Tortured Dreams
Prologue
"We got some troublemakers Cya," the barkeep said, poking his head with thinning dark hair into her room, "D'ya want ta deal with 'em lass?"
Cyathea stopped running the brush through her wavy, coppery red-brown hair and pursed her lips thoughtfully, "Well, I suppose I should, since I am the acting ranger around here, but you always seem to have more fun with it."
The barkeep's eyes sparkled with glee as he grinned, then faded to disappointment. "Ah, I 'preciate the offer luv, but one of 'em claims ta have somethin' for ye. I guess I'll have ta leave them to ye this time."
Cyathea nodded and rose off the pallet she called a bed, noting how much bigger the bed seemed when it was just she within it. "Alright Jadarek, I'll be right down."
"Alright lass, no hurry. They'll not be leaving anytime soon."
Cyathea nodded again as he left, deciding to take her time. She changed into her usual garb, a suit of forest green, glancing around her room as she did. It was small, that she'd admit, but it was in the perfect place, right across from the stairs that led back down to the main part of the Inn. The magical view port beside the door allowed her to watch who was coming and going. The bed in her little room was shoved against the wall as far as possible from the door. One side wall sported a stack of shelves, the other a combination weapons and musical instrument rack. She'd painted the walls a dark green, and the paint cans and brushes shoved in the corner boasted of her plans to do more. She wanted to paint trees on the walls. Jadarek thought the dark paint made the room seem even smaller, but she had plans for it.
Sliding on her high crimson boots, she reached over and grabbed her quiver, the Quiver of Ehlonna, magic, and guaranteed never to run out of arrows. She took her bow, Sylvanus, from the rack. The weapon started to shift into the form of a longsword, but she changed her mind and kept it as a bow. As a final touch, she added her cloak of blending, which switched colours to match her surroundings and hide her in plain sight. She swirled in front of the mirror, grinning at the effect of her gear.
The common room was dimly lit, with booths in three of the corners, and a long bar taking up most of one wall. The tables in the center appeared scattered to the patrons, who this day were few as it was still early. Cyathea, like everyone who had worked there for more than five years, knew that the tables were actually arranged to the last thread-width.
She spotted the troublemakers instantly, where they had been shoved in a corner booth. They were nervous, sweat trickling from their brows. She tipped her head to the barkeep, making a quick gesture that only he would understand, and slid into the booth. "Hello boys," she greeted them, looking them over more closely, "would you care for a drink?" The two men sitting on the other side of the table were human, the one sitting beside her an elf. They were all dressed as warriors, but the one directly across from her struck her as a mage, and she trusted her instincts. She stared at him, and he shivered involuntarily. "Well?"
The elven warrior beside her tried to speak, but the one she'd pegged as a mage raised his hand to silence him, "She knows what I am." He eyed her with interest, "Perhaps you are as good as they say."
Cyathea raised an eyebrow in curiosity, "And who might they be?"
The man chuckled, "The ones who didn't get away."
"Necromancer," the ranger hissed, eyes widening.
He nodded, "And so we find that they were right, you are quite observant. Let us hope you are all they said and more . . ."
"What is it you want?"
The necromancer hesitated, "Your help."
"My help?" she laughed.
The human warrior snarled, "You find this funny?"
"Extremely," she replied, starting to get up.
The elf beside her grabbed her wrist, gently so that it was not taken as a threat. "Please, stay," he said, his eyes pleading.
She sat back down, grumbling, and looked over at the bar. Jadarek came over quickly with a tray of drinks. He gave golden cider to the elven warrior, and a clear drink to the others. She nodded to him, and he left. So, the elf is of good alignment, the others neutral. Lawful all three, for the drinks have no bite. She was surprised. She reminded herself to thank the barkeep for creating this system for her to gather information. She couldn't cast a detection spell to find out on her own unless she took them outside. "So what is it that you need my help with?"
"We've . . . lost someone," the necromancer said.
"Lost someone," Cyathea repeated, "what's the name of the lost one?"
The elven warrior opened his mouth, but the necromancer interrupted, "Names hold power Ranger, hence why we have not told you our own."
"Exactly. If you want my help, I need something to work with."
The necromancer contemplated, but the elven warrior spoke before he could stop him, "Galabrielle."
"Galabrielle . . ." Cyathea repeated, tasting the sound of the word, and ignoring the looks the necromancer shot her and the other elf. The name could almost have been elven, it was so musical in sound, but it felt brighter. "Celestial?"
"Aye," the elven warrior said.
The necromancer continued to glare at him, "I'm trying to help you Tilanthus."
"So's she. She needs to know, you said so yourself, so why waste time? We've precious little, we have to find her."
"I'd rather deal with this fellow than the rest of you, at least he's helpful. He might just be able to convince me to help you," Cyathea stated.
"If you were smart, you wouldn't."
The four of them turned towards the source of the voice, all but the ranger paling instantly, the other patrons in the room suddenly finding excuses to seek their rooms on the second floor. The human man was dressed in long flowing black robes, and seethed of power. A wizard, Cyathea noted to herself. He stood just outside the door of the inn, blond hair blown back by a breeze that didn't touch the trees, his eyes glowing a dim red.
"And you would be?" Cyathea asked, getting up despite the elven warrior's restraining hand upon her wrist. The warrior's eyes were filled with fear, but she shook him off. She walked confidently into the center of the room, and faced the door.
"Your executioner," the wizard replied flatly.
"Well Exey," she said, sliding Sylvanus off her shoulder and into hand. "I think you're a little early, I don't intend on dying this day." She pulled an arrow from the quiver and nocked it, glad she'd chosen to wear her long leather gloves. She held the bow in her left hand, wrist straight, with the pressure of the weapon on the web of her hand. She gripped the string with the first three fingers of her right hand, one above the arrow, two below, and drew it straight back. She raised the bow, and aimed it directly at him. "Care to reconsider?"
He laughed, a disturbing sound, "Silly little ranger. Your puny arrow cannot pass through my magic."
Cyathea smirked, "Would you like to step inside and say that to my face?"
The wizard growled deep in his throat, stepping through the doorway. Instantly his hair fell back around his shoulders, his eyes stopped glowing, fading to a normal shade of blue, and Cyathea released the bowstring.
The wizard stared in disbelief as the arrow took him in the chest, bright red blood unnoticed amongst the black he wore. He stumbled backwards, out the door, and with a single magical word, vanished.
"Amazing," the necromancer said with incredulity, "but how?"
"No spells can be cast within this place," Cyathea explained without telling all of the inn's secrets. "Now, would you care to explain your problem?"
Jakareth adjusted his patchwork cloak so that it caught and flowed in the wind. He grinned to himself, smile set on stunning, his soft, chestnut eyes sparkling with anticipation. The breeze blew his shoulder length black hair back, revealing his slightly pointed ears. It'll be good to get home . . .
He eyed the wooden building before him in the dying light. A faded sign hanging from a projecting roof beam proclaiming it the Horn of Plenty Inn swung on creaky chains in the wind, painted w
ith greens, yellows and browns. The entire place had an appearance of being worn. "Tried, tested and true, eh?" He pushed open the door and strode into the common room.
Cries of "Bard!" rang out around him, causing his grin to spread. He nodded to the patrons, promising them a song before the night was out, after he'd had something to eat and settled in. Cheers sounded as he made his way to the bar.
"Welcome home Jakareth, it's good to see ya back," the barkeep said, pouring him a mug of hot cider. "The elven lass be up in her room if ye wants to catch her before she goes."
Jakareth raised an eyebrow in curiosity, "Goes where?"
"Ach," Jadarek frown, "you look much like the wee lass when ye do that." He sighed, "I cans't tell ye where she's going. The little miss'll be angry with me, and I wouldn't be able to stand that. The lass has ways of making one miserable, as ye would know."
The half elf nodded, "Aye, that I would. I'll go see if I can get the information out of her, so I'll not get you into trouble." He downed his drink and headed for the stairs, past the kitchen and the bathroom.
As he climbed the winding wooden spiral staircase he knew that Cyathea had been alerted by the age old alarm spell. The bard had always wondered how that worked when no spells could be cast, but the ranger explained that the spell, among other ones, had been set before the anti-magic field had been set on the building.
Cyathea was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. "Gods, I've missed you," she whispered as she hugged him tightly. "We haven't much time before I've got to go . . .," she sighed, "Let's go stick your stuff in our room."
"Where are you going?" Jakareth asked as he closed the door behind him.
She took his bags and started putting things away, "Nowhere important."
"Cyathea."
She turned to him and rested her hands on his shoulders, "It's just a routine job." She ran her fingers through his hair and pushed him down onto the bed.
"Cya, nothing is routine with you," he replied.
She leaned over, drawing him towards her by his collar and kissed him. "I've got to go. Be here when I get back." She finished suiting up with all her weapons and headed back out the door.
"Cya!" he called out after her, but she was already gone.
The elven ranger patted her chestnut stallion's neck to reassure him, his colour making her think of Jakareth's eyes, and causing her to sigh with longing. She would give almost anything to simply go back to the inn and curl up beside him in front of fire. She wished also that the necromancer hadn't taken his warrior, turned tail and ran. The elven warrior though, Tilanthus, had stayed on, agreeing to meet her just outside the target. She was glad to hear he would be joining her, especially since it was his girl they were rescuing.
"Cyathea!"
The ranger reined her mount to a stop and glanced back, glaring. "Jakareth! What the hell are you doing here?!"
"I found out where you're going. I'm coming with you."
"No," Cyathea growled, "it's too dangerous."
"Damnit Cya, I don't need your protection. I've been out in the world, I can handle myself!"
She sighed, "Alright, alright, just to the meeting place though, then you're going back home."
Jakareth grinned, "Sure thing."
The pair rode on in silence until they spotted Tilanthus. The warrior was dressed entirely in black, and unnoticeable to the untrained eye. They dismounted and tied their mounts beside his. "Just ahead?" Cyathea asked in a hushed voice. The elven warrior nodded. She turned to the bard, "Alright you, go home."
"No."
"What do you mean, no?" she hissed.
"Exactly what I said, no. I'm not leaving you."
Cyathea growled, "Then we're leaving you behind. If you won't go home, stay here where it's safe." She slipped into the woods, Tilanthus following. Jakareth sighed, and crept after them.
"There she is."
Cyathea followed Tilanthus' gaze to the beautiful, celestial woman trapped within the magic-made cube of force. Clothed in a long, white dress with crimson hair flowing down her back, the woman stood within the box with an appearance of complete calm. She was breathtaking. The elves could feel her aura of power and goodness even from the great distance at which they rested. "Now how are we going to-"
Cyathea froze as the wizard she had thought she had killed stepped into view. Tilanthus cursed under his breath, "I thought he was dead!"
"So did I," the ranger muttered.
"This complicates things."
"No, really? I never would have thought. I thought having a wizard of extraordinary power blocking the way would have made things easier!" she said, falling into a sarcastic mood in her frustration. She crept forward, gesturing for her companion to spread out. At least if we're separated enough he can't take us both out at once.
Tilanthus began to make faint noises in his part of the wood, distracting the wizard, and she ran to the cube. She found the lock, but had no idea how to open it.
"Need some help?"
Cyathea glared at Jakareth as he pulled out a lock picking kit. "Yes, now hurry."
The bard grinned and quickly began fiddling with the lock, ignoring the sound of fireballs and lightning bolts striking trees not far behind them. "Aha!" he cried as the lock clicked and fell to the ground, the door of the cube swinging ajar.
Cyathea turned to the bard, the grin on her face vanishing instantly as he collapsed into her arms. "Jakareth? Jakareth!" she screamed, sinking to her knees, holding him tightly. Tears streamed down her face as she stared in disbelief at the gaping, charred hole in his back where he'd been struck with the wizard's fireball.
"I told you not to interfere."
She looked at the wizard, eyes devoid of emotion. Pure emptiness stared him in the face, and it unnerved him. She slid the corpse of her late lover to the ground beside her and rose to her feet slowly. She slid Sylvanus from her shoulder and pulled an arrow from her quiver in one smooth motion. She nocked the arrow as she'd always had and aimed it at the wizard's chest. "Why?" she asked coldly.
The wizard shrugged, "He was there, and I missed you." He stood, unafraid of her weapon, believing his magic would protect him from anything.
Cyathea poured her spirit, her emotions into the enchanted bow, and in turn into the arrow, calling upon magic she'd never known it held. She stared at the wizard, feeling hollow inside, and released the string.
The arrow pulsated with color: red anger, gray emptiness, blue sorrow, violet regret, black guilt, green revenge. It traveled swiftly, and flew true, shredding the wizard's defenses, and striking a killing blow. The wizard looked at the black blood pouring from his chest, life's blood, and fell over.
Cyathea slung Sylvanus back over her shoulder, slid to her knees, and burring her face in her hands, wept.
Tortured Dreams
Cyathea crouched at the side of the trail, her elven eyes examining the path, and discovering the light impressions of day old footprints. The tracks led in a direction perpendicular to theirs. "Moron!" she hissed.
"The name," the half elf growled as he turned and walked back to her, glaring, "is Moran." He swatted his fellow ranger in the side of the head. She ducked, but not quick enough, her coppery red-brown hair falling from her loose braid. She pointed to the tracks, and he began leading the group down the new trail.
Cyathea sighed. She hated making him mad, but he'd deserved the name. She was exhausted from lack of sleep, yet she had been the only one to notice the prints. If only he'd listen to her once in a while. She'd been a ranger since before he was born, despite that they both looked to be in their early twenties.
"Cya?"
She looked up at the half elf bard, whose cheek-length silvered black hair looked sawed off with a dagger, "Yes Theren?"
"Are you coming?"
"No."
The bard stared at her, "Wha?"
"Go on Thren."
The bard shrugged, and followed the others, wondering what was going on. When she looked back, the elve
n ranger was gone.
Moran stopped, and the rest followed suit, lest they bump into him, and suffer his wrath. "We make camp here," he said, surveying the clearing with pure white eyes that appeared vacant of thought. His short platinum hair was barely moved by the slight breeze.
The clearing was lush and green with vegetation, large enough to support all their tents, and walled in almost completely by tall, thick-trunked trees. He could hear the sound of running water. He quickly formulated a plan for setting up. "Jason, you go for firewood. Cyathea can get dinner. Siris can fetch water. Thren-"
"Cyathea's gone," Threnody interrupted in a whispered voice.
"She's what?" Moran demanded, turning to glance behind him.
"Gone. Sir."
"I didn't give her permission to leave," he stated.
"Yes, well, she did," Siris the crimson haired rogue, yet another half elf, shoved into the conversation, "So why don't you get dinner, and I'll set the tents. Threnody can get the water." She brushed past him and started untangling the tents from her pack.
Moran stood still for a minute or two, confused, staring back the way they'd come, ignoring the bustle of activity. Still saying nothing, he dropped his pack, strung his bow, and entered the trees.
Cyathea knelt at the edge of the sprite's spring. Tears fell from her face to distort her reflection with ripples. "Do I have to go back?" she asked. The spirits said nothing. Words from her Goddess did not descend to comfort her, to tell her it was alright, that she didn't have to go back. No messages telling her that her tortured dreams would fade. She heard nothing. Saw nothing. She fumbled for a stone with one hand, and flung it into the pool, shattering the mirror image. "Damn you!" she yelled in rage, not really a curse. She was on her feet in one swift, smooth motion, and began the words for a spell of travel.
The trio sat around the fire, an unlikely group: a rogue, a paladin, and a bard. The first and last half elves, the other a human. A paladin . . . how had they ended up with one of his kind in their ragtag group? No matter, he was there.
Threnody pulled out a small flute, and sensing the mood of the others, began a song that sounded much like a lament. It was, in fact "Lament for the Lost". As darkness had fallen, and motion ceased, the fact that Cyathea had left without a goodbye had sunk in. She had long been a part of their group, and it felt much like she had passed on.
"Threnody."
The bard looked towards the voice, still playing.
"I'd like to speak with you now."
Threnody set her flute down gently, much to the despair of the others, and joined their leader at the far end of the clearing where he leaned upon a large stump. "What?"
"What did she say?" he asked, void of emotion.
The bard shrugged, "Simply that she wasn't coming."
"Gave she no explanation?!" he said, now with icy rage, "How could she just up and leave?"
"Begging pardon sir," the bard said nervously, "but you didn't exactly give her a reason to stay."
He glared at her, expression and voice both cold and frozen, "Be gone."
She shrugged, and nodded briefly, hurrying back to the fire, frightened by his emotion, or apparent lack there of. The trio chatted cheerfully in the warmth of the flames, ignoring their leader, then retired to their tents. They left no watch, trusting the bard's Alarm spell to warn them of any intruders.
Moran sat at the edge of the stream, sulking. I didn't drive her away, he thought, trying to convince himself. He wasn't sure though. He was uneasy because of that; he didn't know. The half elf stared into the darkness, feeling strangely lonely, odd since he considered himself a loner. He missed Cyathea. On a normal night the pair of them would sit up, sharing a watch the first part of the night, and talk about life in the woods. He sighed, handed the watch over to the Alarm spell, and climbed into his tent, lying awake most of the night. Thinking.
"I'm going after her," Moran informed his companions as the sun began to rise, and tents began to be taken down. He couldn't just let her walk away. The others eyed him with disbelief. "I'll just take what I need, and be on my way."
"We're going with you," Threnody piped up.
"Yeah," Siris added, wanting to insert her two cents, "we certainly wouldn't want Jason playing at leader, and while you're not too good at it, at least we know how you work. Besides, it's Cya. Who knows what riches and adventures she'd stumble into without us!" She grinned, and Moran was shocked at the support from such an unlikely source. He and Siris had always been at odds with each other.
He nodded, and they finished tearing down the tents, and redistributed the packs. Jason took a heavier pack so that Moran's would be lighter. The ranger would have to find the trail, and knowing Cyathea, it would be hard. But then again, he thought, knowing her might make it easier. The two of them had often played tracking games. He knew what to look for thanks to her. If she doesn't want to be found though, Kord help us . . .
Moran studied the ground where the elf had last been seen by the bard. Light depressions were all that remained, but he knew they were her prints. How many times had he followed her trail? I'll just think of this as another game; she's not leaving me, she's leading me.
When they reached the pond, he ordered the water skins filled, telling the trio to avoid the portal. He walked over to it himself, and stared at it.
It shimmered: violet, blue, green, red, black. The colours pulsated, mixed, mingled, blended while staying separate. Impossible, one might think, but it was magic, and magic could do practically anything. It smelt of the elf. Seethed of her. It was an embodiment of her spirit. He felt a stirring of longing for her company. He'd never needed something so bad as to see her. To see that she was all right, that it wasn't his fault. Her trail had been too reckless, too easy to find. It was not as if she was leaving a trail for him, (Us, he reminded himself,) it was as if she didn't care. It wasn't like her, and it worried him. He reached out and ran his fingers along the surface of the portal, watching the ripples spread from the point of contact. It even feels like her . . . He stepped through without looking back.
The trip through the portal seemed to take forever, yet lasted mere seconds. The group passing through it felt as if they were in the elf's embrace, as if she was holding them. This furthered Moran's worry. She never took the time to wipe the gate of her presence . . .
The medium sized wooden building looked out of place, nearly completely surrounded by trees, with only a narrow dirt path leading off into the distance in both directions, perpendicular to the door. A sign, with a picture of a cornucopia upon it in pastel shades of yellow, brown and green, swung from a projecting roof beam with the sound of creaking chains. Both sign and building felt worn: not run down, but tried, tested and true. Worn from use, not misuse.
"The Horn of Plenty?" Threnody said as she stepped out of the portal, Siris and Jason right behind her. The portal disappeared with an audible hiss. "It's an Inn!" the bard grinned, pulling on her trademark patchwork cloak. "I hope they get patrons out here in the middle of no where." She rushed to the door, and the others followed, spirits lifted by the sign of civilization for all but Moran, who remained concerned, and very confused.
The inside was dimly lit, tables scattered in the center of the room. Three booths filled corners, and the other was taken up by a large, hard wood bar, behind which stood a human barkeep. Siris sat down in a corner booth, wondering which pockets were worth picking, while Jason the Paladin stared at those who drank with disdain. Threnody, of course, had chosen a spot and settled down to play a tune for the few people that dotted the room.
"Would ye be wantin' rooms?" the barkeep asked as Moran approached and sat at the bar. Moran eyed the man curiously. He was a human, looking to be in his late thirties, early forties, and wore a white shirt with brown overalls. He had thinning dark hair, and warm eyes. The ranger felt oddly compelled to share his story with the man. "Ye be a ranger lad?"
Moran nodded, "Aye. I'm looking for an elf named Cyathea."
 
; The barkeep's eyes widened, "What would ye be wantin' with the wee elven lass? She just got home. Most certainly hasn't done anything wrong, not my lil' Cya. She's no troublemaker she. Why, I've known the lass since before ye parents were born, human and elf both."
Moran was startled with disbelief. His elven mother had been close to three hundred when he was born, and he was in his twenties now. How could this human have known Cyathea for over three hundred and twenty years? Cyathea was only a hundred and twenty years old or so, as far as he knew. It was impossible, and the look on his face showed the barkeep how he felt about the idea.
The barkeep chuckled, "All is not what it seems lad. Now, would ye be wantin' rooms and drinks? I be Jadarek by the way."
Moran nodded. He took the offered drinks and joined his companions, wondering why he felt so inclined to trust the barkeep.
Cyathea dreamt, reliving a memory. She knelt on the ground, Jakareth in her arms, the gaping charred hole in his back. It was how she remembered it, down to the sound of her own screaming. Suddenly, it changed, just as it had in her last dream. His heart, though missing, began to beat. Puss, pale mucus green, began to seep from the wound, soaking her. The corpse struggled to sit up, and she pushed it away from her in horror, just as she had every time before. It gurgled, trying to speak, but blood was the only thing to erupt from its mouth. Cyathea whimpered as the crimson fluid poured over her, coating her like a second skin. It burned and froze simultaneously. She tried to wipe it from her flesh, but there was nowhere free of it. The ground was covered with blood, smothered in it, surrounding her. The corpse stumbled up and towards her, still gurgling wordlessly, as she tried to crawl backwards blindly, never taking her eyes from it.
Her hands slipped, falling out from beneath her. She lay on her back, the blood rising, trying to draw her deeper down into it, to drown. The charred, smoking corpse fell on her, radiating heat, scalding, burning. She screamed, the blood around her starting to boil and steam. Blood rushed into her open mouth. She-
-sat up suddenly, drenched, shuddered and sighed. Another nightmare . . . Words from a song floated to the surface of her mind: 'Is this torture never ending, is this pain inside me real?' She closed her eyes tightly, pushing the memories away. Ever since she'd felt the call to come home, she'd been haunted by his image. "Jakareth," she moaned, "why?"
The silence was broken only by her ragged breathing as she gave up on the possibility of sleep. Untangling herself from the sweat-soaked sheets, she stumbled to the wash stand in the dark. She plunged her face into the water, gasping at the ice coldness. Running wet fingers through her hair to kill the static, she pulled her hair back and braided it into a single coppery strand. She wiped the salty traces of sweat from her body with a damp cloth, and dressed. She flung her colour-shifting cloak about her shoulders, picked up Sylvanus, her enchanted bow, and her quiver. Silent and stealthily she left the room, closing the door behind her with nary a sound.
Moran had Requiem unsheathed and in hand the second Jadarek stepped into the room. "Calm ye self. If it be Cya ye be wantin', now's the time to see her. The wee lass has just gone out for a stroll in the woods, but ye better not be trying to take her from us. We need her here. The wee lass has been gone long enough," the man said with a whisper. The half elf nodded before realizing that his motion would go unnoticed in the darkness. The barkeep though did not wait for a reply. The ranger dressed as quickly as he could, and snuck out of the room, careful not to wake the paladin.
"'The blood spilled in the meadow's dried since long ago, the ashes scattered in the mists of time. Forbidden thoughts in my mind. Will this be the last day? Is this the price to pay? Should I forget your face, and cast away my dreams? Should I walk away? Tangled in a world of light with darkness inside . . .'"
Moran followed the sound of singing, listening to the words, not sound, and pondering the meaning of it. He found her sitting beneath a tree in a stray patch of moonlight, rubbing between the ears of an old shaggy grey wolf. The animal glanced at him as he stepped closer, whimpered and whined, but did not move. The elf did not look up, but he could see the traces of tears on her cheeks. He was struck suddenly by the realization that he'd never seen her cry. He'd never seen much emotion from her at all, except when she spoke of the woods. He wasn't sure what to do, or say.
He sat down beside her, and gently pushed her head onto his shoulder, sliding an arm around her. She cried audibly in his embrace, and he simply held her, feeling it was what she needed most. She buried her face in his neck, still petting the wolf. After a while, she fell silent again. Moran glanced at her, and found that she had fallen asleep. He shifted her so that she leaned back into his arms and they both faced the same direction. He pulled her hair from the braid and ran his fingers through her wavy hair. The wolf padded over slowly and lay down beside her again, lending his body heat to the two-footed ones, who lacked the fur needed for warmth. He held her through the night, and eventually all slept. Wolf, elf and man.
Cyathea woke rested for the first time in a month. She stirred slowly, not wanting to move. She hadn't felt so comfortable since Jakareth died. She blinked suddenly, wondering where she was. She heard a sleepy moan from behind her, and froze. Her wolf stood and licked her in the face. She couldn't help but giggle.
"Oh, so that's what'll make you laugh," she heard from behind her before the other side of her face was licked, this time by the person holding her. She'd never had her face licked by a humanoid before; it was an interesting feeling. She burst into a fit of giggling.
"Moran?" she said between laughs, "what are you doing here?"
"I could ask the same of you. Right now it seems I'm helping the old wolf keep you warm."
"Mmmm . . .You're doing a very good job of it too," the elf replied, relaxing in his embrace.
Cyathea dreamed . . .
His patchwork cloak, falling to just above his ankles, caught in the wind, flowing with it. His soft, chestnut eyes sparkled, his shoulder length black hair blown back by the breeze, his ears slightly pointed. The sight of him took her breath away, and she longed to run to him. The image faded though, vanishing before she could reach it. She cried out in despair. "Jakareth!" She spun around, looking for a trace of him. "Jakareth, where are you?"
~ Here. ~ The voice echoed in her mind, bouncing off unseen walls. She couldn't tell where it was coming from. She heard it with more than thoughts, more than words.
"Where?" she wailed, confused.