Hello everyone, this is snowylavendermist speaking. Haven't spoken for a long time...ahem...finding my voice. Okay, this is a series of stories about tacticians. Various tacticians, but all in angst and tragedy. I hope none of you will mind. Any coincidences of tactician names with the name of other tacticians is solely coincidental.

Enjoy!

Falling Star

The wind rustled the crinkly dry leaves, creating of shower of gold and bright red. The trees all around her had already dressed in fall colours to herald the coming of autumn. Bright green horse chestnut shells peeked out from beneath the shimmering warm carpet, the only vibrancy amongst the anxiety of the seasons passing. Above, wild ducks made harsh calls as they sped ahead towards the direction of the setting sun, their brown downy feathers stained orange- gold by the last rays of the setting sun.

She was alone. She, Millicent, the tactician who had just graduated from being an apprentice, was alone in the forest of gold. Wrinkled leaves crackled under her feet; squirrels skittered away with their hard-earned store of chestnuts and beans to find a suitable tree hole or crack in the thick roots of the ash nearby.

There were problems, big troubling problems that plagued her day and night, so much so that she could not sleep or eat in peace. Problems that even the beauty and calming effect of nature's imminent sleep cannot block out.

One had already died. She could remember the thick spear that shot through Kent's chest. Blood dripped from the metal tip of the lethal weapon, then warm from Kent's draining lifeblood and tight grasp as he tired to stand up, a silver lance in his other hand. Spear versus lance, paladin versus paladin; it was a heart-wrenching battle that left no survivors between the two. Both died on the outer walls of the ruined fortress, their weapons crossed in an aggressive manner, blood gushing out in torrents from their fatal wounds.

Both breathed their arms in the last of their beloveds. One in the arms of his fellow mourning supporters, who then dragged the dead paladin away for the body to be buried; the other in her arms, his hand leaving a bloodied print on her pale, tear-stained cheek as it fell away lifelessly.

Kent was the pillar of her life. He was one of the first of the group that she had met, even before Lord Eliwood and Lord Hector came into the big picture. With his unwavering loyalty and diligent nature, he soon opened the tight-lipped lock to her heart. Meanwhile, her own buoyancy and strangely split personalities came to crack open the hard cold shell that he wrapped around his own heart and thawed his icy core.

How does one go on without a purpose in life? When the only thing that seemed to support one was ripped away from a person, how is that person supposed to continue living her life?

There was no answer to that question. No one could answer it beside herself. And she herself was blocked in the dark oblivion of sorrow and despair. Black miasma swarmed in her brain, shielding every thought but Kent, Kent and still Kent.

But she still had his sword, Kent's sword. The trusty blade had been accompanying him always, every since he became a cavalier for Caelin. There was one way out of this problem, this relentless plague that threatened to tear her apart with every breath she took.

If he could not be with her, she could join him instead.

As she unsheathed the sword, she shrugged off the thick cloak she always wore that hid her face. Never had she shown her face to anyone before; tacticians were supposed to be identified only by name and their appearances were supposed to remain as a mystery. Only Kent had seen her face before. That night, as he moved in for a kiss, he gently pulled off the hood of her cloak. Only he knew what she looked like beside her parents and her master. Sadly, all of them were dead.

She felt no tears, no regret. It was all very simple: unsheathe the sword, swipe it against her throat and leave the rest to fate. Sword in hand, she prepared herself and gave a small lonely smile.

The cold metal brushed lightly against her throat. It was a fleeting touch, almost as though she had imagined it, but the blood that flowed out told her that it was real. Her hand loosened its grip and the sword fell into a bower of leaves. Blood was spurting now at a greater speed, onto her arms, legs and face. Her fingers deftly touched her cheek. It was smeared with sticky dark red blood.

She did not scream, neither did she cry out. She was prepared to fall. If anything was so star-crossed as to lose the only love of one's life, that life flame would better be relinquished.

"What the hell!"

A sudden cry jolted her senses. Someone was around, running towards her. She was fading, falling; but before she could reach the ground, an outstretched arm supported her. Her vision was already failing, but she could make out a hazy outline of a man. Lifeblood was draining away from her as Kent's had been. She did not care no longer.

Then there were more people. She heard Lord Hector's voice shouting violently in her ear. Then, there was Lord Eliwood pleading for her to hold own as he shook her. So, he was the one carrying her.

There was also the faint ringing of magic. So the healers had arrived. Rather remarkable speed as well, she thought with bitter irony. Usually they take more than fifteen minutes to dally their time before reaching the wounded.

She wanted to die; a quick death would be best. She hoped they were too late. Hoped with everything that she had left in her ravaged soul.

Then, darkness descended upon her and her mind blanked out.

For the last time, it blanked out.

This is the first of a series of seven. This is theme is as usual, love. I have always believed that tacticians are mysterious people who have loved, but always have unrequited love. Sad, isn't it? It is a little angsty.

Well, I hope you have enjoyed this one. I hope that you will the enjoy the next one too.

Coming up: Solo Waltz