Lady of the Lake

Mareth wasn't sure why Rainbow Lake was called that.

She understood part of it. Mist would rise up from the lake and its environs, so that when the sun shone, a rainbow would form. But the same could be said for multiple bodies of water, even waterfalls. Why, in all of the lakes, rivers, and waterfalls in the Four Lands, did Rainbow Lake get to be the body of water that earned its namesake? She couldn't say. And yet she had come to the lake, and now, what the lake was called was the least of her concerns. A list of concerns that could rival the Codex of Paranor in length. The future of the Four Lands. The future of the druid order. Her birthright as queen of the elves. The future of the elves. The future of Leah. The threat of dark magic. 1001 concerns, all of which she'd have to deal in a lifetime before entering the Druid Sleep and doing it all over again.

Yet now, her mind was focused on but one concern. The path she walked alone, having left Eretria and Cogline to walk their own path. She might see them again someday, whether it be in Paranor, or on the throne of Leah. She had come to Rainbow Lake by following the Silver River. Had come to the river's mouth where it reached the lake, along with the Rappahalladran, and Mermidon. She had walked its banks, searching for any sign of him. The last Shannara. The last Ohmsford. The one whose name was both joy and sorrow on her lips, and a splinter in her mind. The one that at Paranor she had sensed was still alive. Or believed. Or hoped. Dreamt, maybe. Dreams, she reflected, were as insubstantial as the mist that rose from the lake. Faint and without substance, and all too easily scattered to the winds.

Wil Ohmsford. A smile crept to her face as she thought of the boy, even as the smile soon returned to the mask of sorrow. He'd pined for Amberle Elessedil, even in the knowledge that she could never return to the earthly realm. Now she was pining for him as well. Months ago she had told herself there was hope, that somehow he had survived the blade of the Warlock Lord. That the blood he had given to the Silver River to cleanse it of Brona's taint had not cost his own life. Once, Eretria and Cogline had shared that hope. She could see in their eyes that they had lost it long before she had, for after all, what did they have to go on but a feeling that Wil Ohmsford was not dead? She had let them leave. Practically asked them to. She had eternity to wander the Four Lands, and would walk them long after their bodies had crumbled into dust. They had their lives to live. She had but one life to find, before…

Before what? She frowned, as she sat on the grass surrounding the lake, watching its waters weave their eternal magic. If she found Wil, what then? How could she serve the Four Lands as a druid? Her father had loved her mother, but even he had wandered the world alone, sleeping for decades if not centuries to stave off death. If she found Wil, what would she say?

Many things.

Words that would never be spoken. The waters of the lake were the only words she heard now, the same words repeated by the Silver River as she had plied its banks, looking for any sign of his body. Any sign that fate could give her one last miracle, and the last son of Shannara still walked the land of the living. A fool's hope. She got to her feet, and-

Hmm?

There. On the shore. A few dozen metres away. Something shining. The light of the sun, perhaps? No. Its light was blue, and its own. Without hesitation, she sprinted along the lake's banks, stumbling as the sand gave way under her feet. Any sign of Wil, any shred of hope, she would take it. Anything at all. Even…even…She came to a stop, and stared. Eyes wide open to the wind, which carried away her tears.

The Sword of Shannara.

It lay there, on the banks of the Rainbow Lake, its own light more beautiful than any rainbow that appeared over this body of water. Just lying there, with no sign of its wielder. No tomb for Wil Ohmsford, she reflected. No Shannara to pick up the sword meant for Jerle Shannara, passed on to Shea and Wil after him. Without a Shannara to wield it, it would be less than useless. Even with her druid blood, she could do nothing with the blade. She heard a bird nearby, its song sounding like laughter. The sword, and not the wielder. What would she have given for it to be the other way round? In silence she picked up the blade, gingerly holding its hilt, as if it was cursed. Perhaps it was cursed, she reflected. Of the three who had wielded it, only one could have been said to have died well. For a moment, she considered throwing it into the lake. Water would not rust its blade, but in time, sand would cover the weapon. Let it be forgotten. Let the Wars of the Races be forgotten, let the bloodline of Shannara be forgotten, let it all be forgotten. Let the past die, so that the Four Lands could look to the future. She had to ensure that future. Had to let go, as Wil had of Amberle. Let go of everything…anything…anyone…

She didn't throw it. The bird kept singing. The rivers kept flowing. The sun continued its ever eternal journey of east to west. The Four Lands lived and breathed. Gingerly, she wrapped the sword in a shawl. Perhaps she might find a scabbard for it, but for now…

Now she was the last druid. The custodian of Paranor. Once, the sword had resided there, before her father bequeathed it to Wil's. The sword, for all its history both fair and foul, would not be forgotten. Wil, Shea, Jerle…it was their legacy. Their birthright. And under her, it would have a home. Long after her body in turn had returned to the dust from whence it came, the sword would remain. And perhaps, someday…to be reclaimed.

"I'll keep it for you Wil," she whispered. "For the day that you reclaim it."

A hope, if only a fool's hope. But the river flowed. The birds sung. And the world did not condemn her. In silence, she returned to her horse. It would be a long rider to Paranor. And longer still was the road in front of her. The road that would lead her throughout the world. The road that she, as a druid, would have to walk alone.

On that road, hope would be a welcome companion.

A/N

Would it have been too much to ask Wil to give Mareth the Sword of Shannara before dropping into Heaven's Well?

Well, guess I wouldn't have been able to drabble this up if he'd done that, so go figure.