Jessi: I do not own the Forgotten Realms but these characters are mine and mine alone! It is highly recommended to read the previous three Chronicles before this one.

Hello and welcome to the penultimate Chronicle – the fourth book of Chel and Vale's story: Binding Chains!

Thank you for taking the time to read this story.

Please enjoy! (bow)

There was, on the world known as Aber-Toril, on the continent known as Faerun, a range of mountains so high and sheer-faced that they were considered impassable to all those without wings. But hidden among those peaks, cut off from the rest of the world was a wooded valley. Centuries ago a colony of outcast elves had been led to this place, out of their exodus, by an avatar of Tiamet himself. They had thrived here, their home protected by the Dragon God's spells and by the new strains of sorcerer blood that arose.

Currently the product of one of those sorcerer lines, the strongest of them all, was walking through the pre-dawn mist.

She did not look like a powerful magic user at the moment. She was small and slender, clad in a simple white robe, and had a pretty face framed by long, blonde hair. But her bright blue eyes were intelligent and as she walked forward she remained in the centre of a circle of mist-free air. For despite appearances she was a clerical prodigy, the youngest high priestess ever to be chosen, as well as a gifted sorceress. Not only that but as heir to the throne she had other, unique powers at her disposal.

But none of those things mattered, not today at least.

Vale looked up as her goal came into view, releasing her clear air spell as the mist began to vanish with the arrival of the sun.

Her destination was a wide circle of trees set on top of a hill. Inside the circle, alcoves had been cut into the still-living trees with magic. Six of these had been filled with white marble statues, perfectly carved representations of all those monarchs that had gone to their rest. She bowed slightly towards them and headed for the seventh alcove.

There was no statue here but there was a small simple plaque and Vale knelt before it. Her fingers gently traced the name inscribed onto it and she smiled sadly,

"Hello Mother."

The sun was higher in the sky when the other elf made his way to the circle of trees. He bore a strong resemblance to the young priestess, the same bright blue eyes, the same fine features and long blonde hair, grown out until it reached his waist. There was also the same youthful vitality about him, even though this elf, Kerova, father of Vale and ruler of this hidden civilisation, was nearing the end of his fourth century.

He did not enter the Memorial Circle like his daughter but instead lingered just inside the entrance. The elf king's eyes took only a few moments to become accustomed to the shady interior and immediately his eyes went to the kneeling form of Vale.

Lit by the mellow shafts of light that past the roof of branches and with her hands clasped in prayer she was an image taken straight a window of stained glass, both beautiful and fragile. Yet she seem removed from the brighter world outside, a statue of a holy saint or an ephemeral spirit.

Kerova shivered slightly at his thoughts and moved inside to stand by his daughter.

A strand of alabaster silk wrapped itself around his wrist and gently drew him back towards the entrance. The male relented, his eyes following the white strand up.

Chel sat in the boughs of a tree, his black robes spilling elegantly towards the ground and his long tresses splayed across the trunk behind him like a snowy halo.

One hand gestured outside and Kerova stepped out into the sunlight. A few seconds later Chel teleported beside him, his eyes still fixed on his ward as she prayed.

"It doesn't seem fair, does it?"

Chel's eyes moved from Vale to the monarch as he broke the silence.

"Vale isn't responsible… It… it was no one's fault. I mean… why she should have to do… do…"

"A Murderer's Penance?" came the immortal's voice, whisper-quiet but as clear as day, "Isiarll died in childbirth and the old superstitions still held among the elders then."

"Could she just stop?"

"No," Chel shook his head, his gaze returning to Vale, "She would not. But it is her choice and her choice alone," he turned fully towards Kerova, the smile on his face infinitely sad and beautiful, "It is after all, her empathy that makes her so powerful in the divine arts."

Kerova was grateful to move from this painful subject, after all this time his wife's death still tore at him,

"The Imperial Guardian speaks the praises of one so young? Is she really that powerful?"

"Yes," came the answer without hesitation, "she is so strong and yet still so young. Perhaps the time will come when she no longer has need of our protection…" he trailed off and turned away, his smile gone, but his eyes still so sad.

Vale opened her eyes, unclasping her hands and allowing her holy symbol to fall onto her chest. The delicate icon, the five pointed star of Tiamet, was warm, not through the heat of her hands but as a reminder of her deity's presence. In the dim shade of the Memorial Circle it also shed a soft silvery light, which did make her task much easier.

She frowned slightly at the concept. Would that be considered slightly blasphemous? The young cleric wondered what the deity himself would say and laughed out loud at the thought.

If she lived to be a thousand she would never grow used to fighting beside deities, speaking to them on equal terms and travelling back and forth the very planes.

There was a flash of silver in the corner of her eye and she turned slightly to see her guardian kneel beside her. His robes was his finest, pitch-black in colour as always but with the tiny indulgence of fine silver embroidery across the flowing train and voluminous sleeves.

The elves of this forest knew him as Chel, ancient guardian to the royal Aeacus line and head of the church. More recently they knew him as the lover of the princess Vale, something that remained the subject of gossip, both accepting and unkind, even after several months. The young cleric was, in all probability, the only mortal soul on Faerun that knew him as Chelevva Pendragon, the son of Tiamet and the dead goddess Kereska.

His hands slid from the depths of his sleeves and he placed his palms together. When he brought them apart a single fragrant lily hung there and he placed it among the white poppies Vale had arranged in front of the simple metal plague.

The tablet read in its entirety:

Isiarll

Wife to Kerova Aeacus

This was the only memorial of the lovely queen. The bodies of the dead were burnt and their ashes given over to the wind, their names carved into the living wood as an eternal monument.

There were so many now, mused the white-haired guardian, and of course there were the statues.

Ever since Jeluna the Battle Queen and the pact between them he had been bound mentally to the royal line. He had known them all, better than anyone else on Toril and now…

He shook his head slightly as if to banish his dark thoughts and returned his gaze to the flowers in front of him. But against his will his eyes slid up to empty alcove that would one day hold the statue of Kerova and the next one along that would hold…

A slim golden hand gripped his hair and roughly pulled his head away. His koishii, his beloved, was suddenly wrapped around him, her arms around him physically and as a presence in his mind, soothing the darker emotion within him.

Empathy, thought Chel and if Vale overheard that reflection then she didn't press the issue.

Jessi: Ah, it's good to be back.

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