preparing to get up.

"That was all the correspondence?" Terezio asked innocently.

Druce leaned over and very gently kissed the bridge of her husband's nose.  "I thought you said you weren't going to argue with me, gentil monsieur."

"Ah, ouais, ouais," the old battlemage smiled slowly.  "Although whoever told you I was nice was clearly lying to you.  Bit of sweetcake to get you on the cart, hmm?"

"Oh, give over!" Druce laughed, patting Terezio's hand and getting up.  "Imagine luring an old crone onto a cart to carry her away!  With cakes and tarts, no less!"

"To an old hawk, an old crone is a perfect perch," Terezio reminded, listening to her departing footsteps and her laughter, flowing back toward him like fresh spring water.

The Foremother's Hymns 4:30 In field promotion.

Seyashen, clad in his lighter colored robes, sat with his back propped on the easternmost side of the Bone College's fountain, looking over a letter he had received the day before in the clear early morning light.  Iaden, invisible to all but his cousin, went through his sword drills as though he were still a Turathi footsoldier.  As many mornings as he had done so, his ability to single handedly wield a sword obviously intended for two never ceased to amaze- and terrify- his still-living cousin.  To keep the terror factor to a minimum, Iaden made sure to be just out of Seyashen's normal field of vision.

"It's a sweet gesture," Seyashen said, continuing a conversation that had been sputtering along prior to the letter's unsealing.  "It's just completely incorrect.  It's not her fault; she couldn't have known."

"You walked into the woman's house, with flowers that you said were for her.  She even sent for you because of the sound of your voice alone, and you sat in her bedroom with her," Iaden pointed out, hefting his sword above his head in different directions, as though he were parrying strikes intended for his majestically horned head.  "Her husband, when he was living, certainly suspected that you might have some sort of... something... going on.  Something that hadn't been quite ended by his snatching her away from her village."

"The something that young Master Illance thought I had going on was blackmail," Seyashen corrected.  "He believed that Abethann had gotten me by some demon, and that I had returned to demand inheritance from him... some such idiocy."

"But that was after you actually told him part of the poor woman's problem," Iaden noted.  The sword, heavy and powerful, roared down behind Seyashen before being brought back up- first to practice parrying a strike intended for the left side of his midsection, then to slide up the pretend assailant's blade in the effort to force said blade back against the assailant's own body. "Before that, you were considered a failed suitor, to be consoled for your loss and sent away.  Act the part; let the flower woman do what she said she would.  If nothing else, it'll mean that she has to muster the strength to leave the house and walk down to the burial grounds every day, and that'll do her good."

"Her ancestors just barely managed to make sure that her daughter didn't get hurt or drowned just a week or so ago," Seyashen sighed.  "It would be idiot to believe that those children didn't tell tales, and that their parents aren't looking for some way to quietly take revenge.  Unless she could manage to safely get those flowers to the lover I did have, she might as well save her strength for her family, who needs her."

"What lover do you have?" Iaden asked, pausing an offensive forward sweep in the middle.

" 'Did', I said," Seyashen corrected.  "You saw her.  The woman by the river."

"Why didn't you tell me the whole story when I made that joke?" Iaden frowned.  "We should find her.  She said she wasn't dead."

"Eiko was different," Seyashen sighed.  "She had an extraplanar being's definition of everything.  She could have been saying that she wasn't dead because I remembered her, or that she couldn't die because she is pure psionic force, which exists as long as conscious thought itself does, something like that."

"Great, that'll make it easier," Iaden smirked, sheathing his sword behind himself.  "Living or dead, a woman who says she is the power of thought itself is going to be easy to hear tell of."

"That's not what she says," Seyashen chuckled wearily.  "Even if it were, she might still be hard to track.  As... ahem... unique as Semnemac is, I never heard of him before I came to this city."

Iaden snorted and crossed his arms over his chest.  "You weren't going to hear anything over the clanking of your guilt-chains in your ears, out on that mudflat that Dragonborn had you living on.  If Mi'ishaen and her pack of pageant prancers hadn't accidentally brought the place crashing down in flame about your ears, you'd still be there.  Now, where did you see Eiko last?"

"It's been thirteen years or so," Seyashen sighed.  "I don't know that she's still with her tribe, or that her tribe is still in the same place as it was when I-"

"I can work with a general idea of the area, if that's all you have," Iaden pointed out.

"She hasn't just moved physically," Seyashen countered.  "She was an attractive woman, extraplanar sensitivities and abilities or not.  Attractive women, especially the daughters of tribal leaders, don't have the luxury of holding candles for lovers thirteen years gone."

"She's definitely 'holding a candle' for you," Iaden shrugged.  "If she weren't, she wouldn't have shown up in the Axis."

"You showed up in the Axis," Seyashen argued.  "What's more, I left in the night.  I never told her- never said goodbye- just left.  She could be very angry with me."

"I showed up in the Axis because I followed your sister, who showed up in Avernus specifically to lead me to you, and through you, to my own sister," Iaden said in a leaden tone.  "Living or dead, Eiko showed up in the Axis and took you where you didn't know you had to go.  If she's angry that she did that and didn't even get a 'thank you,' that's anger righteously leveled.  We ought to find and thank her."

Seyashen sat with that thought for a while, allowing himself to see the world as he naturally saw it; a few shades lingering outside doors, standing behind relatives, tracing their steps over the cobbled stones, walking between and through the living people who could not see them at all.

"I treated Eiko's affection as though it were due me, as if I deserved it," Seyashen admitted.  He put Daiirdra's letter aside and opened the second letter.  "It's best for me to leave her be, as I had to let my father be, after so many nights of calling an effigy of his spirit to me for my own comfort."

"First of all, it's idiot of you to confess that to me," Iaden retorted as he rolled his eyes.  "Second, if she decided you were worth her love, then you were; true and pure love is always a gift, and the giver decides the worthiness of its recipient.  The concept of 'deserving' love- that love is something that someone has to earn, or pay for somehow- is entirely bullshit.  If that idea is written in some one of your daft old books, then point me it out, so that I can destroy it.  Any way, this isn't about your comfort, or even your redemption; it's about her closure.  I can either bring you to her, or bring her a message from you, and she can judge your sins against her, herself."

"It's too late," Seyashen reasoned.  "She could have married; could have children and a life by now-"

"Seyashen, you weak little sparkly smoke breather!" Iaden finally hollered.  "Your native language isn't Common; it's 'Coward'!  Even if the woman had married a lord, and were filthy rich with ten children, you still owe her closure to the relationship you either had or still have; you can't talk your way out of that."

"Did your father ever bully you in the effort to get you to do anything positive?" Seyashen demanded.  "Did that ever actually work?"

"Yes, he did.  My mother too.  And so did your parents, probably," Iaden snorted.  "Perhaps we're rougher and meaner for it, but it worked.  Stop getting upset about the paper, ink, and seal of the message, and take the damn message."

"Well, I have a message for you," Seyashen huffed.  "You're a death knight, a commanding officer of the ranks of the departed.  Even now, you could go out to the graveyard, summon every departed soul in a sixty mile radius, and tell them to take up arms against anyone against which you directed your emnity.  That's why you can come and go as you please, whether I call and send you or no, enacting whatever you see as justice upon whomever sparks your ire.  If you're so insistent on finding Eiko, you don't need my permission."

Iaden raised an eyebrow.  "You mean to tell me I'm supposed to go, find her, come back, and then ask you what you're going to do?  As opposed to going to find her either with you in tow, or with a message for her and instructions on how to send it so that she receives it properly?  I know I'm dead, but that doesn't mean I like wasting my time."

And for a moment, the cousins just looked at each other.

"Were you ever interested in a girl, when you were alive?"

Iaden shifted uncomfortably.  "I didn't think like that."

"Ah," Seyashen said lightly, looking back down at the letter in his hand.

"And not like that either," Iaden groaned, frustrated.  "I wasn't interested in anyone; I didn't have time for it.  I had my mother and sister to take care of, my father to make proud.  That was always enough for me."

"Speaking of your sister, her beloved is inviting us to visit," Seyashen noted.  "So before we go... wherever it is we wind up going... we can return to Suzail and-"

"For what?" Iaden snorted.  "More delaying tactics.  Let's just get started in looking for Eiko."

Seyashen looked up at the incorporeal image of his cousin.  "It's not a delaying tactic; this is a request.  And I agree with it; I think it would do your sister good to see us."

"She's not going to see me," Iaden frowned.  "When you brought me to her before, she didn't even believe I was there."

"She did by the end," Seyashen argued.  "This isn't a delaying tactic; your sister spent a very dangerous time in jail and could use some family concern.  A reason not to rush toward destruction quite so quickly."

"I can't do anything about that," Iaden growled, turning his back on Seyashen.

"You can, and you did," Seyashen urged.

Iaden gave a snort of disgust.  "You sent me to make sure she was alright, but when I followed your instructions to get into her Axis, she... nearly leaped to... to join me... and I almost didn't-"

"But you did, and this Ceubel Silveredge pas-Naja is very grateful to you for it," Seyashen soothed.  "Here, she's written directly to you, since she knows I can read it to you just as much as she reads my correspondence to your sister.  Who, by the way, she is teaching to read."

"Mama should have taught her," Iaden grumbled.  "All the useless wizarding she did, just to choke on some other sparkle bitch's jealousy; no time to teach either of us any of her book smarts."

Seyashen nodded, understanding very well his cousin's attitude.  "Well, she's learning to read now, from someone who seems quite intent on spending as much time as it takes.  Do you want to hear this?"

Iaden breathed deeply, trying to sigh the guilt out of his shadowy self.  "I hear the letter, then you pack your things."

"Agreed.  Ready?"

Iaden gave a small toss of his head.  "I'm listening."

" 'Most precious elder brother Eeyadhen, I pray ye receive my utmost thanks for your dreadful counsel to your sister, wherever in the Shadow Plane ye are.  It is my sincere belief that without your insistence, your much bereaved sister would happily have remained by your side, eternally absented from mine.  I know that as her love for ye is vast, undaunted by time and physical separation, yours must likewise be; yet, ye chose not to welcome her into so early an induction to the Plane of Shadow, or to guide her to some place of honor in the hells, but instead to urge her return to the Material Plane, and to my trembling arms, which on their own had not so strong a claim upon her. 

Oh merciful and honored brother!  If I could fall down before ye, and cry ye the river of my gratitude, be certain I would do it; if I were certain where in Shar or Asmodeus's domains ye did cast your shadow, I would do my utmost to there appear, that I might personally set down within it whatever offerings ye demanded me, even unto the cutting or burning of some part of my body.  I have done more for less, yet there is no offering, however rich, that could bless your spirit so excellently as ye with your sister's continued companionship have blessed your pitiful handmaiden. 

I beg ye, esteemed and powerful brother, that ye might allow me to make ye a shrine, as is the custom of the Shadar-kai, and that I might, for the unspeakable blessing of this second chance to love your sister that ye have to me given, at that shrine offer ye such delicacies as ye would have, in life, enjoyed.  I swear ye that ye shall be the honored ancestor of our house, when once it is made; that we shall forever shape the world by our deeds in your name, and in the name of your mother, and in the name of your father, whose daring and skillful child your sister has not once failed to be.  Even should ye choose to refuse my offerings, I swear ye that I shall cherish ye in my heart, shall learn all of ye that your sister will teach me, and that any boy child we shall have shall bear some shadow of your name, that it may strike like bright lightning in the Material Plane, and resound like roaring thunder in that of Shadow.

Your eternal servant writes ye directly in dread hope that Master Seyashen shall read it in your hearing.  The lawful rigor of Asmodeus, and the gentle guidance of the Raven Queen be with ye, and with your mother, and with your father, whithersoever ye goeth.  I pray these blessings upon ye with a heart full to bursting with emotion; I pray ye pardon it.

Ceubel Silveredge pas-Naja'

Well.  That's... well.  Alright.  That... is... an absolutely frightful mispelling of your name; looks like she uses Elven phonics to write what she hears.  And she wasn't joking about being emotional.  I don't think I've ever read such impassioned words outside of a prayer book, or a lover's poetry collection."

"All that came out of that skinny Shadar-kai that likes to skulk around behind Isha?" Iaden asked very quietly.

"Yes," Seyashen replied.  "It came from a very much in love, very grateful young woman.  Seems like that's your focus, making sure that people who love each other don't lose each other.  You can tell me why that is whenever you want; I have the rest of my life- and probably, my unlife- to wait.  For now, I'll go get my things together.  I don't know much about Shadar-kai customs, but Miye might; she might be able to shed some light on what an ancestor shrine dedicated to you might look like.  For my part, I wonder how much more command it would give you in the Material Plane, seeing as you're already more powerful than most undead beings."

"So what you're saying is, I should let the little wisp go ahead and build the shrine so that you can study how much stronger it makes me," Iaden said gruffly, but only half seriously.

"Just call me evil and be done; self-centered thinking like that runs in the family too," Seyashen laughed as he finally arose from his place by the fountain.  "Except for you- maybe it skipped you."