Author's Apology:
The other story I have where Alanna and Jon die is simply atrocious. This is unrelated to the other and hopefully will be better.
Klehmenteen.
As he lay in bed, the old man remembered. He was the last of an age. All the others had died long ago, and now he was old and alone. His name would be remembered for centuries; he was the king who united the civilized world, possessor of the Dominion Jewel, advocate of freedom and equality. And in the dark of the night, alone in his bed, Jonathan of Conté wept. He had watched Alanna die, expending her Gift to save one of Aly's children across an ocean. George had followed soon after, lost to the Black God's Option. For a few years, nothing bad happened. And then the fire at Naxen took Gary and Raoul. He and his wife had held together for ten more years before she too succumbed to the Black God, dying of an illness most Tortallans overcame in childhood. Duty and stubbornness had held him to his throne three more years. When Roald and Shinko's second child was born, he had abdicated his throne and passed his duty as the Voice of the Tribes on to his Roald. There was nothing for him to do but fade into the shadows and watch the dawn of a new era.
He was a chain and the links had slowly been pulled off, leaving him with a useless chunk of metal. Jonathan closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep. A most peculiar dream awaited him. Alanna stood in the desert, alone. A hand was outstretched, a smile on her face. He went to her, startled at how gracefully he moved. He took her hand and followed her into heaven.
Author's Note:
Yes, it is short. No, I haven't updated the other stories. I haven't decided if I will or not.
I hope you liked this one, at least. Tell me what you think.
Klehmenteen.